Berlin Centre

by Max Hertzberg

  “I was the last person to see the source, I was with him all the way from Königs Wusterhausen to Bonn. They’re going to say it was me, of course they are!”

  “Have some beer, Holger. It’s not as bad as you think, not yet. Like I said, there’s nothing in the files …” I watched Holger start his second glass. His hands were shaking as much as the landlord’s. “Listen, they’ve given me the reports for when you picked up Bruno, and the reports of his journey from the safe house to when he was arrested in Meckenheim. But everything in between those two events is missing. I can’t make an assessment when the important bits are missing.”

  “And that’s what you’ll tell them, that you can’t put the blame on anyone?”

  “That’s what I’ll tell them,” I reassured him.

  I finished my second beer and watched Holger stare into his half-full glass. He wasn’t much of a drinker tonight.

  “So you’ll ask to interview the other operatives who were in contact with him? The drivers, and the guards at the safe house near Briesen? I can probably find out who they were, shouldn’t be a problem-”

  “No need for that just yet.” I did a slow-down motion with my hands, the last thing we needed was for Holger to go barging about, asking for names. “But since we’re on the subject—you said Bruno thought one of his interrogators was a mole. Any idea which one he meant?”

  Holger was staring into his beer again, arms crossed in front of him. He shook his head.

  “No clues? Did Bruno refer to them as he, or she? Did he have much contact with the mole?”

  Holger was still shaking his head. “But if I find out the names—the babysitters and other personnel—you’d talk to them, you’d do that for an old friend, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I told him as I signalled for another beer.

  But that was a lie. After the last case I’d decided I was going to do everything by the book. No freelance enquiries, no poking my nose in matters that didn’t concern me. Not without orders.

  Not even for an old friend.

  8

  Berlin Lichtenberg

  I didn’t tell Holger that I already knew the names of the other babysitters who had looked after Bruno, nor that I already had their cadre files. Nevertheless, he had a point: I wouldn’t find out what had really happened by reading written reports. To do the job properly I needed to talk to everyone involved.

  But Major Kühn didn’t agree. He’d have his reasons for only giving me half the reports and half the names, and my job was to look at the files and type up a report. If he wanted me to do more than that, he’d have to give me more access.

  I spent the morning typing and retyping the report, managing to get it to Kühn’s secretary just before she went to lunch.

  “This isn’t due until this afternoon,” she informed me, her voice colder than last night’s wind.

  “Then give it to the Comrade Major this afternoon,” I replied as I walked out of her office.

  Back behind my own desk, I sat and stared at the telephone. I knew it would ring before too long.

  In the end, it took a while longer than expected, and the whole time I was waiting, staring at the phone, I was mentally preparing myself for what would come.

  “Second Lieutenant Reim,” I said into the mouthpiece when, thirty-seven minutes later, the phone finally rang.

  “Comrade Major Kühn’s office. Now.” It was the secretary, and she clearly wasn’t in a talkative mood, since she hung up before I could reply.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded Kühn when I toddled into his office. He had my report in front of him, just one side of A4, less if you ignored the file numbers, dates, personal codes and all the other obligatory bureaucratic garnishes.

  I didn’t answer, the major would let me know when he wanted an answer.

  “I asked for operational analysis, not this, this …” he waved my report at me as if worried I wouldn’t know what he was talking about. “No conclusions can be drawn from the currently available material …” he stopped waving the piece of paper long enough to read his favourite bit.

  I had my eyes glued to the wall above his head so I couldn’t tell you what his face was doing during all of this. It probably wasn’t very pretty anyway.

  “Well, Heym—what have you got to say for yourself? Don’t just stand there like a sausage-monger!”

  Under different circumstances I might have enjoyed his sense of humour.

  “Comrade Major Kühn, permission to speak?” I was still standing at attention, thumbs along trouser seams, chest puffed out until the buttons down the front of my jacket were armed and ready to fire, shoulders back far enough for the secretary to see the pips on my epaulettes.

  On the edge of my vision, I saw the major wave his hand. That was my permission.

  “Comrade Major Kühn, after detailed analysis of the reports made available to me, I came to the conclusion that there were no operative or operatives, whether acting singly or jointly, engaged in any act or omission which may have directly or indirectly resulted in the events observed and reported by Comrade Captain Fritsch while engaged in the realisation of political-operational duties in the West German town of Meckenheim in the conurbation of Bonn. Furthermore, no acts of political-hostile diversion directed against-”

  “Fine, Second Lieutenant,” the major broke in. “You’ve made your point. But what do you mean?”

  “What do I mean, Comrade Major Kühn?” I repeated, not understanding what he meant.

  “What are your real conclusions? And don’t repeat any of this manure.” He waved the report at me again.

  “From my analysis of the political-operational situation, I concluded that members of the Ministry who had operational contact with Source Bruno-”

  “Yes, you said all that. But I want to know who’s to blame!”

  “Comrade Major …” I paused, calculating risks and weighing words. “Comrade Major, I’ve seen only the written reports of some of the operatives. In order to complete my political-operational analysis, I request operational access to those operatives who had operational contact while Subject Bruno was in custody here in the Capital or in Building 74.”

  The major sucked his teeth and poked my report around the top of his desk. This was where I’d find out what his objectives were. Did he just want a scapegoat so he could draw a line under the affair? Or was he actually interested in finding out how the Bruno case had gone down the drain?

  9

  Berlin Friedrichshain

  “How long have I got before they come to get me?” Holger asked the following day.

  “Don’t be so melodramatic.” It was nowhere near that bad. Not yet. “It’s fine, really. I’ve got it all in hand.”

  That stiffened Holger’s back a little and, satisfied with the effect my words had, I got up to make coffee.

  It was Tuesday morning and I’d booked us into a safe flat in an old tenement overlooking the busy Warschauer Strasse. It was one of those places where the Firm politely requests the tenants make themselves scarce for a few hours, and they comply with a warm feeling in their hearts. Doing their bit for Socialism and the security of the Republic.

  “You’re sure you’re not under observation?” I asked when I returned with the coffees. I wasn’t being paranoid, it wasn’t unknown for the Ministry to keep an eye on personnel—and to be blunt about it, Holger was under suspicion of, at best, cocking up a simple mission and at worst, having contact with the class enemy.

  He shook his head, he hadn’t noticed anyone following him.

  “OK. Listen Holger, Major Kühn from ZAIG is in charge of the investigation. I asked for the files of everyone who had contact with Bruno, and for permission to interview them. So far I’ve only had the go-ahead to talk to the baby-sitters—I’ll do that in the coming week. That includes you, of course.”

  “What about the officers who interrogated Bruno? They’re the ones you need to look at!”

  “One step at a time.
You know how it works, Kühn isn’t going to let me look at those files, not without good reason. I’m only a second lieutenant, the interrogators seriously outrank me.”

  Holger nodded. He wasn’t dealing well with being under suspicion—it’s not easy to continue as normal when you know the machinery of the Firm might move against you at any time, without warning. I’d experienced life in the Ministry’s Hohenschönhausen remand prison myself, having been kept awake for days during never-ending interviews, enduring the inadequate portions of miserable food, the petty harassment by the guards, the more subtle persecutions by the interrogators—I wouldn’t be too happy if someone told me I might be sent back there.

  This is how we break people. This is what we do.

  “Holger, stop worrying so much, pull yourself together. I’ll work something out. In the meantime, I need you on your toes when I interview you tomorrow, last thing we need is someone reporting that you appeared nervous.”

  Holger nodded again.

  “Keep your ear to the ground,” I continued instructing him. “I need to hear about all the gossip in your department, any rumours, anything at all. We’ll fix this, we’ll dig you out of this hole.” I leaned forward and patted Holger on the shoulder.

  “Thanks, Reim,” he replied. He even managed a smile. “It’s good to know they’re not about to come and get me.”

  “Don’t worry, I’d tell you if it ever got that far.”

  But I wouldn’t. If I did that I’d be risking my own freedom.

  10

  Berlin Lichtenberg

  I started interviewing the babysitters the next morning. It was a friendly interrogation, no need for psychological pressure, so I invited Gefreiter Falk Nagel to my office rather than having him brought to a more formal interrogation room.

  The corporal was small, just over the minimum height requirement, and when he sat down the buttons on his breast pockets just peeked over the top of my desk. I allowed him to make his report in his own words.

  “Departure from Building 74 was scheduled for 0650 on the sixth of December. Situation at the time: patrol on the fence had no incidents to report, two hours before sunrise. Snow was on the ground as we left the compound,” Nagel said.

  I didn’t know Building 74, I knew its codename and the fact that it was deep in the woods, somewhere between Beeskow and Briesen. I pictured the scene as Nagel spoke:

  The endlessness of the pine forest was broken only by a simple chain link fence topped with barbed wire, behind which scuff-marks in the shallow snow showed the guards’ patrol route. Out of sight of the fence, beyond yet more pines, a high wall hid an old forestry house and various outbuildings which had been added to accommodate larger groups, but the source and his briefing team hadn’t needed much space.

  There was only one gate in the wall, next to it a white globe lamp shone, replacing the full moon that had sunk beyond the trees an hour or two before. The lamp laid a bar over the glinting snow, a blue line from the front door to the shadows of the nearest trees.

  “You’ll be on the train soon, on your way home.” The officer in charge had his right hand outstretched and his neck buried in the fleece collar of a padded parka.

  “Are you sure this is the best way to do it?” Bruno took the hand and shook it, all the while looking around him, sniffing the frozen air.

  “Just go back for a bit, test the water. See if you like the temperature. We’ll never be too far away, any problems and we’ll be there. If you think it’s getting too hot, we’ll bring you straight back,” said the officer.

  Bruno didn’t answer. He followed a cleared pathway down some steps to a jetty and boarded a skiff held steady by Corporal Nagel.

  Nagel punted the wooden boat across the river and climbed out, ready to open the door of a Wartburg. Bruno didn’t look back at the house on the other side of the canal as the corporal got behind the steering wheel and put the car into gear. Bruno didn’t look back as the car crumped over the snow and through a clearing. Bruno’s gaze was focussed on the greyness cast by the headlights, the way they thrust aside the darkness that hung over the narrow track. The beam of the lights quivered and swerved as the car under-steered through the curves, rising onto the banks to either side, kicking up snow and sand as it went.

  When they finally reached a metalled road, Bruno was still staring ahead. Corporal Nagel glanced in the rear-view mirror, wondering whether his charge wasn’t quite awake yet, or perhaps nervous of returning to the West. It didn’t make any difference to the corporal, his orders were to bring the asset to Beeskow railway station and make sure the next minders latched onto him.

  They parked down the road from the station, engine running to keep the heater going. Articulated Ikarus buses lurched past, heavy diesel smoke mixing with the sharper tang of the Wartburg’s exhaust.

  “Time to go,” said the corporal to the mirror, and watched Bruno fold up his tall frame to fit through the door.

  He turned to take his suitcase, then stepped away from the car and picked his way down the ice-slick cobbles towards the station. With a sigh, the corporal got out and shut the back door, watching Bruno the whole time, only turning away once the shambling figure of the Westerner had reached the platform at which a three carriage train was standing.

  When Corporal Nagel finished, I let him sit in silence for a moment or two. I had his written report in front of me, and I mentally ticked off each point, checking for agreement and discrepancy, omission or addition. This time the differences were all in omission: in his verbal report the corporal had given me nothing new but had left a few points out.

  “The officer in charge, you say he was there to see Subject Bruno off?” I enquired.

  “Yes, Comrade Second Lieutenant.”

  “His rank and name?”

  “Oberleutnant Tinius of Main Department II.”

  I made a note then asked a few more questions I already knew the answer to. A few more notes, a bored expression on my face, then I began to circle in on a discrepancy I thought I had spotted:

  “You parked the vehicle outside the bus garage of the VEB Verkehrskombinat Frankfurt?”

  “Yes, Comrade Second Lieutenant.”

  “And you remained by your vehicle, watching the subject as he made his way to Beeskow station?”

  “Yes, Comrade Second Lieutenant.”

  “You watched the subject the whole way, from the car to the train?”

  “Yes, Comrade Second Lieutenant.”

  “You saw Subject Bruno board the train?”

  “Comrade Second Lieutenant, I saw him on the platform …”

  I let him have some silence to think about what he’d just said. When it was obvious that the corporal wasn’t going to complete his sentence, I pulled a town map of Beeskow from my desk drawer, folded it so the station was visible and asked him to show me where he’d parked.

  He put his finger on the road outside the bus garage, just to the north of the station.

  I flipped open another file and eased out a blueprint. It was a track layout diagram of the station. I slid it across the table towards the corporal then patiently waited for him to get his head round it.

  “Was the train already standing at the platform when Subject Bruno arrived?” I asked.

  “Yes, Comrade Second Lieutenant, scheduled arrival time was 0736, departure at 0753 and the subject reached the platform at 0749.”

  “At which platform was the train standing?”

  The corporal examined the track diagram again. His face went pale as he realised why I was so interested in tracks and trains, his finger hesitated, but slowly it was drawn towards the platform on the south side of the station.

  “When did you last see Subject Bruno?”

  Again the finger dragged along the blueprint, this time ending up by the steps at the northern end of the pedestrian tunnel that led under the tracks.

  “So, you saw the subject walk along the road and down into the underpass. You didn’t see him come up the othe
r side because the platform was hidden from view by the waiting train. You didn’t see him board, did you? And you didn’t you see the comrades pick up his tail?”

  I didn’t wait for the corporal’s answer, I stood up, took back the map and diagram and dismissed him.

  Corporal Nagel had been negligent in following orders, but his negligence hadn’t led to Bruno’s arrest, this wouldn’t be nearly enough to satisfy Kühn.

  11

  Berlin Lichtenberg

  I sat at my desk, leafing through Private Rene Willich’s report. It was a second, or even third, carbon copy and the letters were fuzzy, smeared across the rough paper, making them difficult to decipher.

  According to what I was reading, Willich had been with Sergeant Georg Seyler that day, and I opened his report to compare both accounts.

  Once I’d reminded myself of the pair’s take on the mission, I took a greaseproof paper-wrapped sandwich and a flask of coffee out of my briefcase and enjoyed a second breakfast.

  The operatives were in the corridor outside, ready for their interviews, but I didn’t have a problem with making them wait a little.

  Private Willich was young, his face still spotted with acne, yet his fair hair was already thinning on top. He stood at attention, fingers to his temple even though he wasn’t wearing a cap.

  “Genosse Unterleutnant, Soldat Willich auf Ihren Befehl zur Stelle!”

  I never could stand crawlers, so I ignored him, continuing to examine the sparse report I’d already read twice. Then, without allowing him to sit down, I asked Willich to give me his verbal account.

  Two operatives were in the second carriage, Willich sitting on the platform side, Unteroffizier Seyler across the aisle:

  Bruno climbed the steps from the low platform and, looking around, chose a free seat at the end. He heaved his luggage into the rack above the seat, the string webbing bellying down as the suitcase settled, then, without loosening his coat or scarf, Bruno sat down, cupping his hands against the window to peer out into the gloom of early morning.