The talk had switched to the new government in London, the capabilities of the Prime Minister and his Cabinet, the likelihood of further defence spending cuts. The passing of the port around the table had served to dismiss the one moment that threatened Mawby's confidence.
By the time that he was ready to switch off his light Mawby was a little drunk. And why not, he reflected.
Rubbing the towel across her shoulders, Erica Guttmann emerged from the bathroom. A close, hot night and she hoped that the shower would enable her to sleep.
It had been an endless, dragging, dreadful day. A walk in (he late morning to the Zoologischer Garten, a lunchtime snack there, a doze in the sunshine and then back to the hotel to change into a clean dress while her father took a new shirt and then another concert to be endured .. . He never went to hear music in Moscow and the city brimmed with ballet and symphony orchestras and chamber music quartets. Never went, and instead saved his trapped enthusiasm for the Magdeburg fortnight.
Beethoven at the Bezirks- musikschule on Hegel Strasse. Back to the hotel for late dinner before the dining room closed. She had seen her father to bed, sat and talked with him in his room and enjoyed the evidence that his strength and purpose were ebbing back in the days away from Padolsk.
She moved with a quick grace across the room, tall and light footed, slender and fast, the towel draped at her waist. No traffic moving on Otto von Guericke Strasse. There wouldn't be, they didn't have cars in this dreary, factory ridden camp. Even Moscow was better than here, even Moscow and God knew there were only trifles there. But these were her twin homes, these were the towns where she would grow old.
Complaint would not help her, nor dissatisfaction, nor dreams of the different world carried gently into her room by the hotel radio tuned to jazz music from Hamburg.
And her life was drifting, notching up anniversaries, and the petal prettiness of her youth would soon fade. Then she would be a matron caring for an old man, and when he was gone she would be an orphan with a faded face and nothing to call her own. Home was not Moscow because the barriers of life ensured that there she did not belong. Home was not Magdeburg because that was a city of concert halls and theatre seats and parks with chairs that were suitable for an old man who could not walk far without resting.
If she left the window open then the early trams would wake her. If she slept with it closed then she would drown in the sweat pool. That was the decision with which she wrestled without resolution while waiting for the relief of sleep.
Past Wolfsburg and first light coming diffused and uncertain, nibbling at the colossus of the power station, at the huge emptiness of the car parks underneath the towering and illuminated advertisement for Volkswagen. The train clattered forward, rolling with its speed, surging between fields and woodlands.
Johnny sat alone in a bare carriage. Who travels on the night train from Cologne to Zwickau ? Not many, Johnny, not what a railroad would call a profit making exercise. It was cold in the carriage and Johnny wrapped his arms round him and zipped his anorak and stamped his feet. Not tired any more, not a vestige of sleep catching at him. Closing in around him, wasn't it? The carriage and the night pressing in on him . . . Wolfsburg station had been the last chance to turn back, when the BGS man came into the compartment and Johnny had shown his passport and seen the puzzlement on the frontier policeman's face. Only a fool wants to go over there, the eyes seemed to say. Too bloody right, brother. Only a fool and Johnny.
On a long swinging arc now, bending to the left the train shuddered and the first sight of the lands that fringed the track drifted to him. The lights were clear and bright in a ribbon line in front of the train. Like the lights for the autobahn: That's it, Johnny, that's what it's all been about . . . Those lights, the lights as far as you can see, the strip across the full width of the window. Keep looking, Johnny, and then you'll see the watchtowers, great big bloody monstrosities, and then you'll see the wire. The wire and the watch- towers and then you're nearly there. That's the overture, Johnny, and it gets better after that. Quite a bloody show it will be. Not one to disappoint Johnny Donoghue.
The train heaved and struggled on the steel frame of the bridge.
The bridge at Obeisfelde, the bridge over the Aller.
The train bucked and swayed and was slowing. Take it in, Johnny, all there for you to see. Two lines of wire, three and a half metres high and floodlit and past . . . gone behind. Can't see the frontier wire any more . . . can't see it because you're inside now, Johnny. Inside their bloody cage.
But there never was an opt-out, was there? Not since the morning in Cherry Road when the men came, not since then.
The first train through that Wednesday and it roused the dogs, brought them barking out of their kennels, yapping and pulling at the running wires alongside the track. Big brutes, fierce and hostile, hungry and aggressive. Another tower, looming close to the carriage and Johnny caught the vision of the pale face that peered through the opened glass on the high platform. Wire alongside the track. Wire as far as he could see and lights hovering over the line and obliterating the pale power of the bulbs in the carriage, hurrying the day forward, punishing the darkness. The train was slowing, the wheels grinding.
Nervous, Johnny? Be a bloody idiot not to be.
The train stopped. Johnny sat in his seat. Moments of desperate, complete silence, then the banging of the doors opening.
Where it starts. Good luck, you bugger. On a prayer and a wing. Poor old Carter, touching a coronary, he'd be.
The compartment door was wrenched back. Four men. Dull green and grey uniforms. Two with holstered pistols, two with sub-machine guns.
Johnny drew his passport from the inside pocket of his jacket, offered it without request along with the travel folder from Dublin.
The passport was scanned by one man, the folder was opened. Three other men staring at him. Johnny low in his seat. Difficult to be comfortable, impossible to be easy, not with guns and men in uniform close and pressing. The message from Dublin had said that he would simply present the hotel voucher and the visa formalities would be handled then and there on the train. Some hope, Johnny boy. There was an indifferent gesture of the head, the indication that he must leave the train. He pointed up to the rack and his bag and it was lifted down for him. The compartment doorway was cleared for Johnny to pass. His thigh brushed against the metalled barrel of a snub-nosed gun as he stepped into the corridor.
'To Kontrol.' The guttural, cracked order.
Far from the cafe Augusten and the pretty men in their light trousers and open shirts and hanging necklaces. Far from the pub on the corner of Cherry Road. Far from the bustling attention of Mrs Ferguson displaying her breakfasts. Into the bloody cess-pool, Johnny, far from everything you've known.
There was a chill in the air as he walked the deserted platform. A crisp morning and a clear sky. He passed the guards who watched the train, passed the guns and the dogs on their leashes. Don't look, Johnny, don't rubberneck. Eyes front, straight and steady stride. Into a long, low building. The first photograph of Comrade Honecker cheaply framed, high on the wall. You'll get to know him, Johnny, because he'll be staring at you from everywhere that's public, with the greying hair that was freshly combed and the steel glasses and the thin lips and the uneven teeth. You'll get to know the First Secretary of the Party. He remembered the story that Smithson had told, the banning of the revue in Leipzig the previous year that had shown Comrade Honecker rehearsing in front of the mirror for spontaneous meetings with his supporters. Brave bastards they'd have been, the actor and the theatre manager, and Smithson said both had lost their jobs, both had been scrubbed from public life. Good morning, Comrade Honecker, you don't know me now, but you will, you'll hear of Johnny, you'll hear of him and it's going to bollock your Sunday morning, it's going to wreck the taste of your coffee.
Johnny walked to the counter, again offered the pass- port, and stood and waited as it was taken. His face was checked with a quick glance ag
ainst the photograph, there was a wintry smile and the stamp was produced with the flick of fingers for money. Fifteen West German marks. The stamp thumped down filling a page. A one week tourist visa.
A postage stamp was licked and stuck. Another stamp across it. The entry point into the DDR was noted. Another stamp. The wave that he should move on. God, doesn't anyone speak in this bloody place? On to Customs.
'Tourist?'
'Yes,' Johnny said, and tried to demonstrate the enthusiasm of a holidaymaker. 'Yes, I'm here for tourism.'
'Coffee?'
'No. I don't have any coffee.' Should have brought a bottle of Scotch, though, because he was ready for one now, ready to pull the top off the bottle.
He was waved on past last year's slogans on the wall. Thirty years of DDR achievement, 30 years of progress and advancement. That was last year, that was sweetness . . . Past the photographs that were faded and that showed the interior of a power station, and a line of combine harvesters in a sunlit field. Gripping stuff, Johnny, rich in inspiration . . .
He went to the Staatsbank. A tired looking girl at the desk behind the glass and one customer to serve. None in front of him, none behind. All the other passengers locked on the train, only foreigners allowed off to clear their documentation. They'd all be pensioners, those from the other carriages, the old ones that they allowed out because they were useless, unoccupied in the factories, non-contributors to society. Only the old ones were accorded permission to travel outside the borders of the DDR
to visit relatives in the West. Coming home, weren't they? Coming home to the guns and the uniforms and the dogs. He changed 200 West marks at one for one.
Johnny took a seat in the station cafe, looked again at another Honecker, waited for the train search to be completed. He shivered and sat very still wishing he had something to read, and officers from the Border Guard marched in their boots behind him and took two tables and ordered tea. It was the right way to come in, Johnny, in the middle of the night. It had been a cursory and sloppy check. But that's for starters, Johnny.
The door onto the platform opened. Another man, another gun, another wave for him to follow. He picked up his bag and walked to the train.
One hour and 7 minutes later Johnny was in Magdeburg.
The sun was rising and it would be hot later and the station was busy with people. He walked out onto the pave- merit and was confronted with the view of the International Hotel. Bloody inviting it looked, but then anywhere would have been inviting if it boasted a bed booked in the name of John Dawson.
What the hell are you doing here, Johnny? Don't know. Might be able to tell you on Sunday morning. Not till then.
Chapter Fifteen
For a little less than four hours Johnny slept, before the light woke him.
It took him some moments to adjust to the room because he had hardly accepted the furnishings when he'd thrown off his clothes and plunged down onto the narrow, single bed. Functional and adequate, could have been worse, and the sheets were clean. And a television and a radio. He ran himself a shower in the small bathroom, shaved and dressed.
Trousers and the sports shirt and his wallet in his pocket.
They had given him a voucher at the desk for his break- fast when he had registered, and when they had taken his passport. Quite a pretty girl she'd been, the one at the reception. His passport would be back by lunchtime, she said. It was routine that all personal documents must go to the police, and her eyes expressed the hope that he would understand.
It was a small set back to Johnny, the losing of his passport, for however few hours, and there was the thought in his mind of it being studied and examined for flaws.
No point in producing the breakfast voucher for the day, not after 9.30.
Missed out on his breakfast.
He looked from the window. His room was on the front of the building and he gazed across the wide expanse of grass, with the spaced high pine trees, cut by the lines of the flower beds where women were planting the blooms that would have come from the municipal hot house. Getting the place ready for you, Johnny, only you've come a couple of days early and the red carpet hasn't been unrolled yet. Silly bugger . . . The Americans had missed the station that was beyond the grass and on the far extremity of the square because the architecture bore the grandiose stamp of the
Third Reich. He saw the Soviet army lorries and jeeps parked to the left of the station. You'll see plenty of them, Pierce had said, the place crawls with the Red Army, Divisional Headquarters and all that.
He locked his door behind him, took the lift down six doors. Comrade Honecker was waiting for him in the hallway, the thin smile beaming from above the reception desk when he handed in his key. Johnny grinned. Someone should do something for the First Secretary's teeth.
He walked out of the hotel and turned right past a pet shop with a mournful parrot chained to its perch and terrapins in stagnant water. Past the window of teenagers' clothes. Run up in a hurry, right Johnny, like there's been art earthquake and the survivors need clothes, even the scruffy kids in Cherry Road would have given them two fingers. Into the length of Wilhelm-Pieck Allee. There was a bookshop and a shelf of maps. He bought the Stadtplan of Magdeburg, paid one mark and fifty for it and acquired that badge of tourism, the street map. It was all he needed for the morning, that and his boots for walking.
He headed past the big church where the bombers had taken the roof and their incendiaries had gutted the interior and he made his way to the fountains and green park lands by the river. Quite pleasant, really, with a bit of a breeze to counter the heat that would come and mothers there with prams and push chairs. Some glanced up at the freelancer with a contract from the British Secret Intelligence Service, some smiled at him, some fussed proudly with their babies. Smithson had warned of the danger factor of the fake sense of security, and he moved on.
You're not judging a clean town competition, Johnny, but the Promenade der Volkerfreundschaft was neat and tended enough with the big waters of the Elbe running fast, the old city walls restored and the cannon offering a glimpse of history in their stone revetments, but the effect was not for ever. With the bridge behind him so the showfront of central Magdeburg was lost. Into the narrow streets, onto the broken pavements, under the dust thrown by the lorries and their trailers, along the avenues of flats that were short of paint and creeping towards dereliction. First on Sandtor Strasse, then on Rogatzer Strasse, through the district of Alte Neustadt. Not much benefit derived from the 30 years of struggle. You're thinking like bloody Smithson, Johnny, spilling all his propaganda, all his prejudice.
Perhaps . . . Nothing much to excite him in the shops. Tins and sausage in the butchers. Cabbages and beans and potatoes in the greengrocers.
Clothes that were angular and drear in the narrow fronted window of the ladies' dress shop. Perhaps old Smithson was right, perhaps he was on course. Twice he slipped around a street corner and waited for the signs of a following tail, and he found none, and no interest seemed to be shown in him by the two boys in the blue shirts of the FDJ who hurried past him, nor by the green and white police car that cruised smugly on the street. No tail that he knew of, no one following and observing. And what was criminal about a tourist strolling on Rogatzer Strasse?
The railway line was in front. Easy to see because it was built high on an embankment. He looked at his watch. Smithson had said that it would take him 20 minutes to reach this point. Just about right. An exact man, Smithson, for all the cynicism, one who knew the value of information that was tested and proved. On time. Johnny climbed the metal footbridge over the line and busied himself with his map. A bad place to wait, a bloody awful place.
The train eased along the track. Nothing particular about the engine that was huge, oozing power, and that carried the initials of the Deutsche Bahn, the railway of West Germany. The main line from West Berlin to Helmstedt. He had not come to the bridge to see the engine, it was the carriages that he would observe. Ordinary and no
ndescript until his eyes caught the brilliance of the red and white and blue. The bloody old Union Jack, the flag attached to the carriage walls. The British military train on its daily run. A restaurant car and men with grey hair and trimmed moustaches tucking into their toast and scrambled eggs. The windows of the
kitchen section were wide open to expel the grill fumes and the Army Catering Corps chef was taking time off from his frying pan and looking out. He would have seen the lone ligure on the bridge above. There was a corporal in camouflage dress who had positioned himself by a window in a carriage farther back. The train moved slowly, negotiating the junction of points. Time enough for Johnny to view the sight and scenes.
He wanted to shout, wanted to wave and communicate. The old Union Jack slipping through Magdeburg each day, a journey of impertinence, the maximum of effrontery. The historic legacy of the transit right of the Allied powers to West Berlin. And it was gone from him. He hadn't seen the East German troops who rode escort in the forward and rear carriages; complacent and on their arses they'd be, smoking and reading the day's Neues Deutschland. Right on time the train had come, mark that down as a bonus, Johnny.
A long walk now. And this was not tourist country and Johnny must forge on as if there was a purpose in his direction, as if he had the reason and the right to tramp past the factory entrances and the power stations on the Aug-Bebal- Damm. Guards of the National Volks Armee, with MPiKMs and magazines attached, watched the side roads leading to the city's heavy industry complex. Not a place to linger. Few houses here, just machinery and decay and old brickwork and heaving chimney smoke. On your way, Johnny. But better to walk, because then your eyes are brought into play. You see nothing from a train, nothing from a trolley bus, nor from a tram. You have to walk because that way you remember what you have seen. It was Wednesday morning and there was much that he must remember before Saturday evening and there would be no opportunity to retrace his steps. See it now, remember it now. Wide, flat, colourless country, pimpled with squat factory sheds and high rise chimneys.
The Contract Page 19
