by Alex Cugia
As they walked to Roehrberg's car, the latest model of Lada, Bettina watched him carefully. As far as she could tell, he looked and acted genuinely shocked and distressed. His remarks to her seemed sincere and she began to wonder about her earlier suspicions.
In two or three minutes they were Henkel’s home where a pair of agents were waiting for them. Bettina glanced at the garden, noting its beauty and serenity and contrasting that with her feelings of the previous evening. She was tense, fearful that they might have left traces of their visit in Henkel’s house or in the garden, even expecting Thomas to stroll out of one of the rooms as they arrived. She wondered suddenly if the cat was about. As they entered she looked around carefully to see if anything was out of place but could see no suspicious marks of an earlier visit to the house.
“He’s in the study.” the first agent said. “This way. It happened yesterday, apparently between six and eight in the evening. A single shot through the head.”
Bettina followed Roehrberg and the agent, flinching as the familiar scene she had revisited mentally so often appeared. Two policemen were standing in front of the desk taking pictures. The more senior one, a tall and skinny man of around forty, shook Roehrberg's hand then gave him the letter she'd read earlier.
“We’ve taken prints.” he said. “It doesn't matter if you handle it.”
Roehrberg read carefully then handed the letter to Bettina who took it in her fingers and immediately regretted holding it.
“I guess this clears up the mystery. I still can’t believe it, though. Henkel ... ending up like this. We had lunch together yesterday.”
Bettina stared at the letter for the time it might have taken to read it, glanced at the sentences, then handed it back. As she was doing so another man entered the room. From his picture in the files, Bettina recognised him as Spitze.
He nodded to Bettina and turned to Roehrberg. “I can’t believe it. I just heard and immediately … ”
“Such a tragedy. A tragedy.” Roehrberg said. “If he’d spoken to us, maybe we could have helped in some way. He’s confessed to having taken the money, Heinz. That’s why he committed suicide. He said it was to pay off debts he’d run up.”
Spitze’s face was impossible to read. Bettina noticed he had kept the same expression from the moment he had stepped in to the room. He hadn’t flinched even when he first saw the gaping hole in Henkel’s head or the blood on the floor but had stared coolly at each in turn.
“Can I have everyone’s attention please?” There was silence in the room as Roehrberg spoke. “The final wish of our colleague, Gerd Henkel, is to be respected. His memory must not be soiled by this tragic death. I want to see no mention of the word suicide anywhere, in the press or in any reports on the incident. There must be no mention of a violent death. I’m sure I can count on the full cooperation of all of you in referring to his death as a result of ... as a result of a sudden and fatal illness. A heart attack, perhaps, something of that kind. The full details will become known after the autopsy. Our resident doctor will conduct that privately, of course.” He glanced over at Spitze, held his gaze briefly.
He looked at everyone in turn while he spoke. “I shall speak with Modrow. I know he will also understand that it’s in nobody’s interest to wash dirty linen in public just before unification.”
He flicked a finger at Bettina to follow, turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Chapter 25
Monday January 15 1990, morning onwards
THE bedroom was chilly and Thomas lay and dozed for half an hour or more after Bettina had left before finally forcing himself to get up. The bathroom was even colder, the window partially open at the top, and as Thomas glanced out into the yard he could see tendrils of fog curling round the trees and in the distance some street lamps giving out a patchy, ghostly light in places. He shivered, splashed water on his face and neck and shaved quickly, then rushed back into the bedroom and dressed in warm clothing.
There was no sign of Frau Dornbusch in the kitchen but a note told him that she'd gone to visit her sister and would return in the afternoon, reminding him to lock the door carefully when he left and adding he should borrow the bicycle in the shed if he needed it. He made coffee and breakfasted on warmed rolls, spread with local farm butter and Frau Dornbusch's apricot jam, and some ham and cheese he discovered in the pantry. It was now just after ten and as he drank the last of the coffee he knew that he could no longer put off going out into the dreary day to follow Dieter's instructions to find out what he could about Phoenix. He must phone Stephan as well, he thought, to ask if he'd come across Phoenix and to check out when he was going to be in Dresden so that they could all meet for dinner.
The fog seemed to penetrate everywhere and despite his layers of clothing Thomas felt chilled as he wheeled the old and somewhat rattley bike from the shed and started pedalling up the road away from the house. When he got to the area of small shops he'd been seeking the fog was almost gone, dispersed by a gusty, cold wind from the north-east bringing slight flurries of snow. He found a phone sheltered by two buildings and began trawling through the list of informants' numbers which Dieter had given him, a pile of coins ready on the shelf.
It was frustrating work. Several of the numbers appeared to have been discontinued and from number after number there was no reply. “Probably escaped to the West when the Wall came down.” thought Thomas with irritation as yet another number gave the unobtainable tone.
Finally a number connected. No one spoke but Thomas could hear harsh breathing at the other end and then a hacking cough which crackled on and on. He waited and then just as he was about to speak the phone was put down. He dialled the number again, speaking as soon as it connected.
"Herr Pomberg?" There was a long silence over which he could hear some strained breathing. "Herr Pomberg?" he asked again, firmly.
"Moight be." said a woman's voice, rasping and stifling a cough. "'Oo wants 'im?
"Heinz Schmidt. I just want to talk to him about a company called Phoenix."
Again there was silence, followed by a faint scuffling sound, and then more silence. Thomas was about to hang up when a man's voice growled in.
"Don't know nuttin' about any Fee-nucks." it said. "Wossit anyways? And 'ow'd you get my name? 'Oo are you?" The accent was strong and Thomas had difficulty understanding what was being said.
"It's a company making loans to people in the East. I was told thatyou might be able to help me, Mr Pomberg ... "
"Domburg! Hans Domburg. I knows your gyme, mister, you wi' your fancy Wessie voice. We doan' need no loans 'ere so just you stop botherin' we. Go'way." And the phone was put down.
The next two numbers Thomas tried were discontinued and that this was followed by another wrong number added to his growing irritation. Finally he made contact with someone who seemed genuinely to be connected with Phoenix and got an invitation to visit immediately once Thomas agreed that some money might be forthcoming for help.
Tracing the address on his map Thomas found that it was right on the other side of Dresden. Given the hills it would probably take him half an hour to get there, he thought, and that the fog had now given way to a light sleety drizzle with the chilly wind showing no sign of letting up made him feel greatly dispirited as he pedalled off.
The man who answered the door, Hans Treufel, was around fifty, seriously overweight, unshaven and dressed in soiled brown trousers held up with a pair of braces under which showed what appeared to be a pyjama jacket loosely buttoned over a grubby vest. A splash of old egg yolk decorated the man's front, stopped on its way to the floor by the uplands of his belly. According to the file Treufel had been a medium ranking Stasi officer but had been demoted for some misdemeanour which the file didn't specify. It appeared that he'd been more than merely an informant although again the file said nothing about this or about his actual role.
Treufel led the way down a narrow corridor into a small living room, stiflingly hot and noxious with the
smell of stale tobacco smoke mixed with rancid fat. A dirty plate, some half eaten bread and a frying pan lay in the hearth. His manner was unctuous and sly and Thomas instinctively took an immediate dislike to him.
The man pointed to a small rexine-covered settee and sat down in a matching armchair which had been a long time away from any showroom. He took a cold cigar from the mantelpiece, held it to the blazing gas fire at his feet till it started to smoulder, drew on it and puffed till it was going to his satisfaction, tapped the ash on to the thin carpet in front of him, and turned to Thomas.
"Let's see the money first and then we can get started. I can tell you all you want know about Phoenix. It'll cost you, mind. But I can tell you're a man what's clear what he's after, wants the secret stuff, the best bits." He took a puff on his cigar and blew the smoke in failed rings towards the browned ceiling. "You've come to the right place. It's not many that knows what I knows."
Resisting an urge to leave immediately Thomas pulled out his wallet, riffled ostentatiously through the contents and chose a fifty Ost Mark note, laying it on the table between them. "Let's start with that and if what you say's any use to me there'll be more." Treufel snatched it and folded it into his pyjama pocket.
"It'll have to be DMs" said Treufel. "Ost Marks is no good to me now. I'm just taking this one to save you having to get rid of it somewhere else. OK. Phoenix. Yes. I know pretty much everything about Phoenix. You just ask me what you want to know."
They looked at each other. "Tell me what it does, then. And what's your part in it? Who are the people behind it?"
"Ah, yes, Phoenix. What do you know about it already?" asked Treufel slyly. "I can tell you a lot. You've come to the right place."
Thomas waited, set his jaw and then broke the silence. "Are you part of Phoenix? What do you have to do with it?"
"Well, it's not like I actually do anything yet." said Treufel carefully "But me and Fritz, we're ready just as soon as we're needed. They're relyin' on us, see. And that's going to be very soon. It's about loans, see, making loans to people that needs 'em. People here in this street and in other streets round the corner. Fritz keeps a book about who needs money and then later we'll go and give it to 'em, see."
"And who's behind it?"
"Oh, they're big. Very big. Yes, they're very big, see. We've not actually met 'em yet but that's going to be very soon."
Thomas stared at him.
Treufel tapped the side of his nose and leaned forward. "It's a man called Brains is behind it." He looked around the room carefully as if expecting Brains himself suddenly to appear and silence him for saying too much. He lowered his voice. "Yes, he's behind it, see. Worked it all out how we Ossies would need money once we joined wi' you lot and so that's why they're making all these free loans, see."
"Have you met him?"
For a moment it seemed as if Treufel would claim that distinction but then he shook his head slightly and sat back in the chair. "Not yet." he said "Not yet. But me and Fritz we'll do that soon enough. They're relyin' on us, see. Nobody ever really sees Brains. Nobody. Works high up in the Finance Ministry he does, has the ear of the Chancellor he does, and so he's got to be careful, see. Once everything's fixed then the Chancellor will explain the plans publicly, see, and we start helping the Ossies with these loans and this Brains can come clean about how he got it all started. But Fritz and me, we're an important part of the whole thing, here in Dresden anyway. They're relyin' on us, see."
He fingered the note in his pocket then leaned forward again. "There's more I could say but, well, it's secret and I've been trained to forget." He coughed and hugged himself. "Maybe another note, a bigger one, would help my memory."
Thomas rose, bit back the words that came to mind, exhaled abruptly, and said "Thank you Mr Treufel. You've been most helpful." He walked rapidly to the door, let himself out, started to close it and then left it swinging, mounted his bike and pedalled off at speed before realising he was riding out of town and turned back towards the centre. In a short while he came to more shops and pulled up beside another public telephone. This time his first call was successful, another informer ready to talk if there was cash to help him remember things. The address wasn't far and ten minutes later Thomas was in the Neustadt, on the corner of Obergraben and Königstrasse.
He rang the doorbell and after a moment heard a bolt being drawn back and the door grinding slowly open to reveal a young man only slightly older than Thomas. Looking at his unkempt reddish hair and square glasses, the effect finished with sandals, a pair of faded jeans and a torn red tee shirt, Thomas was reminded of some left wing intellectuals he’d met in West Berlin. He had always imagined that informers would look inconspicuous, something like human moles whereas Alfred Gertner was exactly the opposite, someone immediately conspicuous in a crowd of hundreds.
Alfred took Thomas to the living room and indicated the sofa while he pulled up a chair for himself. The apartment was very small but decorated with considerable taste and style. It was pleasantly warm and a marked contrast to Treufel's.
“So, you’re interested in knowing more about Phoenix Securities. Before we start, just a quick warning. I am an informer, but I don’t provide access to the sources. So don’t ask me names or phone numbers. You understand, I need to protect myself. If someone found out I’m squealing, I wouldn’t have a bright future ahead.” Alfred spoke in a high-pitched voice which grated on Thomas’ ears.
Thomas nodded and waited for him to continue.
“I was contacted around a month and a half ago by a friend who went over to the West, to Frankfurt to be precise, who called me up and said there was a fantastic opportunity to make money. This company, Phoenix, was looking to provide financing to Ossies and wanted names and addresses. The poorer the people the better, he said. All I needed to do was to talk to people and fill out forms for as many as I could think of and I’d earn a lot of money. He would too, since he’d contacted me and so was one level up. As you can imagine, I know a lot of people. What I do for a living needs that.”
“Do you have one of these forms?” Thomas asked, trying to decide whether “the poorer the better” was Gertner's joke or whether there was some meaning behind the phrase, something which for the moment escaped him.
“Sure.” Gertner pulled out a paper from the pile of documents by his chair. Thomas glanced over it quickly and saw that it was extremely simple and sought minimal information.
“Last week my friend calls me up again.” Gertner added. “He says there’s been a big meeting, a convention he called it, and that we need to start moving quickly. He wants me to tell all my contacts that they would be receiving their “welcome money” even if they hadn’t made it over to the West. They would get a one hundred marks bonus just for taking out the loans. We’d earn five percent of the actual loan amount. With the number of people I could bring to this, I could earn significant money.”
Thomas looked at the form again.
“I can understand that you and your friend could get commission but why pay your contacts for taking out a loan? And look at this form - there's nothing asking about income or realisable assets, things the bank can use as security if the borrower doesn't pay back the loan. That makes no sense at all.”
“Maybe, but that’s exactly how it works.” Gernter said. “Don’t ask me what it means. I understand as much about finance as I do about nuclear science. I studied Russian literature. But I checked with contacts high up in the organisation and they tell me it’s all perfectly legal.” Thomas sensed that Gertner was sneering at him.
“Who’s your contact within the organisation?”
“What do you mean, head office or here? I know a lot of people.”
“Here. Who’s in charge of these aspects?”
“Oh, here.” Gertner made a slight off-hand gesture with his left hand. “Anything vaguely practical is handled by Henkel - no, sorry, that's changed. It was Henkel but Spitze has now taken that on. Roehrberg's there too but is too occ
upied making himself attractive to Berlin and to women." He laughed. "One day he’ll become a politician, I'd guess. Oh, and Putin too, I think, he's into anything that smells of power or money.”
Thomas’s mind flickered to Bettina who was probably with Roehrberg even as they spoke.
After some more questions, not all of which Gertner could answer, he thanked him, gave him some money, and left. He searched for a public phone, finally finding one which was secluded enough for him not to be overheard and dialled Stephan’s number. As usual, Stephan’s secretary answered and in her cold but courteous manner told him that Stephan was at an important meeting all day and would then be away all week. After a little prying, he got out of her that Stephan was leaving for Berlin that evening and from there was due to travel to various cities in the East for about a week. No, she said, she didn't have a number that she could pass on to Thomas. Yes, she added, the cities included Dresden but Mr Peetzen hadn't yet decided on what day he'd visit. Thomas left Frau Dornbush's number for her to pass on to Stephan, adding that he was likely to be there for only a few more days and hoped to see Stephan before he left.
It was now well into the afternoon and what was left of the day was spent tediously chasing up the remaining informants, working through more unanswered telephone calls and the inevitable disconnected numbers. He visited a couple of other informers nearby and talked to another briefly on the phone but got frustratingly little information anywhere. They all wanted money up front and then repeated the same few inconsequential matters or simply exaggerated and lied like Treufel had. Nobody knew any of the details or understood the overall scheme. Gertner at least had given him an application form and some useful information. The only thing that was clear was that the reach and range of the organisation was considerable. There had been meetings all over West Germany with hundreds of participants at each. Each informant could point to at least ten other persons who had been contacted or were building their own pyramid.
