The Berlin Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘We’re very pleased with your attitude, Sabine, and the suggestion you came up with was excellent. It will be your target. We are also delighted with the detonators.’

  Sabine nodded in acknowledgement. Baader came up to her, a lit cigarette stuck between his lips. The sight of a cigarette in a bomb factory unsettled her.

  ‘I – we – need to know exactly where you got them from.’

  ‘Aren’t they good enough?’

  ‘Of course they’re good enough. They’re exactly what we need – they’re military grade for fucks sake! That’s the point: how come your man is able to get hold of such top quality material? And the drop Sabine – in the middle of the country, yet we never saw him come, we never saw him go.’

  ‘You know as much about him as I do Andreas. His money is good, isn’t it?’

  Raspe came over and placed a hand on Baader’s shoulder. ‘Leave it Andreas. We mustn’t complain.’

  ‘But he’s so… I don’t know the word, Ulrike would have the right word for it. He’s like a ghost – he suddenly appears in Aachen and then disappears. I just need to be sure he’s not dangerous.’

  ‘He is,’ said Sabine. ‘But fortunately it’s not us he’s dangerous for.’

  ‘Now listen. We’re starting a new bombing campaign this week. The plan is for this phase to last until the end of the month. Then we’ll see. We have the Olympics starting soon in Munich, we need to think about that. For your mission you’ll travel to Mönchengladbach by train. When you leave the station, turn left, and on Goebenstrasse you’ll see a row of three telephone kiosks. You are to telephone this number.’

  He handed her a slip of paper which she glanced at, folded, and put into her pocket.

  ‘That’s not for you to keep, it’s for you to memorise. When someone answers the phone you are to ask if Manfred is there. If they reply that Manfred has gone away, you are to abort the mission. Return to the station and get the first train out of Mönchengladbach, even if it is not going in the direction of Aachen. Are you following this?’

  She nodded, her eyes half closed in concentration.

  ‘However, if they reply, “this is Manfred speaking,” you are to say, “this is Karin, I was wondering if I could visit this afternoon?” If the reply to that is “yes” then you go ahead with the mission. The person will then tell you where to go to collect the car. You have all of this?’

  ‘I think so, Jan-Carl.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we have two hours. By the time you leave you’ll be well prepared. Now we need to brief you, and show you how to set the timer. You’ll need this by the way.’ He took a package out of a drawer and handed it to her.

  ‘Open it Sabine. It’s a Weihrauch revolver, quite easy to use and a good size. Hold it for a bit, get used to handling it. Don’t worry; it’s not loaded – yet.’

  ***

  Werner had arrived in Aachen on the Friday. Over the preceding fortnight the Red Army Faction had carried out six bombings: Frankfurt, Augsburg, Munich, Karlsruhe, Hamburg, Heidelberg. A handful of people had been killed, dozens wounded and there’d been plenty of damage to property. Mönchengladbach was next.

  When Sabine told him what her instructions were he shook his head. ‘It’s a flawed plan Sabine.’

  ‘Why? I thought you said it was a good target?’

  ‘It’s an excellent target Sabine, which is why I suggested it. They deserve everything they’re going to get. But sending you on your own is ridiculous, and going by train is too risky – railway stations are the first place the police will go to afterwards. And then the getaway… I find it remarkable they should even suggest such a plan, unless of course they want you to be caught.’

  ‘Of course they don’t Werner.’

  ‘Just tell me once more.’

  ‘As soon as I’ve parked the car and set the timer I am to walk towards the bus stop. They say that at that time of the afternoon there is a bus every half hour to the centre of the city. If I park the car at a quarter past four and set the timer immediately, then the explosion will occur at a quarter past five: apparently the area will be very busy at that time. There is a bus to the city centre at four thirty. I’ll be on a train before the bomb goes off.’

  He laughed, throwing up his hands at the ridiculousness of it all. ‘And if the bus is late, or cancelled – or the timer doesn’t work properly? I’ve never heard anything so crazy… look Sabine, I have a better idea. I will drive you to Mönchengladbach. I’ll drop you at a side entrance to the station. It’s likely they’ll be watching the telephone kiosks, which is why they’ve specified that you should use one on Goebenstrasse. You’ll go into the station, wait until a train arrives, and then leave with the other passengers. Make the call, go to where they tell you to collect the car, and drive to the target. Once I’ve dropped you at the station I’ll head in that direction. Pass me that map. Look, I’ll park here and wait for you. Once you’ve parked and set the timer, walk this way and leave through one of the pedestrian gates, then come to the car. We’ll be back here in Aachen in just over an hour. None of that bus nonsense.’

  They took Autobahn 44 as far as Mündt and then wound their way towards the centre of Mönchengladbach by staying on the Landstrasse, the country roads. It was a long, indirect route so it was close to two thirty when he dropped her off in a side street near the station, and almost a quarter to three when she emerged from it and dialled the number she’d memorised at one of the phone kiosks on Goebenstrasse.

  Manfred, it turned out, would certainly like to see Karin that afternoon. ‘Take a bus from the stop opposite where you are now and go to the Bökelbergstadion. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the ground of Borussia Mönchengladbach, the local football team. The stadium is in the district of Eicken, it’s in the north of the city. There’s no match on, so the car park will be almost empty. Close to the main stadium entrance you’ll see a maroon Opel Kadett, with Volkswagen vans on either side of it – one green, one white. There’ll be a copy of this week’s Stern magazine on the dashboard. In the front driver-side wheel arch of the green VW van you’ll find the keys to the Opel. You’ve got all that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. It’s now ten to three – there’s a bus to Eicken at three, it will stop at the Bökelbergstadion. By the time you get to the car it will be close to three twenty. In the glove compartment there are some identification documents for you. It’s unlikely you’ll need them but, just in case you get stopped, make sure you know the date of birth on them – oh, and memorise the registration number of the car. It’s a lot, isn’t it? Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. You’ll have plenty of time to get used to the car: aim to arrive at the target at around ten past four. Set the timer at four fifteen, as you’ve been told. Understand?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘The answer needs to be yes, Sabine. Repeat everything I’ve said, and then you’d better go for your bus. Remember to wear gloves the whole time.’

  ***

  It was just before four thirty when he spotted Sabine, walking down the road towards the old Mercedes sedan he’d hired in Cologne the previous day – for quite a lot of cash, and no questions. She walked too fast and glanced behind her too often, but the street was deserted and no-one would have noticed her. ‘Everything go as planned?’ He waited until he’d started the car and pulled out before asking her. She didn’t react, other than to frown as if to indicate she wasn’t sure. They were both silent as they headed south-west out of Mönchengladbach and drove along the smaller roads close to the Dutch border. They reached Aachen just after six. They’d had the car radio on throughout the journey but there was no news about any bomb, just endless talk about the Olympics in Munich. They were in his apartment when the news came through at six thirty.

  Reports coming in of an explosion at the British army base at Rheindahlen in Mönchengladbach… Understood the explosion may have been caused by a car bomb… British army truck parked next to t
he car took the full force of the blast…. Some damage to nearby buildings… Believed there are no serious casualties… No group has claimed responsibility for the bomb. The Red Army Faction has recently targeted American military bases, and the Provisional IRA has previously attacked British bases in Germany.

  ‘They’ll be furious with me Werner. They’ll say I failed, they’ll probably think I did this deliberately! I tell you, there was no truck there when I parked the car. I did what they told me, I parked it in what looked like an open space.’

  ‘You need to call them Sabine. Go in to Kleinmarschierstrasse, there are a few phone kiosks there. If you don’t call them it will look suspicious.’

  She was a lot calmer when she returned; there was even a spring to her step.

  ‘They’re not unhappy at all; actually they are pleased we managed to get a car bomb into the British base and for it to go off. They say there’s nothing that could be done about the truck, that’s just bad luck. They say it is important we’ve shown we can get into a key target like this. They’re going to put out a statement this evening claiming responsibility. Apparently they’d attached a small plate with a series of numbers on it to the engine block, which would withstand the blast. They will quote those numbers to prove it was the Red Army Faction which carried it out. They were just waiting to hear that I’m back safely.’

  ‘Well done Sabine, well done. I think we now need to celebrate.’

  Chapter 7

  East Berlin

  February 1976

  Martin Winter hadn’t worried too much at first. He suspected he’d made a mistake, but at least he hadn’t fallen into one of the traps Williams – the security chap at the embassy – had warned him about so graphically.

  ‘Avoid the Grand and the Metropol on Friedrichstrasse, and the Palace on Karl-Liebknecht-Strasse,’ Williams had told him, before leaning across his cluttered desk, lowering his voice and adding with a knowing wink and the beginnings of a smile, ‘especially the Palace.’

  ‘And why’s that… sir?’ Winter had hesitated before adding the sir, still unsure of he came in the embassy hierarchy in relation to Williams.

  Williams loosened his collar, leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head, revealing dark patches of sweat under his arms. He was clearly pleased the younger man had asked the question. ‘All three are where the Stasi like to keep an eye on foreigners. They have very sophisticated surveillance systems in those hotels. But the Palace is where…’ he paused and leaned towards Winter again, lowering his voice once more. He had a lascivious look creeping about him, and Winter caught a full on whiff of alcohol. ‘Have you heard the term “honey trap”?’

  ‘I’m afraid not sir.’

  Williams loosened his collar further. A few beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead. ‘A honey trap, Winter, is when the other side get an attractive young lady to entice you into bed. There have even been instances where they’ve used attractive young men, would you believe. The idea is to compromise you and get information or suchlike out of you: blackmail. They record the whole event, if that’s the right word for it. I’m told the films are most explicit. What some of these women get up to… well, it’s hard to believe.’

  ***

  That was five months previously, in London, a week or so before his posting to the British Embassy to the German Democratic Republic. So many meetings, so many briefings. Now Martin Winter had been summoned to what he had been told was a very important meeting with an Edward Law. ‘Don’t make any jokes,’ he’d been warned.

  ‘Jokes about what?’

  ‘About his name… Law. And whatever you do, don’t ask who he works for.’

  He’d arrived at the building in Holborn which had the names of various obscure Government agencies on brass plates in the doorway. By the time he found the room he was looking for, he felt as if he’d walked to another part of London – down one corridor, along another one, up in a lift and then along a strange tunnel-like bridge that seemed to have taken him into another building altogether. Then more corridors, another lift and then through a series of doors, the last one of which had a man in a dark, shiny suit standing guard. He very politely told Martin Winter he needed to search him, after which Martin was instructed to leave his briefcase with the guard. Martin was shown into a mostly bare room, containing only a long wooden table with two chairs on either side of it. The fluorescent light on the low ceiling made the small room uncomfortably bright.

  It was a good five minutes before the door opened and the man he assumed was Edward Law burst in. He inspected the empty chair to see if it was clean enough to sit on, and after deciding it was spent a minute arranging a file and a notebook on the table, along with a cup of coffee and a couple of pens. Only then did he look at Martin Winter, quizzically at first and then with the very faintest hint of disdain. He had fair hair that came just over his ears and across his forehead, and he was quite possibly younger than Martin.

  ‘Martin Michael Winter. M.M. Winter.’ He spoke with an accent that Martin had come to recognise as public school and Oxbridge. Winter nodded. Edward Law continued to study the file, licking his forefinger to turn over the pages. Winter was surprised at how thick the file appeared to be.

  ‘Born Exeter… only child…parents both teachers, parents are always bloody teachers, eh?… Grammar school… Birmingham University… years?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘What years were you at Birmingham University from? Come on, we’re not even on the difficult questions yet!’

  ‘1967 to 1970.’

  ‘And you studied German, I see...’

  Martin Winter nodded. He wondered if Edward Law was looking at his file for the first time.

  ‘What confuses me, Winter,’ said Law as he closed the file abruptly, ‘is that in all the time you were at university you apparently showed no interest in politics, none whatsoever as far as we can make out. And this covers 1968 remember: Paris, Grosvenor Square riots – all that nonsense. Everyone who was at university was interested in politics then, even the bloody chemists. But evidently not Martin Winter.’ Edward Law had clearly not been looking at the file for the first time after all. Law raised his eyebrows to make it clear that he had just asked a question, and was waiting for an answer.

  Winter shrugged. ‘I just wasn’t terribly interested.’

  ‘So what I need to know is: what were you interested in? Girls… or boys, maybe? That was becoming all the fashion then, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not an awful lot outside of my studies. Cricket, I suppose. I was in the third eleven, bit of an all-rounder – and I was a member of the university choir, but never got beyond the back of the chorus.’ Martin Winter laughed nervously. Law didn’t even smile.

  ‘And I presume you never touched drugs, eh? Teetotal, I presume?’

  ‘I was never offered drugs, and I’m not teetotal. I’ve even been drunk a few times. I expect you’ll find the dates in that file. I’m not sure of the relevance of all this…’

  ‘The thing is, Winter, I am paid to be suspicious, you understand? Now then, if you’d gone and joined the Communist Party of Great Britain or one of its variants, that would make me fairly suspicious. If you’d smoked a few funny cigarettes and gone off the rails – that would make me fairly suspicious too. If you’d withheld your rent for a few weeks because you didn’t approve of what the South African Government was up to or because of what the Queen was wearing at Ascot – also reasonably suspicious. But as for showing no interest in politics whatsoever, and leading such a virtuous life… well that makes me very suspicious.’

  Martin Winter said nothing. ‘He’ll try and provoke you,’ he’d been warned. ‘Ignore it: just play a straight bat, don’t get rattled. And remember, no questions.’

  ‘So you graduated in 1970 with a 2:1 Honours degree and joined the Department of Trade and Industry. From 1972 you were based in the export division, and now you’re about to start a two year attachment to our Embass
y in East Germany which, somewhat paradoxically, calls itself the German Democratic Republic.’

  Edward Law stood up to remove his jacket. When he sat down he had also removed a gold-coloured packet of cigarettes from one of the pockets and was fussing with a gold lighter. He pushed the packet towards Martin Winter, who shook his head.

  ‘Despite some of the questions I’ve been asking you, the purpose of our little chat this afternoon is not to see whether you can be trusted to be sent to East Germany. If you hadn’t passed security clearance in the first place you wouldn’t have got the attachment.’ Law patted the file in front of him. ‘I just want to get a sense of what makes you tick – or not. And most importantly, I need to warn you about some of the dangers you’re likely to face in East Germany.’

  Edward Law paused while he finished his cigarette, dropping the remains of it into the coffee cup. The only sounds in the room were the fizz as the cigarette hit the coffee and the intermittent hum of the fluorescent light.

  ‘This attachment idea of the Foreign Office – plucking chaps like you from the more innocent parts of Whitehall and sending them off to embassies around the world… I don’t know... I can see its attractions, I suppose. But why can’t they send you to less bothersome places? New Zealand, for instance, Canada, Switzerland. But East Germany for fucks sake – what were they thinking?’

  ‘I think it’s because our embassy only opened in 1973 and they feel the export opportunities are ripe, and…’

  Law held up his hand to stop Winter. ‘It was a rhetorical question Winter. I know why you’ve been sent there: it’s an untapped market as far as exports are concerned, and you speak decent German. I’ve read the file. You’re here because I need to give you a warning. It comes in two parts. I hope you’re listening carefully. Part one: resist the temptation to think that just because you’re in East Germany you are a de facto spy. We see it all the bloody time – junior diplomat is posted to a controversial part of the world and the next thing we know they’re making notes of the numbers they see on the side of military vehicles, producing copies of railway timetables and imagining they’re being followed.