by Henry Porter
Rosenharte studied the avid, healthy young face beside him. ‘Why are you in this business? Couldn’t you find anything else to do?’
‘King and country, and all that stuff,’ said Jay simply.
‘Patriotism? It seems an odd way to show it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Rosenharte nodded. ‘There’s one other thing. The Pole - the man who died in Trieste. Do you believe he was killed?’
‘At first we thought he had been, but we checked his hotel and found several different types of pills for heart and liver disease. He was a very sick man, it seems: he looked much older than he was and, well, we gather he liked a drop more than was good for him.’
‘He was an alcoholic?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Grycko was what age? Fifty-eight or fifty-nine?’
‘Thereabouts.’
‘Can you tell me anything more about him?’
‘We didn’t bother to learn more after we realized he wasn’t relevant to the operation in hand.’ He paused and flashed a bright, uncomplicated grin, then clasped his knees. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’d better be getting along, sir.’ He rose. ‘It’s good to see you have come through all this in one piece. Many congratulations.’
Rosenharte acknowledged this, thinking that in truth half of him was still missing.
He returned to the Rundstedts’ building. He was let in by a neighbour with an impressive spreading moustache who said: ‘There’s trouble. The Stasi have traced the car to a street nearby. Two of them are here now.’
‘Where are my friends?’
‘They’re fine. We have decided to detain the Stasi while you make your way from here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we are having words with them - putting them right about certain things that we in this building feel strongly about. It seemed a good opportunity to act. We’ve locked them in the cellar and your friend Fritzi is plying them with a cheap brandy and giving them a piece of his mind.’
Rosenharte realized that Zank must have worked out they were using number plates stolen from Schwarzmeer’s retreat in the country, and put out a general alert for the missing pair. ‘Okay, we’d better leave.’
‘Not all at the same time,’ said the neighbour. ‘Leave one by one and meet up somewhere. Your friend has been given some crutches. We’ll help him reach his destination.’
Rosenharte thanked the man and tore up the staircase, the noise of his pounding feet reverberating through the tired old building.
Harland filed into the press conference at 5.45 p.m. with members of both the Western and communist media. Already twenty or so TV crews had set up, and about a hundred journalists were in the room. There were still seats free but he took up a position at the side of the room, just behind one of two banks of cameras trained on the dais. The air of expectation was palpable. This would be the first time that a member of the Politburo had taken part in a news conference broadcast live to the people of the GDR. Once Gunther Schabowski, a former newspaper editor whom Krenz had appointed to handle the media, was sitting against the willow-green satin backdrop Harland knew he’d be at the mercy of the press in a way that a career communist could not possibly appreciate. Even a former newspaper editor wouldn’t see the perils ahead.
For Harland the only thing that mattered was picking up the documents from Vladimir, but he was interested in Schabowski. MI6 had reports that suggested that the East Berlin Party chief was one of the key figures in the putsch that ousted Erich Honecker, and it had recently been established that at an earlier Politburo meeting Schabowski openly challenged Erich Mielke on the numbers of people working for the Stasi. London wanted to know whether this indicated real political muscle or recklessness.
Schabowski entered in a grey checked suit and striped tie and threaded a route through the journalists and cameramen. He had the face of a battle-hardened army sergeant, which betrayed some of his Slav origins. Just as he arrived, Harland spotted Vladimir standing on the far side of the room, merged most effectively in the media throng. Their eyes met for a second or two and looked through each other. Harland turned to the dais. There was time enough for Vladimir to make the delivery.
Schabowski began to speak about the ‘intensive discussion’ at the Central Committee. The new proposal on travel regulations was being dealt with and it was understood that Krenz would confront his colleagues with the bleak facts of the East German economy, after Gorbachev’s refusal to come to the country’s aid. Schabowski’s manner was more ponderous than Harland expected and unease communicated itself to the three apparatchiks on the dais with him. Perhaps they had a dim sense that they were riding a machine without knowing where the brakes were.
Harland checked on Vladimir several times, then at 6.30 p.m. noticed that he’d left his position. Next thing he knew the Russian was sidling up to him with a folder of holiday brochures in his hand. He tipped his head to the rear of the room.
‘We hear they all got away last night,’ he said when they reached the back wall. ‘All except the man who was executed last week. A very good result for you.’
‘Yes, it was and thank you for your help.’
‘It’s nothing. This is the first delivery.’ He spoke from the side of his mouth. ‘There are details of cases you know about so your side will realize that what we’re offering is very, very important information. The crown jewels, as you say.’
‘What cases?’ asked Harland, his gaze returning to the figure of Schabowski. From this vantage point he seemed tired and beaten down.
‘You’ve got everything you need on Abu Jamal and Misha. In other words, the documentary proof of the GDR’s official involvement. We’ve added in some other cases that have interested MI6 and Langley in the past. Oh yes, and there’s one other file in there.’ He paused long enough for Harland to turn and raise his eyebrows. ‘It’s Rosenharte’s personal file.’
‘Good, that’ll be a useful way of verifying the material.’
‘It’s more than a means of authentication, as you’ll see. You should give it to him at the earliest opportunity, then telephone me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Not here. We can’t talk about that here.’ He slipped the file into Harland’s left hand and then turned his attention to a question from Riccardo Ehrman, an Italian journalist from the ANSA agency who had arrived late and was perched strategically on the ledge below and to the right of Schabowski.
Schabowski seemed nettled by the Italian’s point, which had referred to mistakes in the release of the draft travel law a few days before. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he was saying. ‘We know about this tendency in the population, this need of the population to travel or leave the GDR. Today, as far as I know a recommendation of the Council of Ministers has been taken up. We have highlighted that passage from the draft travel law, which regulates so-called permanent emigration. Therefore we have decided to adopt a regulation which enables every citizen of the GDR to leave the country by means of GDR border crossings.’
Harland began to say something but Vladimir put up his hand. ‘Listen.’
‘When does that take effect?’ someone called out from the middle of the room. Schabowski either didn’t hear or was playing for time. ‘Is that effective immediately?’ another reporter asked.
‘Well, comrades,’ said Schabowski, ‘it was communicated to me that the press release had been distributed today. You should all have it in your possession.’
Vladimir had begun to shake his head.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Harland.
Schabowski had put on his spectacles and was now reading from notes. ‘Trips abroad may be applied for without meeting preconditions. Permission will be given forthwith. Permanent emigration may take place at all border crossings from the East to West Germany.’
‘When does it take effect?’ came the call again.
‘As far as I know, immediately,’ Schabowski replied.
Vlad
imir turned to Harland, shaking his head. ‘The man’s an idiot. There was a press embargo on this until tomorrow morning.’
Harland had been so focused on when and how he was going to get the documents to West Berlin that he had not seen the significance of Schabowski’s statement.
‘He hasn’t mentioned passports or visas,’ said Vladimir. ‘The Central Committee has revised the travel laws so that people apply for visas without preconditions. But it still means they have to have a passport to leave. Don’t you see? Most East Germans don’t have a passport. He screwed up because he didn’t mention that they still must have a passport.’
Schabowski now seemed to have an idea of the gaffe he’d made. Someone asked whether crossing from East Germany to West Germany included crossings in West Berlin. Schabowski put on his glasses and consulted the handwritten notes in front of him. Then he looked up and, failing to see the significance of the question, murmured that a crossing into West Germany of course included a crossing into West Berlin. He added that he was not completely up to date because he had only just been handed the information before coming in.
For about a minute or so a rather studious-looking journalist in the middle of the room had been on his feet, waiting to gain Schabowski’s attention. His name was Daniel Johnson, a young Englishman whom Harland recognised. ‘Herr Schabowski, what will happen to the Berlin Wall now?’
The room was suddenly electrified. It was the question on everyone’s mind. Schabowksi sat back, then seemed to sink in his chair. He toyed with his reading glasses and seemed to be trying to give the impression that he was in control of the situation. Yet he could not escape the logic of the young man’s question. If people could travel whenever they wanted without preconditions from that moment on, what indeed was the point of the Wall? After a pause, Schabowski noted that the time was seven o’clock and that this was the last question he would deal with. ‘What will happen to the Berlin Wall?’ he mused. ‘Some information has already been provided regarding travel activities . . . the question of the permeability of the Wall from our side does not yet or exclusively answer the question of the purpose of this . . . let me say . . . the fortified national border of the GDR.’
With this baffling statement the press conference ended and the reporters surged forward to gain clarification from the dais. Vladimir shrugged his astonishment and then glanced at Harland. ‘We’ll speak. I’d better let my people know that Gunther Schabowski has singlehandedly torn down the Berlin Wall.’
‘They already know,’ said Harland. ‘It’s on TV.’
Harland went into the hall where there was a TV on and made a call on Alan Griswald’s mobile phone to Griswald in West Berlin and left a message. ‘The deal’s on and by the way, the Wall is coming down. At least that’s what Gunther Schabowski’s saying. Turn on your TV. I’ll be at Checkpoint Charlie by nine.’
Then he called London, where it was now 6.25 p.m. Mike Costelloe had already left Century House. Harland told the European desk the news and asked them to get Costelloe to call him.
Five minutes later the mobile rang. ‘This isn’t a secure line but I have got good news,’ said Harland.
‘Is it true what the East Germans have been saying?’ asked Costelloe. ‘There’s a news flash from Associated Press being put out.’
‘I heard it with my own ears,’ said Harland, watching Johnson talking animatedly with his colleagues.
‘Well, they must put out a clarification soon. I can’t believe they’ll let that stand. What’s got into them?’
‘Search me,’ said Harland, ‘but look, our main business has gone very well. I will call again in a couple of hours. Where will you be?’
‘At Langan’s Brasserie,’ said Costelloe, a smile audible in his voice. ‘I think you’ll relish the piquancy of the occasion. We’re entertaining our German clients and they have their chief analyst with them.’
‘You mean Lisl . . .’
‘Exactly,’ he paused. ‘I’ll look forward to bringing that particular party up to date with the events. Look, I’ve got to go now.’
Harland wished he could see the consternation spread over Dr Lisl Voss’s face as the news came through. ‘Hold on. Don’t go,’ he said. ‘The TV news is on. You can hear what the East Germans are saying.’
He held the phone to the set as the rather prim but attractive newscaster went straight into an item about Schabowski’s statement. ‘He announced a resolution by the Council of Ministers regarding a new travel rule. Effective immediately, private trips abroad may be applied for without specifying a particular reason.’
Harland put the phone to his ear. ‘See what I mean? They’re not talking about passports or visas.’
‘Jesus, it’s soon going to be too late for them to claw that back,’ observed Costelloe. Harland knew he was already composing his line for the Joint Intelligence Committee the following morning. ‘Keep me in touch. And well done on the other thing. It sounds very exciting.’
‘But we’ll need to have a decision on the money by tomorrow morning. I can’t put them off any longer.’
‘Message understood,’ said Costelloe.
He hung up, wondering if he had been too indiscreet on an open line, but then he reflected that the permeability of the fortified border increased every day without Schabowski’s help. However good the East Germans were, there was little they could do to track cellular phone calls. But the Wall was still there and for the moment he needed to know whether Rosenharte and Kafka and their friend had crossed over. He dialled a number in West Berlin and waited.
38
The Gate
They were driven one by one from Prenzlauer Berg to a neglected courtyard off the Hackescher Markt, near Alexanderplatz. Then they were shown to an apartment belonging to a violinist named Hubert, an excitable man with tufts of black hair above his ears and a wandering right eye. Moments after Rosenharte arrived in the musician’s tiny flat he received word that Colonel Zank was now questioning everyone in the Rundstedts’ block. This worried Rosenharte and Ulrike. Both knew that the Stasi would consult records held in Normannenstrasse and draw up lists of known contacts of the Rundstedt family and their neighbours. They excelled at this kind of rapid triangulation and sooner or later Hubert would show up on that list. More troubling was the certainty that Zank knew they hadn’t already left East Berlin and that they would be attempting a crossing with false credentials in the very near future. Every border post would now be on alert and in possession of the picture of Rosenharte used in the press and the photographs of Kurt and Ulrike taken in Hohenschönhausen.
At 7.20 p.m. Rosenharte used Hubert’s phone to call Robert Harland. A woman answered and said that everyone dealing with the operation was out. She would urgently try to get in touch with Harland.
‘How are we expected to come across?’ asked Rosenharte, almost at the end of his tether.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘All travel restrictions have been lifted. The news has just come through. There was an announcement by Gunther Schabowski just before seven - twenty minutes ago.’
‘But we still have to go through checkpoints. They’ll be looking for us.’
‘If you’re near a TV, turn it on,’ said the woman. ‘The situation’s very fluid. Call again in an hour’s time. In the meantime, I will contact Mr Harland.’
Rosenharte returned to the others. ‘Something’s happened. No one knows what’s going on. There’s been an announcement about the travel laws.’ He turned to Hubert. ‘Have you got a TV?’
He removed a white cloth to reveal a TV set in the corner of the room and retuned it from the West German station to an East German state channel. At seven thirty the blue logo of the Aktuelle Kamera show appeared, and after a prologue about the Central Committee meeting, they heard the words: ‘Immediately effective, private trips abroad may be applied for without specifying a particular reason.’
Ulrike rose. ‘What does it mean? Can a
nyone travel at any time? It can’t be true.’
They continued to watch, but no further explanation was offered. Hubert rang round his friends. They had all seen it, but were confused as to what the government had actually said. Some had heard rumours that people were beginning to gather at four of the main checkpoints - at Bornholmerstrasse railway bridge to the north of the city centre, Invalidenstrasse to the west of them, and at Checkpoint Charlie and Sonnenallee to the south. They were showing up with nothing more than their identity cards and demanding to be allowed through.
It was now 8.45. Rosenharte called the British again, but got no further information. Hubert’s phone rang several times. Brisk, incredulous exchanges took place. The consensus among his friends seemed to be that people should mass on the border and so increase pressure on the authorities to raise the barriers. At Bornholmerstrasse, the crossing closest to a large residential area, thousands had already gathered. Then at 9.15 they learned from another call that the Stasi officer in charge of passport control at Bornholmerstrasse was easing the pressure by allowing a trickle of the most troublesome East Berliners to pass into the West with nothing more than a stamp on their identity cards. ‘Without passports,’ shouted Hubert before making arrangements with friends to go to Bornholmerstrasse. ‘You must come too,’ he said. ‘We’ll all go.’
‘Do you have transport?’ asked Rosenharte. ‘Kurt won’t make it that far.’
Hubert shook his head.
‘I can walk,’ said Kurt.
Rosenharte shook his head. ‘No, we’ll head for Checkpoint Charlie. It’s the closest.’
Hubert snatched up a coat, but just as he was about to leave they heard shouts from the yard below. A man was calling up to Hubert that four Stasi cars had pulled up in Rosenthalerstrasse and were preparing to enter the obscure little courtyard.
