She had sensed that the two times Claudia had come to her—the first to obtain penicillin, the second to pass along a vial of blood for examination—Claudia’s vaguely stated reasons why she had not gone directly to a doctor, or to a hospital, indicated that she was hiding something. Which meant hiding somebody. Hiding what? Hiding whom? Well, she thought, surely that is the business of the government to discover, not me?
She read the sign again carefully. Her responsibility was merely to provide the police with leads, not to do anything more than that. “Confidentiality is guaranteed,” the sign went on.
Margret resolved to discuss the matter with Franz at their next private meeting, early that afternoon. She liked Claudia. But she loved Franz. And it was not right, in any case, for her to run the risks Claudia had imposed on her. Would she, she wondered, now need to give a reason for not having gone earlier to the police with information about the penicillin and the blood?
She would need to have an excuse that sounded reasonable. On the matter of the penicillin, she supposed it would do merely to say that Claudia was under the impression that as a nurse, Margret could get the penicillin free or at small cost, and that Claudia had distinctly given her the impression that it was for her own use. But the blood … She perked up. Why not say that Claudia had confessed her private fear that she had contracted a venereal disease, but was ashamed to go to the regular doctor to find out? That struck her as plausible and imaginative. But why then did she choose this moment to go to the police? Why, because it had suddenly occurred to her that Claudia had asked not only for a reading on venereal disease, but for a full analysis of the blood, so that now Margret wondered whether there might be involved some fugitive from justice …
She would try it out on Franz, which she did, and he thought it not only prudent, in the event that suspicion might at some point attach to Margret for dispensing drugs without authority, but also a capital idea for raising the necessary money which, the moment it was handed over, would free them to go off to the West and live happily ever after.
Caspar was both sad and excited. He had taken the greatest care to assemble in the laundry bag he carried every week to the laundress what he wished to take with him to the West. He reasoned that if he and Claudia traveled on the S-Bahn with the Saturday afternoon traffic the chances were slight that, carrying only a laundry bag, he would be stopped and examined. And even if that happened, his escape would not necessarily be aborted. For one thing, he was, after all, the nephew of Walter Ulbricht, and he carried a formidable identification card designating him as a clerk attached to headquarters. His last name wasn’t Ulbricht, but in a pinch he could let it be known who he was and where he worked. All he and his girlfriend were doing was going to West Berlin for a couple of days, and taking a few souvenirs for friends.
He had tucked into the bag his father’s letter, freshly sealed in an envelope. A few photographs, his father’s portable typewriter—that was by far the bulkiest item; indeed the only bulky item—and then underwear, shirts, an extra jacket and pants, socks, all of these carefully rumpled to look as though they were being taken to be cleaned or pressed. No matter.
And then he had written a letter which his mother would discover later that night or the following morning. He had been careful not to disclose in the letter that he had any premonition, let alone specific knowledge, of the events planned for just after midnight, and of course not a hint of his knowledge of Operation Rheingold on which he had been personally briefed the night before by Bruni. Henri had been asked by his tank commander what exactly would be the deployment of the East German armored cars that would reinforce the barricades, and exactly how far away were the reserve Russian tanks to be situated, and Henri had judged that only a knowledge of why this information was so necessary could justify the intensity of Caspar’s rather dangerous search for the answers, and for that reason had dispatched Bruni to talk with Caspar. It was merely a happy coincidence that he and Claudia thought to leave East Berlin only a few hours before leaving East Berlin would cease to be possible—unless, of course, Henri succeeded with Rheingold. He told his mother he was unhappy with the diminishing freedom of East Germans, that he would make every provision for her if she elected to join him, that he would write regularly, that he loved her very much, that he intended to marry Claudia, and that his very first child he would name after her if it was a girl, and after his father if it was a boy. He sealed the envelope and, with tape, affixed it to the mirror of the bathroom outside his bedroom, knowing that only when his mother came looking for him would she notice it.
He glanced at his watch. He would rendezvous with Claudia at Berchtesgaden at five, and already it was a quarter past four. His bundle was by no means too heavy to walk with, so that rather than while away twenty minutes and then take the bus, he decided to walk. His mother was out of the house, so there were no problems going out with his laundry bag.
He went to the alleyway off Warschauer Strasse and sidled up to the abandoned door which opened, as always. He glanced about him, but there was no one in sight. So he turned left, and walked in the dim light toward siding number 4, and up to car 4. He took the laundry bag in his left hand and with his right hand positioned the key. But the door was already open, which meant that Claudia had already arrived. It was wrong of her to forget to lock the door, even though she expected him, and even though this would be their last time there. He climbed the platform stairs and turned to the car door, which was also open. Never mind—after today it would not matter. He proceeded down the familiar corridor toward the living quarters. It was totally dark. He called out, “Claudia?” and was instantly blinded by a searchlight. From behind, he was struck above the kidney by a club, and he fell to the floor.
The blow was the gentlest thing that happened to Caspar Allman that long evening. Four hours later, Walter Ulbricht invoked his authority as commander in chief personally to give the orders to the firing squad, and Caspar had to be seated and tied to the chair by the wall because he could not stand, or even sit, without slumping. Claudia was then brought out, manacled, and placed, standing, beside him, to go down with the same volley. They looked at each other. He could not speak, and she chose not to. Ulbricht was in any case delayed for only the very few minutes he needed to confer telegraphically with Ustinov and to call up the Soviet military commander to advise him instantly to telephone his American counterpart in the Western sector to warn him to be prepared for something the Bruderschaft were calling “Operation Rheingold.” He entered the military courtyard briskly, and took in jubilantly the sight he saw. Let all his enemies perish so, he thought, as he gave the command to the firing squad.
35
Blackford was surprised when, late in the afternoon, he heard the key turn and saw not Mateus, but Henri Tod come in through the door. Mateus, following his master, took note of the warmth with which Herr Henri greeted Blackford. There was no pistol this time, presumably on the assumption that if Blackford attempted anything the two were enough to restrain him. Henri saw that Mateus did not quite know what was expected of him, so he told him to lock the door from the outside, that Henri would ring for him when he was ready to depart. Henri sat down in the armchair opposite the door, while Blackford lay propped up on the bed.
“I’m not here to try again to persuade you, Blackford. By this time tomorrow, Operation Rheingold will have been done, and if it works, it could be the turning point of the Cold War. I am not here to proselytize. But possibly I will not see you again. Because tomorrow, after it’s over, I am going for my sister. I reason that whether our plan works or doesn’t work—and I am confident that it will work—tomorrow will be just tumultuous enough to make it the ideal day to go for her and snatch her away in the confusion.”
“How will you get her across the intersector boundary if they’ve got it closed up?”
“I won’t have any trouble. I have West German papers, and they precisely don’t intend to mess with West Germans, Casper told Roland this mornin
g; they want us in West Berlin, not East Berlin. I don’t know what kind of papers Clementa has. We were both born in Hamburg, so she’s properly a West German. She may have some sort of a Russian document, if she went and married that Gouzenko man. Besides, we’re talking about eight in the morning, nine o’clock at the latest. Even if we failed, which I repeat we will not, there is no way by then that the Vopos can hermetically seal 45 kilometers. There are weak points where, for a day or two, the problem will be a few strands of barbed wire.
“Oh. I haven’t told you, Blackford, what they plan. I got hold of a copy of Operation Chinese Wall. There has not been anything so elaborate since the Maginot Line—”
“Equally impregnable?” Blackford asked.
“You Americans make the mistake constantly. The Maginot Line was never penetrated. It was circumvented. The wall they plan to build, if they follow the 1950s specifications, includes everything you can imagine. A high concrete structure, with spikes, broken glass, machine-gun turrets, thirty meters of no-man’s land, mined; hunting dogs patrolling a narrow alley on either side of the strip; then a smaller wall, again with barbed wire and broken glass, and electrical trip switches and flares. It would take a while to raise that structure throughout the city of Berlin, Blackford; but it would then be as impenetrable as anything can be created by the mind of man.… But they will not build it—not after Rheingold, they will not. And anyway, we were talking about me and Clementa. If things went bad, at worst we could swim across the Spree. Clementa and I swam a great deal during the two summers in Tolk. How wonderful the prospect is! But as I say, I shall be preoccupied with her. Perhaps she will need medical attention. I plan to devote myself entirely to her until she is well, so that I may even take her away, perhaps to London. But eventually I will be back here, probably with her, to resume the work of the Bruderschaft.”
Blackford looked at the darkly handsome, animated face of Henri Tod and felt the excitement he felt.
“You’ve got a remarkable organization, Henri, I have to compliment you on it.”
“Thanks. We have helped a lot of people.”
“Yes. And you’ve also done a little bit to relieve the population problem.”
Tod smiled. But quickly added, “Wherever there has been any doubt, we have not harmed anyone. And remember that simply because tyrants rule over one half of Germany, it does not follow that those tyrants exercise legitimate civil authority.”
“Let’s not go into that. You are a trained philosopher. I’m only an engineer.—So I may not be seeing you? For a while. Which reminds me, are you going to take twenty-five thousand marks with you tomorrow?”
“Yes. I see no moral point to be served in welshing. If he’s KGB, then my problem becomes simply to rescue my sister, instead of merely ransoming her.”
“Tod, do you mind my asking you where you get your money?”
“Yes. Because although I trust you, you might disapprove; and it would make you uncomfortable just to know.”
“It makes me uncomfortable not to know. But then, it’s just curiosity.”
Tod looked over at Blackford, lying on the bed helpless, his hands linked behind his head. On impulse he spoke up. “Would you promise me you would not reveal the answer to your question?”
“I promise you.”
“A member of the Bruderschaft is employed by the Marshall Plan people, in the division that holds your counterpart funds. You have nearly two billion marks of credit in that fund. Well, subtract from that two billion marks about two million marks, which we have embezzled. Our moral justification is that we are serving your purposes and giving you”—Henri lapsed now into English—“positively the biggest bang for a buck, as they say in America.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You have embezzlers, tank drivers. Do you by any chance have any alchemists in the Bruderschaft? You could do away with Third World poverty, and get a Nobel Prize.”
Tod stood, and smiled. He walked over to the desk and pressed the buzzer. Almost instantly the door opened and Mateus came in. Tod approached Blackford and embraced him. “Will you wish me luck?”
“Yes, Henri. I am morally free to wish you luck.”
Tod walked out of the room.
An hour later, Mateus brought in Blackford’s dinner. And Blackford embarked on his plan.
“Why don’t you sit down in the chair over there, Mateus, and talk to me. It is lonely, eating alone.”
“Well, sir, very well.” He locked the door, waited for Blackford to fetch the tray from the coffee table back to the desk, then sat down, putting the pistol carefully in front of him on the side table.
“Help yourself to a little scotch”—Blackford pointed to the bottle on the ledge by the chair.
“Thank you, sir. This will be an exciting night. I am going to listen all night long to the radio.”
“How I wish I could also. It will be a historic night, Mateus, no doubt about it.”
“Well, sir, perhaps I could arrange it so that we could both listen. Yes, I think that should be possible.”
“Mateus, tell me. Do you by any chance have any vodka? I am inclined to have a drink of vodka with my dinner.”
“Vodka! When you can have scotch, sir? But of course, that is no problem at all.” He retrieved the pistol, inserted the key in the lock, but kept his eyes on Blackford the entire time, as Blackford nibbled on the peanuts that had come in a corner of the tray. “I will be right back.”
In a few moments the voice came, and Blackford went through the drill. Open the door, peer at the pistol, retreat to the desk area. Mateus came in, smiling, pistol in one hand, vodka bottle in the other. He finessed the rules to the point of taking the vodka over and depositing it on the desk, but his pistol hand was always level.
“Ah, thank you, Mateus. But tell me, did you forget about the radio? It is almost nine o’clock.”
“The radio. Of course.” Once again, the same ritual of withdrawal. As soon as the door was locked Blackford took the bottle of vodka into the bathroom, emptied it, and filled it with water.
In a few minutes Mateus was back. Genial, but, as required, formal in his attention to duty. “I think, sir, that under the circumstances it would be better if you were to plug the radio in, and perhaps attach the antenna to the pipe there,” he pointed to one of the several pipes that traversed the ceiling.
“Of course,” Blackford said, attending to the details.
“I am not sure, sir, what the reception down here will be like. But we will see.”
The reception was gratifyingly good, and they heard the usual Saturday evening fare, flicking from station to station.
“Do have another drink, Mateus. It will be a long evening. I’m going to have another vodka,” at which he poured his water glass half full. Mateus looked up, arched his eyebrows, and poured himself an equivalent amount of scotch.
“Tell me, Mateus,” Blackford said, relaxing on the cot, the pillow set up to support his head and shoulders, “tell me, how long did you know Henri’s parents?”
Blackford struck oil. It was a gusher. Mateus, it transpired, had gone to work for the Toddweiss family just after the First World War, in which he had fought. The highlight of his social history had been an encounter with an Austrian corporal. Yes, the one and only Austrian corporal.
“You mean to say, Mateus, that you knew Adolf Hitler as a corporal?”
Mateus could not have been more gratified to have been asked that question, to which he had given the answer perhaps one thousand times. He described in great detail what Schicklgruber, as he referred to him, looked like, what he said, the circumstances of their encounter (“Oh, sir, he was very imperious, even then”). Blackford poured himself another half glass from the vodka bottle. (“I don’t want to be asleep when Operation Rheingold comes about,” he commented. “No, sir,” said Mateus, doing as much with the scotch for himself; “I’ll see that you are awake.”) Mateus had then returned to Hamburg, and a friend of his who worked for the Toddweiss family reco
mmended that he seek employment there as a groom, since he had had cavalry training in the army. “The Toddweisses were fine people to work for.”
“Then you knew the family even before Henri was born?” Indeed he had known the family well before Henri was born, Henri not having been born until after the Toddweisses had been married for five years.
As the time went by Mateus’s voice blurred, as did Blackford’s. He persevered with his bottle of vodka; indeed an unstated competition had begun, reaching the point where Mateus thought it would be impolite not to keep company with “my host. Or perhaps, sir, I should not, under these lamentable circumstances, refer to you as my host. On the other hand, sir, I should not want so to presume as to ask you to think of me as your host.” To which Blackford replied, with a little blear in his voice, that he did not remember ever having a more attentive host, and that he was fascinated by what he had learned of the background of the Toddweiss family, and what happened after Henri was born, and Hitler—Schicklgruber—was elected?
It was just after one in the morning that the first indication came that something unusual was going on. Mateus’s hand on the radio dial had become a little unsteady, and he found it progressively difficult to manipulate the dial in such a way as to go from station to station in pursuit of fresh bulletins. Blackford poured from what was the bottom third of the vodka bottle, and Mateus instantly followed suit.
“Here’s to Rheingold, Mateus.”
The Story of Henri Tod Page 21
