by Mark Dawson
“Which are?”
Mackintosh got to his feet and stared out of the window over the city. “He’s a master manipulator. He’s the spymaster in a city full of spies. He serves no cause; he’s only interested in power and personal gain. You’re going to kill him, James.”
“Really? How am I going to do that?”
“His greed. That’s how you get close to him.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Sommer doesn’t know who you are. None of them do. You won’t appear on any of their records. Your legend is solid—it’s been carefully worked on. Everything stacks up if they think to check. You’re going to meet him and then you’re going to offer him a lot of money.”
“For what?”
“For guns. You’re going to tell him that you’re buying arms for the Provos.”
“Are you crazy?”
“It’s a nice match. You’re James Walker. You’ve had an MI5 file for years, ever since you robbed banks for the Republicans.”
“That was a misunderstanding,” he protested. “I didn’t know—”
“It doesn’t matter. Your MI5 file says that you were responsible for finding the money to pay for a Libyan shipment. The RUC records back that up. We have a woman in London who has persuaded the Stasi that she works for them. She doesn’t—we use her to feed them misinformation from time to time. They’ll ask her to check you out. We’ll make sure that she has access to your records.”
Jimmy shook his head. “This is ridiculous.”
“I disagree. That’s the beauty of it—your file already exists. There’s corroboration. You’ll tell them you work with their quartermaster, and your file will back it up.”
“Why would Sommer even take a meeting with me?”
“Because he is a greedy man. He gets paid a commission and he can tell himself he’s advancing the cause. The Stasi have supplied weapons to the Irish before.” He turned away from the window and pointed down at the two files. “Trust me, James, Sommer won’t be able to resist. Now—read the files. You need to be prepared.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I have to speak to someone about getting you across the border.”
36
Mackintosh got into his car and drove through the night-time streets of West Berlin. The nightclubs at the centre of the town had long lines of young people waiting to go inside. The bars were filled. Music drifted to him from every street corner. Berlin was a city that had suffered, one that had been torn asunder, and yet life went on.
He pulled in by the side of the road. A pink neon sign blinked over the door of the club across the street. Fifty Berliners stood in line waiting to enter. The young women in the line wore long furs and stamped their heels on the cold ground. The men huddled in their black leather jackets and wrapped their arms around themselves for warmth. Mackintosh got out of the car, found his scarf on the back seat and wrapped it around his neck. He joined the back of the line and waited.
The queue shuffled forward and, after ten minutes of shivering, Mackintosh was able to enter the club. He went down a set of dark steps to a basement that rang with dance music and was drenched in neon. He went by the vodka bar, which was crammed with customers trying to get a drink, and squeezed through the crowd that had gathered around the VIP area at the back of the club. He went to a second room, this one a little quieter and a little less busy. There was a bar at the end of the room and Mackintosh walked up to it.
A woman was waiting for him. She was tall, dressed in a close-fitting black dress that drew attention to her slender figure. It revealed her shoulders, and tattoos that were partly concealed by the fabric. Her hair was blonde, almost white, and her lips were full, the lipstick accentuating them.
“I ordered you a Scotch,” she said as Mackintosh settled at the bar next to her.
“Thank you.”
Her name was Oksana Baranova, although Mackintosh had only referred to her in his reports by her cryptonym: SNOW. A tiny cohort in MI6 knew her real name; he had made sure of that. She was a rare asset: a working KGB double agent with connections on both sides of the Wall. The risks that she had taken on his behalf had put a target on her back. Both her own agency and the Stasi would have given much to discover the identity of the traitor who had been feeding the British secrets for the last eighteen months.
There was a couch in the corner of the room and Oksana indicated that they should sit. Mackintosh followed and watched as she lowered herself onto the couch and tucked her legs beneath her. He stared again at the deep red of her lips, at the contrast with her bone-white skin. Her blue eyes were crowned with mascara.
Mackintosh sat down next to her. “You look the same as ever.”
“You look older.”
“A side effect of being shot at by the Stasi.”
“I heard about Günter. And your agents.”
Élodie’s face flashed across his mind; he tried to ignore it. “They knew we were coming. It was a mess from start to finish.”
“I am sorry, Harry.”
Her accent had always proven difficult for Mackintosh to pin down. The English was perfect, but it was freighted with a mix of Eastern European tonality that he couldn’t quite define.
“If I had known that Sommer had found out…”
He nodded. “I know. You would have warned me.”
“I am disappointed, too,” she said. “It would have been quite something for Günter to have told his story. It would have caused the Stasi incalculable damage.”
“Have you heard anything about him?”
“Günter? No. Nothing.” Oksana cast her gaze down to her drink and then sipped at the clear liquid before resting the glass on the table that had been placed in front of the couch. “I thought he was in Hohenschönhausen,” she said. “I have contacts there. Stasi guards. Prisoners, too—I would have heard.”
“He’s not in Hohenschönhausen. I know where he is.”
“Really? The Ruchestraße?”
“Not there, either. Sommer has him in Roedeliusplatz. Do you know it?”
“He has a building there.” She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “It was an old wreck from the war. A Pfarrhaus—a vicarage. He said he wanted a separate headquarters for his administration.” Oksana shook her head. “He is not in good graces with the leadership. Many believe he maintains his position with kompromat that he has gathered. The spider spins his web and many flies fall into it.” She stared at him through the cigarette smoke. “How did you find out where Schmidt is?”
“I had a conversation with Alex Geipel.”
“Did you?”
“I dangled some bait to see what might happen. He scuttled out of his hole and took it. I had him picked up. He told me that Sommer had Günter and where he was keeping him.”
“And where is Geipel now?”
“At the bottom of the Teltow Canal.”
Oksana gave a low chuckle. “You English. So polite and reserved and yet so ruthless. You are not so different from the KGB.”
Mackintosh sipped the Scotch. “What about Sommer?”
“He is an ambitious man. If I were minded to place a bet, I would guess that he will use Herr Schmidt as leverage for his own advancement. His story will be documented, evidenced, and consigned to Sommer’s vault. And then? Sommer will put him in the canal next to Geipel.”
She drained her glass.
“No, he won’t,” Mackintosh said.
“He won’t?”
“I’m going to get him back.”
She smiled at
him. “Come, Harry. Don’t be foolish. He is lost.”
“I don’t think so.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I need to arrange a meeting with Sommer.”
“You are going to ask him nicely if he would return him to you?”
“I’m not meeting him. I have someone else in mind.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Really?”
Mackintosh took another sip of his drink. “I have a man. I’ve arranged a legend for him: an arms buyer for the Irish Republicans. He will say that he wants to buy weapons from the GDR for use on British soil. He has history with the IRA, and I’ll arrange for his file to be leaked. The Stasi have done business with the Irish before, and Sommer is a greedy man with the right connections. He’ll take the meeting.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe.”
“You know him. You can make the introduction.”
“And then? Assuming Sommer agrees to meet?”
“I have a few ideas.”
Oksana laughed. “You’re not serious.”
Mackintosh drained his Scotch.
“You are serious.”
“My man isn’t trained, but he is effective. And this is so unorthodox—”
“So foolish,” she corrected.
“So unorthodox that Sommer couldn’t possibly expect it. I think it has a chance.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Mackintosh shrugged. “My man is a nobody. A petty criminal I picked up off the street. If he dies, he dies. He wouldn’t be missed.”
She looked at him and then laid a hand on his wrist.
“As I said, my dear Harry—ruthless.”
37
Jimmy’s sleep was fitful that night. He imagined himself back in the warehouse with Geipel tied to the chair and Mackintosh taking the drill and pressing it into his knee. He woke up sweating, his pulse racing. He looked at his watch: it was five in the morning. He kicked off the sheets and lay naked in bed, the sweat drying on his skin, and closed his eyes. He saw flashes of the warehouse, after-images, and reached out for the photograph of Isabel and Sean that Mackintosh had left for him. He concentrated on their faces, and, quickly, the tone of his memories changed. He was back with them both: playing football with his boy, eating dinner with Isabel, a happy family once again. He drifted back to sleep with a smile on his face.
*
He awoke to a knocking on the door. He looked at his watch: it was nine. He had slept in. He got out of bed, pulled on his clothes and padded over to the door on bare feet. He opened the door an inch with the security chain in place, and looked out.
“Open the door, James.”
He closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it again so that Mackintosh could come inside.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Not particularly.”
“It’ll have to do. You’ll be crossing the border this afternoon, all being well. You’ll meet with Sommer. It’ll be your opportunity to find Schmidt.”
“And kill Sommer.”
“That would be ideal.”
There was a basket of tea bags on the bureau. Jimmy held it up. “Want one?”
Mackintosh nodded.
He switched on the kettle.
“You’re still ready to do this?” Mackintosh asked.
“Like I have any choice?” Mackintosh didn’t reply. “Whatever. The sooner I get this done, the sooner I get to go home.”
Again, Mackintosh didn’t reply. Jimmy looked at him: there was hesitation on his face. He poured hot water into a mug, added a tea bag and handed it to Mackintosh.
“Right?” Jimmy pressed.
Mackintosh put the mug down on the bureau. “We have to be able to trust one another, James. I won’t be able to keep tabs on you once you’re over the border. I’ll have to trust that you will do what you’ve been asked. And you’ll have to trust me.”
“You want trust?” Jimmy said. “I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you. You don’t get my trust because you have something on me. You don’t get my trust because you forced me to work with you. Trust is earned.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“This isn’t about trust. I don’t have to trust you. I have to weigh up the consequences. I know what happens if I don’t do what you want. I’ll go to prison. I understand that. But there are consequences for you, too.”
“Really?”
“I’m a man of my word. I’ll do what you ask, but I need you to know that if you mess me about, the next time you see me you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
Mackintosh went to the window and, for a moment, they both stared out toward East Berlin. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Aye,” Jimmy said. “Let’s.”
Mackintosh pointed at the Wall, visible from up high, cutting its way across streets like a scar.
“I’m arranging a passage across the border for you. There’s someone who can help with that. You’re going to meet her this morning. Her name is Oksana and she works for the Russians—at least, that’s what they think. She works for us, too. If she tells you to do something, I recommend that you do it. No deviation. Freelancing will get you shot. It’ll get her shot, too, and I won’t forgive that.”
“Fair enough,” Jimmy replied.
Mackintosh turned away from the window. He locked his gaze on Jimmy. “You need to be very, very careful. If you try anything at the border, if they think there’s anything about you that’s suspicious, if you do anything that makes them uncomfortable, they’ll shoot you both dead. I’ve seen it happen.”
Mackintosh went to the chair where Jimmy had laid his jacket. He picked it up and tossed it over to him.
“Ready?”
“Now?”
“No time like the present.”
38
Jimmy kept his head down, eyes on the pavement as they marched toward the café, and went over his instructions with Mackintosh one more time.
“So,” he said. “I order coffee, take a seat closest to the back of the café, and wait. A woman with pale skin and blonde hair will approach me and ask if I had a good trip.”
“And you say?”
“It was fine apart from the weather and the food.”
“Good,” said Mackintosh. “Oksana has arranged a meeting with Sommer. Take your time with him. He might be greedy, but he’s shrewd. Don’t rush him, or he’ll smell a rat. His building is lightly guarded. Once you’re inside, you’ll have a chance. Find Schmidt, kill Sommer and Oksana will get you out.”
“And then we’re done.”
“We are.”
There was no handshake, and nothing else to say. Jimmy didn’t trust Mackintosh, but he knew that he had no choice. He walked away toward the café without glancing back. He would need all the luck he could get. He’d never felt farther away from home, farther away from his family. He tried to push those thoughts from his mind, but all he could think about was holding Isabel and little Sean in his arms. He reached back in his memory and found a moment that vividly replayed. He was in a summer field; Isabel was in a white dress, Sean was in his shorts with his football not far away.
His throat felt tight. He began to panic.
The noise from the café reached him. Loud voices and clinking glasses. He looked up at the sign above the door, swore once, then went inside.
*
The café was small, with dark mahogany chairs clustered around tables in the middle of the floor. Green velvet banquettes lined one corner of the room and served as seating for five tables. Jimmy found a back table and put his bag
down on the floor. He sat down and pretended to look at the menu, but, instead, he eyed the clientele. There were a couple of Asian tourists fiddling with a huge camera at the table beside him. Two men in suits were eating scrambled eggs while they watched the Asian couple and two women in long coats at the window seat. The two women were checking out the tourists opposite them: blond, tanned guys with long hair and American accents. Everyone was watching everyone else.
A song by Heaven 17 played on the radio. A waitress with short brown hair and an order pad approached the table.
“Coffee and water, please,” said Jimmy.
She wrote down his order and left.
The waitress had been blocking Jimmy’s view of the front door. Now that she had left, he saw that someone had walked inside. He looked away, blinked, then looked back, still using the menu to disguise his eye line.
It was a woman. She stood in the doorway, took off her coat and then looked around. Blonde hair, pale skin. She saw Jimmy, then glanced away from him as she scanned the rest of the room. Jimmy sat a little straighter. The woman walked over to the table.
39
She was tall and she had a pale face, light blue eyes and full red lips. She had a long black coat held over the crook of her elbow and wore a trouser suit and heels. Her face was framed by blonde hair that fell down beyond her shoulders.
Her eyes were focussed on Jimmy. She crossed the room to him.
“How was your trip?” she said. The English was perfect, but there was an accent that lent the words an exotic richness.
“Fine,” he said. “Apart from the weather and the food.”
“Welcome to Berlin.” She leaned in close, embracing him. He froze, his arms hesitant to touch her. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. She kissed him on the cheek and then whispered into his ear, “We need to leave. My car is outside.”
