by Bob Cook
Piaget received Wyman with all the geniality and blandishment that he reserved for the wealthiest of clients. It occurred to Wyman that whereas people in his own profession regarded insincerity as a tool of their trade, people like M. Piaget had turned it into an art-form.
Wyman ignored Piaget’s outpourings and got straight to the point. He had a rather extraordinary request to make, but he felt it was in the interest of both his client and the bank that M. Piaget should grant it. He explained the nature of his request, and M. Piaget assured him that it would be no trouble at all. Wyman thanked M. Piaget for his consideration, and he left the manager’s office.
As he stepped out of the bank, Wyman noticed a group of workmen on the other side of the road. One of them stood behind what looked vaguely like a theodolite. Wyman noticed that there were no road-works in progress, and that the theodolite was pointed directly at the entrance to the bank.
He went over to the workmen and smiled at them graciously.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said in English. “And how is life in the Company nowadays?”
The workmen stared at him blankly. The man behind the theodolite said:
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the chap you’re looking for. Consult your photograph, if you want to make sure.”
The theodolite man looked at one of his colleagues, and the other man nodded.
“That is a camera, isn’t it?” Wyman said. “Thought so. We used to use those things as well, but we gave up on them. The telephoto lens is too conspicuous, you see.”
The theodolite man scratched his head in bewilderment.
“You know who we are?”
“Of course I do,” Wyman said cheerfully.
“I’m confused,” one of the workmen said.
“It’s a common problem,” Wyman observed. “Look here, since I’m the one you’re after, why not take a decent photo of me now? Once you’ve done that, you can go home.”
“You want us to take your picture?” The theodolite man was totally perplexed.
“Yes, why not?” Wyman said. “I’m always ready to oblige my American colleagues. You’ll find that the right is my best side, but I suppose you want the entire face.”
“Yeah,” gasped the theodolite man. “The whole face—if you don’t mind, sir.”
By now the “workmen” were convinced that they were dealing with a raving lunatic.
“Splendid.” Wyman beamed genially at the camera as the theodolite man took the photograph. “Better take another one, just to make sure.”
The theodolite man took another photo and looked up at Wyman.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
“Not at all,” Wyman said.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning,” said the workmen.
Wyman strolled away to find a taxi.
Chapter Thirty-eight
WHILE MICHAEL WYMAN was sorting out Plato’s finances in Geneva, Rawls wandered around the luxuriant gardens of the International Flower Show in Erfurt. Rawls was not sure if his movements were being noted, so he felt obliged to pay at least one visit to the show, to validate the claims on his visa.
The colourful displays and pretty fountains bored Rawls, so he lingered at the show only for as long as was absolutely necessary. He then headed back towards the hotel, swearing that he would never look at another flower again. On the way home he paid a brief visit to the thirteenth-century monastery on the Augustinierstrasse, and then he walked down the Leninstrasse to the Interhotel Kosmos.
At the hotel Rawls took a late lunch, and sampled some more of the local cuisine. Although he was no epicure, Rawls could appreciate a good meal, and lunch at the Kosmos did not disappoint him. Thuringia specializes in venison, poultry and fish, and along with its fine range of sausage dishes it produces a very fine ham known as Bärenschinken. Feeling a little spoilt for choice, Rawls decided to save these delights for another occasion. He settled for another local dish, Thüringer Sauerkrauten mit Klössen (pickled roast meat with dumplings) which he washed down with a bottle of Bulgarian wine.
After lunch Rawls had a look at the hotel’s Intershop. Intershops are an indication of the strange nature of the East German economy. The official exchange rate of the West German and East German marks is one to one, but since 1949 the East Germans have been prepared to offer four to five DDR marks for one West German mark.
This is not to say that everything is more expensive in the East: rents, fares, gas, electricity, bread and butter actually cost less in the DDR. But cars, electrical goods, clothing, shoes, confectionery and fruit are more expensive, so by taking their own marks into the DDR, West Germans could eat in East German restaurants and buy consumer items at virtually no cost. With the increase in West German visitors in recent years, the black market in currency and consumer goods thrived, as did the careers of people like Josef Grünbaum.
In order to cope with this problem, as well as the desperate need for Western currency, Intershops were established throughout the DDR in 1962. Originally, these were solely for the benefit of tourists; they sold Western goods for Western currency, and the East Germans themselves were not allowed to use them. Naturally, the East Germans broke the law, and in 1974 the Intershops were officially made available to the East German public.
Nevertheless, the DDR’s government still maintains its ambivalent attitude towards them. To the Westerner, the Intershops are oddly reminiscent of the Soho sex-shop. No window displays are allowed and, once inside the shop, the customer is given the impression that he is being given access to something suspect and slightly naughty.
The Intershops had never provided an effective opposition to black-marketeers like Grünbaum, and they did very little for Western visitors. Rawls was not impressed by the goods on sale in the Kosmos Intershop. The quality of the items was slightly inferior to those on sale in the average Woolworth’s, and Rawls had no inclination to waste his money on them. He left the shop and sat in the main lounge of the hotel, drinking coffee.
Rawls read the notepaper given him by Schlick. The address he sought was Number 39, Dorfstrasse. He consulted his map and established that this street lay in the newly built housing estate surrounding the Nordhäuser Strasse in the north of Erfurt. He guessed it would take him about three-quarters of an hour to walk there. He considered hiring a car, but decided that this might attract unwanted attention. So at ten past five he left the hotel and walked northwards up the Juri-Gagarin Ring.
The walk took a little longer than he had expected, and he finally arrived at Dorfstrasse at 6.10. He found Number 39, and noted that there was no car outside. That would mean loitering, but in that respect Rawls was fortunate. The Nordhäuser district is unusual among East German housing estates in that its planners were prepared to take aesthetic considerations into account when designing it. Opposite the block of houses was a large fountain surrounded by well-tended gardens. Rawls sat down on a bench near the fountain and kept an eye on Number 39. He was delighted to see that the street was empty, and prayed that it would remain so.
At 6.22 a rusty old saloon car stopped outside the house, and its driver got out. Rawls read the number plate, confirming that this was the car he wanted. The driver locked the car and rang the doorbell of Number 39. Eight seconds later the door opened, and the man was shown inside by a young woman. The door shut, and four seconds after that the front curtains were drawn. Rawls wondered if they were planning to do it in the front room, and realized that he would have to be especially careful not to make any noise.
He crept swiftly over to the car and tried the boot. Not surprisingly, it was locked. He drew out a small lock-pick from his breast pocket and carefully opened the boot. Inside was an empty petrol can, a few rags and a spanner. He moved these aside and climbed in. Having satisfied himself that he would be secure and comfortable, he attached a strip of insulating tape across the lock and then shut himself inside the boot. So far, everything was proceeding according to plan.
Twenty minutes later, Dr Johannes Leibniz emerged from Number 39. He had the flushed, contented look of a man who has just enjoyed illicit sex. A quick glance at the street assured him that no one was about, and he returned to his car.
As he started the engine, Leibniz wondered if he might not be getting too old for this sort of thing. The girl was very pneumatic. Still, it compensated for what his wife Hilde failed to provide. When it came to lovemaking, Hilde had all the imagination and stamina one could expect of a geriatric walrus.
He drove back towards the hospital and looked at his watch. It was now 7.10, and he was slightly late. Unfortunately, the car was handling very sluggishly at the moment, and that would probably account for the delay. He must remember to have the car seen to tomorrow; it was probably just the tyres. The delay meant that he would have to do his rounds a little more briskly than usual before finishing his paperwork and going home to Hilde. It wasn’t a particularly stimulating agenda, but Leibniz had had enough stimulation for one day.
He pulled up at the gates of a grey building-complex on the outskirts of Mühlhausen. A large sign said “Heisenberg Psychiatric Institute”. A guard approached the car and Leibniz lowered his window. He waved his pass at the guard.
“Good evening, Sergeant,” he said.
“Good evening, Dr Leibniz,” the guard said, grinning evilly. “Did you have a pleasant ride?”
“Most pleasant, thank you,” Leibniz said uncomfortably. He wondered who had been talking.
The guard waved to a colleague, and the gates opened. The saloon rolled down a long gravel drive and halted among a group of similar cars. Leibniz got out of his car and went into the hospital.
A minute later, Rawls partially opened the boot of the car and looked around. Nobody was in sight. He jumped out, tore off the insulating tape, and closed the boot. He looked at the main entrance to the hospital, took a deep breath, and walked inside.
To Rawls’ intense relief, the receptionist’s desk was unattended. He saw a corridor plan of the building pinned up against a wall. It told him that the Records Department was in room F37 on the fourth floor.
A large clock on the wall read 7.28. It was still too early, Rawls decided. He looked at the chart and saw that the laundry was to be found in the basement. He walked over to a flight of stairs and went down.
He hid in the laundry, and after three hours his patience was exhausted. He donned a white porter’s jacket and walked out into the neon-lit corridor. A couple of nurses passed by without noticing him.
It took him five minutes to find room F37. He was disgusted to see that it was still lit. Through the glass door he could see a night porter reading a magazine. Evidently, the Records Office had the best coffee in the building. He walked in and said hello to the porter.
“Hello,” said the porter, without looking up.
“I wonder if you can help me,” Rawls said. “I’m new here. Dr Leibniz asked me to get him a file on somebody called Kurt Neumann.”
“Over there.” The porter waved laconically at a row of filing cabinets by the window. “They’re in alphabetical order. I thought Leibniz had gone home.”
“He has,” Rawls said. “He told me to put it on his desk for the morning.”
“Morning?” The porter’s eyes widened in surprise. “So he’s doing morning shifts as well now, is he? The man’s a workaholic.”
“Yes,” Rawls said.
He walked over to the filing cabinets and found the one containing Neumann’s papers. He took the file out, thanked the porter, and left the room. A couple of minutes later he was back in the laundry.
He read quickly through the documents. They were very surprising. Rawls frowned in confusion and sat down.
“What the fuck is going on?” he muttered. “Doesn’t make sense.”
He reread the file for further clues, but could find none. He noted that Neumann was in a single ward on the second floor.
Beneath a sink at the other end of the laundry was a waste-disposal unit. Rawls shoved the documents into the hatch and walked out.
Neumann’s room was unlocked and unlit. Rawls switched on a small table-lamp and saw a bulky figure asleep on the bed.
“Neumann, wake up.”
Neumann grunted and opened one eye. He was a large, muscular man in his late forties.
“Who are you?” he said.
“A friend,” Rawls said. “You must be very quiet.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not supposed to be here. I’m from the Company.”
“Is this a game?” Neumann said. “I like games.”
“I need some information,” Rawls said. “Who blew Grünbaum? How were you busted?”
“Shall I call a nurse? Maybe she’d like to play too.”
“Listen!” Rawls hissed. “This is important: you’ve got to tell me how your network was discovered. What happened?”
“I don’t understand,” Neumann said.
“What I mean is, how did you get here?”
“Oh, that,” Neumann said. “That was all because of Auntie Gretchen.”
“Who? Is that a code-name?”
“Auntie Gretchen. I lived with her,” Neumann explained. “She was very kind, even though she beat me sometimes.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rawls said.
“She said that if I wasn’t good, the men would take me away. That’s what they do to all the bad children. ‘But I’m not bad, Auntie’, I said.”
“Jesus Christ!” Rawls exclaimed.
“Anyway,” Neumann continued, “I was chopping wood for Auntie Gretchen, and she came out and started shouting at me.”
“Why the fuck did she shout at you?”
“Because she never asked me to chop the wood. She was very angry, and I was only trying to be good.”
“Sure,” Rawls groaned. “I bet you’re a regular sweetie.”
“She shouted at me so much I had to make her stop. So I hit her with the axe.”
“You did what?”
“I hit her. Not very hard. Just a few times on her head to stop her shouting.”
“What happened?”
“She stopped shouting.”
“No, I mean what happened to you?”
“The men came and took me away. They say I can’t see Auntie Gretchen any more. I want to go home, but they won’t let me.”
Neumann started to blub.
“That’s really very sad,” Rawls said, though he didn’t put much feeling into it. “Listen Neumann, I’ve got one more question to ask. Just one, and then I’ll go away.”
Neumann sniffed and nodded.
“Neumann—Kurt—how old are you? Can you tell me that? What is your age?”
Neumann frowned in concentration.
“I’m a big boy now,” he said.
“I can see that,” Rawls said. “But how old are you?”
“I’m older than Eva, I know that.”
“And how old is Eva?”
“Eva’s nine,” Neumann said. “Do you want to meet Eva?”
He picked up a small, mangled teddy bear and showed it to Rawls.
“Eva’s my best friend,” he said proudly.
Rawls nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
He put the light out and left the room.
Rawls walked down the stairs and into the main entrance hall. It was still empty. He went over to the door and opened it. He stepped outside and doubled up in pain as a rifle-butt hit him in the stomach. He fell to the ground and saw a guard swing the rifle-butt upwards.
It all happened in a second and it saved Rawls’ life. His left leg hooked around the guard’s ankle while his right foot drove straight into the guard’s kneecap and smashed it. As the guard fell backwards, Rawls dived onto him and shoved a flattened palm into his windpipe, shattering the larynx.
Whether the guard would die of internal bleeding or suffocation Rawls did not particularly care. He le
apt over him and ran outside. People were shouting on all sides. There were whistles, and he thought he could make out the bark of a dog. He rushed towards the parked cars. As he got to the nearest one he groped in his pocket for the lock-pick. Just as the boot came open, Rawls’ world exploded into a kaleidoscope of red, gold, brown and finally black.
Chapter Thirty-nine
ABRIGHTLY LIT CELL came gradually into focus, and Rawls felt a herd of distressed elephants stampede across his cranium. From the corner of his eye he could see a bucket on the floor. He leaned over and threw up into it. This did not make him feel better, but at least it was something to do.
He sat up and blinked at the man opposite. “I did warn you,” Bulgakov said.
“You were very kind,” Rawls said weakly. “I’ll remember you at Christmas.”
Bulgakov grinned and offered Rawls a cigarette. Rawls shook his head.
“So now you know,” Bulgakov said.
“Yeah.”
“Was it worth the trouble? Was it really worth it?”
Rawls shrugged.
“We had to know.”
“You could have spared yourself all this discomfort simply by believing what I said.”
“Listen, Bulgakov, I’m not self-employed. Even if I believed you, my boss wouldn’t. I’d still have had to come here.”
“Perhaps.”
There was a short silence, and then Rawls said:
“What have you got lined up for me?”
“I could kill you,” Bulgakov said thoughtfully. “After all, you killed that guard.”
“You don’t look too bothered about that.”
“I’m not. I regard your life as slightly more important than that of some German fool. Besides, killing you would be silly.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Rawls said.
“If you died, more people would follow you. Your people would think that you had discovered something important.”
“So?”
“So I shall send you home. You can tell your masters—and the British—about what you have seen. That, I hope, will be the end of the matter.”
