The Berlin Spy Trap

by Geoffrey Davison

  THE BERLIN SPY TRAP

  Geoffrey Davison

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  ALSO BY GEOFFREY DAVISON

  CHAPTER 1

  As he awoke, he felt the pool of perspiration around his body and a dull ache at the back of his head. He partially opened his eyes and vaguely saw a dirty, yellow ceiling. He closed his eyes again. Where am I, he wondered drowsily? Where am I?

  He got no answer. He shuffled about in the bed and wished that his head would stop aching. Where am I? The question registered in his brain, but again got no answer. He felt a moment of panic. Where am I?

  He opened his eyes fully. They stared at the yellow ceiling and focused on a series of cracks. He lay quite still, staring at the ceiling. His head ached, and he also felt a numbness in the pit of his stomach. It was a strange feeling. One that he hadn’t experienced before.

  ‘Where am I?’ he mumbled. ‘Where am I?’

  His voice sounded deep and strange. He became agitated. He sat upright. The room looked unfamiliar. It was a hotel bedroom, he thought. He saw a notice on the wall, above an old chest of drawers, and another on the bedroom door. There was a half-opened, green-louvred shutter at the window, through which a blaze of sunlight stabbed across the room.

  He turned his head, and saw a washbasin and a wardrobe that matched the chest of drawers in age and appearance. The walls of the room were a dirty yellow, like the ceiling. The floor was bare linoleum — colour brown.

  He flopped back on the bed and groaned. Where was he? His hand went to the back of his head and touched congealed blood. He also felt blood on his temple. Again he groaned.

  ‘How did I get here?’ he asked aloud.

  He closed his eyes and tried to remember, but his memory was like a sponge. It yielded nothing. Who am I, he asked himself? There was a delay. Panic seized him. Who was he? Perspiration came to his brow. His brain responded, and he sighed with relief.

  He lay quite still. He knew who he was, but he also knew that he had a problem. He was John Stack, a foreign correspondent, but he was also working for British Intelligence! He was working for British Intelligence and he didn’t know where he was!

  He swallowed hard. Collect your thoughts together quickly, he told himself. Get all the facts. Go back over the ground. Be systematic; sort it out. Your name is John Stack, you are thirty-five years of age. You worked in Fleet Street and then joined the European Press Agency in Berlin.

  Berlin! Yes, he thought, he knew Berlin well. Berlin meant Max Schafer, his editor in chief. It also meant Sue. He screwed his eyes into their sockets. Sue! He felt a barrier automatically clamp down inside of him. She hadn’t understood, he thought. She hadn’t even tried. But then, how could she? He had never told her anything. He had never been allowed to.

  His recall to London, and his meeting with that cold fish from MI6, had all to be kept a secret. No one was to know. He had been conscripted into MI6 and given an assignment, but he couldn’t talk about it, not even to his wife. So Sue had eventually walked out on him.

  Yes, he thought, he remembered Berlin all right. And he also remembered Prague. Prague was where it had all begun, and Prague meant Berak. The dull ache in the pit of his stomach became stronger. He remembered Prague and he remembered Berak. Berak had been a journalist like Stack. He had also been sympathetic towards the West, so British Intelligence had wanted someone to cultivate him. That someone had been Stack.

  His assignment had been to build up a cell around Berak and push them to their limit, and then further. He was remembering fast. There had been another journalist whom he had also tried to recruit — Karl Gunter from East Germany. The three had met in Stack’s bedroom as the Russian tanks had patrolled the streets.

  Berak had agreed to come into Stack’s cell. Gunter had held back. He was sympathetic, but without contacts, and he was returning to Berlin. Berak was the man with the links and the urgency.

  Stack could feel the tension of those meetings vividly, almost as if it was yesterday. But it wasn’t yesterday, he thought, not yesterday. It was a lifetime ago. There had been so many secret meetings. Meetings in the spring, in the summer, and in the winter. Meetings in parks, in cafés, in hotels. It had been a long time ago when it had all begun. A long, long time ago.

  He had travelled back and forward over the years between Berlin and Prague, but Sue hadn’t understood why, and he had become too committed to pull out. Too committed and too involved. It had become part of him. He couldn’t pull out, so he had continued with his meetings and Sue had walked out on him.

  He remembered his last meeting with Berak in Czechoslovakia had been in the December. They had met in a wood outside Prague. It had been bitterly cold; there had been snow on the ground. Berak had told him that he was being sent to East Berlin. Stack had been pleased, very pleased. So had his Control. Berlin was Stack’s base, his own backyard. It would be easier for them to operate there. So Control had arranged for Stack to follow Berak to Berlin.

  Stack stared at the bedroom wall ahead of him. He had returned to Berlin in the December — last December. Go on, he told himself. Go on! Berlin!

  In Berlin they had continued with their operation, he thought. Berak still had his contacts, and he had made others. But in Berlin it hadn’t been the same. There had been failures and arrests. Something had gone sour. Berak had wanted to get out.

  Stack closed his eyes as he remembered. Berak had wanted to get out, but Stack wouldn’t let him leave. Something big was in the pipeline. Something very big. Berak had to remain until someone could take over. They had gone back to Gunter — Karl Gunter. Gunter had been hesitant, but he had finally been persuaded. Gunter had been persuaded to take over from Berak, and Berak had wanted help to flee to the West.

  What next, Stack asked himself? What had happened after that? He got no answer. Go on, he thought desperately, remember! Go on, damn you, remember! But his mind was like cotton wool. It had absorbed all the fluid of past memories that it was going to take. It wouldn’t respond. There was a barrier where Gunter had agreed to take over and Berak had wanted to get out.

  And now where was he, Stack wondered? Where the hell was he?

  He slid out of bed and stood up. His head throbbed as if he had an almighty hangover. He staggered across the room to a mirror above the washbasin and looked at his face. It looked as if it had been roughened up a bit and seen life, but it was familiar. Thank God for that, he thought. At least it was familiar.

  He looked at it again. It was tanned, blue-eyed and determined. He saw the thick, jet black hair, the dark eyebrows, the determined chin with its dark stubble, and the colourful bruise to his temple. He bared his teeth. They were reasonably well cared for and they were his own.

  He grimaced at the mirror and ran his hand through his hair. His fingers touched the bruise at the back of his head and he winced. He examined it in the mirror, but it was covered with congealed blood and hair. How had he got that, he wondered? Who had hit him?

  ‘Where am I?’ he asked himself aloud. There was more aggression in his voice. If only his head would stop aching, he thought. ‘Take it easy,’ he mumbled. ‘It will come. Just take it easy.’

  He doused himself with cold water and dried himself on a towel. He caught sight of the notice of th
e wall and his heart sank. Hotel San Miguel, it read. Gerona Province. My God, he thought! Spain! He was in Spain! He swallowed hard and got a grip of himself. If he was in Spain there would be a reason. Take it easy, he kept saying to himself. It will come back to you.

  He went over to the window and opened the shutters. Spread out before him was a panoramic view of the mountainside reaching down to the plain. Intermingling with the ochre, green and brown vegetation were orange roofs and off-white buildings. In the distance was a blue haze.

  He must be in the mountains, he thought, probably not far from Barcelona. Why, he asked himself? Why? He got no answer. He looked up at the sky. It was a clear blue, and the sun was shining, but it didn’t help.

  He closed the shutters. Instinctively, he felt there was a need for secrecy. He knew that he had to be careful. He tried to shake off the feeling, but it persisted. Suddenly, he wanted to get out of the room. Away from the hotel. Panic gripped him. He perspired, and then felt quite calm again.

  He looked around for his clothes and found them in the wardrobe. He felt in the pockets for his wallet. It wasn’t there. He became agitated again. Where the hell was his wallet? And his passport?

  He went to the bed and lifted the pillow. He saw his wallet and passport, and felt much easier. He picked up his passport and examined it. On the front it had, ‘Mr J Stack’. Inside he read, Name of bearer: Mr John Stack. He turned to the second page and saw his photograph. It wasn’t a good likeness.

  He read some of the particulars. Profession: Foreign Correspondent. Country of Residence: England. Height: six feet and half an inch. Colour of eyes: Blue. Colour of hair: Black. Special Peculiarities: None. He examined the other pages. He could have been a travel courier. It was marked on almost every page. He had travelled Europe on both sides of the Iron Curtain.

  He put it to one side. What was he doing in Spain, he wondered? Was it an assignment for E.P.A.? He got no answer and he silently cursed. How long was he going to have this blankness, he asked himself? How long?

  Something was imminent. He felt it. There was an urgency. He had to recover his memory. He just had to.

  He moved the pillow to one side to collect his wallet and saw a silver cigarette case. He picked it up. His initials were on the case. There were five cigarettes inside. He put one to his mouth, but his stomach reacted to the suggestion of smoke. He put the cigarette back in the case.

  He emptied the contents of his wallet on to the bed. There were some Spanish and German notes; a book of Eurocheques; a carbon copy of a Lufthansa flight ticket and three cards.

  He looked at the flight ticket. It was for a first-class single flight from Berlin to Barcelona dated June 30th, arrival time in Barcelona 16.00 hours. He glanced at his watch. It gave the date as July 2nd. Nine-fifteen on July 2nd. He had been in Spain less than forty-eight hours, he thought. But why Barcelona, he wondered?

  He picked up the cheque book. The instructions were printed in German. He read them without effort. He read them out aloud. He could speak and understand German fluently, he thought. At least he hadn’t forgotten that. He looked at the three cards. One showed his photograph and identified him as a representative of the European Press Agency in Berlin. Another gave the E.P.A. office address in Berlin, together with Stack’s name and the name of the Berlin chief editor, Max Schafer.

  ‘Max Schafer,’ he said aloud. Yes, he thought, he remembered Max Shafer. He could even picture Shafer’s rough, scraggy face, and see the ever-present cigar sticking out of Schafer’s mouth. Yes, Schafer was familiar.

  The third card gave a room number — No. 406, at the Hotel Excelsior, Avenida Generalissimo, Barcelona. It was dated June 30th.

  There was also a letter addressed to Stack at the E.P.A. office in Berlin. The writing on the envelope was small and neat. The postmark was blurred, but the stamp was Czech. He withdrew the letter and read it. It was written in German and signed by Anna Berak.

  ‘Dear Herr Stack,’ it read, ‘I am writing to let you know that we were officially notified, yesterday, that Emil was shot, dead, whilst trying to cross the border at Fenstadt, and has been buried there in the village. My mother and I wish to thank you for all your kindness and help to Emil.’

  Stack groaned. He felt as if a knife had pierced his stomach and was tearing at all his raw nerves. He remembered now. Gunter had taken over from Berak, but Stack had not been able to help Berak escape. Finally Berak had arranged his own escape, only to be shot, dead, in the attempt.

  Kindness and help! Stack’s kindness had been to push Berak past the point of no return. His help had been to stand by and let him get himself killed. Stack gritted his teeth and looked at the letter again. There was no address on it to which he could reply, only the date, June 27th. He must have received it just before leaving Berlin, he thought.

  He clenched his fist. Berak! Gunter! They were all so close to him. Now Berak was dead. He closed his eyes and tried to bring himself up to date. Why was he in Spain? Why? The cotton wool gave nothing away. He cursed vocally.

  A knock on his bedroom door made him start.

  ‘Come in,’ he called out in English.

  The door opened and a youthful-looking waiter entered the room carrying a tray. He smiled at Stack, showing his white teeth.

  ‘Buenos dias, señor,’ he said, placing the tray on the chest of drawers.

  ‘Buenos dias,’ Stack replied.

  The waiter poured out a cup of coffee. Stack watched him.

  ‘You speak English?’ Stack asked. ‘Inglés?’

  The waiter smiled. ‘Leetle,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘When did I arrive?’ Stack asked.

  The waiter looked puzzled.

  ‘One night?’ Stack asked. He pointed to the bed. ‘Uno noche?’ he asked.

  ‘Sí, señor,’ the waiter replied eagerly. ‘You a leetle…’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘Anoche.’

  Stack got the message. He had been in a bit of a daze when he had arrived the previous evening. He made an action of driving a car. ‘Come by automobile?’ he asked.

  ‘Sí, señor.’

  ‘From Barcelona?’ Stack asked.

  The waiter shrugged. Stack repeated the question. The waiter shook his head.

  ‘Aeroplano,’ the waiter said, and spread out his arms like a flying aircraft. ‘Aeroplano — whoof!’ he added.

  ‘Air crash?’ Stack asked.

  ‘Sí, señor, sí,’ the waiter said happily. ‘Aeroplano crash.’

  Air crash! Stack’s hand went to the back of his head. Had he been in an air crash, he wondered? No, he thought. No. It wasn’t possible. He had come by car. But there had been an air crash in the mountains, and he had come to the hotel from the scene of the air crash.

  The waiter stood his ground. Stack took out a note and gave it to him. The waiter’s face lit up.

  ‘Gracias, señor,’ he said.

  Stack made a gesture to indicate that the waiter could leave.

  ‘I no tell,’ the waiter said, standing his ground.

  ‘No tell who?’ Stack asked.

  Again the waiter looked puzzled. He held up his hand to display two fingers.

  ‘Dos hombres,’ he said. ‘Anoche.’

  Two men last night! Two men had been looking for him, Stack thought. Two men he hadn’t wanted to see. Who had they been? What had they wanted? He didn’t like it. The feeling of urgency gripped him again. He had to get away.

  CHAPTER 2

  Stack gave the waiter another note and ushered him out of the room. Hurriedly he drank his coffee. He collected his belongings together. There wasn’t much, but there was a small camera. He fingered it thoughtfully. It was loaded and set for action, but it hadn’t been used. He replaced it in his grip bag and examined his suit. It was soiled and marked.

  He glanced at his hands. His knuckles were cut and chafed. He had been in a fight, he thought, and by all the signs it had been a grim battle. He got dressed. In his suit pocket, he found two sets of keys. O
ne of them had a label attached to it giving the name of a garage in Barcelona. The other had no identity. He had hired a car to visit the air crash, he thought quickly. Air crash! Had he flown from Berlin to cover the air crash? Was that what he was doing in Spain?

  He left the bedroom and walked cautiously along a narrow landing, and down a curved flight of stairs into the entrance hall. The hotel had a pleasant, simple, country, Spanish style about it, which Stack barely noticed. He had other things on his mind, and he was in a hurry. He settled his account and got the young waiter to take him to his car. It was a white Mercedes.

  The waiter returned to the hotel, and Stack examined the car. When he was satisfied that it was not booby trapped, he got in and drove out of the hotel grounds. He passed through a small village of dirty, yellow buildings, and on to a narrow, twisting road which meandered its way down the mountainside.

  He drove slowly, trying to relax himself and his thoughts, so that in the vacuum would come some of his missing past. He found he was surprisingly calm. He had come to Spain on an assignment. It had probably been for E.P.A., but his present physical condition suggested that he was still wearing two hats. And it had something to do with the air crash. Who had been on that plane, he wondered? He had to know.

  The blast from a car horn interrupted his thoughts. He pulled to the side of the road as a white police car raced past him going up the mountain. Inside the police car were two uniformed policemen and two plain-clothed detectives. He watched them disappear out of view with mounting concern. He had a strong feeling that their arrival was somehow linked with his present condition. It was a feeling that he couldn’t shake off as he continued his way down the mountain. He lost his calmness and developed an urgency to get away from the area. He was glad when he came to the main road to Barcelona and could increase his speed.

  In Barcelona, he felt easier. The traffic was busy, and so were the boulevards and pavements. He returned the car to the garage and went by foot to the Avenida Del Generalissimo Franco. In the middle of the broad tree-lined roadway, white-helmeted police controlled the traffic. Stack’s eyes flashed about him, searching for any danger. He passed a newspaper stand and saw two headlines which immediately coloured his thinking.