Brandenburg

by Henry Porter

  Rosenharte missed the introduction because he was opening the window. Then he heard a reporter ask: ‘Do you feel threatened by the situation in Berlin?’

  ‘No,’ replied Gorbachev, laughing. ‘It’s nothing compared to the situation in Moscow. Nothing surprises us any more.’

  There was a pause while the interpreter waited for Gorbachev to speak further. ‘We are prepared for anything, and we’ve learned a lot too. For instance, how to initiate and carry out reform programmes and how to defend our policies.’ Then he added: ‘Danger threatens only those who do not react to life’s challenges.’

  The West German radio station offered a snappier translation: ‘He who comes too late will be punished by life.’

  If that wasn’t an instruction to Honecker to initiate reform, he didn’t know what was. Suddenly Vladimir’s imperturbable features appeared in Rosenharte’s mind. Everything he had said in the last few weeks was explained.

  The world was changing, but would it change fast enough for Konrad?

  24

  Plans Laid

  Next day he packed both his suitcases and the rucksack with everything of importance in his life, for he knew he would not be returning to the flat. He took his luggage down to the hallway at three in the afternoon, and looked outside from the slender window beside the door. Two men in a blue Seat were waiting in the usual place. There were rumours that up to 30,000 would be on the streets in Dresden that day but the Stasi still had men to spare to watch him. He knocked on the door of one of two ground-floor apartments and an eager young face appeared - Willy, the son of the bakery manager. Rosenharte asked if he wanted to earn some money. The boy nodded and in a few seconds he had his jacket on.

  He estimated it would take him about five minutes to reach the hostel where Idris had lived. At exactly three forty-five Willy left with the bags and rucksack, then Rosenharte went out and sauntered off in the same direction, apparently unaware of the two pairs of eyes that followed him. Only when he rounded a bend about one hundred yards from his building and heard the car engine start, did he begin to run towards the entrance of the path that led to the hostel. He knew that if the Stasi were doing their job, one would follow him on foot up the path, while the other would drive round the block to meet him at the far end, but he reckoned he had just enough of a head start to beat them whatever they did.

  At the last bend he saw the black car with diplomatic plates waiting with its boot open. Beside it stood Willy, looking doubtful. Rosenharte thrust some notes into his hand, slung his luggage into the boot, then slid into the back, regretting his twenty-a-day habit. The car moved off into the sparse Saturday-afternoon traffic, leaving Willy to join a bus queue not far away.

  ‘It’s okay, they don’t follow,’ said the driver. It was the same man who had opened the door to him at Angelikastrasse. Rosenharte nevertheless stayed on the floor until they arrived at the goods yard and pulled up next to the Wartburg. A few minutes later he left Dresden, travelling on the road that exited the city on the south side. From then on he followed a circuitous route to Leipzig to minimize the risk of being stopped in the random police checks that he knew would lie along the main road connecting the two cities.

  He drove, glancing in his mirror every minute or so, and in between times weighing up the risk involved in fleeing the Stasi surveillance. Zank would now consider him to be on the run, and infer guilt from his disappearance. If Zank argued his case well, the minister might even abandon the whole Annalise operation and dump the software they had been so desperate to acquire, whatever Schwarzmeer’s protestations. And this would not help Konrad. On the other hand, he could not help Konrad if he was followed to Leipzig, particularly as Zank had already shown an interest in something there - exactly what still remained a puzzle to him. The hard fact was that he had to remain free and unobserved for the next seven days if he was to stand any chance of getting Konrad out. His hope during that time was that the swelling revolt would prove a sufficient distraction for the Stasi not to take a decision.

  As he went, he listened to his transistor radio, swapping it from the passenger seat to the dashboard to pick up a West German station broadcasting news bulletins every hour. Reports through the afternoon stated that spontaneous demonstrations had flared in Leipzig, Magdeburg, Karl-Marx-Stadt, Halle, Plauen and Potsdam. In Berlin thousands of arrests had been made, and nothing had been missed because so many Western journalists were present to cover Gorbachev’s visit and the military parade that morning. TV pictures of the brutal suppression were being shown in the West.

  By the time Rosenharte slipped into the suburbs of Leipzig, he was almost convinced that the revolution had begun. The impression soon left him when he saw the half dozen blue and white buses containing hundreds of Volkspolizei parked up in a street not far from Ulrike’s place. He circled her block once or twice to make sure nothing untoward awaited him there, then pulled into the bay that lay at right angles to the road and diagonally across from the wisteria gateway. Sitting in the shadows he watched the house for about an hour. At nine he saw a man leave, pause outside the gate to light a cigarette and walk up the pavement in his direction. He passed under a streetlight across from him. He was young and wearing jeans, a sports jacket with the collar turned up and trainers. A few yards on from the light he jogged across the road and Rosenharte got a good look at him. He knew exactly where he had seen him before - at the Nikolaikirche with Biermeier, and then in the square afterwards when the pair of them were making for Karl-Marx-Platz.

  He waited half an hour more before leaving the car and making for Ulrike’s door. He knocked gently. There was no response. He knocked again and pressed his ear to the door. Nothing moved inside. Then he used an old Stasi trick: putting his nose to the letter flap that had been cut sideways in the door. You could tell a lot from the odour of a house - the smells of recent cooking, fresh cigarette smoke and alcohol. However, nothing but a slightly scented air reached him. He had the sense that behind the door lay a vacuum, a mysterious emptiness he had no hope of explaining. He knocked several times more and called out softly through the letter flap, but the light above him didn’t come on.

  It hadn’t occurred to him that she would be out, and he cursed himself for not taking a phone number where he could have left a message. He’d wait in the car and, if she didn’t return, make do with sleeping in the back seat: going to a hotel was out of the question since they would ask to see his identity card and he would then appear on the overnight log given to the local Stasi headquarters.

  He walked up the little brick path, which was strewn with a layer of wet leaves. That was odd because the inside of her apartment was so clean and orderly and he felt she was someone who would clear away the leaves. At the gate he nearly ran into a tall young man who loomed from nowhere and then, on seeing Rosenharte, pretended he had got the wrong house.

  ‘Ulrike’s not in,’ Rosenharte called out to his back. ‘Have you got any idea where she is?’

  The man turned. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know if she’s coming back this evening?’ The man looked shifty. Rosenharte realized what he was thinking and introduced himself. ‘I was hoping to catch her. It’s quite important.’

  He took a few paces towards Rosenharte. He was extraordinary-looking. Standing at six feet four, his hair was dyed black and cropped at the sides. On top was a streaked Mohican, which ran front to back like an ancient Greek headdress. His face was long, gaunt and vital and the rims of both ears were clipped with rings and studs.

  ‘You’re her friend?’ he asked softly. ‘A real friend?’

  ‘I’m not a member of the Stasi, if that is what you’re asking.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I know you’re not Stasi. You don’t have the look.’ He grinned. ‘I’m Kurt - Kurt Blast.’

  ‘That’s a good name.’

  ‘That’s why I chose it. It’s my name. You won’t find it on any identity card. It’s not in the Stasi files. I own this name. The first step to freedom, right
?’ He looked to his left and right edgily. ‘Ulrike, she’s in Berlin at the demonstrations.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rosenharte.

  ‘You have any cigarettes?’ he asked.

  Rosenharte felt for his packet and gave him one. ‘I don’t think we should be talking out here,’ he said. ‘There’re a lot of Vopos about.’

  They moved into the gateway and Rosenharte had a chance to examine him. His clothes were even more exotic. A loose leather jacket had been razored and stitched with red cord; his trousers were dark tartan and cut off just below the knee to reveal the longest pair of lace-up boots Rosenharte had ever seen. From his shoulder hung a string of safety pins and feathers.

  ‘Where are you going to stay now?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably in the car. It’s difficult for me to go to a hotel.’

  ‘Maybe you can stay with me. It’s dry and warm and you can pay me a few marks for the night. I’ll throw some food your way for a little more money.’

  Rosenharte considered this. ‘Are you under any kind of surveillance?’

  ‘No. There’s no one else there. I play music the whole time - the guitar. They can’t hear anything but my amp. Hey, maybe I have a fan base at Stasi headquarters.’ The idea amused him.

  ‘But are you watched?’

  ‘No, they had their fun with me a long time back. They don’t bother with me now.’

  They drove to a strange, mutilated house on the very edge of Leipzig, which had been boarded up and abandoned by the authorities. Inside Kurt Blast had made it remarkably snug. There were two guitars hanging from hooks in the wall, a portable amplifier and neat stacks of records and books, which climbed up the wall in columns.

  Kurt Blast turned out to be a rather thoughtful man and a diligent cook. He made Rosenharte a meal of soup and risotto, which they washed down with Marzen, the amber-red beer sold during Oktoberfest in the West. Kurt had an unlimited supply it seemed, and he didn’t mind getting gently sloshed in front of Rosenharte. Later Rosenharte bedded down quite comfortably on the L-shaped couch.

  Next morning he made arrangements to leave his things there and told Kurt that he was going in search of Ulrike. Overnight he had been gripped by the morbid certainty that she was being interrogated, which is how he explained seeing Biermeier’s sidekick outside her home. He had to find out where she was.

  He went to her home twice more. Both times he knocked and got no answer but the process took an hour or so each time because he made sure the place wasn’t being watched. Before he knew it the day had disappeared and he had to start his walk from Karl-Marx-Platz down Pragerstrasse to the main gates of the trade fair ground. He took his time, stopping at the Friedenspark for ten minutes to read the newspaper, in which several barely veiled warnings were made about the peace demonstration and the likely toll if the people were to push the authorities. Around him there was a sense of siege. Streets had been blocked off and there was evidence that a large contingent of the People’s Army were being deployed, just as Vladimir had predicted. Rosenharte even saw men with paratrooper insignia.

  He arrived at the gates a little early, walked beyond them, then passed again on the other side of the road. No one was obviously waiting for him, so he stationed himself at the entrance and lit a cigarette. He was there just five minutes before a large truck pulled up and, ignoring Rosenharte, began to reverse into the opening so that it could turn. At the point when it was nearly touching the gates and Rosenharte had to jump out of the way, the door was opened by one of the Germans he’d seen in Griswald’s apartment in Berlin, who offered him a hand and pulled him in. Inside, another man was hanging from a strap. The doors banged shut and one of the men guided Rosenharte to a crate and pushed him down. For one wild moment it occurred to him that he had been kidnapped, but then one produced a torch and gave him some black coffee, which had lain too long in a flask and had acquired a metallic taste. Eventually the truck pulled off the road, laboured up a hill then came to a stop. Both doors were opened. Standing in front of a car’s headlights were Robert Harland and the short, energetic figure of Macy Harp.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Rosenharte said, jumping down. ‘Isn’t this too dangerous for you?’

  ‘Things have changed quite a bit,’ said Harland, putting out his hand. ‘I think we’re okay. Look, I have something for you.’ He took a picture from his wallet and handed it over. ‘That’s Else and your two nephews in their new home. They arrived on Thursday morning. They seem to like it a lot.’

  ‘Can I keep this and show it to Konrad?’

  ‘That’s why I brought it.’

  Rosenharte slipped it into his wallet and looked around. There were eight of them, including Harland and Harp. ‘What are you . . . ?’ he started.

  ‘We think tomorrow is the ideal time for us.’

  ‘Abu Jamal isn’t here.’

  Harland turned to Macy Harp and took an envelope from him. ‘He’s been here all along; at least since last week when our German friends here moved in to do the recce.’ He pulled a large black and white photograph from the envelope and gave it to Rosenharte. He held it down to the lights and saw a middle-aged man with a comb-over sitting in a wicker chair. Ulrike was standing a little apart from him, gazing somewhat vacantly towards the camera’s lens. The man wore sunglasses. There was a hat and a book in his lap, and a glass of dark liquid on the table beside him. He was smoking a pipe.

  ‘That was taken last week. We’ve now got a mini-camera in the garden which we can operate remotely,’ said Harland. ‘It’s practically a live feed from the villa.’

  ‘So, how does this concern me? You have all you need.’

  ‘We want you to warn her. To get her out of the villa before we make our move.’

  ‘She’s there now? In the villa! I was told she was in Berlin.’

  ‘I guess she conceals her movements from everyone, including you.’ He paused and put up his coat collar. Rosenharte did the same. A sharp wind had blown up from the east and was tugging at the leaves on the birch trees around them. ‘I’d say from this and other photographs that the Arab is pretty sick. We’ve observed that he needs medical attention for much of the time. I suppose he gets bored and needs company. It’s been quite a reunion. We spotted Lomieko there too.’

  Rosenharte shook his head. ‘She was quite specific about Abu Jamal not being allowed into the country until the fortieth anniversary was over.’

  ‘Maybe she wanted to keep us at arms’ length to allow her to stay in Leipzig; after all, we know that’s her priority.’

  ‘It means she’ll have to leave, then. Does she know that?’

  ‘We haven’t been able to get to her to warn her. That’s why we need you. You see we have to move tomorrow night. What can I do?’

  ‘You could wait until the middle of the week at least. Going tomorrow will make it very difficult for her. She will come under suspicion immediately.’

  Harland shook his head regretfully. ‘There are several international arrest warrants pending on Abu Jamal. Anyway, the GDR are not going to make a fuss, believe me. If they kick up about the snatch, it’s as good as admitting their involvement. Once we lift him, they’re not going to do anything. They can’t.’

  ‘But they’ll know you’ve had help from the inside.’

  ‘It’s out of our hands. The American and British governments have to move against Abu Jamal immediately. There’s talk of him blowing up the Paris Metro. This man is a serious threat to Western security and I’m afraid that sweeps all other considerations aside, even Kafka’s security.’

  ‘What haven’t you told me?’

  ‘I’ve told you everything. It’s just that we don’t understand how Kafka’s been allowed to get away with this and remain a big part of the peace movement. It doesn’t add up, unless she has some kind of protection.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘From the Stasi; who else?’

  Rosenharte guffawed. ‘You should hear her views on the Stasi.’
/>   ‘Still, there’s something we’re not getting here. I know you feel the same way. We just can’t put our fingers on it.’

  Macy Harp nodded.

  ‘Why can’t you wait until Wednesday or Thursday?’ asked Rosenharte.

  ‘Because we’re going to deploy the same team to extract your brother. That was your suggestion, and on reflection I thought it a good one, but these men will need time between the two operations. The overriding reason to move now is that the Arab’s health is fading: we want to get him out of the country and to a good doctor. Oddly enough, this operation is about preserving his life, not ending it. We have to keep him alive to find out what he has planned - where, when and with whom. There are now several governments waiting on this operation and, quite frankly, we can’t let the opportunity provided by tomorrow’s demonstration pass. You understand that.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Warn her so that she can leave the city, or at least give her the choice.’

  Rosenharte laughed bitterly. ‘She’s not going to leave. You’ve heard the slogan “We’re staying here!” She all but invented it.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, there are bound to be Stasi guards at the house. Do you imagine they are going to allow me just to walk in and speak to her?’

  ‘There are a couple at the front,’ said Harland. ‘They watch the house but rarely go inside. Your government has been able to get away with sheltering Abu Jamal for so long that they’ve become sloppy.’

  ‘I will need help to get into the villa. My house-breaking skills are not what they used to be.’

  Harland grinned, as if to say that he didn’t know he had a sense of humour. ‘No problem: you’ll go through the garden. There’s minimal risk, I assure you.’