by Henry Porter
The house itself was in worse repair than Rosenharte remembered from his night visit. The windows were rotten and the roof looked near collapse in one or two places. They entered by slipping the latch with his camping knife. There were signs not just of the recent occupation by Harland’s team, but one which predated it. Someone had lived there up until a year or two before, judging by the old packets of food on the shelves which had clearly been disturbed by mice. They unpacked their food and a few other items from the car, then concealed them in some bushes just off the road that led into the beech forest. No rain had fallen in this part of the country and Rosenharte suggested they make a meal in the open rather than use the stove inside the house. That way he could keep an eye on the amount of smoke they were producing. He made a fire using dry kindling found at the side of the house and they sat on an old bench together, sharing a bottle of beer and devouring the contents of several cans, which they heated in the pans. Rosenharte dispersed the smoke by fanning it with a piece of board.
He knew very well that Ulrike was still hiding a lot from him, but unless this had a direct relevance to Konrad, he wasn’t interested. The only thing that mattered now was collecting the documents from Vladimir, getting to Berlin and handing them over to the British. He touched her on the shoulder, then took her chin in his hand to turn her face towards him.
‘I find myself in an odd position,’ he told her. ‘I’ve fallen for someone who’s lied to me about the most important thing in my life.’ He stopped and looked into her eyes, trying to plumb the depths of her deceit. ‘Lie to me again on this, Ulrike, and I will not answer for my actions. If there’s anything you know that is relevant to Konrad, I want to hear it now.’
She shook her head and said there was nothing more. A minute or two of silence followed and then she pointed to a small pink bird that had shot up from the scrub below the hillock and perched at the top of a clump of hazel nearby.
‘A male rosefinch,’ he said. ‘It will fly all the way across the Ukraine and Iran to India in the next few weeks.’
‘You’re migrating the other way.’
‘I want you to come with me.’
‘One day, maybe, when there are no travel restrictions. But I am staying here. I want to see it through. Last night was just the beginning. We have to keep up the pressure.’
‘But Ulrike, you’re on the run. Not for a petty transgression, but for spying. That’s a mandatory death sentence. Spies don’t even get a court appearance. After they’ve beaten you and got everything they want they kill you. The last thing you’ll feel is the barrel of the gun behind your ear. A fraction of a second later a bullet enters your brain. Then they burn your body and dispose of the ashes down the drain. You’re eliminated, no longer even reviled by the state.’
‘Don’t, Rudi.’
‘For you, a trusted informant and sometime member of the Stasi, they will reserve the most savage treatment. Because you haven’t just betrayed the GDR but the state within a state - the Ministry for State Security.’
She was agitated and her cheeks were flushed. ‘You don’t seem to understand what happened last night. It’s the beginning of the end. People will demonstrate all over the GDR because it’s not just in Leipzig that they hate the system. There are groups springing up in every city. We have contacts with them.’
‘If that’s true, there’s all the more reason for you to keep yourself safe until Honecker goes. But that could be months - maybe years. Come with me to the West when I take Konrad out. You’ll be welcomed as a hero now that they’ve got the Arab. That means they’ll find you an apartment and a job and give you money. They are already housing Else and the kids.’ He took out his wallet and showed her the picture that Harland had given him.
‘The sons look like you,’ she said.
‘That’s hardly surprising. Konrad and I are identical. Well, we were identical. He’s lost weight and he looks older than I do now. But we’ll get him the best treatment and see if we can’t restore him to what he was.’ He was aware of the emotion in his voice and glanced away.
It began to spot with rain. They went inside the farmhouse and drank beer at the table, looking through the open door at the rain and talking with a familiarity that surprised both of them.
Later Rosenharte noticed some gas cylinders in the corner of the kitchen, looked for an appliance to go with them, but found nothing. He fiddled with an old cast-iron stove to see if he could get it burning when night fell and the smoke would not be seen. Both kept an eye on the tracks and the road across the fields to the north of them. Very little traffic passed on this road, and in the fields there was no sign of activity. They were alone and could remain undetected for the next few days. He knew he’d have to break cover to make phone calls to Vladimir and Harland, but for the present there was no need to move. When the sun came out to give them a warm autumn afternoon, they sat out front and he whittled the end of a piece of hazel wood into a crude-looking bird, which he gave her.
Their farmhouse was still supplied with electricity, but the light fittings had been stolen, along with the mattress from the bed, the sinks and lavatories. Even the taps had been taken and the pipes sealed. But outside water sputtered from a faucet and using this they made a meal of pasta with a sauce of cheese and mushrooms that she’d dried and preserved in an old tin. They drank one of the two bottles of wine they had and toasted recent events. She sat down on their makeshift bed, which mostly consisted of Rosenharte’s sleeping bag and some clothes, and began to undress in the light from the open mouth of the stove. Rosenharte watched her, then did likewise and kneeled and held her, seeing again the look of wonder mixed with uncertainty in her eyes.
They slept until midnight when they both awoke to the sound of a phone - not the bell they were used to, but an electronic trill that was coming from beneath the stairs. Rosenharte pulled on his trousers and went with the torch to investigate. He found a bulky white telephone inside a cupboard under the stairway, picked up the handset and listened.
‘Is that Prince?’
‘Yes.’ Rosenharte recognized Harland’s voice.
‘Glad you found the set. The news is very good. The package proved more than we expected. We’re very pleased. Everything’s set for Friday. Owing to the high-grade information we now have we want to make sure Kafka comes with you. It’s no longer safe for anyone connected to this business to remain in situ. During the removal we were disturbed by certain parties and we now believe the situation’s extremely volatile. You understand what I’m saying? Kafka must come with you.’
‘We know about the problem. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Glad you’ve taken action. Our feeling is that everything’s blown. The parties who disturbed us will understand all the implications. They’ll work it back and put things together.’
‘Understood.’
‘So we’ll see you at the place you specified on the day you specified. If you don’t show, we’ll take it that it’s off.’
‘Agreed,’ said Rosenharte.
‘Pass on our congratulations and thanks to Kafka.’
Before he hung up, Rosenharte asked whether they could use the phone, and if so what codes they should use to dial a number in the GDR. After giving him some basic instructions and the codes Harland said, ‘It’s not advisable for domestic calls. But use it if there’s no other means available. Keep your calls short, and don’t use the phone continuously at the same location unless you’re about to move. We’d like the set back, so if it’s humanly possible bring it with you to our meeting. Otherwise leave it where you found it and we’ll have it picked up at some stage.’
Rosenharte replaced the handset and wrote down the codes on the back of his hand.
28
A Call to Poland
They rose early next day, stiff, cold and snapping at each other. Both yearned for a bath. Rosenharte hadn’t shaved for two days and dark gingery stubble was showing on his chin. He made a drink of beef stock for Ulrike, who per
ched on the table to escape the draughts, blowing steam from her cup.
‘You make the call, then we should go,’ she said.
‘The phone has a battery so we can use it wherever we like.’
‘Why don’t you do it before we go? It’ll save you having to set it up again.’
‘Whatever you say,’ he said testily and went out for a cigarette.
He returned five minutes later. ‘You can’t stay in the GDR. That’s what Harland said last night. You have to come with me.’
She gave him a trapped look and put down the cup. ‘All these years I’ve worked and planned, lied and risked my freedom for what is happening. I have to be here.’
‘Let’s see what you think after a day or two of living rough.’
‘Don’t be stupid. This isn’t about my comfort.’ She swivelled on her bottom to look away from him and out at the still grey landscape that seemed to have been laid down with strokes of watercolour wash.
‘If you stay I can give you money, which will make things easier for you,’ he said after a few minutes. ‘Maybe there’s a reason you want to stay that I don’t understand, but I think you should come. And that’s the last I’ll say on the matter.’
After a silence she held out a hand. ‘Rudi - I’m sorry. I can be a bitch in the morning.’
He nodded.
They waited until ten to make the call to Poland. After rehearsing the procedure and reading the letter that had been left with Else by the second Pole, he dialled the number and got through the first time. A male voice answered. Rosenharte asked if this was Leszek Grycko.
A Polish voice recognized the name and produced what sounded like a stream of instructions.
‘Do you speak any German? This is Rudi Rosenharte. Ro—sen—harte.’
The receiver was put down, then a few seconds later it was snatched up, this time by a young woman with a high, panicky voice who was desperate to make herself understood, but she too spoke no German. Rosenharte raised his eyes to the ceiling and said, ‘Later, I will call later.’ He hung up.
‘It’s odd that he left this number where no one speaks German. I guess it’s not important, but it does interest me that these two men have made such efforts to contact Konrad and me. When Zank questioned me in my office he said that the one who died in Trieste was part of the Polish secret service. Do you think Biermeier has anything to do with this? Could they have been working for him without you knowing?’
‘No, he feared that that man would ruin the whole operation in Trieste. The other members of the Stasi team, who weren’t in all this, wanted to pull out after his death because there was too much they didn’t understand about it.’
‘Franciscek Grycko died of a heart attack.’
‘It will all be clear soon, no doubt.’ She started picking up things from the floor and packing them into the two bags they had brought from the car. Rosenharte returned to the phone and dialled Vladimir’s number as instructed, using a code as though he was phoning from outside the country. Vladimir picked up and simply said, ‘Yes?’
‘It’s me - Rudi. Did you get my message that everything was happening on Monday night? It all went as planned.’
‘Yes,’ he said warily.
‘Everything is set for the date we discussed. Do you have the papers I requested?’
‘What kind of telephone are you using? It sounds different.’
Rosenharte read off the name Inmarsat.
‘We shouldn’t speak long on this phone.’
‘Have you got the material I asked for?’
Vladimir hesitated. ‘There may be a problem. Call me later on an ordinary telephone. I can’t speak now.’
‘What sort of problem?’
‘I can’t say because I don’t know.’
‘But we are going ahead. Everything’s in place your end?’
‘Not now. Call me later.’ There was a click as he hung up.
Rosenharte replaced the receiver feeling troubled, but he decided to put Vladimir’s manner down to routine cautiousness. He unplugged the phone from the electricity supply and followed the cables to the back of the house where a small dish had been erected. This he removed, then he coiled the wire and went to place the phone on top of the large bags. Ulrike was staring out of the window.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘I don’t remember more than a couple of cars passing on that stretch of road yesterday, but I’ve just seen a van and three cars pass in the last minute.’ She motioned him over. ‘And is that a vehicle parked by those trees, or am I seeing things in the mist?’
Rosenharte thought he made out the canopy of a truck but couldn’t be sure. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Just as he was about to pick up one of the bags an idea came to him. He ran over to the stove and stoked the open front with the remains of the floorboards he’d broken for heat in the middle of the night. Using a poker he levered the plate from the top and exposed the fire below. He rammed one gas cylinder down the opening and balanced the other across a metal lip on the front of the stove, so that the flames licked one side.
They rushed to the back of the farmhouse and forced open a door into a thicket of bramble and hazel. He went first and turned and pushed backwards so she could follow. The car lay about two hundred yards away and they would have to cross one of the tracks leading up to the farmhouse. Ulrike got snagged by the brambles several times and Rosenharte had to turn and slash at the tentacles with his knife. Once they got through the worst of it he left her and snaked through the bushes towards the track. There he waited and listened. All was clear. He beckoned to her and they dived across the track and plunged in to some dead bracken.
They heard a vehicle moving slowly down the track.
Rosenharte cursed and shoved her head down into the grass. ‘Don’t move until I say,’ he hissed.
He glimpsed the car - a black saloon with four men inside - and began to crawl through the trees on his elbows, each step of the way placing the bag with the phone in front of him. He reached the firm ground where he’d parked the Wartburg, slipped the catch on the boot, inched it open and placed the phone dish inside. Two more journeys to fetch the bags followed, then he led Ulrike to the car.
They were hidden from the house but close enough to hear the men talking in the still morning air. One was speaking into a radio. Evidently they were waiting for further instructions before entering the farmhouse. He looked at Ulrike’s fearful expression and touched her cheek with his fingertips to calm her. She gave him a tight little smile. A minute or two later they heard more vehicles approaching from different directions. He crab-walked to the driver’s side, reached to the door handle and, still crouching, worked the action to see if he could open it without making a noise. There was a click followed by a metallic yawn from the hinge. He froze, one hand holding the door, the other splayed on the ground. Ulrike grimaced and shut her eyes.
But no one had heard. The other vehicles were pulling up at the bottom of the hillock and the sound of doors banging reached them. He beckoned her, indicating she should climb across into the passenger seat, then followed and gently pulled the door to.
He pulled out the choke and put his hand to the ignition key. At this precise moment two almighty bangs occurred in quick succession, which seemed to shake everything around them. The explosions reverberated in the woods and birds scattered from all around them into the sky. He started the engine and pumped the accelerator a little, but rather than lunging forward, he nosed the car into the track, letting the wheels roll down into the tyre ruts with almost no sound.
Then he hit the accelerator and they shot forward. ‘Are they following?’
‘I can’t see anything except the smoke.’
‘Well at least it means they can’t see us.’
In a few seconds they reached the golden cover of the great beech forest and were going like the blazes along a well-made road littered with beechnuts that snapped and popped as they ran over them
. One or two mushroom hunters were out, but they saw no one for the next twenty minutes as they headed for somewhere that Rosenharte knew would be the very last place the Stasi would search for them.
29
A New Traitor
Harland took no part in the interrogation of Abu Jamal. A team from London was flown in to the military base sixty miles from the BND headquarters at Munich-Pullach. As well as the SIS and BND officers, the CIA had conjured a dozen anti-terrorism and Middle East specialists to comb through the documents taken from the villa. But he noted with satisfaction that what had generally been dismissed as his hare-brained operation in Trieste had already produced important results.
Two men had been picked up, one in Vienna and the other in Italy, and now that the identities of Abu Jamal’s main contacts were known, the embassies of six nations had been alerted across the Middle East to pay special attention to the comings and goings at East German missions, and to the movement of known Stasi operatives. Harland’s stock was high in London and he had received a note from the Chief of SIS congratulating him on his ‘superb effort’ in neutralizing Abu Jamal. The celebrations, however, were muted. The Arab no longer represented a threat, but the size, sophistication and ambitions of his network did give cause for alarm, particularly as so little of it was picked up on Western intelligence radar. The more important lesson, defined by Costelloe in an instant piece of analysis, was that Misha Lomieko and the East Germans had inspired the terrorists with techniques and a boldness of vision that was utterly new. This knowledge had escaped into the ether for ever.
Feeling triumphant but also rather superfluous, Harland went to seek out Alan Griswald, whom he hadn’t seen since he got back from Leipzig. He found him in a corridor of one of the low wooden buildings reading Small Boat magazine, clutching the perennial Styrofoam cup of coffee. ‘Hey Bobby, that was a wonderful operation. Just beautiful. You must be feeling pretty pleased with yourself.’
