by Alex Cugia
Thomas reacted automatically, shooting three bullets, none of which hit their target. A moment later Bettina fired from his left, two shots in rapid sequence evoking an almost instant response from Hanno whose three muffled shots were followed by a sharp cry from Bettina and the crunch of gravel as she fell to the ground.
There was silence, the dark weighed in on Thomas and he couldn't tell whether she was even still alive. And now, he realised, he had only two bullets left. He had to get across to her, check her condition and help as necessary, but also get the ammunition he knew she would carry with her as an agent.
He lay flat between the tracks, feet towards his pursuer in case of shots, and tried reaching out for her with his hand but couldn’t find her, although he knew she must be close. He eased himself in Bettina’s direction, constantly alert to any movement or sound down the track. His anguish now threatened to overcome him completely and he realised he was squeezing the gun so hard his hand hurt and was shaking wildly. He breathed in and out slowly, in and out, seeking to relax. Seconds passed as he waited for the movement of a shadow, a greater solidity in the darkness or some sense, some other clue that Hanno was closing in.
Then there was a soft moaning slightly ahead and he realised that Bettina was regaining consciousness. But as he reached her he became aware of a rush of air and of another sound, a now familiar low rumbling and a singing of metal wheels on metal tracks, growing louder and with the faintest of light just starting to outline the corner. She was almost certainly partly on the track he reckoned and he had to get her out of danger. Careless of danger from Hanno he caught her under her shoulders lifting her and trying to drag her to the tiny space by the tunnel wall, putting her down again to free her foot from where it was awkwardly trapped by the rail as she'd fallen and twisted, the roar of the train reverberating louder and louder in the tunnel.
Then the light brightened as the train approached the final bend and he saw a dim outline of Hanno, perhaps thirty metres away, standing with one leg inside the rail and leaning for support against the tunnel wall, his hand holding the pistol towards them, wavering as he balanced and aimed. There was a flash and he felt the passage of the bullet past him, perhaps only a centimetre away only, and in that same instant Hanno made towards them, stumbling and hopping on his good leg, now suddenly a strong silhouette in the blinding headlight of the train as it rounded the corner. There was a huge hiss of air as the brakes went on, a scream of metal as the wheels locked, and a juddering as the train began to slow, its bulk still sliding towards the man, sliding faster than he could possibly move to escape and with no refuge to the side.
The wild screeching of the locked wheels on the rails reverberated through the tunnel but as the train caught up with Hanno there was a soft crack and something heavy lashed Thomas violently knocking him to the ground with Bettina as the train finally screamed and stopped less than a metre from them. In the sudden silence and with the realisation that they were both alive Thomas felt for the object which had knocked him over and now pressed on his leg. It felt warm and sticky and when he withdrew his hand it was drenched in blood. As his eyes focussed in the brightness of the train’s headlamp, moments before he passed out, he found himself staring into Hanno's face, the rest of the man nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 48
Saturday July 28 1990, evening
IN the Frankfurt suburbs the sun was setting in a mackerel sky, the blood red rays streaking the sky’s azure and turning the clouds into bunches of candy floss in a variegated salmon hue. It was starting to get cooler. Thomas swithered over whether they should eat on the tiny patio with its view of the rose garden or whether he should set the large dining table in the living room. He decided that it was too good an opportunity not to show off the patio and garden. If anyone felt cold, well, there were sweaters he could lend them.
His left arm still felt a little stiff and he could lift it only halfway. The physiotherapy helped – he did the exercises regularly for over an hour a day – but the improvement was still too slow for his liking. Bettina’s operation had been more complex. Two bullets had hit her, one fracturing a kneecap and the other passing through her right thigh but without hitting the bone. As soon as she regained some consciousness she had realised her perilous position and the risk of being run over by a train and with an extraordinary force of will had attempted to move herself out of danger but without success. Swirling in and out of consciousness she'd felt Thomas lifting her under her arms and then putting her down again to try to free her foot, the noise of the train getting steadily louder. When Thomas thought back to how close she’d come to death, indeed how close they’d both come, he shivered. They were so much a part of each others' lives now that the idea of her not being there with him was intolerable.
Thomas knocked on the bathroom door. “Bettina, have you fallen asleep? Stephan and Camille will arrive any moment, and I could do with some help if you don’t mind.” he shouted, pitching his voice above the noise of the hair-dryer. There was no reply and he walked back to the kitchen to decant the wine. The occasion was nominally a house warming, a dinner to inaugurate their new accommodation in Frankfurt, funded by the BND and furnished with some money he'd negotiated from his mother. The security agency had found Bettina a job teaching history at one of the better high schools in town. They had also offered her a position as an agent, but she had refused. It was too early, she’d said. She needed time to recover and to reflect on what she wanted to do with her life.
The documents Thomas had stolen from Roehrberg's house had given the BND valuable information, including the address of the house in Provence. Working with their French counterparts they'd organised a covert operation to search for other materials. Köpp had refused to tell Thomas anything about what they'd found, confirming only that it was Roehrberg’s archive.
Searches had revealed that Omega Mills GmbH was the fully owned subsidiary of a Dutch financing company, Omega NV. Getting through the legal smoke screen had taken longer but after putting pressure on the ABN Amro officer who served as legal representative they’d discovered that the shares were held equally by Henkel, Roehrberg and Sponden and now, with Henkel's death, by the two survivors. The vehicle was an old shell company, incorporated in 1975 but dormant until a year earlier when a West German subsidiary had been incorporated. This helped to confirm that the document of the sale of the mill, dated 1984, had been falsified and that the accounting documentation was also false.
Roehrberg had caved in when he realised that the BND had found incriminating documents. He agreed to collaborate in exchange for a reduced sentence and had provided most of the evidence incriminating the other two. Sponden, in his turn, believed himself relatively safe and had incriminated Roehrberg as the agent of Henkel’s murder. He further confirmed the forging of the will in Roehrberg’s favour. Thomas laughed as he imagined Bockmann presenting first Roehrberg and then Sponden with offers they'd feel unable to refuse and shuttling urbanely between them encouraging each to bury the other in an even deeper hole with vague hints of leniency for themselves.
Apart from the fifteen million marks which Omega Mills had exchanged at two to one, none of them had confessed to other financial frauds. The investigations were still proceeding.
Putin, who in any case was not named on any of the documents, was now safely back in Russia and beyond easy reach.
The doorbell rang just as Thomas finished the delicate operation of decanting a bottle of Ch. Beychevelle 1986. It had cost a fortune but Thomas had seen how Stephan was developing expensive tastes and knew how much he appreciated good French wine. He was looking forward to pleasing and surprising him. He went to the front door and opened it. A beaming Stephan, dressed in a green polo shirt and blue jeans, greeted him warmly. Camille looked more beautiful than ever in her pearl grey silk with matching earrings and high heeled evening shoes in iridescent magenta satin. It looked as if they were going to different parties. Thomas smiled thinking of all the times Stephan had com
plained to him about her dress habits, one of the few irreconcilable differences between them. The other had been East Germany.
“Hey, this is a great place.” said Stephan as they entered and looked around with interest.
“Isn’t it just?” added Camille. “Wow, look at the colours – and the blue and brick in that carpet is lovely, just right for those walls. You are clever!”
“We found it in the flea market last weekend.” said Bettina, finally emerging from the bathroom, still limping. “It’s a kelim, from eastern Turkey, we think. It’s a bit worn and so it was cheap. But we really like it.”
Bettina had dressed with care and was wearing a dark red silk shirt, open at the neck, and a black linen skirt which she had bought just that afternoon and which set off her figure to advantage and complemented her hair. Thomas had never seen her looking so beautiful and stood mesmerised for a second, admiring her.
Stephan noticed his expression and laughed. “Come on, Camille, I think we should leave them alone for a bit. And I guess dinner's going to be pretty late!”
A tall white candle flickered behind the decanter, layering the tablecloth with intermittent splashes of dark red. Stephan and the two women settled themselves in bamboo chairs on the patio and admired the still striking sunset. Thomas arrived a moment later, carrying a steaming dish of pasta with one hand and in the other the empty wine bottle wine which he handed over to Stephan with a small, mock serious bow.
“Wow! What a bottle!” Stephan exclaimed. “Do you have an important announcement to make?” he asked, looking slyly towards Bettina.
Thomas smiled to himself. Stephan had been extremely inquisitive ever since he’d heard they were both settling down in Frankfurt about how things with Bettina were proceeding. Stephan poured wine as Thomas served the pasta.
“As a matter of fact I do have announcements, two of them.” Thomas said, when everyone had been served. “First, I would like to propose a toast to Stephan in respect of my degree. I learned a couple of days ago that my thesis had got the maximum number of points. That was really thanks to your help, Stephan.” he said, turning to his friend and raising his glass. “I don’t know what I would have done without your insights into the monetary system of East Germany. Now I’ve got ten days of doing nothing but relaxing before I start with Deutsche Bank.”
“What’s the second announcement?” Bettina asked.
"I'm pregnant." he said. "IVF. I've been taking hormones as a guinea pig for the Frankfurter Transgender Institute and they seem to have worked. Isn't that lovely?" He pirouetted on the ball of his left foot, pulling out his shirt as he did and letting the heavy silk swirl round him gracefully. "I'm so excited. I thought we'd call him Dieter."
In the silence that followed he pirouetted a second time, beaming into the faces round him and then wagged his forefinger. "Just kidding!"
“I got a call an hour ago." he went on. "Haven’t had a chance to tell you yet ... " he turned to Bettina " ... but I’ll be performing my first opera role in September, Tamino in the Magic Flute. It’s not the Frankfurt Opera, but still a good producer. I couldn’t believe it, I auditioned two months ago but felt I didn’t have a chance.”
“That’s wonderful!” Bettina said. She stretched out a hand and squeezed his and then leant over, pulled his face towards her and kissed him. "Wonderful."
“To Thomas!” said Stephan and the two women raised their glasses with his and echoed his words.
“And to Bettina and to Camille ... ” added Thomas, raising his own glass in turn and then clinking it with those of the others.
*
Pretty much at the same time other glasses were being raised less than two miles away to the north west. Three magnums of Dom Perignon Cuvée Speciale had just been opened in Erwin Hammer’s new villa in the exclusive spa town of Bad Homburg. The six people standing around the crystal table looking on to the heated swimming pool were in exuberant mood, smiling and laughing excessively at each other’s jokes. It took a couple of seconds before the host could quiet them for long enough to be heard.
“Gentlemen. Tonight we celebrate the realisation of a dream.” Hammer struck a pose and began to declaim, indulging his weakness for rhetoric now that he had a captive audience. "A year ago, my founding partner and I had a vision, a vision of things to come, a vision which has now materialised, a vision which has turned out probably better than any of us had dated dared to hope.”
He paused and looked round the room, nodding a welcome to each of the guests. “It has taken a lot of work from all of you around this table to make it come true and I thank you for this. There have been many difficult moments, moments in which I sometimes feared, we all sometimes feared, it couldn’t be done. But we’ve done it!" he finished loudly, raising his glass high into the air. "I can tell you tonight, gentlemen, that the proceeds from this operation have exceeded all of our expectations, perhaps even our wildest expectations. It has been a triumph of vision, organisation and execution and although my founding partner and I may have been the ones with vision, and the organisational driving force behind everything, we needed your help and support to execute the project well. We benefited as the preferential exchange rate was set at one to one, with residuals exchanged at up to three to one. Our futures contract entitled us to sixty million Ost Marks. Since we were able to source the poorest of the poor our average exchange rate was one point three!”
The others cheered and clapped. This was fantastic news, since it meant they had almost fully been able to exploit the preferential rate. Only a small fraction had had to be converted at three to one, the rate applicable to West German residents.
“The Eastern connection delivered perfectly, thanks to our friend Patrick and of course to my intervention and no money leaked away where it shouldn’t. Our gross profit from the exchange was forty one million. Taking out all costs incurred, the seven million for the Stasi, three to the account holders, and the five to repay the original loan, we have made over twenty six million Deutsche marks.”
There was total silence as each of the guests calculated what this would mean for them, depending on their particular personal stakes. Erwin and “Brains”, the two founding partners, held the majority yet even a small stake in the fortune gained was worth more than any of them would have been able to earn in a substantial period as employees.
Erwin pulled out an envelope and took out the first cheque. “This is yours.” he said, handing it over to a beaming Patrick. “Pretend it’s Christmas today! I’ve added a little something from my own stake to round up the thousands. Now, who’s next?”
*
“My turn to announce something important!” Stephan said as he rose from his bamboo chair, finding it a bit uncomfortable and glad of the chance to ease and stretch his legs. “As you know I’ve decided to return from East Germany and settle again in Frankfurt. It’s such a wonderful part of the country that that wasn’t an easy decision but in the end Camille and I decided we were missing the excitement of the city, of Frankfurt.”
He looked at Bettina first and then at Camille, his expression conveying more than any words could his true feelings about the decision and about what he’d given up.
“For my part” he added “after the frantic weeks during which the currency exchanges took place there was hardly anything much of interest left to do. I think it will take a while before we are able to offer the same services in the West and in the East.” He paused for a second, collecting his thoughts, then smiled broadly at everyone. “But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. What I really wanted to announce is that Camille and I have decided to get married. In September, next year.”
There was a surge of excited talking, congratulations and laughter as Thomas and Bettina reacted with joy and excitement to Stephan’s news. Thomas brought out a bottle of matured Kirsch, proposed a an extravagant toast and everyone clinked glasses again. Camille brought her hand out from underneath the table and showed the huge diamond ring Stephan had given
her the night before.
“And how about you?” Stephan asked.
“Give us time.” Thomas said, looking at Bettina and stretching out his hand to take hers. “We’re still fighting over wardrobe space. And now that Paul – that’s her brother - is coming over for a week or so we’ll have a real test of our relationship. The flat’s so small we might all have to sleep in the same bed!”
*
Erwin finished handing out the cheques and asked the waiter to open another two magnums. Günther took one and started filling up the glasses to the brim.
“I propose a toast to Erwin.” he said loudly, lifting his glass.
Erwin had hoped someone would have had that idea and Günther Pilsern, the one who followed Erwin around like a small dog, was the most likely candidate.
“If it hadn’t been for his stroke of genius, we’d all still be working for a living! To Erwin!”
The others cheered and shouted. “To Erwin!” Erwin beamed with pleasure and gratification, then raised his hand for silence.
“I forgot to tell you the funniest part. You remember the phone number at Phoenix?”
“Sure.” everyone replied. They had all taken turns working the phones in the evenings.
“It turns out they reassigned the number to this old woman when we cancelled the contract. I called last night asking for Phoenix, and she went batshit crazy on me! Told me she’d received hundreds of calls, and threatened me if I ever tried calling again! I swear, you should have heard her … ” he laughed and held his stomach, almost in tears at the memory.
