‘Herr Stack,’ the man said in a gruff, Berlin accent. He held out his hand. It was a small, podgy hand, but with a firm handshake. The man indicated the vacant chair opposite him. Stack sat down.
‘You have the advantage over me,’ Stack said.
The man gave a faint smile. ‘Call me Schmidt,’ he said, ‘for convenience.’ He produced a cigar case, offered a cigar to Stack, who refused, and lit his own cigar. A waiter appeared.
‘What will you drink?’ Schmidt asked.
‘Beer,’ Stack replied.
Schmidt ordered two steins. ‘I represent a travel organisation, Herr Stack,’ Schmidt said quietly. ‘You understand?’
‘I understand,’ Stack replied.
The waiter brought their drinks.
‘Prosit,’ Schmidt said.
Stack returned the salute.
‘How is your wife?’ Schmidt asked, slowly placing his stein on the table.
Stack looked directly into the man’s eyes. ‘What wife?’ he asked.
Schmidt smiled patiently. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I have done my homework.’
Stack didn’t reply.
‘What happened to your wife tonight was crude and stupid,’ Schmidt said airily.
‘I am grateful to you for your help,’ Stack said.
‘I shouldn’t be too grateful. I think my arrival was welcomed by both parties. Unless, of course, you were going to talk.’
‘There was nothing to talk about,’ Stack said gruffly.
‘Are you a British agent, Herr Stack?’ Schmidt asked calmly, changing the subject.
‘No,’ Stack replied, equally calmly.
Schmidt raised his eyebrows. ‘Then you have problems,’ he said. ‘You and your wife are attacked, very crudely, by three men. Why? You say you are not a British agent, but the three men are well known for their allegiance to the Communist camp.’
‘I have no idea why I was attacked,’ Stack replied frankly. ‘I have no idea why I was also attacked in Spain. I don’t doubt that you know that as well.’
‘I know.’
‘Then you will also know that a certain doctor got me out of Spain and asked me for help in obtaining a package from the East.’
‘I know,’ Schmidt said again.
‘My companion needs the help of your organisation,’ Stack said grimly. ‘That is as far as my interest is concerned. If we don’t do business, it will not upset me.’
‘But it will upset Fraulein Rosier.’
‘It will,’ Stack agreed, ‘but I am not sure that I care.’
‘But she has already paid for a ticket,’ Schmidt said, with a look of feigned concern.
‘Just how reliable is your travel agency?’ Stack asked. He was thinking of Berak. Berak had also paid for his ticket, and Berak was dead.
Schmidt shrugged. ‘Everything is relative,’ he said in an offhand manner. ‘Your package will be travelling on a third-class ticket. That is more dangerous than if it was travelling first-class.’
‘How much would a first-class ticket cost?’
Schmidt played with his cigar. ‘What those three men were after,’ he said quietly.
‘No dice,’ Stack said emphatically. ‘We stick to our original deal, or not at all.’
Schmidt opened his hands in a gesture of ‘so be it’. ‘The package is a man called Criller?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Paul Criller. Age, twenty-six years. A man of slim build, dark hair. Wears glasses. From Leipzig.’
‘And his present location?’
Stack shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t know exactly.’
‘You must, if you want to pass on his instructions.’
They looked at each other.
‘I’ll find out,’ Stack said. ‘How do I contact you?’
‘We’ll contact you. What are your movements tomorrow?’
Stack told him.
‘Go to the Opera Café next door to the State Opera, in Unter den Linden Strasse, in East Berlin,’ Schmidt ordered. ‘It is close to the border. Sit at the third table from the extreme left in the second row, facing the road. The waiter’s name is Alfonso. The table will have a reserved sign. The waiter will ask you to move. Order an English tea. We will leave Criller’s instructions on the back of the ticket that you will receive from the waiter.’
Schmidt finished off his beer. Their meeting was at an end. They both stood up and shook hands.
‘Good night, Herr Stack,’ Schmidt said. ‘Auf wiedersehen.’
As Stack left the club, he wondered how much trust and loyalty he could expect from Schmidt and his organisation. Berak hadn’t got any. Would Criller get any more?
He was still thinking about Schmidt when he reached his hotel. He found that Lehna had returned and was in her room. He ordered a double Scotch, sank it, and went to see her.
She was pleased to see him, but there was a look on her face that suggested something had gone wrong. He thought how different she was from Sue. Sue was titian, glamorous, dress conscious and sexy, and knew how to look after a man. Lehna was dark, with an expressive face, and an Eastern air of mystery about her. She also had sex, but her sex was quieter and she didn’t play with it like Sue. It was almost accidental. She sat on the bed with her robe wrapped around her. There was no leg show.
Stack flopped into a chair. He suddenly felt very tired. His body still ached. He wanted rest, but first he knew that he had to clear the air with Lehna. There was that look on her face — the hurt, sad look.
‘It’s been one hell of a night,’ he sighed.
‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘Sure.’
He told her, but played down the rough stuff.
‘I didn’t telephone any message to you,’ Lehna frowned when he had finished, ‘but it explains something suspicious.’
‘What?’ Stack asked.
‘My taxi broke down on the return journey. We were held up for some time.’
Stack wasn’t surprised. The whole evening had been engineered to suit someone’s purpose. Someone other than Lehna, Sue, or Stack.
‘You saw Franz Hessler?’
Lehna’s face clouded over. She had looked sullen from the moment Stack had joined her. He had put it down to a pique of temper at being kept waiting. Now he learned otherwise, and he immediately forgot about his ego.
‘Franz Hessler is dead,’ she said sadly. ‘He had an accident two days ago.’
‘Accident?’ Stack asked suspiciously.
‘Stepped off the pavement and was hit by a passing truck.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Stack said earnestly, and wondered if Hessler’s accident could have been carefully planned. He had no grounds for suspicion, but untimely accidents always troubled him. ‘So you don’t have Paul’s address in the Eastern Zone?’ he asked.
‘I know where he can be contacted,’ she sighed. ‘It is through Frau Schoneberg. She runs a coffee stall in the Ice Stadium in Zieten Strasse, in East Berlin. Can we get a message to him?’
‘There are ways and means,’ Stack said. ‘Did Hessler leave any close relatives?’
‘No,’ Lehna replied. ‘He lived alone. His housekeeper let me into his room. She remembered my name from the back of the envelopes that I sent to him.’
Something made Stack suspicious. He felt there was more to come.
‘What did you find?’
‘Nothing really,’ she shrugged, ‘except a few photographs.’ She opened her handbag and produced a number of post-card type pictures.
‘Let me see them,’ Stack asked.
She handed them to him. Several were of an elderly, grey-haired woman. None of them meant anything to Stack — except one. It was a photograph of a man and a woman talking to each other. Stack’s inside went numb.
‘Who did Hessler work for?’ he asked with surprised calmness.
‘The Europa Photographic Studios,’ Lehna said. ‘He was in charge of the processing department. He was also an expert photographer himself. Do you recognise the man or woman?�
�
‘Yes,’ Stack said flatly. ‘The man is Rudolph Schooner, better known as Ruddi. He is the director of the agency.’
‘And the woman?’
‘My wife!’
CHAPTER 11
The following morning Stack was up and about very early. He still felt stiff and bruised from the rough handling he had received the previous evening, but he also felt a pre-match type of excitement.
It was all happening. He could sense it. The sudden pattern of events was bringing the issue to life. Hessler had worked for Ruddi. So did Sue, and Sue had been brought into the play. Somebody knew about Stack’s movements at the time of Berak’s escape. Somebody had tipped off the Communists. That somebody had to be close to Stack.
Stack’s memory still hadn’t given up all its facts, but some had come back. He remembered visiting Sue at Ruddi’s studio to sort out some legal matter. There could be a tie-up through Sue somewhere. It was a possible line of investigation. There was also Max, who knew more about Stack than anyone else. And there was Hendrich Lieffer. But it was no good trying to play detective, he thought. His intuition told him that there wasn’t time. It also told him to let them make the play. They had so far. What he had to do was to go along with it until he got his memory back, but he had to take precautions. It was time to inform his Control what was going on.
He went to his apartment in Kurfiersten Strasse and prepared a carefully worded message. It gave a complete resumé of his movements since he had flown to Spain. It also asked Control to get information on the contacts he had made. He photographed the coded message and placed the microfilm in a metal sachet the size of a small postage stamp. This was stapled to the corner of a ten mark note. A note which was later used to buy a morning newspaper from the stand outside the Ernst Reuter underground station — Stack’s main post box to his Control.
After preparing his message, he returned to his hotel for breakfast. Lehna joined him.
‘I would like to come with you today,’ she said eagerly. ‘The last thing I want to do is sit about, and I don’t care if there is a risk. I have an Israeli passport.’
Stack shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that would be wise.’
He was going to be out in the open, he thought. Everything he did now could be observed and reported back to the opposition. He was even going into their territory. But there was no need to take Lehna into the front line. He wanted to protect her as much as possible. He shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said again. She looked crestfallen.
‘When will I see you?’ she asked.
‘Lunch time,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘I know a nice restaurant where we can have lunch. I’ll meet you at one o’clock.’
He gave her the name and address of the restaurant, and suggested that she remained in the hotel during the morning, where she was safe. She smiled faintly at his suggestion, and made no comment.
Stack left her after breakfast and took the underground to Ernst Reuter Strasse. He didn’t bother to concern himself about a tail. He took it that someone would be there, and so long as he was being legitimate, they were harmless. At the newsagent shop in the station, he purchased a British newspaper and made his pass. At the office, the staff greeted him warmly and made one or two wisecracks about his lost memory. It was a close-knit unit that worked well. An ideal cover for his other activities.
He telephoned Sue and learned that she was still resting, but that she had recovered from her shock. He felt relieved. His blood still boiled at the thought of the way she had been manhandled the previous evening. He got a promise out of Sue’s sister that she would stay close to her, and rang off. He put her to the back of his mind, and studied the reports and papers on his desk. He found the draft of the article he had been working on about the refugee problem and read it eagerly, but it was an economical, and statistical, study, rather than an investigation into escape organisations. It gave him no lead whatsoever as to the identity of Schmidt or his organisation. Without Lorenzo’s help, he would have still been in the dark.
As he was studying the draft, Max Schafer arrived at the office. He looked as if he had had a rough night. He called Stack into his office.
‘I thought you were dining with Lieffer last night?’ Stack remarked.
‘I did,’ Schafer replied. ‘He took me to the Town Hall to get the inside on the arrangements for the State Visit next Wednesday.’
‘Did that take all night?’
‘Hell, no, but I met a guy from the West German Foreign Department. He was very interesting. We had a session at Hendrich’s place and then went to a club.’
‘Any news?’
‘They’re putting a lot of stock on Tito’s visit,’ Schafer commented. ‘It will be another feather in their cap.’
Which the Communists wouldn’t like, Stack thought.
‘You okay?’ Schafer asked. ‘How’s the memory?’
‘Still the blanks,’ Stack replied, ‘but I’m okay. Did you ask Lieffer if he would see me?’
‘Yeah,’ Schafer replied, and looked at his watch. ‘He’ll see you in fifteen minutes’ time, precisely.’
‘Thanks. By the way, Max. Did you telephone Sue yesterday?’
‘Sue?’ Schafer asked. ‘No. Was I supposed to?’
‘No,’ Stack replied. ‘Forget it.’
Schafer shrugged.
‘Anything else?’ Stack asked.
‘Got a cable from New York,’ Schafer said. ‘They’ll take all the shots I can get of the state visit.’
‘Paying well?’
‘Top rate. Pity we couldn’t get any of that conference in East Berlin.’
Schafer’s telephone rang. He picked it up. ‘See you when you get back,’ he called to Stack.
‘Okay, Max.’
Stack left Schafer’s office and collected the necessary papers and documents from the office manager. He was an accredited representative of the Press Agency again, and as such he would be reasonably safe in East Berlin. They wouldn’t touch him whilst he was on official business. Not unless they were desperate, and if their information source was as effective as Stack imagined, they would now be aware that he was suffering from a memory lapse, and was therefore harmless.
He took one of the agency cars and drove direct to Lieffer’s office. He hoped his visit would unlock another door of his mind. He felt Lieffer had a key, but he also felt that Lieffer wouldn’t want to use it.
There was something about Hendrich Lieffer that made Stack cautious. Lieffer was the dynamic type of business man of the new German reformation. What the modern buildings and affluent society had developed from the ruins of 1945, men like Lieffer had emerged to lead the new regime. He was an assistant director of the Ministry of Refugees, in charge of the Berlin office. A Ministry whose documentation and information were valuable to many bodies and activities. Stack respected Lieffer, but there the relationship ended. Lieffer was much older than Stack. Older, wealthier, and with a patronising air that rankled Stack, and he had shown an unhealthy interest in Stack’s activities.
Lieffer’s outer office gave the correct impression. It was functional in design and busy in appearance. Stack was taken to a waiting-room in which figures and graphs were displayed on the wall, indicating both the enormity of the refugee problem and the Ministry’s thoroughness in statistical records.
Fortunately for Stack, Lieffer’s personal secretary soon released him from his study of the information and took him to Lieffer’s office. Lieffer was at his desk, but stood up as Stack entered the room. He was of similar height to Stack, and immaculately dressed in a dark suit. On his finger he displayed an expensive gold ring. He also wore a gold identification bracelet. His face was tanned, round and even featured; his grey hair, sleek and neat. But there was also the faintest trace that he was starting to go to seed. There was the first sign of flab about his face and figure.
They shook hands.
‘Max told me that you are still recovering from a loss of memory,’ Lieff
er remarked, offering a gold cigar box. Stack declined to take a cigar. Lieffer closed the box.
‘Yes, Herr Lieffer,’ Stack agreed. ‘There are still a few blank spots.’
‘You remember spending a couple of hours in my department about four weeks ago?’ Lieffer asked, ‘and last week?’
‘I remember coming to your department several weeks ago,’ Stack replied, ‘but not the second time.’
‘Your first visit was when you asked about this organisation that interests you.’
‘And you couldn’t help?’
‘No.’
Or wouldn’t help, Stack thought. ‘And the second visit, Herr Lieffer?’ he asked.
‘You asked to see some records.’
‘And did I?’ Stack asked.
‘Yes,’ Lieffer replied.
‘Would you mind if I inspected the documents again?’
‘Not at all,’ Lieffer replied patiently. He threw a switch on his intercommunication set and gave instructions for Stack to be given access to their records.
Stack thanked him.
‘If you would tell me what it is all about, perhaps I could be of further help to you,’ Lieffer suggested.
Perhaps, Stack thought, but Lieffer hadn’t helped him when he had needed help most. That was why Berak was dead. ‘That is very kind of you, Herr Lieffer,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I am still in the dark myself.’
‘Have you seen a doctor?’ Lieffer asked.
‘Yes,’ Stack replied, ‘in Barcelona. Perhaps you know him. His name is Lorenzo.’
Lieffer nodded his head in agreement. ‘I have heard of him,’ he said. ‘He is well known amongst the authorities.’
‘In what way?’
‘He used to help refugees get to Palestine. He is a rather colourful character.’
The Berlin Spy Trap Page 8
