by David Young
‘Rats. Dead rats. Lots of them washed up or dumped on an island on the Polish side of the river. They were frozen into a huge clump – well, the whole river is frozen over now – and found by an old Polish man out walking his dog. I tested one. Similar results to those Fenstermacher got at her autopsy. Sex hormones.’
‘Which island? Where?’
‘It’s called Theatre Island. Middle of the river, but more on the Polish side. Linked by a footbridge. And now ice too.’
‘But no road?’ asked Müller.
‘Not to the island itself, Comrade Major.’
The horn blared again as a lorry driver tried to pull out to overtake, but then thought better of it as he spied the Lada in his wing mirrors, speeding towards him.
‘Have you been there?’
‘Yes – of course.’
‘What’s there, other than dead rats?’
‘Trees, grass and an open-air theatre. That’s it.’
‘Anything that looks like a disused factory?’
‘Yes, yes!’ shouted Schmidt. ‘On the Gub-en, the German side of the river. There’s a dilapidated building that looks like a factory. Slightly upstream from where the rats were found. That makes sense. And they hadn’t spread out, they were all clumped together – maybe they were all in a container that broke up or something like that?’
Müller wondered if she could trust her forensic scientist not to do anything stupid. He was currently wrapped up in his rat discovery, but behind all that he was a desperate father. By now, he knew as well as Müller did that his son was at serious risk, if – as Müller believed – he was being held at the factory with other youths.
‘OK, Jonas. I don’t trust either the Eisenhüttenstadt police or those in Guben.’ Müller knew the Guben Vopos might be listening in, but continued nonetheless. ‘They’ve failed to put an end to this so far. But Schwarz from Senftenberg seemed reasonably sound. Tell him to get to that factory as soon as possible with as many officers as he can spare.’
‘That might be harder than you think, Comrade Major.’
‘Why, Jonas?’
‘All roads in and out of Wilhelm-Pieck-Stadt Guben have been sealed. The bridge across to Poland too.’
How had that happened so quickly? They can’t have known what Althaus told me.
‘Do you know why, Jonas?’
Müller grabbed the dashboard as Tilsner swerved off the motorway at the Cottbus turning.
‘No, not precisely, Comrade Major. But it happened soon after I told uniform here about my rat discovery. I’m very sorry. I should of course have reported directly to you.’
Müller swore under her breath. He certainly should have come to her first, or simply kept it to himself until he could. Instead, the local police had no doubt reported it straight to Diederich and Baum.
‘OK. Well, see what you can find out about this factory. See if there’s another route to it. But don’t do anything stupid, Jonas.’
Müller ended the call. They’d now been slowed down massively by the traffic. There was no way to avoid Cottbus. That or Forst, further down the motorway. Whichever they chose, they had to drive almost right through the centre of town.
Tilsner had one hand on the wheel. The other was constantly jabbing at the Lada’s horn. But still some drivers ignored them.
*
As they neared Guben, Müller attempted to raise Schwarz’s team on the radio.
‘Helmut, are you reading me?’ she shouted again and again. Finally, she got through.
‘I can hear you clearly, Comrade Major.’
‘We need to get to a disused factory opposite what’s known as Theatre Island in Wilhelm-Pieck-Stadt Guben, Helmut. But there’s a problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Someone – we believe the Stasi, possibly a local branch of the Stasi acting on their own initiative – has sealed off the town. Do you know any back roads, any lanes they might have missed that we can go down?’
‘No,’ said Schwarz. ‘But I do have one idea.’
What he said next sounded horribly risky to Müller. She felt under her coat. Checked the Makarov was there. Then took it out, clicked the safety off and on again, and checked the gun was loaded.
‘Is yours ready?’ she asked Tilsner.
He nodded grimly.
They both knew what they had to do.
For the sake of their forensic scientist. For the sake of his son. And for the sake of other parents whose sons were perhaps at that very moment being experimented on as part of Gaissler’s mad scheme.
48
‘Don’t try to struggle, boy. It was your choice.’
I feel my heart pounding in terror, but I’m not sure why. I can’t remember. I just know that the soothing tones are dangerous for me. My brain tries to grasp the words, but they slip away before I can even touch the meaning, never mind decode it, the way you can never catch a fish by hand. I used to try that with Vati, on holiday in the Mecklenburg lakes. They were always too quick for us. The memory makes me want to smile. But then I remember it was before . . . before he came to hate me, hate what I am. Before all this.
I fight against the wrist restraints, try to cry out. But my arms won’t move, and my jaw, instead of opening, is biting down.
‘Prepare his arm, please, nurse.’
Get away. Get away from me. That’s what I want to say. But although my brain tries to force my mouth to open, no words will come.
‘We can’t hear what you’re trying to say, boy. This was your choice, remember?’
My choice? You liar! You gave me no choice. I wouldn’t cheat for you and your kind any more. I wouldn’t betray my love. And you call that a choice? A vision of his face torments my brain now. I could not, would not, betray my love.
The needle approaches my arm in infinitesimal slow motion. At least, that’s how it seems to me . . . but my mind is playing tricks. Time has been slowed down to torture me further.
I want my father here. I want to forgive him. I want him to love me for who I am.
Vati, Vati. I am still your little boy. Why won’t you help me when I need you?
The needle in the nurse’s hand has nearly reached the end of its journey. Once it punctures the skin, once the chemicals are pushed into my bloodstream, then the very essence of me will be changed – for ever.
Never able to love again.
At least, never able to love in the way I want to love. And that, for me, will be a living death.
Is that what you wanted, Father?
Is that what you wanted for your little boy?
You and the precious Republic of Workers and Peasants that you so slavishly serve.
49
Müller calculated that their best chance of mounting a surprise raid on Gaissler’s lair was from the north. She radioed that through to Schwarz.
A few kilometres outside Guben, Tilsner turned hard right following Müller’s instructions, to the village of Grano. That way they could skirt the town and end up about four kilometres outside it, where one of the roads closely followed the line of the Neisse.
Schwarz came through on the radio. He’d caught them up and was now directly behind them, following with his team in two police cars. One marked, one unmarked. Müller turned her body slightly and acknowledged his presence with a wave.
Once they got to the road by the river, Tilsner kept a close eye on the left-hand, driver’s side of the car. Searching for an opening.
Suddenly he saw it.
A slipway.
Müller had already warned Schwarz that their convoy would need to spread out. That they ought to leave a sufficient gap between each vehicle.
Although she wasn’t religious, Müller found herself saying a prayer, asking, if there was a God, for it to look after her loved ones should anything happen to her and Werner. To look after Jannika, Johannes and Helga. Emil wasn’t mentioned in this silent prayer. She still had to deal with that. If she survived.
Tilsner slowly e
dged the car down the frozen slipway.
Müller fully expected the car to simply break through the ice. But it didn’t. The front wheels held, then the back, and then Tilsner was weaving his way forward, slowly but steadily. Schwarz had told her the best technique was to keep up a steady pace. On no account were they to stop.
Müller wound open her window. She wanted to be sure of what she thought she was hearing above the din of the engine. A bitter blast of air hit her in the face. She felt the pores in her skin constricting. But now she heard the noise clearer than ever. The rapid crack of the ice fracturing beneath the wheels.
‘I don’t like this, Werner,’ she screamed, as the Lada jolted along. ‘It’s not going to hold.’ She could see the cracks forming as they progressed. How thick was the ice? Schwarz’s forensic scientist had calculated the river had been frozen for long enough that it might just be thick enough to hold one car. They had three in a convoy. And it wasn’t even the depths of winter – that would come in February.
‘Shut up,’ shouted Tilsner. ‘I need to concentrate.’
Müller knew that further north, where the Oder met the Ostsee, sea winds, melts and refreezes would have made this impossible. There she’d seen pictures of the jagged ice blocks frozen together. Here – apart from a few wind-blown ridges making the car shudder – it was relatively smooth.
She turned her head to view the progress of Schwarz and his team.
‘Scheisse!’ she shouted. ‘One of their cars is stuck. They’re trying to get out. We need to go back and help them.’
‘We can’t,’ said Tilsner. ‘It’s too risky.’
She saw four police officers clamber out onto the ice. They had to abandon the car to save themselves. But Schwarz’s own vehicle behind didn’t seem to be stopping either. He was taking a long sweep round, trying to find thicker ice.
‘How much further?’ asked Müller, feeling as though a huge weight was pressing on her chest. She tried to swallow.
Tilsner glanced down at the speedometer briefly.
‘It was four kilometres to Theatre Island. We’ve done two.’
Tilsner suddenly picked up the police radio handset.
‘What are you doing? You need both hands on the wheel.’
He ignored her and started speaking into the radio.
‘We’re going in,’ Tilsner shouted over the mouthpiece, the rapid cracking of the ice providing a staccato backdrop to his words. ‘Make sure your lot are ready.’
‘Who are you talking to?’ asked Müller. Tilsner failed to reply as he concentrated on driving in a straight line. It must have been Schwarz, thought Müller.
She could see the river widening. Buildings on each side now – the Republic and Gub-en on one side, Poland and Gub-in on the other. Then she saw the ice-covered river diverge into two frozen channels.
‘Have your gun ready,’ Tilsner shouted. ‘I can’t shoot while I’m driving.’
She glanced over her shoulder again. Schwarz’s Wartburg was still making progress a few hundred metres behind.
‘Scheisse!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can’t see anywhere to take the car. The riverbanks are too steep.’
Müller realised her deputy was looking at the Guben side of the river. Müller checked the other bank – the island. There was what looked like a snow-and-ice-covered beach of pebbles.
‘There,’ she shouted. ‘Go that way.’
‘But we need to be the other side.’
‘There’s a footbridge.’ She pointed to it. Tilsner put his foot down for the last few metres of the ice. She felt the wheels sliding under them, more jolting and banging, and then the Lada came to rest, safely out of the river.
They drew their guns, then exited the car and ran towards the bridge. If the Stasi or anyone else was guarding it, then it was all over.
It looked to be clear. But on the main town bridge a few hundred metres downstream, Müller could see some activity. A man pointing a finger in their direction. Then she realised it wasn’t a finger – it was a gun.
‘Get down!’ she shouted to Tilsner. They crouched under the iron railings as they ran across the footbridge. A shot rang out. She heard the ricochet against the metal bridge.
Panting now, they reached the East German side and raced towards the disused factory building, some six storeys high. They didn’t really know what they were looking for, or where exactly in the building they needed to search.
As they got near the entrance, they saw a man in a white scientist’s jacket poking his head round the corner, alerted by all the shouting – and presumably the gunshot. He tried to run back inside, but Tilsner was too quick for him. He tackled him round the legs, and then brought his police Makarov up to the man’s temple.
‘Keep quiet and take us to the laboratory and you won’t be harmed,’ he hissed into the man’s ear while wrenching his arm up behind his back, provoking a series of yelps.
When the man refused to answer, Tilsner pulled his arm higher.
‘Stop!’ the man cried. ‘Please! Up there.’ He nodded towards the dark, dilapidated stairwell.
‘Quickly,’ said Tilsner jabbing the gun in the man’s back. ‘Take us there.’
They raced up two of the several flights of stairs. Once they reached the second floor, they were suddenly in a more modern, ordered environment. But when Müller pulled the door, it was locked.
Tilsner jabbed his gun in the scientist’s back again. ‘How do we get in?’
‘You have to use the intercom.’
Müller saw something in the man’s eyes. ‘Liar! You’ve got a key, haven’t you?’
‘Have you, you little bastard?’ said Tilsner, wrenching the man’s arms up again.
When that didn’t work, Müller clicked off her safety catch and put her Makarov to the man’s mouth.
‘We don’t have time for this. Let us in or I shoot.’
She pressed the metal barrel of the gun into the man’s fleshy lips, then in slow motion started to squeeze the trigger.
The man suddenly whimpered and nodded his head. Tilsner allowed him to reach into his pocket. Müller grabbed the key as soon as it was visible and then opened the door.
‘Take us to where the lads are being held. And keep quiet.’
Müller knew time was running out. The Stasi agents on the main town bridge had seen them. They’d been lucky the actual lab wasn’t guarded, but at any moment they could be overrun and outgunned.
The corridor opened out into what looked like some sort of makeshift operating theatre.
Müller scanned the room of people, trying to recognise Gaissler from the photograph provided by Althaus. Somehow they hadn’t been spotted yet.
Then she saw him, leaning over someone strapped down to an examination couch.
‘Gaissler. Stop right there. People’s Police. You’re under arrest.’
The rogue endocrinologist looked round frantically and then raced towards a back exit. Müller ran after him. ‘Stop, or I’ll fire . . .’ But Gaissler had already made his escape through doors at the rear. Müller was tempted to follow alone – but then remembered how it had ended in the Harz, when Tilsner had almost died trying to save her. Instead, she frantically looked round the room, trying to see Markus. Schmidt had now joined them, and she saw the panic in his eyes as he realised his son wasn’t there.
Tilsner jabbed his gun at the scientist’s temple. ‘Where’s Gaissler gone? And where are the other youths?’
He clicked off the safety catch.
‘Talk. Now! Otherwise I’ll very much enjoy shooting you.’
50
They raced down the back staircase all the way to the basement, Tilsner’s Makarov pistol pressed against the scientist, as Müller, Schmidt and Schwarz followed.
At the bottom, Müller paused, panting.
‘Where now?’
‘Through there,’ said the man. ‘There’s a tunnel through here.’
Müller tried the handle on the grey metal door.
‘Wher
e’s the key?’ shouted Tilsner, jabbing his pistol into the scientist’s ribs.
The man got out his keys, selected one, and turned it in the lock. Tilsner pulled him out of the way, then opened the door and Müller rushed through, gun at the ready.
Ahead of them was a tunnel in semi-darkness. Müller replaced the gun in her shoulder holster and pulled her torch from her pocket. She shone it into the void as the others followed behind. A heavy Nazi-era typeface on the wall indicated this was tunnel 41 – but of how many?
‘Where’s this taking us?’ shouted Müller, as she half-ran, half-stumbled along the tunnel’s uneven ground, her boots splashing through puddles of green-black water.
‘It goes under the river to the Polish side,’ the scientist yelled back. ‘To Theatre Island.’
After some hundred metres or so, the tunnel widened into a chamber. On one side were stone stairs leading upwards; opposite, another grey metal door, which the scientist pointed to. At any moment, Müller was expecting the Stasi to arrive. What she didn’t know was what would happen when they did. Surely she, Tilsner and Schwarz were doing the right thing in trying to save these youths? But since the gunfire from the bridge as they’d approached Gaissler’s lair, she was still worried it could all go wrong. That the Stasi would finally make an appearance and try to cover things up. What would the fate of the boys be then?
Müller pocketed her torch and drew the Makarov from its holster once more. She turned the handle of the door. This one was unlocked.
She kicked it open.
‘Kriminalpolizei! No one move.’
As she edged round the door frame she saw Gaissler standing stock still, staring at her. He had a gun pointed at the head of a figure curled on a dirty mattress. Müller realised to her horror it was Schmidt’s son, Markus.
More youths were lying on other mattresses scattered around the floor. At least ten, maybe more. All chained and shackled, but unresponsive – as though they’d been drugged.
‘Don’t come any closer!’ Gaissler shouted.
‘Drop the weapon,’ Müller said calmly, ‘and put your hands above your head.’
‘No! Why should you stop my work? This is all approved at the highest levels. We’re approaching a breakthrough.’
