by David Young
Müller breathed in sharply.
‘So he’s still alive?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ said Vogel. ‘There was a faint pulse, that’s all.’
Vogel and Baumann were true to their word, escorting Müller and Irma to the hospital so she wouldn’t have to have anything to do with Jäger for the time being. As they helped her climb the few steps to the surface, Baumann explained what the bunker was – a forward command post linked to Hitler’s development of V2 rockets in the latter days of the war. Müller – in her groggy state – only partly took it in. She knew the main V2 production site after it was moved from the Ostsee coast had been further south in the Harz, near Nordhausen, but she guessed it made some sort of sense. As they got back to the mine house, Müller saw bodies scattered around, their white camouflage clothing besmirched with crimson, lying in the snow between the trees. Smoke and dust rose from the mineshaft itself, presumably the aftermath of the explosions she’d heard. Were they sealing Pawlitzki’s putative escape route?
The two local Kripo detectives drove Müller and Irma in a four-wheel-drive vehicle back up the forest track. Her head swivelled round as they passed the site where Tilsner had been shot. And then she saw the terror and confusion in Irma’s face and reached out to hug her, wincing from her injured arm as she did so.
‘Shhh,’ whispered Müller. ‘It will be alright now. It’s over.’
Irma looked up at her, a defeated expression in her face. ‘For you, perhaps. You will be going back to your secure job in the police force.’ Müller wasn’t as sure as the girl was that her career wasn’t over. After all, she’d defied Reiniger and broken rule after rule. ‘For me it’s not over,’ continued Irma. ‘I will be going back to the Jugendwerkhof. That, or a prison, and I cannot believe there is much difference.’
Müller held the girl’s gaze as the police vehicle bumped along the snow-covered forest track. ‘I won’t allow that to happen. I promise you,’ she said.
At the top of the track, as they reached the plateau, Müller scanned the side of the road, looking for the Wartburg.
Baumann must have seen her searching for it in the rear-view mirror. ‘Your car’s a write-off, I’m afraid, Comrade Müller. They burnt it out and pushed it over the side. That’s what alerted us to everything.’
Müller frowned, rubbing her bandaged arm gingerly. ‘And was Jäger with you?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Baumann. ‘Jäger and his Stasi men were already down there. We arrived just as the fun was starting.’
‘So who alerted Jäger?’ asked Müller, perplexed. Although Pawlitzki had partially filled her in on his side of the story, there was still much she didn’t understand.
‘We don’t know, Comrade Müller. You’ll have to ask him that yourself.’
55
Day Nineteen.
The Harz mountains, East Germany.
Müller and Irma stayed in Wernigerode Hospital for two days. Müller insisted on a private room, with a twenty-four-hour guard provided thanks to Baumann and Vogel pulling strings at the local People’s Police headquarters. She also insisted on keeping her Makarov at her bedside.
The doctors were more concerned about the leg wound from the tripwire than her arm, which they maintained was little more than a graze.
She looked across at Irma, sleeping in the next bed. And then she ran her fingers lightly over the trigger of the gun, as though to reassure herself it was still there.
Irma was suffering from shock and mild malnutrition. After a day, the doctors said she was well enough to be discharged, but Müller overruled them; the girl was staying with her. When they tried to disagree, she called in Dr Eckstein. The senior pathologist concurred with her. The more junior members of staff evidently revered him even though his speciality was the dead rather than the living.
What of Gottfried? She still had no news of him, and her best hope – Jäger – was someone she no longer wanted to deal with. She remembered Schmidt and the photos, and asked the nurse if she could use the telephone in the office. Irma would surely be safe on her own for a few minutes, wouldn’t she? Müller made sure the People’s Police guard knew where she’d gone.
The nurse ushered her into the ward office. Müller closed the door behind her and dialled Schmidt’s number at Keibelstrasse. When he answered in the forensic lab, Müller had a hard job making out what he was saying over the crackles and interference.
‘Sorry we haven’t been in touch, Jonas. Things have been a little difficult. You know those photos I gave you before I left Berlin – the ones of my husband? What did you make of them?’ she asked, shouting to try to make herself heard.
Schmidt shouted back, and Müller had to move the earpiece away from her head a fraction to avoid being deafened. Yet it was still hard to decipher his words.
‘The prints of your husband outside the church in Prenzlauer Berg and meeting the pastor look perfectly genuine to me, I’m afraid, Comrade Müller.’
She sighed. ‘I thought they would be, Jonas. I was more interested in the ones taken in the Jugendwerkhof. ’
‘Ah well, there your suspicions, and your husband’s claims, proved absolutely spot on.’
Müller felt a lightness in her chest. ‘Go on, Jonas. What do you mean?’
‘The photos are fakes. I can prove it quite easily. They’ve been made from two different negatives, from surveillance photographs taken at different times. You can tell by the shadows. Both photographs were taken during the daytime – the shadows are from natural light. The room appears to face due west, so, looking at maps of Rügen, I would say it was at the back of the Prora complex.’ Müller tried to picture the scene. It seemed to make sense from what she remembered of the road map and the layout of the Jugendwerkhof. ‘But the ones of Beate were taken around midday or early afternoon. She has her back to the window and the water jug throws a shadow to her left,’ continued Schmidt, ‘yet the ones of your husband in the sanatorium were taken in the late afternoon or early evening, because his shadow is directly behind him, at almost ninety degrees to the window.’
Müller felt the tension drain from her body. She closed her eyes for an instant. Gottfried had been right. How had she ever doubted him? Maybe, just maybe, they did still have a future.
‘Are you still there, Comrade Müller? The line is very bad.’
‘I’m still here, Jonas. I heard all of that. Thank you so, so much.’ She breathed in and out slowly. ‘You’ve no idea what it means to me.’
‘That’s a pleasure, Comrade Müller. I don’t like it when people tamper with the truth, and I don’t suppose you do either. I’m glad to have been of assistance. Especially on such a . . . delicate matter.’
‘Well, I’m extremely grateful to you, Jonas. But I need you to do something else for me. If those photos go missing, I may not have the proof I need that my husband is innocent, so I’d like you to write up your findings and give a report and copies of the photos to –’ She paused. Who could she trust? Could she trust anyone? It was Oberst Reiniger who’d said her husband was being charged with murder. He was the one who needed to know the photos were fakes. ‘Send them to Reiniger. And tell him they’re from me. Do a second copy of the report and photos and send them to me at my flat. And do a third and post them to someone you trust implicitly. Just in case, Jonas. I’m sure you understand.’
‘That will be a pleasure, Comrade Müller. And how, may I ask, is the investigation progressing?’
Müller thought of all that had happened. About the three teenagers, Tilsner, even Pawlitzki. Schmidt didn’t need to know – at least not yet. ‘We’re on the right track, Jonas. And your forensic work helped get us there. It’s not quite over yet, but soon, I think.’
‘That’s good to hear, Comrade Müller. Keep safe, and I look forward to seeing you when you are back in Berlin.’
After ending the phone call, Müller returned to see the same nurse. Was there any way, she wondered, of finding out where a particular patie
nt had been transferred to, and his condition? The nurse looked doubtful, but Müller gave her the name she wanted checking on anyway: People’s Police Unterleutnant Werner Tilsner. A few minutes later the nurse returned with her answer. She hadn’t been able to obtain any information about anyone of that name. What did that mean? Had Tilsner been transferred somewhere secret? Or worse, did the health service have no record because her deputy hadn’t survived?
When she got back into the ward, the police guard smiled at her, and she saw that Irma was still sleeping peacefully. Müller decided she could afford to make one further phone call: to Jäger. He’d ordered her not to call him, but she wasn’t going to play by his rules any longer. She asked the nurse if she could use the office once more.
The notepaper on which she had Jäger’s Normannenstrasse office number shook slightly in her strapped-up left hand, as she picked up the receiver, held it with her chin in the crook of her neck and dialled with her good arm. The sense of foreboding she’d felt so many times during this strange case now returned as she waited for Jäger to answer. Finally, he did.
‘So, Karin. You’re recovering well, I hope,’ he said.
‘I’m still in some pain. But yes, I’m OK. I expect to be well enough to leave the hospital tomorrow and return to Berlin. With Irma.’
‘Yes, she is one of the matters we need to deal with. But what do you want to talk about first?’ he asked. Müller didn’t trust his tone. It was back to the friendliness of their several clandestine meetings, and that worried her.
‘Gottfried. My husband. You must know now that the murder accusations don’t hold up?’
‘That’s true. I apprised the investigators of that. I kept my promise to help you.’
‘And that the photographs of him abusing Beate were faked?’
‘Yes, Karin. But the photographs of him meeting dissidents in the church were genuine, so nothing has changed in terms of you and him. We cannot have you married to an enemy of the state. I’ve done what I can to help you in respect of your husband, but if you wish to remain in the Kriminalpolizei you will have to sign the divorce papers.’
‘And what of my suspension? What about me disobeying Reiniger’s orders?’
‘Did you disobey him, Karin? That’s not what he’s reported. He’s said the phone lines were so bad that you were unable to hear him.’ Müller pictured her police colonel. He’d always protected her. He was the one who had originally promoted her, let her lead the Mitte murder squad; the first female detective to be given that level of responsibility in the whole of the Republic. Now he seemed to be letting her off the hook. ‘But there is a condition to you not facing any disciplinary charges. You will have to, as I said, divorce your husband. Gottfried has already signed the papers. You just have to add your signature.’
‘Can I see him first?’ asked Müller.
‘No. That won’t be possible, I’m afraid, Karin.’
‘Why? Is he still in jail?’
‘No, Karin. He’s been released. The murder charge and sexual deviancy charge have been dropped. I said I would help you, and I have.’
Müller frowned. ‘But then why can’t I see him? I don’t understand.’
Jäger sighed at the other end of the line. ‘In the circumstances, the best outcome for all concerned was to accede to your husband’s request to leave the Republic. He has gone to West Germany, with our blessing. The remaining charge will lie on file. He won’t be welcomed back.’
The news hit Müller like a blow to the stomach. She gasped, and had to grip the table to steady herself. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Just these last couple of days, while you’ve been in hospital in Wernigerode, Karin.’
Müller felt a coldness in the core of her body.
‘So you will sign the papers?’ asked Jäger.
Images flashed through Müller’s head. All the good times. The lovers’ meetings at the Märchenbrunnen. The way he used to be able to make her laugh at the smallest thing. Gone, all gone. But maybe it had gone as soon as she slept with Tilsner. Maybe it had gone earlier, at the start of all this, that drunken night with Tilsner that somebody – the police or the Stasi – had surreptitiously filmed.
‘Karin?’ prompted Jäger.
‘Yes,’ she said, in a quiet voice, trying to hold back the tears. ‘Yes, I’ll sign the –’
An urgent knocking on the glazed office door stopped her mid-sentence. She looked up to the see the alarmed face of the nurse.
‘The girl,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘She’s gone.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Müller, dropping the receiver. She ran back to the ward, with the nurse following behind her. Another nurse and a woman in a different uniform who Müller assumed must be the ward sister were stripping the bedding from Irma’s bed. The People’s Police guard was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where’s she gone?’ Müller screamed.
‘There’s no need to take that tone, Comrade,’ said the sister. ‘She was discharged by a senior official. It’s all above board. The official ordered the policeman to leave too.’
Müller checked she had her gun in her holster and raced to the lift. From the lights, she could see it was occupied and on its way down to the ground floor and the exit. She raced down the stairs, each jolt sending pain shooting from her injured left arm, and knifing up from her legs. Adrenaline kept her going. She reached the ground floor just as the lift door opened. But Irma and the ‘official’ were nowhere to be seen; instead, a white-coated doctor emerged.
‘Have you seen a teenage girl with red hair?’ she shouted. The doctor shook his head. She scanned the corridor. No one. She ran out into the car park, looked left and right, her heart pounding in panic, but there was no sign of Irma anywhere. Knowing that each second counted, Müller ran back, panting, to the third floor. The sister and second nurse were still calmly making the bed.
‘I don’t know why you’re so worried,’ said the sister, as she swept her hand over the undersheet to iron out the creases. ‘The man had all the correct papers. He was very senior.’
‘What was his name?’ demanded Müller.
‘Oh I can’t remember that. It’ll be in the records. Wait a moment and –’
With her good arm, Müller reached into her pocket for the cutting from Neues Deutschland taken from the paper Pawlitzki had shown her: the one Beate had seen on the breakfast table in the bunker by the mine.
She thrust the picture of Horst Ackermann, the deputy head of the Stasi, in front of the sister.
‘Was this him?’ she shouted.
‘Yes, yes. I told you he was senior. I couldn’t say no to –’
Müller immediately ran to the office, yanked a nurse out of the way and then dialled Jäger again. As she explained the situation, the Stasi lieutenant colonel – usually the model of control – sounded as panicked as she was.
‘Verdammt!’ he screamed down the line. ‘We’d put out an alert to prevent him crossing any of the Republic’s borders. We should have warned the hospital too.’
‘I think I know where he will be heading,’ replied Müller.
‘But I gave instructions for that tunnel in the mine to be blown up.’
‘He doesn’t know that, though, does he?’ said Müller. ‘I’m going there now.’
‘Be careful, Karin. He’s desperate. I’ll ask the local People’s Police to give you back-up and order the border guards to cooperate, but don’t go in gung-ho like last time. You know how that turned out.’
56
Day Nineteen.
The Harz mountains, East Germany.
I suppose I’d always expected to be returned to the Jugendwerkhof. Ever since the West Germans handed us back to Neumann at the motorway crossing point, then I thought I would eventually be going back to Prora Ost. But I didn’t expect to be back here, at the rock face of the mine level, digging amongst the dirt and dust, coughing and sweating. Barely able to breathe.
I’d been half-asleep in the hospital, and couldn�
��t really understand what was happening. There was an important-looking man standing by the bed, urging the sister to dress me quickly. I said I didn’t want to go, that I wanted to wait for the friendly policewoman. The sister said this man from the Ministry was in charge of me now.
Now he’s here next to me. In the semi-blackness. The only light, a dim yellow from his torch, propped up on the floor. When I saw his eyes as he rushed me out of the hospital into his four-wheel drive, there was a familiar look to them. They had that same mad glint of desperation that Neumann’s one good eye displayed in the bunker by the mine, just before I stabbed him in the neck. That’s what this Republic has done to me: turned me into a killer. Two victims in as many months.
I said I would get Neumann at some stage, and I did. This other man digging beside me, panting because he’s not as fit as me, not as used to the work, if I get the chance, well he’ll be next. He’s got a gun. But I’ve got a shovel. All I will need is an instant. I’ve shown that already.
57
Day Nineteen.
The Harz mountains, East Germany.
When Müller, Baumann and Vogel reached the mineshaft, they found it closely guarded by border troops. Their commanding officer insisted no one had tried to get through their cordon.
‘In any case, explosives were laid in the level on Sunday immediately after the incident, Comrade Oberleutnant. The tunnel has collapsed. No one would be able to get into it.’
Müller frowned. She was sure her hunch was correct. Jäger had thought the same in their phone call: that Ackermann would try to escape to the West by using the tunnel under the border. If she was wrong, then they had no idea where Ackermann and Irma had gone, only that he was presumably planning to use the girl as some sort of bargaining tool. But Müller doubted such a plan would succeed. Even Jäger’s faction of the Stasi had been all too ready to liquidate the teenager. Jäger’s quarry was Ackermann; he couldn’t care less about Irma. Somehow Müller had to find her, to save her.
