Back Up

by Paul Colize

  She seemed well. Jim’s death had affected her deeply, but almost a year had passed, and life went on. In October, she had met a man with whom she hoped to form a long-term relationship.

  She asked Stern if he was still investigating the deaths of the members of Pearl Harbor. Stern told her he was.

  She was calling to tell him about an incident in Berlin, with a clear link to the events of March 1967. The incident had occurred a few days ago, but had only just been reported in the papers.

  She fetched a newspaper and read the gist of the article over the telephone. The Berlin river police stated that they had recovered what seemed ‘in all likelihood’ to be the body of a German rock agent, Karl Jürgen, from Munich, who had been reported missing on March the eighteenth, 1967. The fifty-two-year-old’s body was discovered in a canal lock near the Mühlendamm bridge, in the centre of Berlin.

  The police communiqué indicated that there were no suspicious circumstances – the death was probably suicide. The investigators hoped that the autopsy would shed further light on the affair. Enquiries so far suggested personal reasons. The police excluded any political motivation.

  The man had left his apartment in Charlottenburg, in West Berlin, very early in the morning on March the eighteenth, 1967, and had not been seen since. His wife had reported him missing the same day, and told the investigators that her husband had been suffering from depression.

  Following the death, the police had issued a call for witnesses in the neighbourhood. The couple had been living in Berlin since November 1966, and had few social contacts. Two divers had searched a lake near the couple’s home, without success.

  Karl Jürgen had been an agent for a number of rock groups, mostly still waiting for their big break.

  He handled contract negotiations and booked recording sessions.

  79: IN SCOTLAND

  Sunday. As luck would have it, Gunther was still behind the bar. Berliners hated Mondays, and the Graffiti club would often stay open until the small hours on Sundays.

  The music in the background was quiet enough, and Gunther seemed in relaxed mood.

  He said he was surprised and delighted to get a telephone call from me, and I knew this was no standard, polite greeting – bubbly enthusiasm was not one of his most marked characteristics.

  The last customers had just left, and he was making ready to close up. That weekend, West Berlin had hosted an international congress against the war in Vietnam. Fifteen thousand people had marched through the streets. Rudi Dutschke, a Marxist activist, had given a rousing speech that had sparked extraordinary, chaotic scenes.

  After that, it had been a quiet evening, with only a few people in the bar.

  Gunther launched into an account of the situation in Berlin. Revolution was in the air. Youth movements had been infiltrated by Communist agents and were being manipulated. Soon, the much-heralded revolution would gather speed; East German tanks would invade the city, and then the rest of Europe.

  I let him finish, though I had heard it all before, word for word.

  On to rock music. Gunther reckoned Pink Floyd were the flagship for the psychedelic rock movement. Their first album, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, was a brilliant success, though he couldn’t see himself playing ‘Astronomy Domine’ or ‘Interstellar Overdrive’ at the Graffiti any time soon.

  Next, my own news. I told him I’d found a job in a Swiss hotel, but refrained from saying exactly where. It was in French-speaking Switzerland, I told him.

  Then I got to the point. I reminded Gunther of the last time we had spoken. I told him I now knew what had really happened at the recording sessions on March the fourteenth. I had proof that the deaths of the four members of Pearl Harbor were no accident. They had been murdered. And I knew the motive.

  I told him everything I knew. I had my notes to hand, and consulted them from time to time, to back up one significant detail or another.

  As I had expected, Gunther seemed unfazed by my revelations. He was similarly underwhelmed by my explanation of ghost words and infrasound, and the conditioning of US troops in Vietnam.

  When I had finished my concluding remarks, he said my argument was convincing, and that it supported his own belief, namely that World War Three was brewing. He returned to his own theories and expounded them for several minutes more.

  I didn’t mind. I had exorcised my obsession. He had listened without interrupting, and he hadn’t told me I was mad.

  I was ready to bring our talk to a close when Gunther interrupted me suddenly, as if he had just remembered something, albeit nothing of any great importance.

  In November, he had been visited by a Scotsman who said he was a journalist. The man said he was investigating the deaths of the four members of Pearl Harbor. He had outlined his case and told Gunther he wanted to get in touch with me. Gunther had told him he could go to hell.

  But the man had left his card.

  Gunther asked me to wait a minute. I heard him place the receiver on the bar and rummage through the jumble stashed underneath.

  He came back to the telephone, out of breath. The man’s name was Michael Stern and he was a reporter for the Belfast Telegraph.

  I made a note of his number. I didn’t know what to think. Was this one of the men from the studio? Had they realised their mistake? Had they tracked me down? Was this a subterfuge to get in touch with me?

  My head cleared instantly. I had to take the information on board and think about what to do.

  I thanked Gunther. I didn’t bother to tell him that Belfast wasn’t in Scotland.

  80: THIS LATEST MYSTERY

  Gérard Jacobs contacted Dominique in the middle of the following week, to share his latest information.

  He told him that his superiors weren’t prioritising the investigation. But he remained committed to it. He had invested a few hours of his own time to take things forward.

  On the preceding Saturday night, he had spoken on the telephone to Jacques Bernier’s niece, who was living in Johannesburg, in South Africa. The woman knew very little about the uncle she had never met. After he disappeared in 1964, her grandparents had tried several times to trace him, without success.

  Her grandfather and father rarely spoke about him. But throughout her childhood, when she visited her grandmother and they were alone together, the old lady would tell her stories about Jacques, how he played the drums on the tops of biscuit tins, or an afternoon when they had danced to rock’n’roll records. She refused to believe he was dead. To the end, she was convinced he would come back one day.

  She had heard he was a troubled character. When her father talked about his brother, and their childhood, he had few good words for Jacques. He called him a crackpot. The mad, stammering drummer. She never knew exactly what he meant, and hadn’t bothered to find out.

  The police officer had also managed to contact one of Jacques Bernier’s old schoolteachers.

  The man was eighty years old now, and had known Jacques in 1961, but remembered him well. A shy, reserved boy who had a speech impediment and seemed to live in his own world. He read a great deal, but never talked about the books he loved.

  The secretary at the cemetery in Ixelles had confirmed that a man had telephoned several times in February 2010, to ask about the location of Madame Bernier’s grave. The woman remembered that the man sounded confused. He had called several times in succession, to ask the same question.

  Lastly, Jacobs had obtained a copy of the medical report drawn up in September 1963 when Jacques Bernier had spent three days at Petit-Chateau, ahead of his military service.

  The report noted that the psychometric tests and medical examinations showed Jacques Bernier suffered from minor behavioural problems. He had been in good physical shape, and the electroencephalogram carried out at the time had revealed nothing abnormal. The doctors suspected he had simulated the symptoms of aprosexia in order to be declared medically unfit, hence they had discounted the diagnosis. He had been declared fit for serv
ice.

  In conclusion, Gérard Jacobs told Dominique that he had released the man’s identity to the press and that some of the daily papers would be publishing the information.

  The news presented Dominique with a dilemma. He had given Jacques Bernier his word. He had promised never to reveal the information they exchanged. But he had to act with integrity vis-à-vis the rest of the medical team.

  He went to see Marie-Anne Perard, the director of the clinic. He told her about the approaches he had tried with X Midi, and the results obtained.

  Marie-Anne Perard thanked him for being frank with her and made no comment on his silence thus far. She understood that he had kept his word, and assured him it would go no further. She told him, once again, that the patients praised his enthusiasm and excellent treatment very highly.

  Dominique decided to talk to X Midi straightaway. His patient had made no attempt to communicate since seeing the photographs from the cemetery.

  Dominique sat on his bed.

  ‘I have something to tell you, my friend.’

  The man frowned and stared the physio in the eye.

  Dominique took a deep breath.

  ‘I can’t keep our secret.’

  The man’s eyes widened.

  ‘I know, I promised, and I understand your disappointment, but I can’t do otherwise. I know something of your story, but I don’t know everything. I know your name is Jacques Bernier and that you disappeared a long time ago. There are sure to be people looking for you somewhere. People who love you. A woman, children, or friends who would love to see you. For them, and for you, I can’t keep our secret.’

  A look of panic came into X Midi’s eyes. He shot a glance at the cupboard.

  Dominique understood straightaway.

  ‘You want to talk?’

  Yes.

  Dominique took the alphabet board and began listing the letters. Bernier focused his concentration, as if terrified of making a mistake.

  It took over fifteen minutes to compose the first word: MICHAEL

  The second word came more quickly: STERN

  Bernier stared at the television. He seemed relieved to have got the words off his chest.

  ‘Michael Stern? Do you know where I can find him?’ Dominique asked.

  No reaction.

  ‘Is he a friend?’

  No reaction.

  ‘Does he live in Belgium?’

  Jacques Bernier kept his eyes fixed on the screen.

  Dominique tried a few more questions, without success.

  Then he had an idea.

  He stared at the television, too.

  ‘He’s been on TV, is that it?’

  The man turned his head slightly and blinked twice.

  ‘He hasn’t been on TV, but there’s a connection?’

  Bernier signalled ‘yes’.

  ‘He’s a film star? Or a journalist? Something like that?’

  The man signalled ‘yes’ and closed his eyes.

  Dominique understood there would be nothing more, this time. He would have to investigate this latest mystery.

  81: SAY ANOTHER WORD

  Three weeks had gone by since Birgit’s call, and Michael Stern had made no progress with his investigation. He began to lose heart. He had no idea which lead to follow next. All led to a dead end.

  The victims’ families contacted him regularly for an update on his research. And each time, he told them things were moving forward little by little, but that they shouldn’t hold out any great hope.

  Towards the end of the month a bulletin announced that a United Arab Airlines Ilyushin aircraft had crashed in Aswan, in Egypt. Michael Stern was chosen by the Belfast Telegraph to cover the event.

  He was making preparations to leave when the switchboard operator announced an incoming call. She added that the caller had refused to give their identity, and the reason for the call. He went back to his desk and picked up the receiver.

  For a few seconds, he thought the caller had hung up. He was about to hang up himself when he thought he heard a faint creaking sound, followed by a man’s voice pronouncing a few words he didn’t understand.

  After a few seconds, the man said his name was Jacques Berger. He had been told the journalist was trying to get hold of him, and he wanted to know why.

  Michael Stern felt a sharp, adrenaline rush. The man’s speech was confused. Some of his words were barely comprehensible. English wasn’t his mother tongue, he spoke with an accent, but not the nasal tones of a French Canadian.

  Stern could tell the man was in a state of high stress. He had just a few seconds to earn his trust. He told Berger he knew who he was, and what had happened to him, and that he wanted to help.

  The man appeared to think for a few moments, then asked Stern to tell him what he knew.

  Stern struggled to contain his nerves and speak calmly.

  He knew that Berger had played a back-up gig in Berlin on March the fourteenth, last year. He had replaced the drummer of a group called Pearl Harbor, and had taken part in a recording session, after which he had surprised several men who were tampering with the tapes. After that, the four other band members and their agent had been killed.

  The man seemed to hesitate.

  He asked Stern to repeat the last phrase. As he did so, Stern realised that the agent’s death was news to Berger. He explained that earlier that month Karl Jürgen’s body had been found by the Berlin river police.

  The man absorbed this latest shock, saying nothing for a few moments.

  When he spoke again, he asked the journalist for his version of events. He wanted to know what conclusions Stern had reached.

  Stern told him about the ghost words and the connection he had established to the events in Ramstein.

  The man stammered at the other end of the line.

  He spoke vaguely about a helicopter, soldiers, the Vietnam war, then said his life was in danger, that the men behind the plot were capable of anything, and wouldn’t hesitate to end his life.

  Stern seized the moment. He agreed, and repeated his offer of help.

  The man raised his voice slightly. How did he think he could help?

  Stern was careful to speak in calm, measured tones.

  The best way to stop the men in their tracks was to reveal what they had done, expose it. It was the only reasonable course of action.

  The man said he would think about it. He hung up before Stern could say another word.

  82: A NORMAL LIFE

  I turned the information over and over in my mind, in the days that followed.

  How had the journalist followed the trail back to me? Was it a trap? Should I call him back or steer clear?

  I ordered a copy of the Belfast Telegraph. Michael Stern’s name was amongst the list of contributors, but that didn’t mean he was definitely the man Gunther had spoken to.

  One evening, I called the paper’s number. It was late. The offices were empty apart from the switchboard operator. Michael Stern wasn’t there. The duty reporter asked if he could take a message. I wanted to ask him if Stern had travelled to Berlin the previous November, but I couldn’t find the words.

  I subscribed to the newspaper. On February the twenty-sixth, Michael Stern’s byline appeared on a report of a summit that had been held in Dubai.

  Two days later, at our weekly get-together, Andy told me he was leaving Montreux for real. He had got a job in a hotel in Vienna and would be leaving in early March. He wanted to continue his round-the-world trip, see the work of Vienna’s early-twentieth-century masters and study their technique.

  I made my decision the next day. I went to a call-box and telephoned Michael Stern.

  He seemed unsurprised to hear me. His calm, even tone helped me to calm down, too. I asked him a few questions, to be sure I was speaking to the right person.

  He was very familiar with the case, though I was ahead of him in understanding exactly what the men in the studio had developed.

  But he told me something
I didn’t know. Something that confirmed the theory we shared: Karl, the man who had organised the recording session, and who had greeted me at the entrance to the studio, had been found dead – drowned – in Berlin. He had died almost a year ago, at the same time as the members of Pearl Harbor.

  Stern suggested reporting the affair, and promised to help me. He thought this was the best way to curtail the men from the studio and protect my life.

  By the end of the conversation, I felt confused and overwhelmed. I told him I would think about it.

  I hung up and called Andy to tell him I was coming with him to Vienna. I was afraid he’d say no, but he agreed.

  I didn’t tell the hotel manager what I was doing. I felt I was in danger. The men surely knew they had got the wrong person in Paul McDonald, and would be looking for me now. If a journalist had tracked me down, they would do the same.

  I made preparations to leave, in the days that followed. Andy had a furnished apartment waiting for him in Vienna, which he had rented through an aunt. In Andy’s circles, people were well accustomed to helping one another out. He was happy for me to stay until I found work, and somewhere to live.

  On the morning of Monday, March the eleventh, 1968, I called Michael Stern back. I had planned what I wanted to say. This time, I did the talking.

  I told him I had written an account of the facts, proving the existence of the plot. The text also shed light on the mass manipulation techniques used by the men. The whole thing ran to a hundred pages, packed with detail.

  He sounded impressed. We agreed to meet in London on the following Monday, March the eighteenth.

  He would meet me at the airport and ensure my safety. In the afternoon, he would introduce me to some of his colleagues in the London press. Then, in the early evening, he would arrange an interview with a handful of influential political personalities. We would expose the scandal and stop the plot in its tracks.

  He told me to be careful, and to guard the notes with my life.