Down the steps, through the ticket hall, past the banners celebrating the electrification of the mainline railway, out into the open. The tram stop was hard by the station, but the crowds of passengers showed that no tram had been past for a while—not a good sign.
I checked my watch, ten minutes left—too late to cover the distance on foot, no choice but hope the tram came soon.
If I’d still been in possession of my clapperboard, I could have commandeered a policeman or hijacked a passing car, but here I was, reduced to watching minutes tick by on the station clock.
The ivory-painted Gothawagen heaved itself around the corner just three minutes later, wheels shrieking on the curved track. I climbed aboard and positioned myself next to the doors, immune to the pointed comments of Berliners forced to squeeze past me.
It was only three stops, but I found myself checking my watch again and again, sighing in exasperation as traffic choked each junction. We ground to a halt on the bridge over the river, then got going again, passing the traffic lights responsible for the hold up. When we screeched around the corner into Wilhelminenhofstrasse, I turned to face the doors, impatient to get down the steps and onto the street.
It was going to be OK, I told myself, checking my watch yet again. I still had two minutes and just another hundred metres to go. Attempting to calm myself, I fell back onto old habits, discreetly checking passengers who were getting up and moving towards the doors.
As we slowed to a halt and the doors wheezed open, I jumped down, but still had to wait for the tram to move off, then for the traffic caught behind to clear. I used those seconds to note which passengers were heading in which direction. An old couple shuffled towards the Poliklinik attached to the factory behind, most were waiting with me to cross.
Finally, we had the chance to step out into the road, at the other side, my fellow passengers peeled off, some heading down a side street, others walking to blocks of flats. I stood outside the yellow phone booth for a moment, ostensibly searching my pockets for the right change, but really making sure no-one was moving suspiciously slowly or taking a sudden interest in loose shoelaces, shop windows or the wing mirrors of parked cars.
Satisfied, I pulled open the door of the payphone—no queue here, perhaps it was out of order? I lifted the receiver and, reassured by the buzz in my ear, replaced it and waited for the call.
“Tram to Köpenick,” said the voice down the line, same one as before, but now I was certain it belonged to Anna Weber. “Number 25. Get off at Müggelseedamm and walk through the Spreetunnel.” A click and she was gone. No instructions on how long it should take, which could have meant I was now under observation.
I was a good boy. I left the telephone box, resisted the urge to scan the dusty windows of the flats on this side of the road, or those of the factory opposite. I waited patiently at the tram stop, neck pulled into my upturned collar, hands buried deep in pockets.
Anna Weber picked us up when we jerked around the corner into the wide road that runs along the side of the Wuhlheide park. I watched from the back of the number 25 as she pulled out of a parking place and tucked in a few cars behind us. A grey Trabant hatchback, Berlin plates—nice choice if you wanted to fade into the scenery.
She was good at what she did, had obviously researched the route, to the extent that she could turn into side roads when she was too close, and appear again before the tram reached the next stop. Whenever we screeched to a halt, Weber was there again, making sure I was still on the tram.
As I observed her driving, I became aware that not only was she keeping me in sight, but her patterns of movement were allowing her to perform counter-surveillance—she was dry cleaning, making sure no other vehicles were tailing herself or the tram.
As for the other people on board, I had them in my sights. From the back, I could not only keep an eye on Weber following in the Trabant, but I could monitor the passengers seated in front of me.
As we neared Köpenick, the passengers thinned out, which would made it harder for a tail—if there was one—to blend in.
Just before my stop, Weber pulled out to overtake us, blue-grey exhaust swirling past the tram windows as she put her foot down. A little further on, she turned right, towards the river. With a rumble and a jolt, the tram halted and I climbed down the steps onto the roadway. In summer, this was a popular destination, but in the grey of winter I was the only one alighting.
I stood at the side of the road until the tram had rumbled away, then I walked to the turn-off that Weber had taken. I searched for a cigarette, stopping to pat each pocket in turn, then fumbled with my matches while I had a quiet look around. The usual rough rendering on the houses, stained with soot and dirt. Windows hung with net curtains, some as dusty as the buildings themselves, others shining like white squares on a chess board. No-one to be seen on the street, the few cars that passed weren’t showing any interest in slowing down or stopping.
Nothing was amiss, so I turned the corner and into the side road, glancing into each parked car as I went, all the while heading for the warm smell of malt emanating from the Bürgerbräu brewery just ahead.
It was a couple of hundred metres from that corner to the winter-stripped park set on the mouth of the Müggelsee. Here the shallow lake gives the River Spree a chance to hang back for a last taste of bucolic woodland before braving the pollution from the factories in Oberschöneweide. In warmer months, the Müggelsee is full of day-trippers bathing, drinking beer on Weisse Flotte pleasure boats and racing dinghies through the shallows. Now it was just me and a few ducks who were less than happy about how their lake had turned into an ice cube.
On the edge of the park, at the point the Spree reluctantly narrows back into its bed, a low stone building with a hipped roof provides cover for the steep steps that lead to a dank passageway under the river.
Standing at the top of the stairs, I peered over the ice, trying to see what was on the far bank. But both banks of the river were clear of people, no Weber, no Merkur, no anyone in sight. I hesitated a moment longer, then took the first step down into the tiled depths.
54
Berlin Köpenick
I emerged into unpromising daylight on the south bank of the Spree. Bare trees guarded the entrance to the tunnel, frozen lake to my left, a path leading to a bathing area and the road to Köpenick to my right. The locked river creaked and crackled behind me. Before me, the forest closed in, coniferous trees screening whatever lay ahead.
I hesitated, unsure which way to go. There was no welcoming committee, no subtle clues as to which path to take. I listened, hoping for the swish of clothes, the crunching of feet over snow and pine needles, but it was just me and the low building that marked the entrance of this end of the tunnel.
I lit a cigarette and waited. No wind in the trees, ducks grumbling off to the left. Somewhere ahead, a crow announced the end of the world. Then, finally, footsteps. Echoing and repeating, reverbing from the mouth of the tunnel.
I’m not the type to play hide and seek, and anyway, the spindly trees around me couldn’t provide much cover. Whoever was coming through the tunnel was likely to be either with Merkur and Weber, or a civilian out walking his dog. As a concession to caution, I moved back a few paces, if only to avoid presenting an easy target from the bottom of the steps.
The footfall drew nearer, the decaying echo segueing into the slapping of boots on concrete. A mustard and chocolate woollen scarf rose from the depths, followed by wisps of escaped blonde hair and the lapis eyes of Anna Weber.
She arrived at the top of the stairs and stopped close enough to reach out and touch my cheek, close enough to knife me. I stood my ground.
“Hundred metres that way, the boat club,” she said, smiling a little. But her eyes were as cold as the Müggelsee.
I dropped my cigarette and followed the path along the shore of the lake that she’d pointed out, half-turning to look back a couple of times. Weber had posted herself near the entrance to the tunnel, close
enough to hear anyone coming under the river.
I had to admit, this was a good place for a meet—any tails would have to come through the pinch point of the tunnel, or head back to the next bridge, a twenty-minute drive at the least. A meeting could be finished and the parties scattered in that time.
When I saw the fence through the trees, I paused long enough to give the site a quick survey. A yacht club—sailing dinghies under wraps for the winter, icicles hanging from stepped masts that peeked from under tarpaulins. Just the two buildings: clubhouse and what looked like a storage space or workshop. Other than footprints in the snow that showed the way through an open gate in the boundary fence, there was little sign of human occupation.
I followed the tracks into the compound, pushing the gate shut behind me. Things looked much the same on this side of the fence: traces of old bootprints lost in fresh snow, an area of gritted and trampled snow over by the clubhouse, and the fresh marks I was trailing.
The spoor led me around the far side of the workshop. There was little point in playing it careful, every step I took was accompanied by the snarling of snow crushed beneath my boots, if anyone was waiting beyond that corner, they’d hear me from a hundred metres away.
I was at the corner of the building when Merkur appeared. His grey hair had been clipped into a short back and sides, his eyebrows trimmed, and he’d shaved off his moustache—the overall effect was to show the years he’d lived through. The shorter hair somehow made his neck look scrawny, the lines from mouth to nose and around his eyes showed deeper, harder. But it was the same man I’d seen just a couple of days before.
“Thanks for coming, Second Lieutenant.” He offered his hand, but I ignored it. Merkur shrugged and put it away.
“How did you get over here?” I asked. Until this moment, I hadn’t actually accepted that Merkur could be in East Berlin.
“Different passport, different border crossing. I’m here on a day visa.” The kind that is issued at the border, no need to pre-register and no problems as long as your passport is genuine, you have the same face as the photograph and the name you’re using isn’t on one of our blacklists. Just make sure you leave before midnight or we’ll come and find you.
I leaned against the rough-rendered wall and reached for my coffin nails, but Merkur had his silver case out before I even had the glove off my hand. We each took one of his cigarettes and he lit us up with his petrol lighter.
A deep drag, waiting for the nicotine hit, I looked up at the wall of the building. Glass bricks at head height, a proper window further along, covered with brightly painted rebar welded into star patterns, same as the fence around the yard.
While I examined the metalwork, Merkur was examining me. He was in no hurry to talk, but at least we weren’t doing the onerous check-in that happens when runner and agent meet. How long do you have? Are you safe? Anyone follow you? This meeting was strictly between professionals, if there were any safety announcements, we’d make them without the fuss and feigned concern that are the mark of a good handler.
“I need your help,” he finally said.
“You don’t say. One of these days, someone will drag me halfway across Berlin just to say they’re going to do something for me—it would make a nice change. And while I’m bellyaching, tell me this: what’s she doing here?” I stabbed my cigarette in the direction of the tunnel, where Weber was presumably still waiting. “You want my help? First thing you have to do is send her back!”
“You want to find out what happened to Sanderling, I want to find out who murdered Arno Seiffert.” Merkur did a good job of ignoring my kvetching.
“What happens when you find whoever’s responsible?” The man he was looking for was called Oberleutnant Sachse, but I wasn’t about to tell Merkur that—not without good reason.
“I’m going to destroy him.” Merkur nipped at his cigarette then checked to see how much he still had left.
“And how will you do that?” As always, he expected me to drag each piece of information out of him. No wonder I was crabby—if he wanted help, he should just come straight out with it.
“I know how to destroy his career, I know enough to put him behind bars.” Merkur finished his Gauloise and flicked it into the snow. “The man who killed Arno—he’s the double agent I told you about.”
55
Berlin Friedrichshain
“Why are you dragging me into this mess?” Lütten thought I’d gone pille palle, bringing Merkur back to the flat like this. I ignored the Rostocker’s whining and went to the kitchen to fetch three beers.
“We need your help. We’re looking for something in Rostock—and Rostock is your town,” I said when I came back.
“I risked head and neck for you today. A bit of shadow theatre is one thing, I don’t mind keeping your watcher happy while you go out, but I didn’t think you’d be bringing the class enemy home.”
Merkur was in the corner, seemingly unaffected by Lütten ranting. In fact, he seemed more interested in the muted television set in the corner. The Sandmännchen was about to begin a bedtime story with the aid of a talking duck and a grumpy goblin—not so different to the scene in this flat.
“I should be in Rostock right now, instead of which I’m still here, in contact with an imperialist agent …”
“So help us out, just this once, and then you can go back to Fishland—it’s about defending the security of the Republic.”
Lütten stood up and parted the curtains far enough to see a slice of the darkened street below. “Kid’s finally gone, he stayed longer today.”
I opened the beers and gave Lütten the first one. He took it, frowning with bad grace, but he did wait until we all had a bottle in our hands before taking a sip.
“To unexpected allies,” I proposed. Merkur leaned forward to tap his beer against mine, and after a moment’s hesitation, so did Lütten.
Hoping the Mecklenburger had decided to get off his high horse, I rummaged in the bag I’d brought back from my trip until I found the street map of Rostock. I opened it out on the table so that Warnemünde was showing. Merkur turned off the television and pulled his chair closer, then both of us stared at Lütten, who was still standing by the window.
“What are you trying to find?” he asked.
“Boathouses,” replied Merkur.
“What, any boathouse?” demanded Lütten, still reluctant to help the Westerner.
“I’m looking for a particular boathouse, on a stretch of water with lots of others. I walked all the way along the coast but didn’t see anything, and I checked Heiligendamm—I heard that was a resort, thought there might be some boathouses-”
“There’s none along the coast—it would compromise the regulation of border affairs.”
“So are there any boathouses anywhere?”
“In Warnemünde? The GST keep their sailing dinghies here.” Lütten’s finger jabbed at a point between the train station and the Alter Strom, but Merkur shook his head.
“No, nothing formal. DIY jobs, sounded like they could be part of an allotment colony, something like that.”
Lütten thought for a minute, then turned the map over to show the centre of Rostock. “Angler’s club,” he muttered, his finger tracing a road that led from the old town towards the south-east. “This is the old river lido—that little island here is covered in boathouses, and there’s a few more on the other bank, between the gasworks and the railway yards.”
“They’re the only ones?” Merkur asked sceptically. I could see why he didn’t like what Lütten was showing us—the island was hard by the old town, less than a kilometre from the Ministry’s District Administration.
“That’s your lot.” Lütten stepped away, half turning to the window. “Why are you looking for a boathouse anyway?”
Merkur examined the map for a moment or two longer, then withdrew to his corner, leaving me to negotiate the rest of the conversation. I didn’t want to tell Lütten, but he’d been right when he said he’d risked
his neck for me, and what’s more, he already knew too much. We needed to keep him on side.
“Our friend from the West has access to information that is material to the security of the Republic. There’s a cache in Rostock and we’re going to retrieve it.”
“But you’ve been suspended,” observed Lütten mildly. “You’re to wait here until you receive further orders.”
Merkur sat up at that, I could feel his eyes on me as I stared at Lütten, wondering how best to ask for the next favour.
“About that house arrest thing …”
“You want me to stay here? More shadow puppetry for the poor lad who has to watch your flat while his arse freezes to the car seat.”
I nodded.
“I’ll have to think about that.”
“Fine. While you think about it, can we borrow your car?”
56
Berlin Pankow
I picked up Merkur in the grey light of pre-dawn. He’d driven over from West Berlin, crossing the border at Bornholmer Strasse as soon as it opened, then parked up in a quiet residential street north of Wisbeyer Strasse to wait for me. Now we were on the motorway feeder in Pankow, heading for the Berlin autobahn ring.
We’d done the small talk, the any problems at the border? along with which passport did you use? and the jokes about was it hard to give the rookie the slip? and now we only had silence left. I was fine with that.
I drove along the motorway, wondering how I’d allowed myself to be drawn into this Westerner’s mission. Again and again he’d promised me so much, yet delivered nothing except trouble. In order to escape the consequences of getting too close to this man, I now had to get even closer.
Merkur was my best chance of rehabilitation, it was as simple as that. If he really could provide proof that there was a double agent in our ranks then I could yet be saved from a position in Department M, steaming open letters for the next thirty years.
Baltic Approach Page 16
