Sektion 20

by Paul Dowswell

  ‘You just sit tight and be a good boy,’ he said.

  Gretchen and Geli sat in shocked silence. They were all stunned. Eventually Gretchen whispered, ‘Do you think Kohl knew we intended to go to the police?’

  ‘I don’t know, but something made them take Alex,’ Frank replied.

  Geli wrote ‘We have definitely been bugged’ on the kitchen notepad.

  They spent the next hour combing the apartment looking for listening devices. Frank found something odd in the telephone but decided not to remove it in case it broke the phone. It could just as easily be a piece of West German technology he did not recognise. They couldn’t find anything else.

  Frank could put off opening Kohl’s letter no longer. His hands were shaking so much he had to put it on the table in order to read it. The instructions were blunt.

  Memorise then burn. Floor 6. Room 632. Combination 25894927. Fibre optics dossier.

  ‘What do they mean, “Combination”?’ said Gretchen.

  Frank hushed her with a despairing motion and beckoned for them to step outside. They huddled together on the window ledge leading down to the apartment lobby.

  ‘He’s referring to a safe at Siemens,’ said Frank, trying to pull himself together.

  The Stasi had mentioned in their original briefing, before the escape, that they were interested in fibre optics technology – the transmission of light signals along minuscule glass tubes. It was at the cutting edge of communications technology. Frank and his colleagues back in East Berlin were familiar with the concept, but no one in the East was able to make glass tubes of sufficiently small dimension and quality to allow data to be transmitted without corrupting it.

  ‘But how do they know the dossier is there?’ whispered Gretchen. ‘And how do they know the combination? They must have someone else there working for them. So why doesn’t he do it?’

  Geli put a hand on her father’s shoulder. ‘They must think you’re expendable . . . or maybe it’s some sort of test?’

  ‘Either way, I think I’m just going to have to do this,’ Frank said. ‘Stay in the apartment. While I’m out, don’t answer the door to anyone.’

  Frank supposed he would have to stay after work and wait for the cleaners to go home. Surely it couldn’t be that simple?

  But it was. He spent an agonising day at work trying to pretend everything was OK. It so plainly wasn’t he ended up telling his colleagues his son was very ill. That bought him some sympathy but only brought him more attention. He spent the rest of the day fending off suggestions he should go home early to see his son. He told them he would rather keep his mind busy with his work than fret about it at home. His wife would ring if his son took a turn for the worse.

  Eventually the working day came to an end. One by one, his colleagues left their desks. By seven o’clock, when they had all gone, Frank ventured up to the sixth floor. He knew Herr Busch worked up here – he could claim to be looking for his office if anyone challenged him.

  There was no one around apart from an elderly Turkish woman, cleaning the offices at the far end of the corridor. Frank told himself if he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing then no one would think he was acting suspiciously.

  He followed Kohl’s instruction to the letter. The combination worked first time, and the safe swung open with a satisfying click. He didn’t even steal the dossier. He just photocopied it on the Xerox machine at the end of the corridor. That was another piece of Western technology he couldn’t quite believe. Every office had one. They were illegal in the DDR. The regime was afraid that dissidents would mass produce subversive leaflets. Only the most trusted government organisations had them.

  When he had finished, he put the dossier back in the safe and locked it. Now they wouldn’t even know he’d been to have a look. He didn’t notice the security camera in the top right-hand corner of the corridor.

  Geli and Gretchen were waiting anxiously at home, hoping for some news, when Frank got home that night. He asked if Kohl had rung the apartment. He hadn’t. They waited until midnight willing Kohl to call and went to bed disappointed and exhausted.

  The next day Frank felt so edgy at work he spilt his coffee when the lady came round with drinks and biscuits at 10.30. His phone went just after 11.00 and he nearly jumped out of his skin. It was the pensions department calling to discuss his monthly contribution. After he put the phone down he had to go to the lavatory to be sick.

  He kept thinking about that dossier, sitting there at home underneath his bed. How long would they send him to prison for? Five, ten years? Industrial espionage was a most serious offence – particularly in this Cold War world. Frank could imagine the judge at his court case. ‘We gave you, a refugee, a most generous welcome, and you have repaid us with this appalling betrayal . . .’

  The phone went again at 5.10, just as he was getting ready to leave. ‘Guten Abend, Frank,’ said the cheery voice. ‘It’s Volker here. Birthday party tonight. But you can only come if you have bought me a present.’

  ‘I have,’ said Frank, trying to sound equally cheerful and not quite making it. ‘I have a very nice present for you.’

  ‘Well then, you can meet me at the Café Olympia by Görlitzer Bahnhof. I’ll be there at 8.00.’

  ‘Will my friend Alex be there?’ asked Frank, but when he got to the end of his sentence he could only hear the dialling tone.

  Frank Ostermann set out that evening determined to see this whole thing through. He took his photocopied dossier and tucked it into his trouser waist. Lost in thought as he hurried down Bellermannstrasse and Prinzenallee to the U-Bahn, he barely noticed the freezing sleet and winter wind that pulled at his coat.

  He expected the U-Bahn trip to Görlitzer Bahnhof to take at least half an hour. It was an awkward journey and he had to change three times. But Frank Ostermann had not expected to be arrested as he changed trains at Hallesches Tor.

  ‘BfV,’ said a man in a pale overcoat, as he hustled him to the side of the platform. He had a black patch over his right eye. Another man appeared in a similar overcoat and stood in front of him. ‘Where are you going, sir?’

  The platform was deserted now. Frank found their mock courtesy unsettling. ‘I have to meet a friend at eight. Why have you stopped me?’

  ‘Are you carrying any documents, sir?’ said one of the men. They frisked him without waiting for an answer, took the folder from within his coat and briskly scanned through it.

  ‘Frank Ostermann,’ said the man who had originally seized him, ‘I am arresting you on a charge of industrial espionage.’

  Frank felt sick with fear. ‘I have to meet this man, Erich Kohl,’ he pleaded. ‘He has my son as a hostage.’

  ‘Erich Kohl,’ said the man with the eyepatch. ‘And where are you meeting him?’

  Frank decided he had to tell them.

  The men nodded to each other, and the one with the eyepatch handed the dossier back to Frank.

  ‘You will carry on,’ he said plainly. ‘You need to keep your appointment.’

  ‘What about my son?’ said Frank, fighting the choking panic rising in his chest.

  ‘Come,’ said the other man, ignoring his question.

  They took the next U-Bahn to Görlitzer Bahnhof, and when they came out into the street the other agent said, ‘We will be following you within pistol range. Do not disappoint us, Frank Ostermann. It would be very easy for you to be shot whilst trying to escape.’

  Frank found the Café Olympia quickly enough. Kohl was not there. Frank was ten minutes late. Maybe that had spooked him and he had gone.

  Frank bought a beer and waited. The man without the patch came into the bar and sat on the other side. After another ten minutes the phone behind the counter rang.

  ‘Do we have a Frank Ostermann in the bar?’ asked the bartender.

  Frank leapt to his feet.

  The voice in the earpiece was instantly familiar. ‘Ah, hello, Frank. I got tired of waiting so I went back home. Now there’s no fun
ny business is there, because if there is then Alex here will be meeting a sticky end. Say hello, Alex.’

  Frank could hear muffled noises. Alex obviously had something over his mouth. He sounded very frightened.

  ‘You will meet me outside, on the steps of the church,’ said Kohl. The line went dead.

  Chapter 35

  The great red-brick church – Emmauskirche – was impossible to miss. Frank was standing on the steps less than two minutes later. The sleet had turned to driving rain. By the time Kohl came and stood next to him, Frank’s hair was dripping.

  ‘You were late,’ said Kohl.

  ‘What have you done with my son?’ said Frank, trying to control his anger.

  ‘He is fine. Alex is being a good boy. He has been no trouble. Perhaps he is a little hungry, and thirsty.’

  Kohl had decided to take Frank back to the apartment to inspect the documents. Then he would kill him and Alex. His pistol was sitting there in his overcoat, silencer already attached. They would find the bodies eventually, when the smell alerted the other residents. Kohl would be long gone. It would be a shame to lose the apartment but he had already used it several times more than the manual said was prudent.

  Frank lied. ‘My train got stuck between stations.’

  ‘Natürlich,’ said Kohl. He didn’t believe him but he didn’t want to waste any more time out here. He felt too exposed.

  Frank wondered where the BfV men were. They had promised to follow him from a distance. It was such a filthy night now, it would be difficult to make out who was who from more than a few metres, especially in these dark streets.

  ‘You will come back to my apartment and show me the dossier,’ said Kohl.

  Frank was immediately suspicious. ‘No. Let us go to another bar.’ Why would Kohl want to take him to somewhere private unless he intended to kill him?

  Kohl was placatory. ‘You want to see your son, don’t you? Alex is there. I want to look at those plans, Frank. In a good light, away from prying eyes. Then Alex will be free to go. Come. I need ten more minutes of your life. If you have got our documents, as we instructed, then you will have fulfilled your obligation to us.’

  He hoped those BfV men were close behind.

  ‘Come,’ said Kohl.

  The chair Alex Ostermann had been tied to was placed in the centre of the studio apartment, facing into the room. There was one large window, curtains permanently drawn, overlooking an internal courtyard. Alex had measured the days by watching the light fade and then return but he had lost track of exactly how long he had been there.

  The insulating tape placed over his mouth was itching terribly and he felt utterly terrified. At first, it was a stark, blind kind of terror, the sort that had made him wriggle to try to get free, when Kohl was away from the apartment, and cut his wrists on the ropes that held him. When Kohl came to check the ropes and noticed, that had earned him a painful box around the ears.

  Now Alex’s fear had settled into a dull sensation, like a toothache, but in the pit of his stomach. Kohl had given him very little to eat and drink since he’d taken him to the apartment. He was hungry and very thirsty and had a horrible sour taste in his mouth. He was light-headed too from lack of sleep, and felt like he was drifting in and out of a drowsy nightmare.

  Kohl had been gone more often than he was there, and when he was away Alex had tried to make as much noise as possible with a black insulating strip over his mouth. The woman upstairs had heard his grunts and squeals and had banged heavily on the floor and shouted ‘Um Gottes Willen, du bist pervers!’ – ‘For heaven’s sake, you’re sick!’ This had happened a couple of times. Alex was so thirsty now he had difficulty making any noise at all.

  Kohl had gone to get Frank and what would happen next was anyone’s guess. Would he shoot them both or would he let them go? Alex felt utterly helpless – he would just have to see.

  He heard the door open and shut and looked up expecting to see Kohl and his Vater. To his amazement he found himself staring at a young man carrying a small pistol. He was wearing an army surplus combat jacket, orange loon pants, and had shoulder-length brown hair and the sort of scrubby beard students grow. He and Alex were equally astonished to see each other.

  In a flash the man came over and ripped away the tape from Alex’s mouth, leaving it dangling at the side of his cheek. His mouth burned with the pain and Alex cried out. His lips were cracked and peeling from having so little to drink and now they were bleeding profusely.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ said the man.

  Alex croaked out his name. He could barely speak.

  ‘Water,’ he managed to say.

  The man went over to the kitchenette at the side of the room and swiftly filled a glass from the draining board. He held it to Alex’s lips and let him take several gulps then put it down on a sideboard.

  ‘I’ve been kidnapped by this Stasi man,’ said Alex.

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Erich Kohl.’

  ‘Good,’ said the man.

  ‘Are you police?’ said Alex, who was bewildered by his response.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the man in a sarcastic tone.

  Alex was beginning to feel frightened all over again. ‘Please help get me out.’

  There was a scuffle at the door. The man quickly placed the tape back over Alex’s mouth.

  He heard a ruffling noise behind him and guessed the fellow must be hiding on the step behind the curtain.

  Kohl came in with Frank, who immediately rushed to Alex’s side.

  Kohl drew his pistol and barked, ‘Stay away from him. Sit down over there and give me the dossier.’ The placatory tone had vanished.

  Frank spotted the silencer and his worst fears were confirmed. He was sure Kohl was going to kill them both at any second. He wondered whether to rush Kohl while he handed over the dossier.

  But just as Kohl snatched away the file, his eyes alighted on a half empty glass of water on the sideboard. The side of the glass was smeared with blood . . .

  Frank noticed too and decided this was his moment, but Kohl was an old hand and knew exactly what Frank was thinking.

  He waved the gun at Frank, gesturing for him to get down on the floor. Frank knelt down. Kohl tossed the dossier on to the table then angrily waved his gun some more, indicating Frank should lie face down.

  Alex looked on in helpless horror. This is it, he thought. A cold-blooded execution. First Vater, then me. He could not bear to look and screwed up his eyes.

  Frank stared at the wooden floorboards, thinking this was the last thing he would ever see. His heart was thumping so hard. Where the hell were those two West German policemen? They should have been right behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Kohl had moved to the side of the room. What on earth was he doing?

  Kohl switched off the light. In the darkness the intruder was backlit by the street light in the courtyard below and appeared as a silhouette against the curtain.

  Now everything happened at once. Kohl drew a bead on the figure and squeezed the trigger of his pistol. Just as he fired his target darted swiftly from his hiding place. The window shattered and glass skittered down to the courtyard below. The woman in the apartment above cried out in alarm. The intruder began to shoot blindly in Kohl’s direction. With plaster and wood splintering and disintegrating around him, Frank hurriedly crawled to Alex and pushed his son’s chair over, out of the line of fire.

  Disorientated by the noise of the shots, and the now piercing screams of the woman upstairs, Kohl’s survival instinct told him to flee. He slammed the door, ran out of the flat and leaped down the stairs, taking them three at a time. On the first-floor landing he ploughed straight into Franz Hübner and his colleague with such force he knocked both of them over. As they staggered to their feet a second figure ran past and out into the street. They were so stunned they noticed little more than a flash of orange trousers.

  Shots rang out in the street. Hübner and his colleague hurr
ied out to find a crumpled figure in the rain-drenched gutter. It was a young man with the bright orange trousers. He was bleeding profusely from his abdomen. The man tried to stand up and stagger away, but he collapsed again immediately.

  With Kohl and the intruder gone, Frank found the light switch and hurried over to Alex. He lifted him and the chair up gently and gingerly removed the gag from his mouth.

  ‘I thought he was going to shoot you,’ Alex said, as his father untied him. ‘And who was that other man?’ He felt sick and his hands were shaking. He didn’t know if he would be able to stand up unaided.

  They had both heard the commotion on the stairs and the shots in the street and by now the landing outside the open door to the apartment had filled with frightened residents. One of the crowd, a woman in her thirties, was hysterical – perhaps she was the upstairs neighbour.

  They were safe now there were people around. Frank went to the door and called for someone, anyone, to call the police.

  ‘They’re here already,’ said a gruff older man.

  Hübner had rushed back up the stairs two at a time. He looked relieved when he saw Frank. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘Is your son there? Is he all right?’

  ‘No thanks to you,’ said Frank. ‘What the hell kept you?’

  Hübner held his hands open. ‘I’m sorry. We had to make sure he didn’t spot us. That would have been fatal for you both.’

  He walked into the apartment and put an arm on Alex’s shoulder. ‘Can you walk or do you need a stretcher?’ he asked.

  Alex croaked, ‘I need water.’ His arm felt as though it might have fractured where he had landed on it when Frank knocked his chair over, but now he was free he could feel his strength returning.

  ‘When you’re ready, take him downstairs to wait for an ambulance,’ Hübner said to Frank.