‘Harder!’ In her passion, Heidrun dug her fingernails deep into the flesh of his lower back.
His climax was slow in coming, and that seemed to suit her. They ended up in a heap on the floor of the shower, with cold water dowsing their fires.
‘And now,’ Heidrun told him brightly, ‘I would like you to do it to me in the bedroom.’
25
In Spandau Prison, the weekly meeting of directors was in session. It took place in a section of the administration block dignified with the label of ‘Conference Room’. In reality, the room was unimpressive. The walls were painted in institutional green and white that contained the minimum of simple furniture: a plain wooden table, chairs, a hat-stand and the small safe where the keys were kept. There was a large map of Europe on one wall and a calendar on another. There had been periods in the Cold War when this undistinguished room had been the only place in the world where East met West for discussions on an official footing.
Here, the four Colonels from Britain, France, the Soviet Union and the United States who shared the duty of commanding Spandau, had met regularly since 1947. Their discussions were, for the most part, humdrum, but the arguments over prison routine had been known to carry on from late morning to early the following day, prolonged by the need for everything to be explained in three languages.
This morning looked like being a quicker session. It was the Soviet director’s turn as chairman; the office went to the nation whose troops were presently on guard. After just over an hour, they had reached the fifth item on the agenda: the current state of health of the prisoner. The usual report had been submitted by the Allied prison doctors, who also represented the four Powers and met regularly in the Conference Room.
Translations of the report were handed around the table. Hess, still known in official documents as Prisoner Number 7, was apparently in reasonable health for a man of his advanced years. His weight was 121 lbs, slightly less than at his previous medical, but this was considered normal with the onset of extreme old age. He still exercised by walking for an hour in the garden twice each day, and his heart and lungs were as sound as could be expected. His bladder problems were no worse.
Mentally, the report continued, Number 7 was alert and able to converse intelligently – for example about the latest space-shot, in which he had taken a lively interest. He was currently reading a NASA publication borrowed from the Berlin Public Library. However, it had not been possible to evaluate his memory because he still refused to discuss the past.
Following the medical report, the French director moved next business.
‘It concerns a letter?’ asked the chairman.
‘Oui.’ The French director explained through his pretty interpreter that in the previous week a letter had arrived for Hess from a German publisher, and he had thought it right to submit it to the meeting. It had been marked ‘Private and Confidential’, but every communication addressed to Hess had, of course, to be examined by the authorities.
‘Jeez, not another offer for the old man’s memoirs,’ said the American. ‘He could be a millionaire by now.’
‘Non.’ The French director explained that this was not the usual offer, but appeared to raise different matters that had not been discussed by the directors before.
‘Is it in German?’
‘The Colonel has obtained translations,’ said the French interpreter.
‘Nice work, sweetheart.’
They examined their copies silently.
The letter came from one Herr Harald Beer, Managing Director of Beer Verlag of Munich. It read as follows:
Dear Herr Hess,
We have not met, and I am not certain whether you met my father, Sigmund Beer, but I gather that in 1964 you signed an agreement with him for Beer Verlag to publish an original work entitled MEMOIRS 1894–1941 on condition that publication should not be initiated until after your death. I write to inform you now that my father died suddenly last month and I have succeeded to the chairmanship of Beer Verlag.
It was while sorting through my late father’s effects that I came across the package containing the typescript of your MEMOIRS. My father, who was a man of absolute discretion, had not informed me of the contents of the package, so you may imagine my astonishment when I opened it this week.
I have now read the typescript, and I would like to congratulate you on your astonishing achievement. Without any question, the book is going to become one of the publishing events of the twentieth century.
Be assured that we at Beer Verlag are equal to the challenge of publishing a work of such historical and political importance, and also, as set out in the agreement, we shall negotiate the most favourable terms from publishers throughout the world.
There is one matter I would like to raise with you, and that is the proposed date of publication. It may be that, in more than twenty years since you signed the agreement, you have had second thoughts about your decision to delay publication until after your decease.
How would you feel about going ahead with publication this year? There may well be advantages in bringing your remarkable story to the attention of the public. I am not speaking merely of financial considerations, but I have in mind your present circumstances.
I would be grateful, Herr Hess, for your early consideration of this suggestion. If a meeting can be arranged, I will be more than happy to come to Spandau to discuss it further with you.
I look forward to hearing from you. Rest assured that we shall adhere to your instructions in these matters.
Yours sincerely,
Harald Beer
Managing Director
The Colonels stared at each other across the table. The Russian was ashen-faced. He muttered something to his interpreter, who got up and spoke quietly to the French interpreter and the shorthand-typist. The three of them left the room together.
The other directors exchanged significant looks. It was unprecedented for the chairman to adjourn a meeting without consultation.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said in English, ‘I think we should discuss this letter among ourselves.’
‘Off the record?’ said the British director.
‘Exactly. Clearly there has been a terrible breach of security.’
‘Hold on, Colonel,’ said the American in a pacifying tone. ‘This letter is about something that happened twenty years ago. OK, the old man has outsmarted us, but he wouldn’t be the first. Albert Speer was busy smuggling his diary out of here on scraps of paper for the whole of his goddamned sentence.’
‘Hess may have learned the trick from Speer,’ speculated the British director. ‘Who did Speer use?’
‘Any number of people,’ said the American. ‘Medical aides, warders, you name it.’
‘My people are not going to like this,’ the Soviet Colonel muttered. He was practically wringing his hands in despair.
‘I guess not one of our governments is going to be over the moon about it,’ commented the American.
‘Can we stop it?’ asked the Frenchman.
‘You mean stop them publishing the book? No way. The publisher has the contract and a property worth millions of bucks. Plus the exclusive rights to sell it throughout the world. You think he’s going to hand it back to the Allied Commission and say sorry?’
‘It cannot be allowed,’ said the Russian.
‘Try and stop it,’ said the American.
‘The point is,’ said the Russian Colonel, ‘that this breach of prison regulations must be handled with the utmost secrecy. Of course it must be reported to the Commission and that will be my duty as chairman, but on no account must the public get to hear of it. That is why I asked the interpreters to leave.’
‘Wasn’t that a little late?’ The British director turned to the Frenchman. ‘Presumably your efficient young lady prepared these translations?’
The Frenchman nodded.
‘You must caution her,’ the Russian told him with such truculence that he might have been recommending a fl
ogging. ‘Until we receive instructions from our superiors, we must treat this as top secret.’
‘How about Number 7? Will you let him see his letter?’
The Soviet director’s clenched fists tightened until his knuckles were white. The others fully expected him to pound the table. ‘That is unthinkable. He is in breach of prison regulations. I withdraw his letter-receiving privilege until further notice.’ He scooped up his papers and thrust them into his case. ‘I declare the meeting closed.’ He marched out and slammed the door.
‘I hope he makes it to the john. That is one shit-scared Soviet colonel,’ commented the American director.
‘Why?’ asked the Frenchman. ‘He was not here twenty years ago. None of us were.’
‘Guillaume, when this gets out, as it will, the Russians are not going to like it. Why do you think they kept the old man locked up all these years? He knows things. They could never be sure if he’d got something on them, because he was so smart. He played the amnesia game for all it was worth and none of the damned shrinks could tell if he was bluffing. The Russians wouldn’t take a chance on it, so they vetoed every move to release the old guy. It was cat and mouse all the way. Through the first twenty years or so he was convinced they meant to poison him. He used to switch plates with Speer. Only this mouse had a trick of his own. He wrote down the things he knew and got them to a publisher. Nothing will come out until after he dies, but he can die laughing. He’s beaten the bastards.’
‘Do you think we should show him the letter?’
‘No point. He’s too smart to be railroaded by some get-rich-quick publisher. He knew what he was doing in 1964 and the game hasn’t changed. Rudolf Hess is coming out the winner.’
26
At Karlshorst, a suburb of East Berlin, a tall iron fence encloses a vast area that is guarded on the perimeter by East German police with dogs and at each entrance by Red Army sentries. Since the end of the war, it has been the principal administrative headquarters of the USSR in Germany. It is, in effect, a Soviet settlement. One group of buildings houses the Soviet High Command; another the Soviet Branch of the Allied Control Commission; and at the eastern end of the compound is a large hospital block that no longer ministers to the sick. It is heavily guarded, inside and out. It is the operations base of the KGB in Germany, second in size and importance only to Moscow Centre.
Here, this morning, the security was exceptional even by Soviet standards. The uniformed guard had been doubled, sniffer dogs had been brought in to check each room, and officers in plain clothes patrolled the corridors, challenging everyone. Nothing was being said officially to explain the increase in activity, but even in a KGB headquarters there is a grapevine. The word was that a top-level emergency meeting had been called. Two generals from the First Chief Directorate, the foreign intelligence service of the KGB, had been flown in from Moscow. Two generals from Moscow: nothing like it had been seen in Berlin since the swapping of the U-2 pilot, Gary Powers, for Colonel Rudolf Abel in 1962.
The meeting was taking place not in the regular conference room, but in a suite on the fourth floor normally occupied by General Raiko, Head of KGB, Karlshorst. Only Raiko and the two visiting generals were in session. No administrative staff were present and no record was kept, either on tape or in transcript. The entire third and fifth floors had been cleared for the duration of the meeting, and guards prevented anyone from using the elevator or the stairs.
Still within the KGB compound, but in the several detached houses that had once been the homes of affluent Berlin families, a number of smaller meetings were simultaneously in session. Up to fifteen KGB agents had been summoned to Karlshorst to make personal reports to their case officers. Their conversations were routinely taped.
In one of the houses, agent Kurt Valentin was reporting to the officer he knew as Julius. Julius was in his thirties, a slight, dark man with a relaxed manner. Like Valentin, he was wearing a suit tailored in the West. His concession to the system was a garish, vertical-striped pink and red tie, but it was fastened with a gold tiepin. He had apologised for the coffee several times.
Valentin’s face was running with sweat. He had never been called to Karlshorst before. The meetings had taken place in various safe houses in the city.
‘And is Moody proving a capable partner?’Julius was asking.
‘As a player?’ said Valentin tentatively.
‘I understood that was the basis of the partnership.’
‘Yes, indeed. They played their first match together recently and won.’
‘Splendid!’
‘He used to play for a club in Philadelphia.’
‘You heard that from me, Kurt,’Julius pointed out.
Valentin took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘Of course. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. So it’s going well. How much longer do we have before the table-tennis league finishes?’
‘About five weeks.’
‘Not a long time.’
Valentin screwed up the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. ‘I was hoping that the relationship might have strengthened by then.’
‘Into sex?’
‘More like friendship. She says he doesn’t seem interested.’
Julius frowned. ‘We have no information that he is homosexual. Has she given him any encouragement? She’s an attractive girl, isn’t she?’
‘I find her attractive, certainly.’
There was a slight smile from Julius. ‘We know all about you, Kurt. What I am asking is why she is not attractive to Moody. We need a stronger tie than the fact that they once played table-tennis together.’
‘I suppose she might be too domineering for some tastes.’
‘Is there anyone else?’
‘In Moody’s life?’
‘Fraulein Kassner’s.’
‘No one she has mentioned.’
‘You might enquire. Perhaps she is not trying hard enough with Moody.’
‘We don’t want to make him suspicious.’
Julius shook his head. ‘We won’t. Most men are incapable of rational thought when they are offered sex. He may turn her down, but only because he doesn’t fancy her, then at least we’ll know where we stand. Talk to the girl about it, Kurt. She’ll be much more likely to make him suspicious if she hangs on to him for no apparent reason.’
‘All right.’
After a pause, Julius said as if he were asking a favour, ‘Would you care to summarise what Fraulein Kassner has learned so far from Moody?’
Valentin tensed visibly. This was the crunch. ‘It’s early days,’ he said in his defence. ‘Moody isn’t the loquacious sort. We know his hours of work. We know he has been a warden in Spandau since 1982. He’s keen on fitness, jogs regularly, lives in old Spandau, within a mile of the prison.’
‘We do have warders of our own in there,’ said Valentin. ‘We know all this, Kurt.’
‘Yes.’
‘Has Fraulein Kassner told us anything we would like to know, touching, perhaps, on Moody’s contacts with Rudolf Hess?’
‘She reports that he is sympathetic to Hess.’
‘Better, Kurt. Go on.’
‘Hess rarely confides in anyone. He is very self-contained, very taciturn.’
‘I think we are beginning to scrape the barrel, aren’t we, Kurt?’
Casting about for something to say, Valentin found himself remarking, ‘He wouldn’t have much conversation, would he, after more than forty years in prison?’
Julius said slowly, ‘Was that meant to be clever at my expense?’
‘No, not in the least,’ said Valentin, flustered.
Julius stared out of the window as he said, ‘I would like you to convey to Fraulein Kassner that Moody is more than just a ping-pong player, Kurt. If there is one man in Spandau with the glimmer of an understanding with Hess, we must monitor him. It may be Calvin Moody.’
‘I understand.’
‘Hess learned the hard way not to love the British. He
wouldn’t trust a Russian warder either. That leaves a Frenchman or an American.’
‘Yes.’
‘We wouldn’t have brought you here for the coffee, Kurt. I won’t hide it from you: there’s a full-scale emergency on. Moscow Centre beating the drum. You and your ping-pong player may be more important to the security of the State than ever you realized. I won’t promise you an Order of Lenin if you deliver, but I’ll guarantee a knock on your door if you don’t.’
Valentin had run out of responses. He simply lowered his head to signify assent.
Had he been privileged to sit in on the meeting of the three KGB generals, his worries would have increased. The First Chief Directorate as a matter of policy rarely authorises the liquidation of foreign nationals other than Soviet emigres and spies. The KGB has scrupulously resisted any association with groups practising assassination to achieve political ends: the Baader-Meinhof Gang, the PLO or the IRA.
Yet by the end of the day the unanimous conclusion of the generals was that a ‘wet affair’ was inescapable. The highest interests of the State were under threat.
The order was given. The hit-man was briefed and issued with a weapon.
27
Dick and Jane crossed the floor of the newsroom to a chorus of good-natured abuse. There had been storm warnings all day from Cedric, and his blue-eyed boy and girl were slinking into the office as if they had been caught smoking in the toilets. All very entertaining if you weren’t involved.
Inside, Cedric sat hunched over his desk in a posture of unmitigated gloom, the flab of his several chins overlapping his fists.
‘Shut the door.’
When they were seated, he creased his features into something marginally more accommodating and said slowly, picking his words, ‘I don’t want you to take this personally, either of you. I’ve decided to blow the whistle on the investigation before someone else does.’
Jane exchanged a glance with Dick. ‘Someone else? You mean whoever it was who broke into my flat?’
Cedric dipped his head. ‘Or whoever gave the orders.’
The Secret of Spandau Page 13
