‘Okay, Max.’
Stack rang off and momentarily stood looking at the telephone. If only he could remember, he thought. If only Gunter would come back to him. There was something in the air. The mood of the conference had shown that. Berak had forecast trouble. So had British Intelligence. That was why Stack had pushed Berak to the limit. If only he could remember. But he couldn’t, and he suddenly hated the whole bloody business.
He turned away from the telephone stand. The room was noisy and crowded, but he saw Preiser straight away. He was standing in the corner, stone-faced, taking it all in. So were his assistants, who stood by his side. Stack had had enough. To hell with them all, he thought. He left the room and hurried back to his car. He would pick up the instructions for Criller at the café, he thought, and go back to the hotel. It would be good to get back to the Western Zone again.
He drove out of the car park, but was again held up at the police cordon and his documents checked. When he was cleared, he left the Platz and drove into the tree-lined Unter den Linden Strasse.
He parked the car opposite the Opera Café. Another car parked alongside him. Two men got out. Preiser’s men! They weren’t hiding the fact that they were tailing him. He walked, casually, over to the tables on the pavement. The two men followed. He tried to ignore them. He went to the table, as instructed. It was reserved. He sat down.
An elderly waiter came up to him and looked apologetic.
‘The table is reserved,’ the waiter said. ‘Would you mind sitting at this table?’ He offered Stack another table.
Stack saw the name card on the waiter’s waistcoat. He was Alfonso.
‘Certainly,’ Stack said. ‘I would like a cup of English tea.’ He sat at the table and saw that the two men had taken a table nearby.
The waiter brought the tea. Preiser’s men watched. They weren’t trying to hide their interest. Stack calmly drank the tea and examined the ticket. On the reverse side was written: Huster Hotel, Witten Strasse, Room 14. Collection 2 a.m. He finished his tea and walked slowly back to his car. Preiser’s men followed him, and they stayed with him until he passed through the control point at Checkpoint Charlie.
CHAPTER 13
Stack returned to the hotel as soon as he entered the Western Zone. It was now a case of getting the information to Criller, he thought, and the rest would be up to the organisation. But Stack wasn’t finished with Schmidt. Once Criller was safely through the pipeline, he had plans for Schmidt.
Lehna wasn’t in the hotel lounge. Nor was she in her room. Stack went to the reception desk to see if she had left a message. She hadn’t, but the reception clerk had some information for him.
‘Fraulein Rosier checked out of the hotel,’ he explained. ‘She made a reservation with Pan Am and left for the airport.’
Pan Am! Airport! Stack frowned. Lehna was leaving Berlin. She was returning to Israel. Why, he wondered? Why?
‘What time was this?’ he asked.
‘About two-thirty, Herr Stack,’ the receptionist replied.
Shortly after he had left her, Stack thought. He thanked the man and went to his room. Lehna’s actions puzzled him. He didn’t understand why she should leave Berlin in such a hurry when Criller was so close to achieving his goal. It just didn’t make sense. He felt the frustration swell inside of him. He didn’t understand what was going on. Blast! He thought. Blast!
His telephone rang. He grabbed at it eagerly. It was Sue. That also surprised him. So did her concern.
‘Are you all right, John?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but I should be asking you that.’
‘I’m sorry I behaved rather childishly last night,’ she said.
‘Childishly! That’s rubbish, Sue. Your reactions were understandable. My God, the treatment you got. Sue, I will never forgive myself for getting you involved.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ Sue said.
‘Glad?’
‘Well, I’m beginning to understand a few things now,’ she said. ‘That is why I rang.’ There was a fractional pause. ‘John,’ she added quietly. ‘There have been one or two suspicious things happening recently. Could we meet? I would like to talk to you about them.’
‘What sort of things?’ Stack asked, deeply interested.
‘Oh, little things,’ Sue said. ‘Like the feeling of being followed.’
‘Followed!’
‘Yes.’
‘What time can I meet you?’ Stack asked grimly. ‘Are you free this evening?’
‘Not until about eleven,’ Sue replied. ‘I have a show at the Grand Hotel for Ruddi.’
‘I’ll pick you up at the hotel,’ Stack said. ‘I’ll be in the bar. We can have dinner.’
‘That will be nice, John.’
Sue rang off.
Stack was impressed. For weeks she had been out of his life. Now she had become involved, and she didn’t seem to mind. Even the attack of the previous evening was being cast aside by her as of little consequence. Was this a new Sue, he wondered? He hoped so. Or was it another way of getting at him?
He shrugged and thought of Lehna again. He wished she hadn’t run out on him. Now that he had linked up with the organisation, he didn’t want to foul them up. And there was Criller being left suspended.
He looked thoughtfully at the telephone and decided to check on Lehna’s movements a stage further. He rang Pan Am, at Tempelhof Airport, and was told that a Fraulein Rosier had booked a flight to Bonn and had checked in, but that she had not boarded the aircraft! Stack’s alarm bells started ringing. Somewhere between checking in and the actual flight, Lehna had left the airport!
He went to the bar and sank a double Scotch. What had happened to her, he wondered? Had she left the airport on her own account? Or had she been taken by interested parties? He felt his inside freeze up. He didn’t like it. There was more to this than he knew of, and Criller was tied up in it somewhere. And it had probably nothing to do with marriage. There was something else involved. That was why Lehna had walked out on Stack.
He ordered another drink. He didn’t like being left hanging in mid-air. He didn’t like anything half-finished. He had to know what it was about. Criller, he thought! Criller could supply some of the answers, and he knew where Criller could be contacted in East Berlin.
He mulled it over in his mind. There was no problem getting into East Berlin, he thought. He had a British passport and all the necessary papers. There were no restrictions on his movements. He was not subject to the controls inflicted on the West Berliners. The G.D.R. had opened its doors to tourists. There were even sightseeing trips by day and night. That was no problem.
But there was Preiser. He would be on the lookout for Stack, and he would have informed all the control points. But East Berlin was a big place, Stack thought. With a car he could soon shake off any tails, and if he couldn’t — well, he would just have to call it off. It was still worth a try, he thought. He gave a grunt. He had no other course open to him. He had to go.
He left the bar and telephoned a nearby garage, and arranged to have a dark Mercedes saloon brought immediately to the hotel. He also rang his office and told them that he was going into East Berlin and they could leave a message for him at the Inter Hotel. It was a secondary precaution on his part, just in case anything should go wrong.
When the car arrived, Stack drove around the area until he was satisfied that he was not being tailed. He then went to his apartment and changed his clothing and appearance as much as possible.
When it turned dark he again passed through Checkpoint Charlie. Only this time there was the added feeling of knowing that he wasn’t on official Press business. From the control point he drove through the city centre and into the quiet back streets. It was much easier for him to check if he was being followed in East Berlin than in the West. There was much less traffic about.
Several times he stopped the car and waited to see if he was attracting attention, but there was no sign of anybody taking an inter
est in him. He was on his own. He drove into the vicinity of the Stadium. He was still on his own. It was as he had hoped, but nevertheless he began to feel uneasy.
He parked the car where he could observe the entrance to the Stadium, and sat watching the arrivals and departures. He saw nothing suspicious. Perhaps he was over-estimating Preiser, he thought. Perhaps Preiser wasn’t really interested in him.
He left the car and walked to the entrance to the Stadium. For a while, he stood in the entrance doorway. Again he saw nothing unforeseen. He purchased a spectator’s ticket and went inside the Stadium. The rink was busy, the atmosphere lively, cool and noisy. For a few minutes he sat in the terraced rows of seats amongst other spectators and watched. But he wasn’t watching the skaters, he was watching for Preiser’s men. He didn’t see any.
The coffee stall was behind the stand. It was run by a middle-aged woman who had a harassed and worried expression on her face. Stack waited until there was no one at the stall before making his move. He then went up to her.
‘Frau Schoneberg?’ he asked.
The woman eyed him up and down suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m a friend of Herr Criller,’ Stack said quietly. The woman looked more harassed than before.
‘Coffee?’ she asked hurriedly, as if playing for time.
‘Please.’
Stack knew that he had found the right person. She hadn’t denied her knowledge of Criller. She was trying to sort out in her mind what Stack’s motives could be. A party of skaters gathered around. Stack stood to one side and allowed them to be served first. When they were alone again the woman handed him his drink. He gave her the money.
‘What do you want with Herr Criller?’ the woman whispered.
‘To help him,’ Stack replied.
Again the woman eyed him suspiciously. Stack drank his coffee. It had a sweet taste. He wished she had left it without sugar.
‘I finish in half an hour,’ she said quietly.
‘I will wait,’ Stack said.
The woman started to busy herself with the coffee machine. Stack caught a frightened look on her face as he walked away. He stood to one side, drinking his coffee. Something, or somebody, had got Frau Schoneberg frightened.
He sensed danger. Perhaps Preiser was being cleverer than he thought. Perhaps Preiser was giving him rope to play with. Perhaps… He stopped contemplating Preiser’s movements and switched to cursing his own stupidity. The coffee had been fixed. He could feel himself becoming drowsy. Frau Schoneberg had fixed it.
He had to get out of the building. His vision became blurred. He staggered towards the exit. Faces loomed up in front of him. Hands grabbed at him. He pushed them aside. He had to get out of the building. Something gripped him. He tried to shake it off. There was a sharp pain in his arm. He staggered forward. He had to get out. He had to…
Stack fell to the ground, and Preiser and his two assistants stood over him. Preiser had a smug, satisfied expression on his face…
CHAPTER 14
Stack’s first recollections, after his unconscious state, was of half-awakening, as if from a deep sleep, feeling sickly and looking into a yellow sea. He was lying on his back, he thought, and the yellow sea was electric lights.
He closed his eyes again. He heard a man’s voice, but the words didn’t make sense. They were just a jumble of words. He tried to ignore them, but the jumble became coherent. They began to register in his brain, ‘…we have come a long way from the use of simple barbiturate and amphetamine drugs,’ the voice said proudly. ‘Doctor Würnberg, who heads the Neuropsychopharmocology Department at our University Research Institute, has become a leading exponent of new psychotropic drugs. He has gone far beyond the bounds of any leading Western specialist with his experiments. Of course, he has been encouraged to do so, and he has had a lot of support and help from the department in the Moscow Medical Research Centre. They too are very interested in this field, Herr Stack, as you will appreciate.’
Stack opened his eyes to see Preiser’s sickly, smiling face in front of him. He closed his eyes again.
‘Your brain is like any other piece of machinery,’ Preiser went on. ‘It has component parts. At the moment some of your component parts are not functioning. However, Doctor Würnberg has been able to isolate and control certain functions of the brain by the use of selective drugs.’
Stack tried to close his mind to Preiser’s words, but he couldn’t.
‘The names of these drugs would just confuse you,’ Preiser said smugly, ‘but you are about to go on a journey, Herr Stack, that would be the envy of many of the drug addicts of your decadent society. Whilst one part of your brain will be in a state of sleep, another part will be roused through a state of excitement to panic. You will tell us all we want to know, Herr Stack, and you will relive a lifetime in a matter of minutes. You are about to undergo a unique experience.’
There was a pregnant silence. Stack desperately urged himself to fight against any capitulation. He told himself that he didn’t know anything, and that he worked for Roberts of Military Intelligence. He felt something cool touch his arm, followed by a sharp jab. The drug was being injected into his system, he thought.
He looked up into the yellow lights and his vision became blurred. He began to float into another world. Float and drift. He felt relaxed and happy — really happy — overjoyed. The feeling swelled inside of him. He laughed and shouted at the children’s faces that appeared before him. He saw the seashore and a group of teenagers. The figures grabbed him, and together they rolled over in a kaleidoscopic jumble of people, sea, sand, green fields, and red brick houses.
The whirlpool of fantasy stopped at rows of red-tiled roofs, like the figures on a fruit machine. Rows and rows of red-tiled roofs — the symbol of the suburbia of his youth. And there were faces, all sorts of faces. They kept vanishing and appearing in front of him. Some faces were familiar, others were unknown to him. He had both the power of visual recognition and of sensual feeling. There were moments of great elation and moments of deep sadness. He felt himself crying bitterly over a face that was unrecognisable, and at another time laughing, uncontrollably, with faces that also meant nothing to him.
The sensual feelings, and kaleidoscopic visions, were interspersed by moments of apparent sanity. He was in a room. There was a bed and a side table. On the table was a green water jug and a glass. And there were three other men in the room. One was Preiser — Stack’s very dear friend, Heltman Preiser. They all laughed together. Good old Preiser. Preiser, Stack’s friend. Preiser who had done so much for Stack. Preiser, dear Preiser.
The two other men were Preiser’s friends. Everybody was a friend. Stack sat on the side of the bed, the others stood around him. They listened intently to his stories. They laughed with him. They looked sad when he felt sad. They were his friends. But there was no consciousness of sound — no sound. It was happening, but he couldn’t hear it. Then the whirlpool would suddenly transcend him into the realms of fantasy again. Into visions of his past. Into moments of his immediate past — to visions of Sue, and to visions which he had forgotten…
The visions and dreams became a nightmare. It became unbearable. It was like being on a never-ending treadmill. He began to feel panic. Would it never end? Would it never end? He wanted to get off. Get off… Get off… Get off…
Suddenly he was awake. He was awake and he knew that he was normal. His eyes were closed, but all else was normal. He had been given drugs to make him give up his secrets. His brain told him that. It flashed messages to him, crisply, like a well-charged battery. It was all crystal clear. You are lying on a bed with your eyes closed, he told himself. You have recovered from the effect of the drugs. You are not fastened to the bed; there are no restrictions. But you are still Preiser’s captive, so you must think of escape. Think of escape!
What did I tell them, he asked himself? Tell me first, what did I tell them? About Berak? Yes, he thought. He had told them about Berak, and of
their meetings in Prague and Berlin, and of Berak’s link with Colonel Zeiler of the Czech Secret Service. Yes, he had told them all that, he thought. And what else? He had told them that Berak had two informers — Colonel Zeiler, and Wilhelm Boucher of the East German Foreign Service. He had also told them of Berak’s final messages passed at the Press gatherings. Messages which warned of a Russian interest in the Balkans. An interest brought about by their need to have bases in the Mediterranean for their Fleet. A Fleet to match the U.S. Sixth Fleet, with established bases, that would swing the balance of power in their favour.
Stack lay quite still as his brain unfolded its confessions. He had told them how Berak had passed his messages, he thought, and how Stack had posted his messages to Control. And about Roberts, he thought, but they would know about him. What else, he asked himself? What else had he told them?
His brain responded. He had told them that something had gone wrong in Berlin, that there was a leak. Colonel Zeiler had been arrested. So had others. Berak had become anxious for his own safety. He had wanted to defect. Stack had urged him to remain. Boucher had got wind of something big. Something very big. So big that it was even going to be kept from the Warsaw Pact Ministers’ meeting in East Berlin. Something that Stack had to know about. Berak had persuaded Gunter to take over, and Stack had tried to help Berak to escape. He had gone to Lieffer about it, but neither Stack nor Lieffer had been able to help. Berak had made his own plans and Berak was dead.
Yes, Stack thought, he had told them all that. Berak had been shot, dead, and Stack had forced himself to forget about Berak and concentrate on Gunter. Gunter! What about Gunter, Stack wondered? What had he told them about Gunter? What did he remember? There was the excited look on Gunter’s face, he thought. It had only been ten days after Gunter had taken over. Gunter had been excited and scared. Boucher had been on to him. There was still a leak! Boucher was under suspicion. Gunter was uncertain. Stack had forced his hand. Gunter had to go back to Boucher, and get what he could from him.
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