“Any other way in?” I asked.
“Just the front door.”
The watchers in the car were well positioned. Nobody could get in or out of the main door without being seen by them. The back door would have been more promising—the watchers would have to twist round in their seats to keep the mouth of the service road in sight. Shame it could only be opened from the inside.
On the far side of Bruno’s building was a detached house in a garden scattered with fruit trees.
“You said you could arrange a diversion?” I checked.
“When were you thinking?”
“Round about now would be good,” I replied, watching the flickering blue light in Bruno’s window. “He’s still up, watching television, seems like as good a time as any.”
We synced our watches and agreed Time X would be in ten minutes then I let myself out of the back door of the shop.
It took a few minutes to walk around the block, and a further couple of minutes to survey the garden next to Bruno’s building. It was on a bend, the far end out of sight of the watchers’ car, and that’s where I jumped the decorative palisade fence that divided the garden from the road. It was only a metre high, just tall enough to cast the shadow I needed to work my way along to the trees next to Bruno’s building without being spotted.
I was hoping for a handy fruit tree with low branches, something to give me a leg up to Bruno’s first floor balcony, but what I found instead was a galvanised downpipe that drained each balcony on Bruno’s building. It stepped down between the levels, alternating between vertical and forty-five degree angles. Much better than a fruit tree.
Crouching in the shade of the fence, I found a gap in the planks wide enough to peer through. The watchers were no more than thirty metres away, I could see them clearly in the light of the streetlamps. One was dozing, the other, the one behind the driving wheel, wasn’t even looking in the direction of Bruno’s flat. At least he was awake.
I watched the second hand on my watch circle round to Time X, and waited for Sanderling’s diversion.
Nothing happened for a few more seconds, then a quiet hum lifted itself out of the background noises of a small town at night. With unexpected suddenness, the hum expanded into the rhythm of a vehicle engine as a red Renault 5 turned the corner. It headed towards us, neither too fast nor too slow, I estimated just over 20 km/h. As it passed the watchers’ car, a cracking sound shocked the night. The brake lights of the Renault shone bright and it came to a halt.
A young man got out and examined his side mirror, then spoke to the watcher who’d climbed out of his car and was examining his own mirror. Their voices carried in the still night, but I couldn’t hear what was being said. They’d be talking insurance, the watcher would be trying to persuade the young man to forget about exchanging details, to just move on and not worry about compensation.
The second watcher was still in the car, wide awake now, his attention focussed on Bruno’s apartment block, just in case the accident was a diversion. Not so amateurish, after all.
Swearing under my breath, I wondered whether I should still chance climbing the drainpipe, but I had to concede it was a non-starter: one watcher was alert, eyes on Bruno’s apartment building, and the other, the one arguing with the Renault driver was facing in my direction. The diversion had failed.
It was time to give up on the plan, return to the shop and plot something new with Sanderling, but while I was still dithering a further movement caught my eye. A white figure floated between the dim street lights. Both watchers had noticed the new entrant to the drama, even though the young Renault driver was still arguing.
The white figure came under the next cone of light, an elderly lady, white night-gown, no shoes or slippers, frizzy white hair coloured by the sodium light. She held her arms straight down, fingers rigid, and with each puff of condensed breath came a high-pitched voice.
She zig-zagged across the street, heading for the second watcher who was getting out of the car to meet this new challenge. When she got close, she stretched her arms out and collapsed.
That was my cue, and without wasting another glance at the brouhaha still unfolding on the street below, I shinned up the drainpipe and slipped over the concrete parapet of Bruno’s balcony. Behind me a new discussion had been kindled by the woman’s collapse.
But now I was more interested in the silence that was seeping from Bruno’s flat. The patio windows were open and the television flickered across the net curtain, but there was no sound. Instead, a smell came from beyond the windows, It reminded me of the Lubyanka cellars on a bad morning.
I crept forward, careful not to be seen above the edge of the balcony, and parted the curtain with my gloved hand. In the flickering of the television I could see a tall male curled up on the floor.
An arm was extended towards the window, the fingers pressed into the palm. One look at the lividity along the edge of the hand told me all I needed to know.
This man was dead.
28
West Germany
Bonn
I nudged the window wider and put a handkerchief over my mouth and nose against the stench. A table at the corpse’s feet was lying on its side, a broken terracotta plant pot and a wilted peace lily splayed across the floor. Strands of partly-digested onion and clumps of grey-green vomit glistened in the light of the muted television. The man’s face was pale, except where his head was in contact with the floor. Marbling showed how gravity had caused the blood to pool after his heart had stopped pumping.
Kneeling behind his head and leaning over to see his face, I mentally compared his features to the photographs I’d seen in his file. This was Bruno.
I prodded his fingers, they gave way like heavy rolls of rubber, his jaw was beginning to stiffen but could still be manipulated: postmortem rigidity was beginning to set in, time of death was probably early evening that day. As for cause of death: even though there were no obvious signs of trauma, I was confident about ruling out natural causes.
As fascinating as examining the body was, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car drawing up. I stood beside the net curtain that covered the patio windows, holding it apart to look outside.
A marked police car had pulled up and the officers were getting out, adjusting their caps while they looked up at Bruno’s window. The observers were back in their car, no sign of the old lady or the red Renault, they must have resolved the situation while I’d been examining Bruno’s body.
But the watchers weren’t bothering me right now, I was more interested in the cops who were crossing the street on their way to the front door of the apartment block.
I couldn’t leave the way I’d come, through the window and over the balcony—the watchers would be paying even more attention than before. The only way out of here was down the stairwell and through the fire door.
A final look around before I left the scene, making sure I’d left no signs of my presence, hadn’t stepped in the vomit or dropped anything. It was during the sweep that I noticed the packet of frozen meat patties, thawing out on the kitchen counter, attracting any flies not already laying their eggs in the vomit on the floor. A frying pan stood on the hob, grease coagulated around the edges. Next to that, a plate with some crumbs and a smear of dried ketchup—Bruno’s last meal.
I picked up the damp packet of burgers and let myself out of Bruno’s flat, finding myself in a softly-lit corridor. Beige walls, brown carpet, dark wood-effect doors down each side. Pushing through a glass door at the end, holding it so that it didn’t make a noise as it swung shut, I found myself on a concrete stairwell. The slapping of feet on steps came from below, and I softly made my way up to the next landing.
I paused there, listening to the cops chatting. A similar high, Rhenish accent as in the bar this evening, completely unintelligible, but what I was really listening out for was the sound of the glass door being opened: a swish, followed by a click as it shut again.
I came back down
the stairs and peered around the edge of the door frame. The cops were at Bruno’s flat-door, still in knocking-politely mode, although one was sniffing around the door frame. I slipped down to the entry hallway, went down another half-landing to the fire escape door and let myself out.
By the time I was back at the observation post in the empty shop, one of the cops was standing in the roadway, next to the patrol car. The lights in Bruno’s flat had been turned on, were glaring out into the night, and the shadow of the cop’s colleague could be seen moving behind the curtains.
“The observation vehicle has been withdrawn,” Sanderling told me.
A fire brigade ambulance drew up opposite, and the back doors opened, disgorging a gurney which was taken into the flats. Our observer at the other window took a note of the activity.
“The subject is dead,” I said, keeping my voice low so that only Sanderling would hear. Then, slightly louder: “Have you got a bag for this?” I held out the packet of defrosted meat, already poisoning the close air of the disused shop.
The observer went to the storeroom and came back with a freezer bag. I slipped the package in and sealed it.
“I need to contact Berlin Centre,” I told Sanderling, speaking softly again, for her ears only.
She gave me a long look, as if assessing whether I had the authority to make the request, then with another glance at the ambulance in the street outside, she motioned to me to follow her out of the back of the shop.
Twenty minutes later, a heavy, bitter smell forced its way through the car’s air vents. It settled in my mouth and set about clogging up my throat.
“It’s the sugar refinery,” Sanderling told me, using her chin to point to a factory we were passing.
We were entering the outskirts of Euskirchen, a town just to the west of Meckenheim, and the further we drove, the more completely the leaden smell of burning sugar beet coated my throat and nostrils, I had to swallow hard to stop retching.
We rattled over a level crossing and a few hundred metres later passed under a couple of railway bridges. A right turn at the next crossroads, past a weapons research centre and into a housing estate.
Leaving the car on a quiet road, we walked a couple of blocks then, with a quick check that nobody was on the street, Sanderling opened a garden gate and ushered me through. Down steps and through a cellar door. As soon as the door was closed behind us, she turned the lights on.
There wasn’t much in the way of furniture down here, just two bentwood chairs and a desk with a telephone and lamp on it. The place smelt dusty, but even stronger than that, the fumes of the sugar factory hung in the air.
“The line’s secure, be as brief as you can,” she told me. “Use the same dialling codes as you would in Berlin. I’ll wait outside.”
She turned the lights off and I heard the door open then close. When I turned the desk lamp on I was by myself.
This was a call no operative likes to make, whichever way I dressed it up, my mission had failed before it had even started.
I sat down and lifted the receiver.
29
West Germany
Euskirchen
I dialled the number and waited. The line clicked and buzzed but there was no ringing tone, nothing to indicate that my call was being connected. I was about to replace the receiver and try again when a voice came through the handset, clearer than if I’d been phoning from Berlin.
“Night duty,” said the voice. It was Holger.
I took the handset away from my ear and stared at it for a moment until professionalism kicked in. I didn’t ask what he was doing on the end of a line that started on the western edges of West Germany, somehow passing through the border on the way to Berlin. Instead, in a clear and measured voice, I quoted the codeword Sanderling had given me and listened to the slight delay before Holger answered. He was probably as surprised to hear my voice as I’d been to hear his.
“Subject deceased, estimated time of death four to six hours. Request instructions,” I told him once he’d confirmed the code.
“Stand by,” came the answer and the line went dead.
When Holger called back, he ordered us to get ourselves to Bad Hersfeld and once there to find a particular phone box. He didn’t say it—there was no need to say it—but the only reason to order the whole unit to head for a town near the inner-German border was so they could bring us home.
I left the cellar and found Sanderling sitting on the steps outside. Her eyes held mine while I told her the news. She was quiet for a moment then she suggested we get moving.
“Hersfeld’s a few hours away, we need to leave now if we’re to make it before daylight.
There was a short diversion back to Meckenheim to order the remaining watcher in the shop to pack up the observation post and follow on with the rest of the team, then Sanderling and I headed south.
We sat in the powerful Renault 30, skipping down the Autobahn towards Koblenz. Sanderling was still in the driver’s seat, and where there were speed limits, she was scrupulous in keeping to them, where there were none, she put her foot down, the thrum of the tires winding up to a steady whine as we rolled over the smooth tarmac. The West Germans had roads made for getaways, and we knew how to make use of them.
The radio was on, warbling quietly to itself, barely audible over the hum of the engine and the moaning tires. As we crossed the Rhine north of Koblenz a tune tugged at my memory, its familiarity calling for attention. I looked at the dull glow of the radio dial and tried to recall when I’d last heard it. Moonlight Shadow. About eight or nine weeks ago, playing on a radio smuggled from West Berlin and sold to a young landfill worker with more money than sense. Another lifetime.
“They played that song all summer, I thought I’d go crazy if I heard it one more time.” The first words from Sanderling since we’d left her crew behind.
I didn’t answer, concentrating instead on picking out the few English words I could understand. It was a sad song, I could hear that much, despite the fast pace of the guitar.
“Maybe she’s singing about us,” said Sanderling. “It’s about being on the run.”
I looked out of the window, seeing the flapping canvas sides of the lorries we were overtaking, the chains of headlights in the slow lanes. Mike Oldfield’s guitar faded out, seguing into the next song. Finally, something in German, something I could understand: Nena and her 99 balloons.
Sanderling drummed along, her fingers tapping the steering wheel.
She didn’t comment on the lyrics—a war precipitated by the innocent release of party balloons—and neither did I. We were in enemy territory and we had a recall notice, that was enough to be thinking about for the moment.
Nena’s balloons went the way all songs on the radio go, traffic thinned and the motorway, now down to two lanes in either direction, began to curl around the sides of valleys, steadily climbing up to a plateau. The radio reception fizzled and popped, and I twisted the dial, searching for another station. Some dark New German Wave song came on, ponderous lyrics over slow synthesisers and heavy guitars.
“I’m going to miss this.” Sanderling again. Couldn’t she be quiet for five minutes? “I know, I’m supposed to say something about the music being degenerate, the political-diversive lyrics … but I’ll still miss it.”
The radio lost the signal again and I twisted the volume knob to off. We were going downhill now, picking up speed even as the engine comfortably fired beneath the hood. A junction, Sanderling changed down a gear and we slowed to go round the slip onto another motorway. Blue signs flashed past: Limburg.
“I wonder whether I’ll fit in at home,” Sanderling took her eyes off the highway, watching me as if I might have an answer she’d want to hear. “I’ve been over here too long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like back in the Republic.”
I met her eye, and we both silently acknowledged that she’d crossed a line. What she’d just said was more intimate than anything whispered in bed, it was the kind of loose t
alk that would get her into serious trouble back at Berlin Centre—if I reported it.
I agreed with her, she’d been here too long, she’d become soft. She’d lost the revolutionary rigour that is the core of every Chekist. The Reim of three months ago would have stored away the information, used it to his advantage. That kind of talk doesn’t have a shelf-life, it can be brought out of the cupboard whenever the need arose, whether to take her down or to bend her to my will.
But I was no longer the Reim of three months ago. Too much had happened since I’d had my comfortable position as Major Fröhlich’s adjutant. I’d fallen into deep holes twice, each time sure I was finished. But the first time I’d been saved by good luck and the second time a KGB major had stepped in. One day he’ll come calling, asking for repayment.
And now I was in the middle of an operation that had shattered, threatening to rip away the careful cover I’d erected to hide my involvement in the disappearance of not one, but two majors that I’d worked for.
Sanderling reached out her right hand, groping for the radio and twisting it until static seeped from the speakers. She nudged the tuner until she found reception. More music. Synthesisers again, a male voice slurring meaningless English words, the backers giving the song some badly needed definition.
“Come Back And Stay,” Sanderling hummed along. “How appropriate.”
There was a click in my chest, something had changed. Almost audible, but Sanderling, still crooning to the song, hadn’t heard. It was just me, opening up.
“Who sent you over?” I asked, knowing that by engaging in this conversation I was kissing goodbye to the Kompromat she had given me, kissing goodbye to the Reim I thought I was.
She gave me the glance again, the same complicit look we’d shared a kilometre or two back. I wanted her to look away, to watch where we going, to use those eyes to navigate around the convoys of lorries and the Porsche drivers flashing past in a blur of chrome and metallic grey.
Berlin Centre Page 9
