Little Grey Mice

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘So I am supposed to be working for foreign publications?’

  ‘A group of Australian magazines,’ confirmed Turev. ‘All are bona fide publications, with our ownership utterly undetectable.’

  ‘Will I have to actually write the articles?’

  ‘Naturally you will have to go through the journalistic accreditation procedures: become part of the press corps. But during contact meetings you’ll receive guidance and a prepared format of what you are expected to write.’

  ‘There’ll be checks by the West German authorities when I apply for government accreditation,’ Reimann pointed out.

  ‘Your legend is established from the United States,’ Turev explained. ‘You are the only son of Ludwig and Lottie Reimann, who moved to Milwaukee in 1948, the year you were born. That establishes your proper age, at forty-two. There really was a Reimann family who did emigrate. Both the parents are now dead and buried just outside the city, in a place named West Allis.’

  ‘What about Otto Reimann?’

  ‘Dropped out after high school,’ said Turev. ‘One of the first Flower Power disciples before the Sixties really began. We’ve traced him to San Francisco, then South America, Bolivia and Peru: where the drugs were, Otto Reimann was. In 1977 he was in Nepal: he died there, a year later.’

  ‘Officially recorded?’

  ‘Not any more,’ assured Turev. ‘Everything has been removed. There’s not the remotest possibility of your ever being exposed. There was no other family, other than the dead parents.’

  ‘I’m slightly concerned with the journalistic role,’ said Reimann. ‘Elke Meyer will have been warned against any such association, because of the sensitivity of her job.’

  ‘That’s another valid objection,’ the Russian accepted, admiringly. ‘As I’ve already said, I would have preferred something else. But as a journalist she’ll understand if you want to discuss policy and developments with her. Any other supposed occupation might make her even more suspicious.’

  ‘How am I to know you?’ asked Reimann, briskly, trying to recover.

  ‘As Alexandr.’

  From the tradecraft that had been deeply instilled within him Reimann knew he could expect no more. ‘How will we meet?’

  ‘Two routes,’ replied Turev. There was a pause. ‘The first – the way you will use for most of the time – will be through your wife.’

  ‘Jutta!’ Reimann hadn’t imagined such direct involvement: wasn’t sure he wanted it.

  ‘This isn’t a quick sexual blackmail,’ reminded the Russian. ‘We want a long-term, ongoing situation. It wouldn’t be acceptable for you to visit Jutta only occasionally, would it? So she has to be part of it.’

  That was virtually how Reimann had imagined his marriage continuing, although making the visits regularly, not occasionally. He hadn’t thought beyond the briefing to consider any association with Elke Meyer being long-term, either. ‘So Jutta is to be in Bonn as well?’

  ‘Living separately, of course. Accommodation is already being arranged, for both of you.’

  ‘You said two routes?’ prompted Reimann.

  ‘The second will be separate from Jutta: just the two of us. You will receive a postcard, quite normally through the mail. Always from Europe. There will be a date on the card. The message will say “Looking forward to meeting you again.” Four days from the date on the card fly to Berlin and come to the East …’ The Russian paused, sliding a card across the desk between them. ‘… to this address in Johannisstrasse. It’s a safe house, just for this operation. I shall always be there, waiting.’

  ‘Why the secondary route, cutting out Jutta?’

  ‘A sensible, professional precaution,’ insisted Turev, smoothly. ‘Your wife must not know of it, of course.’

  Reimann would have liked more time to consider everything that was being outlined to him. Hopefully he said: ‘It’s hardly a cell, just Jutta and myself. So who’s the cell leader?’

  ‘I am,’ said Turev. ‘But it would be best if Jutta does not consider her past position diminished. She must always believe she is the sole link; the person upon whom you rely and upon whom we rely.’

  ‘I appreciate the arrangement, to keep us together, but wouldn’t it be less complicated if I dealt directly with you all the time? And made more than occasional visits to Jutta?’

  ‘Her function in West Berlin is over, after all the changes of the past year. This is the way the new operation is to work,’ said Turev, clearly giving an order. Which it was, to avoid any direct, incriminating link with Russia if either Reimann or his wife were identified by West German counter-intelligence.

  So they wanted the working arrangement to continue – as it had in the past – with Jutta in control. There was no uncertainty now: he hadn’t wanted that, not at all.

  ‘What if a reason arises for me to reach you, without wanting to go through Jutta?’

  There were several moments of complete silence before Turev said: ‘That is an oversight.’ The admission irritated him. ‘By the time of our first separately arranged meeting in Berlin I will have devised your contact method.’

  Reimann felt confident enough to make open demands now. He said: ‘The apartment that Jutta and I were allowed, on Neglinnaya Ulitza? It’s a swallows’ nest, isn’t it?’

  There was further silence from Turev. Finally he said: ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you saw everything? Heard everything?’

  ‘Yes. Does that disturb you?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ said Reimann. ‘Has Jutta been instructed about coming to Bonn?’

  ‘She’s arriving here tomorrow. There’ll be the chance for you to be together for two or three days, before you both return to Germany. You have to memorize everything about Elke Meyer. And there will have to be a briefing on your journalistic role …’ The Russian hesitated, then said: ‘Would you like different accommodation from Neglinnaya Ulitza this time?’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Reimann, dismissively.

  The room Turev and Reimann occupied at Arbat was also equipped with video and sound recording equipment, and Turev reviewed the results with Yuri Panin directly after Reimann left.

  ‘I thought he was very astute,’ said Turev. ‘Every point he made was valid.’

  Panin nodded. ‘I’d say he actually enjoyed performing for you: showing how good he was.’

  The chain-smoking man looked curiously at the psychologist. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  Panin did not reply directly. Instead he said: ‘I think Otto Reimann is a much better intelligence officer than he is a husband.’

  Which makes him perfect for the job.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Panin.

  This time Reimann didn’t wait for her recognition when Jutta arrived at Vnukovo. Their greeting was as perfunctory as before. In the car, on their way into Moscow, Reimann said: ‘You are to be involved.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jutta. ‘You didn’t expect any different working arrangement, did you?’

  ‘Not really,’ lied Reimann.

  Chapter Seven

  Nothing went right, from the beginning. Elke left Kaufmannstrasse earlier than normal, anticipating delay at Bad Godesberg, but Ida took longer to get out of the house than she’d allowed for so they were late getting back on the road to Marienfels. Elke had to drive fast, which she didn’t like, not even on the autobahns. She rarely exceeded eighty kilometres an hour. Now she had to, and the speed added to her vexation. Ida was unaware of any distress. There were several vehicles already in the car-park and Elke was unable to get her protective space.

  Dr Schiller was on duty at his post, in front of the reception desk. Today the flowers were orange tiger lilies. The principal gave his yellow-toothed welcome and agreed he remembered Ida from previous visits, although Elke was not sure that he did. Ursula was unchanged, the doctor reported. She’d had a quiet week. She seemed content.

  The child’s room appeared crowded with an extra person in it. The two women
actually bumped into each other going through the door and got in each other’s way trying to sit. Elke felt claustrophobic. There was a tape playing. She didn’t recognize the music: violins were much featured. Ursula sat watching their settling-in difficulty. But for its vacancy, the faint smile could have been amusement at their clumsiness. Elke kissed the unresponsive girl and said: ‘Aunty Ida’s come to see you, Ursula.’

  Ursula began to rock back and forth, very gently, but her head moved more strongly, like a nod of greeting.

  ‘Hello Ursula. Hello darling,’ said Ida and leaned forward to kiss the child as well.

  Elke thought there had been a slight hesitation in the gesture, a reluctance, from her sister but she wasn’t sure.

  ‘Poppi’s come too.’ Elke put the dog on the floor. He briefly remained there, oddly crouched, before going to a corner by the door where he settled down looking in their direction. The corner was the furthest possible from Ursula.

  Elke urged her sister to talk about her own children, and Ida did but with visible self-consciousness. She’d bought the toy with Elke’s guidance, a long, sloth-like creature made in artificial fur but with no buttons or eyes that could be picked off and swallowed. Ida offered it, insisting it was a present from Doris. After several long moments with Ursula making no attempt to take it Ida placed it in front of the child, on the bed.

  ‘She’ll play with it later,’ promised EIke and wondered why: it had sounded like an apology and she didn’t have to apologize.

  Hesitantly, nervous of resistance, Elke coaxed Ursula to stand, which she did quite willingly. Just as willingly she allowed a new cardigan to be tried on. It was red – the colour Elke had wanted her hair-slides to be weeks ago – with a pattern of white flowers etched on the bodice. Ursula actually appeared to examine it, taking the wool between her fingers. ‘Pretty,’ she said, in her gruff voice.

  ‘Do you like it, darling?’ said Elke, hopefully.

  ‘Pretty,’ repeated the child.

  Elke was pleased that the cardigan fitted so well: she’d guessed the size, without trying to measure. There was a new skirt, too, but Elke decided against attempting to have the girl put that on. Ursula might resist. And it would mean her being briefly unclothed in front of the other woman. Elke accepted at once that she was being absurd: Ursula could have no concept of immodesty. It was all part of according her as much dignity as possible.

  Elke felt restricted, in front of another person, unable to talk to the girl as she usually did. Ida tried to contribute, forcing aimless chatter about Georg and Doris, in the unfulfilled hope of some point of contact. For most of the time Ursula sat fingering her new cardigan.

  Chancing that Ursula would remain placid, which fortunately she did, Elke encouraged her daughter up again, to walk in the grounds. The women paced either side, each with an arm through Ursula’s. Poppi, freed, scuttled and darted ahead of them but never far away.

  ‘Is this how it is, every Sunday?’ asked Ida.

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘Doesn’t she ever speak? Properly recognize you?’

  Elke wished her sister wouldn’t talk over Ursula, as if she didn’t exist. ‘Not really. Sometimes.’

  ‘That’s a contradiction. And it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Not really,’ conceded Elke again.

  ‘You were right, about how big she’s got. Much bigger than Doris.’

  It was as if Ursula were an object, not a person. Elke said: ‘Dr Schiller says she’s very healthy, physically.’

  They stopped very close to the perimeter fence at a small coppice of recently planted firs, grass-tufted at their roots, and turned back towards the faraway house.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Ida.

  ‘There’s lunch,’ said Elke. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  The weather was good enough for the meal to be served in the conservatory and they managed to get an individual table, shared with no one else. The catering included families as well as inmates. Ida said she was not hungry. Elke wasn’t, either. Ursula ate ravenously and badly: it was pork, with a sauce, which was messy. Elke sat close to the child, napkin in hand, thinking how much better her daughter had behaved at table when they’d lived together at Kaufmannstrasse. It was her first and only criticism against the home. It hadn’t seemed to register on any previous weekend. The new cardigan became stained, on one sleeve and on the bodice, where the white flowers were patterned.

  Before they left Elke told Dr Schiller about the untried skirt in Ursula’s room and the man promised to let her know before the next visit if it fitted or would need changing. Elke had intended discussing the possibility of Ursula making a home visit but changed her mind. The opportunity would still be here, next Sunday.

  Neither attempted any conversation during the descent to the major highway. Elke wondered whether her sister was seeking a neutral subject, something for which she was looking.

  It was Ida who eventually spoke, sneeringly. ‘Horst is writing a book.’

  ‘A book!’ In her astonishment Elke risked looking across the car, which she never did.

  ‘It’s going to be an international bestseller and we’re all going to live in luxury, happy ever after,’ declared Ida, still sneering.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Ida. ‘I’m sure as hell Horst doesn’t.’

  ‘But I don’t understand …’ started Elke.

  ‘The bank won’t extend his loan. We’re broke.’

  ‘But a book! … Horst!’

  ‘Of course it’s bullshit,’ agreed her sister. ‘He’s bought a lot of pads and some pencils and put a table in the bedroom, where he says he’s going to work. The kids are forbidden to go near it. I am, too. The children are laughing at him. That’s never happened before. I wish it wasn’t happening now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ida. Very sorry.’

  The woman shrugged as if it were unimportant, the theatricality of the gesture betraying the opposite. ‘I don’t want to go straight home. Let’s drink coffee. Or something.’

  Elke drove to the Reduttchen and chanced parking on a convenient meter. Because of the weather they took a table outside in the garden instead of going into the raftered stabling from which the cafe had been created.

  ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘I don’t know, not fully,’ said Ida. Deep in depression, she didn’t understand the point of the question.

  ‘I can lend you money,’ Elke offered simply.

  Ida blinked at her sister, fully attentive for the first time. She smiled, faintly, and said: ‘I knew you’d offer. But no.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because there wouldn’t be a chance of your ever being paid back,’ announced Ida, practically. ‘Because I wouldn’t know how much to ask for, even if I did accept. And because it would make it all too easy yet again for Horst Kissel, for whom there’s always a way out as long as he can get just one piece of luck.’

  ‘You’ve got to do something!’

  ‘Why have I?’ Ida retorted, harshly. ‘Let Horst do something, for a change. Instead of always fucking up.’

  When the waiter arrived Ida announced, without being asked, that she would accept Elke’s hospitality and ordered Armagnac. Elke chose coffee.

  ‘Have you talked to him about it?’

  ‘About the bills and the demands that I know of, of course I have. He says he’s handling it; that it’s going to be all right.’

  ‘What about mother’s money?’

  Ida snorted a laugh, another bitter sound. ‘In the full flush of blind love I transferred it all over to a joint account! What a mistake that was! You know I can’t conceive now that I ever admired that man: believed he was an important person with an important job.’

  ‘What’s he done with it? The money?’

  ‘In a previous dream world our budding bestselling author was going to become the guru of the stock market: the damned fool actually spent a week in Frankfurt once, studying the market…’ Ida sh
ook her head. ‘He came back claiming he had inside sources so good he couldn’t fail! Can you believe that?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Hoped,’ said Ida. ‘I hoped. Wasn’t that stupid?’

  Of course concern – genuine, deep worry – was Elke’s immediate feeling but almost as quickly came another, of disappointment. ‘It makes some things easier to understand, though.’

  ‘Like what?’ frowned Ida.

  ‘Why hands under dinner tables aren’t offensive.’

  Ida shook her head, and Elke wondered if her sister was going to make any further disclosure. Instead Ida bent over her glass and said: ‘Christ, what a mess! What a bloody awful mess!’ She looked up, damp-eyed and imploring, and Elke was shocked at the despair on the other woman’s face.

  Remembering her own self-image gazing back at her from the lonely bedroom mirror Elke knew she had looked like that, once. Worse. Hollow-eyed, pale-cheeked, asking why me, why me, why me and beseeching a miracle. Not a miracle! she corrected at once. A miracle was a wondrous event, beyond proper human comprehension, an act of God. That wasn’t what she had prayed and begged for, seeking forgiveness and understanding at the same time as asking for escape – nothing more than the normal working of her body – when the calendar date passed and then stayed there, day after day and week after week, mocking her until it came around again the next month still with nothing happening. Quickly there was a further correction. She hadn’t been alone, not really. Not after those first few numbed days, those numbed why-me days when she couldn’t believe she could be pregnant.

  Ida had been the first person she told, long before the most agonizing confession she’d ever made in her life. It had been Ida she clung to, sobbing the words, Ida who couldn’t believe it either, not at once, saying there had to be some simple upset, an imbalance, and that it sometimes happened – it had happened to her – and it was going to be all right. And when it wasn’t all right it had been Ida who said she knew people because of the job she did and offered the pills, shaking her and shouting at her when she was unable to take them, saying it was wrong. Just as she shouted and said things like damn the Church when, anguished and distraught though she felt, she refused, appalled, to go to the doctor Ida recommended in Cologne as discreet and safe and hygienic. Which was only the beginning. It had been Ida who confronted Dietlef on her behalf, saying there wasn’t much time: Ida who made him come to her and promise that of course he would do what he had to, do what was honourable. And Ida to whom she clung again when he didn’t come back the following night or the night after that. So many tears: so many times with their arms around each other. Telling their mother. Briefly – happily despite everything when Ursula had been born – with joy. And then in agony again at the cold, clinical medical diagnosis. Autism is a permanent abnormality … loss of contact with reality … affects speech and social contact… deterioration … irreversible … no treatment …