by Alex Cugia
“Let’s hope it’s our politicians, then. Any rumours on what kind of rates are being discussed?” Erwin asked.
“I’ve heard the Governor say he wouldn’t sign anything lower than four to one. But other people I’ve spoken to talk about conversations with the government where even a one to one exchange was discussed.”
Klaus stared at Rainier. “One to one? The old official exchange in the East!”
“Exactly. The point seems to be that the large majority of East Germans never had any reason to exchange their Ost Marks into DMs, or anything else, for that matter. But everyone knew that the exchange with the DM was one to one. If, all of a sudden, unity comes along and the exchange is actually eight to one, they’ll all be feeling a helluva lot poorer, and probably pretty angry as well. That doesn’t make for a great electoral base ... so in all likelihood, the exchange rate is set to move lower.”
The door opened and the young waitress, slim and pretty, Saxon-blonde and with her hair gathered in a pigtail thrown over her shoulder and nearly to her waist, looked in. "Can I bring the food in now, sir?"
Erwin grunted and beckoned with his hand while Klaus stared at her, nakedly appraising her, so that she coloured and hurriedly left. "Mmmm!" he said "What an aperitif! Very tasty! I can see she really fancies me too." He reached into his pocket and slapped his wallet on the table, daring the others. "A thousand DM says she's knickerless! Or if she's not she will be before dinner's over."
“And what about the ceiling?” asked Erwin.
“That’s the other side of the same old Ost Mark.” Rainer continued, smiling smugly at his own joke. “Heads we win, tails we don’t lose. It’s possible the Bundesbank may be forced to accept the government’s argument that a lower exchange is necessary. But at that point they’ll pull the brake elsewhere. The only lever they have left is the ceiling.”
The waitress returned wheeling a trolley laden with plates of lobster and steak and steaming tureens of vegetables. As she bent over to collect a plate for Klaus from the lower shelf he ran his fingers quickly up an inner thigh then pulled her by her pigtail on to his lap to kiss her. One hand still up her skirt, he used his other to acknowledge the frenzied hooting, table slapping and whistling of his colleagues, noise which turned to laughter as the waitress struggled free, turned and slapped Klaus hard across the cheek and ran from the room leaving him smiling broadly, closing his eyes in feigned ecstasy and passing his fingers ostentatiously back and forth under his nose. "You'd have lost, guys! You'd have lost!"
“What do you mean by ceiling?” Patrick asked after everyone had calmed down and begun eating. His was the only non-finance background of the group and he’d been sweating to understand some of what had been said. His role was to help cover their contacts in the East.
“By ceiling he means that the Bundesbank will set a preferential rate of exchange, establishing a maximum amount of money that each individual resident in East Germany will be allowed to change into DMs at that rate. It’s the whole reason we’ve created this network of people in the East, spinning them the story of consumer financing.” Klaus said with annoyance. He had only met Patrick once before and had taken an instant dislike to him. "Thick as pigshit!" he'd thought to himself at the time.
“The grid is likely to be set according to the age of the individual." he added. "Older people will get to exchange more. That's because they’ve had more time to save and so should have more money. The good news is that it should be a per-head allocation − even babies and small children will count. We’ll give our contacts the money and all they need to do is go to the bank and exchange it into DMs at the preferential exchange rate. We pay them a small commission and we keep all the rest.”
“But why don’t we just exchange the money ourselves?” Patrick asked, his fork raised. "Isn't that a lot easier, and safer?" Seeing the look of contempt on every face made him wish he hadn’t asked. The seconds passing felt like hours until Rainier lifted his head from where he'd dropped it on his arm resting on the table, sighed noisily, and answered.
“Westerners won’t have access to the preferential rate. And the maximum amount for the preferential exchange will be very low, probably three to six thousand marks range.”
Patrick looked blank. The intricacies of exchange rates were clearly well beyond his capacity to understand. Klaus sighed, swivelled his eyes to the ceiling, then sighed again more loudly.
“The most anyone can change at the preferential rate will be what Rainer said, maybe three to six thousand. We're trading millions! Do you know what a million is? It's a thousand thousand. Work it out! At those limits and with the cash we have you'll need thousands of people to get the preferential rate, the highest possible return for the Ost Mark."
Patrick’s face still hadn’t registered understanding. “Jesus, Patrick, just take our word for it! This way is how we make a lot of money.” Patrick stared at the table, aware of the subdued sniggering and conscious of the prickling in his eyes. He blinked hard and pushed fingers over each lid hurriedly.
“When will they decide the terms?” Erwin asked Rainier.
“It’s unclear. Sometime after the elections.”
“How about the network, Klaus? How's that developing?" Erwin dug into his surf'n'turf.
“We’re on a roll - in the hay!" He grunted a couple of times, jerking his clenched fist upwards in time to the noises. "We’ve got over a thousand direct contacts all over the country. That means we could have anywhere between seven and ten thousand people to be financed. At let’s say four thousand marks each that would get us to thirty or forty million Ost Marks to exchange. We still have a few months to go and the phone keeps ringing and ringing.” Klaus bragged. “By the way, a few people in the network are starting to ask intelligent, difficult questions. We need to plan a meeting to present the details.”
“Good job there, Klaus. A final point.” Erwin added. “We still need to finalise how we keep control of the money once it’s exchanged. The government will set a fairly short window in which to exchange and, anyway, people in one town or village just aren't all going to go to the banks on the same day. So there’s no way we can be present in a hundred different cities to check in person that the exchange gets done as we want and then get our hands on our DMs by the next day. That's why we needed help from some organisation which is everywhere in the DDR, including the smallest towns. There’s only two of them, the SED and the Stasi. How are we doing on that front, Patrick?”
“It’s not easy.” Patrick replied. “We need high level people involved to ensure we have the right backing. And the country is melting," he hesitated, thought of his earlier humiliation, then went for it, "the country is melting like chocolate on a, onawhore'stwat." He reddened and blinked. "The SED’s power base will vanish right after the elections.” He leant back, blew out his cheeks, looked at the ceiling and crossed his arms.
“They’re walking zombies.” Klaus said. “All those damned communists are.” he said, emphasizing the “all” and looking at Patrick.
“Anyway,” Patrick added, ignoring his tormentor, “we’re making better progress with the other group. They're more street-wise, and more ready to act. But they want a major slice of the cake.”
“How much?” Erwin asked.
“The first meeting I had, the guy made no commitment and asked a lot of questions. After a couple of weeks I decided to contact someone else. But the other contact said half a million − and that’s Deutsche Marks − was the minimum to even start discussions. That’s when I told him I would have to talk directly with the people in charge. Then yesterday I heard that the Stasi, it's called the ANFS as of last month, is being disbanded. In fact, maybe that's already happened and it's become part of the Ministry of the Interior. I called him again this morning and he says that for the deal to work it's now a million. DM. That's because he's got to keep the network going on a private basis and that costs, he says. And he wants at least a third of it upfront, and with no guarantees. Troubl
e is, there's not much we can do to shift him and he's probably the best person to sort things out anyway.”
“Actually, if our information's correct the exchange rate should move further down. If it does we can give them their million and still have a boatful for ourselves. But you'd better act fast to get it agreed before things get obvious. And we need to make sure we retain control or else this whole thing falls apart. Make sure you understand that Patrick and get back to me immediately if you have any doubt.”
Erwin smacked his hand hard on the table and, standing, raised his glass in a toast. “To the common Fatherland!”
"And to pretty little knickerless waitresses!" smirked Klaus, as everyone murmured and drank.
Chapter 23
Sunday January 14 1990, evening and on to early morning
BETTINA had driven back slowly and carefully from Henkel’s house, the nervousness of the earlier drive subdued. Again, neither she nor Thomas had said much, spending the time instead mulling over what had happened, trying to sort out in their minds what Henkel's death might mean. Grabbing sandwiches and drinks in the Dornbusch kitchen, lit only by a small lamp standing by the kitchen range, they'd sat in companionable silence long after they'd finished eating as if the idea of lying in full darkness and ending this fraught day had to be delayed, as if sleeping and waking would make Henkel's death certain, make it more absolute. Once she’d stretched her hand across the table and with the tips of her fingers stroked the back of Thomas's hand lightly for a moment. He looked at her and smiled complicitly but when he rotated his hand to take hers she rose abruptly and stood at the window looking out into the solid darkness of the yard.
They’d trudged upstairs. When Bettina returned from the bathroom Thomas was lying staring at the ceiling and as she approached he turned on his far side and curled tightly into himself. In bed she propped herself on her elbow for some moments looking at him, then switched off the light and lay down well away on her own side of the mattresses listening to his breathing soften and become more regular. She lay on her back, as Thomas had first done, staring upwards as if the meaning of Henkel’s suicide would suddenly loom out of the darkness, bringing understanding to her racing mind.
“He was just sitting there, looking at us. Just, just staring. And smiling, almost smiling.” The voice had cracked and there was a catch to it.
She was nearly asleep but his voice jerked her awake.
“Thomas, I thought you were asleep. Yes, it was awful, wasn't it? You never really get used to it, I suppose, but the first time is always pretty bad.”
The sob, turned quickly into an extended cough, made her turn and stretch out her hand to Thomas’s waist. He said nothing further and continued to present his back but edged closer so that her forearm was now across his belly and chest, her covered breasts just brushing his back until she angled slightly away. He freed and moved his arm, trapping hers on his waist in turn and letting his forearm rest along her thigh, his fingers light round the curve of her leg above her knee, bare where her nightdress had rucked up. She did nothing to stop him, changing her own position slightly to better fit the curve of his buttocks in her lap. He could feel on his skin there a slight springiness under the fabric and he pressed back. Again they lay silently in their mutual warmth, more comfortable in each other than for a long time.
“Was it really suicide?” Thomas asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Again there was silence.
“There was nothing in the files about his living wildly." she said. "He didn’t gamble, maybe the odd small bet on a horse or something, but nothing regular or serious. He dressed well and lived well, liked good food and wines, ate out quite a bit but well inside his income levels and, anyway, he’d have wangled a lot of that as expenses on Party business.”
“What about women? Girlfriend in a fancy flat somewhere, prostitutes, nightclubs, trips to the West?”
“There was a wife earlier but they’d divorced, oh, '67 or so, and there seems to have been no more contact. She’s remarried and lives in Bonn, apparently. There were no children. There’s no record of any regular visits to brothels or of prostitutes visiting him. There have been a few girlfriends but just very ordinary relationships which seemed to just run their course and peter out. Last one finished a year or so back after a couple of years, Angela, an informer and a waitress in one of the restaurants he’d go to. He may have showed off, taking her to the odd lavish weekend in Berlin but that’s probably as far as it went.”
She laughed. “Pretty boring guy really! Unimaginative. Not my type at all, for all his Party status."
Thomas sensed her head turning slightly towards him.
"He joined the Party’s youth wing and later became an informer, trained as an accountant, apparently met Mielke somewhere and so got more involved. Kept his nose clean, learned quickly how the system worked, enjoyed the things his position brought him, became recognised as reliable and someone able to keep his mouth shut. Moved around a bit between offices, small places first then Leipzig, Berlin and seven years ago became Treasurer here and moved straight into his smart house in the Prussian quarter.”
“Enemies?" asked Thomas. "Treasurers probably get to know all sorts of things people sometimes want to keep hidden. And if they’re on the make as nearly everyone in this fucking Party seems to be now, he’s probably covered up quite a lot of dodgy stuff.”
There was a pause.
“Blackmail.” said Bettina. “Maybe he was blackmailing somebody for money, or maybe for power. I remember there was talk of his taking over the Berlin Treasurer’s job. Maybe that’s what he was after and he pushed things just too far.”
“Or maybe he was being blackmailed.”
“Maybe, but why kill him? Why kill the golden goose?”
“Perhaps he’d had enough. Perhaps it really was suicide. He’d run up debts and was being hassled to clear them and when the money came in he just took it, like he said. Afterwards he was ashamed, got drunk and put the gun to his head. It's what people do sometimes if they're in too deep.”
Thomas turned towards Bettina, reached over and switched on the bedside lamp. He leant on one elbow and looked down at her. She raised an eyebrow and shook her head slowly a fraction.
“No.” he said “You’re right. It just doesn’t fit, does it? He was killed, that's for sure. But who did it? Who wanted him that badly out of the way?”
A lock of hair had fallen over Bettina’s cheek and Thomas reached over and gently moved it behind her ear. He lowered his head slightly to kiss her but felt her stiffen and turned the move into a clumsy nod. “Who could have wanted him dead? And why?”
“There was something Dieter said to me recently … it was about unification, something he'd heard about hiring the Firm to keep tabs on people being funded to change money into Deutsche Marks. Seems the top guys are looking at fixing pensions for themselves when everything changes. Maybe the money was something to do with that.”
“You didn’t mention this before.” Thomas looked at her and wondered what else she was keeping back.
“Dieter doesn’t know the details, it was just something he'd heard and then he started joining up the dots. I think he thinks that it's maybe that organisation from Frankfurt that's involved somehow, the one he wants you to find out about, Phoenix something, isn't it?"
“Phoenix Securities. Phoenix was what they called the currency when the modern Greek state was founded last century. Meant to signify rebirth, apparently, but then it became the drachma." He frowned as she yawned and glanced up. "What else do you know about this Phoenix and what else has Dieter told you but not me?”
She shrugged. “It didn't seem important right then. I've told you now anyway."
“Did Dieter tell you why he’s looking into Phoenix, why he wants me to check up on them?” He looked straight into her eyes. “It would help me know what to ask. I have the impression he didn’t tell me the whole story.”
“You’re probably
right. Same with me. But Dieter never does tell anyone the whole story. It’s not because he doesn’t trust you, or me − it’s just too dangerous. If one of us gets caught and talks, the whole project could fail.”
“Hmm, the classic cell demarcation strategy. Makes sense, I suppose." He lay back and folded his arms behind his head and they were silent for a bit. "OK. I’ll call Stephan tomorrow, maybe, as Dieter suggested. He’s travelling all over East Germany now, looking for possible bank branches for Deutsche’s new network. Maybe he knows something, come across Phoenix or something. I guess Dieter will be following through what you've just told me about the Stasi."
"If you find out anything useful about Phoenix and just what it's up to we might end up having to do some more work on it ourselves, find out if and how the Stasi’s involved with them, perhaps. That's if they are.”
“They’re going to be involved, somehow, somewhere anyway. It's all starting to make some kind of sense. The Stasi network’s still in place and they’re not going to pass up the chance to make money. They get the money into Dresden supposedly to pay agents or operational costs or whatever, all legitimate and signed by Henkel. But it’s not really for that at all, it’s for, it’s for, well, maybe something to do with this Phoenix, though we don't now yet what that is, maybe something else entirely … Anyway, maybe Roehrberg or someone like that’s behind it. Henkel finds out and threatens them for a cut but doesn’t realise the extent of it and the power behind it and so wakes up dead.”
“Hmm. Maybe, but I don’t really think that holds together very well. That’s a lot money that’s gone. What are they going to do with it? They can’t just change it into DM and lose it, even with the resources open to them. And they must know that even with the upheaval and confusion going on it's not just going to be forgotten. Not that amount. It's much too big.”
