The Berlin Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  Some chap smiles at them in a queue and they think they’re about to run an agent for their foreign service. I blame those bloody James Bond films. Life is not like that. I imagine you’re thinking nothing could be further from your intentions but, I can assure you, things change when you’re out there and you’re a bit bored. So resist the temptation. You’re not being sent out there to spy – you are not a spy. You’re hardly even a bloody diplomat for that matter. Just do your job, play with yourself when you feel the urge coming on – though probably not in the Embassy – and take plenty of good books. Got it?’

  Winter nodded, aware he was blushing.

  ‘Part two: and this is the more serious part. Notwithstanding what I’ve said about you hardly being a diplomat, you will nonetheless be of interest to the East Germans. You could well be a target for them. Williams will brief you once you arrive there, but just keep this in mind. It is extremely easy for you to sit here today and assure me that you have absolutely no intention whatsoever of being a naughty boy, that you’ll keep your trousers zipped up at all times and that you will resist temptation in a manner that would make a monk appear unduly virtuous. However…’

  Law paused to inhale more of his cigarette and leant back in his chair, running his hands through his fair hair.

  ‘It’s easy enough to have good intentions, quite another to keep to them. It is girls you’re interested in isn’t it, Winter?’

  Martin Winter nodded, aware he was blushing again.

  ‘Splendid. Now we’ve all fantasised about our ideal woman, haven’t we? Well, imagine such a paragon approaches you when your defences are down? Very hard to resist, Winter. Happens all the bloody time. Just be aware of it. If you so much as spot the most beautiful girl you’ve ever dreamed of heading in your direction, walk away. Easier said than done, I know. But remember, the East Germans are smart. In our opinion the Stasi are more sophisticated than any of the other East European security services, with the possible exception of the Czech StB.’

  ***

  It hadn’t happened as Law predicted, nor in the way Williams had warned him. She was not the most beautiful girl he had ever dreamed of and he hadn’t seen her heading in his direction, at least not in a way he was aware of. And they went nowhere near the Grand, Metropol or Palace hotels.

  It was the third occasion on which he’d bumped into her, though each of the first two encounters seemed so spontaneous they certainly gave no cause for suspicion. The first time had been in a café on Unterwasserstrasse, by the Spree canal. It was hardly bohemian in the West Berlin sense of the word, but it felt less utilitarian than most other places in the east of the city, and the coffee was almost palatable. He’d been sitting at a bench in the window, overlooking the canal and she’d come to sit next to him.

  What followed was hardly a conversation, more an exchange of pleasantries. It’s cold enough for there to be ice on the canal… you and I are the only people in here not smoking… I’ve walked so far today I feel as if my feet will refuse to go one more step…

  They’d not exchanged names and she hadn’t remarked on his accent, which people usually did. It was so innocuous he decided against reporting it to Williams, as he was supposed to do for all encounters with DDR citizens.

  The second time was a fortnight later, at an art exhibition by the Berliner Dom. It was disused church hall which had been turned into a temporary gallery. One of his colleagues at the embassy had said the exhibition was worth a visit, which was a measure of how little there was to do in this side of the city. He didn’t know much about art, but if you ignored the obligatory paintings of the struggle of the proletariat there were some interesting works, some of which were 17th century. He was approaching the end of the exhibition when they bumped into each other.

  Didn’t we meet at the café by the canal? What a happy coincidence!

  Martin Winter had agreed that it was indeed, and introduced himself.

  ‘So you are American? Your German is excellent.’

  ‘Thank you, but I am British.’

  The conversation that followed was hardly scintillating and her questions certainly not probing. Her name was Clara, and she was a lawyer. She had two children and was divorced. On the days when her ex-husband collected the children after school, she liked to wander around the city for an hour or two.

  They had talked for ten minutes and still he did not think it worth reporting this encounter, although he was aware he should have done. He made a note of it in his diary at work to cover himself.

  A week later, on a Tuesday evening, he had left the British Embassy on Unter den Linden late, close to a quarter to seven. Outside he had paused to button up his coat against the cold and rain, regretting having brought neither his hat nor umbrella but deciding not to go back into the embassy to get one of them. He ought to have headed south to the small apartment he had to himself just off Leipziger Strasse. But he needed to buy some food and there was a place nearby which was almost unique in East Berlin in closing as late as seven, so he turned right and then right again into Neustadtische Kirchstrasse and was alongside the Foreign Ministry when someone walked past him, lightly catching the side of his head with their umbrella. The person stopped, turned round and apologised and he replied to say it was no problem, not to worry.

  ‘Goodness me, it’s you – Martin!’

  He hesitated for a while, struggling to recognise her in the poor light. ‘Ah, Clara! How are you?’

  ‘Where are you going? Didn’t you say you lived near Leipziger Strasse?’

  He explained he was heading to a shop on Clara-Zetkin Strasse, and she said she was heading that way too and would walk with him. It was only later – much later, when it was too late – that he thought about what she had said, and realised he had never told her he lived near Leipziger Strasse.

  By the time they turned left into Clara-Zetkin Strasse the rain had become very heavy and she walked close to him, holding the umbrella over both of them. As she did so he caught her scent. It was strong and even though he was no expert, it didn’t smell cheap. Like her accent, it had a refined quality to it.

  Just before the shop was a turning into Schadow Strasse and she asked him if he would mind accompanying her to the front door of her block. Once there she led him into the block and told him – sweetly but quite firmly – that he should come up to her apartment.

  Some thirty minutes later, he was lying naked on his back on a large bed, still trying to catch his breath. They had already made love once and now Clara was kneeling between his legs doing things he’d only ever dreamt about. He was, despite the very considerable distractions, struggling through a mental checklist to work out whether he had made any of the mistakes either Law or Williams had warned him about. Clara had told him that she was lonely, which was reassuring and also that he was an attractive man, so much more appealing than East Germans. He’d have to report this, of course; he had to do that if he was involved with a DDR citizen. He’d undoubtedly gone further than was permitted. The report would read like one of those pornographic novels which used to be passed around the sixth form common room and he’d probably be sacked for writing it. When, half an hour later, he informed Clara that perhaps he ought to leave he was relieved she seemed happy for him to do so. This was not one of Williams’ honey traps after all: maybe there was no need for the pornographic report.

  Perhaps we can meet again. They had both said that.

  Clara said she would use the bathroom before he left. Martin Winter lay naked on the bed, the sheets gathered on the floor, and feeling satisfied in more ways than one. He had always been shy with girls, unsure how he would perform when the big moment, which he had dreamed of for too long, finally arrived. He was convinced his inexperience would let him down. Now it seemed he had nothing to worry about – on the contrary, it transpired he had a natural aptitude for it. Clara herself had more or less said so, remarking on how skilled he was (you made me feel like a woman Martin!). His feeling of joy in the encounte
r outweighed his doubts about whether he had broken any of Williams’ or Laws’ rules.

  It was feeling which lasted less than another minute.

  ***

  When the man entered the room, Martin Winter was too shocked to react. He remained naked on top of the bed, convinced he was about to be shot or arrested. The man looked well into his seventies, but moved deftly for someone of his age and size. He came over to the bed and threw a sheet over Winter before pulling up a chair and angling it so that he was close to Winters’ face. His own face was heavily lined, but betrayed no emotions. He looked neither happy nor angry. There was no look of disgust or shock. Instead he studied Martin Winter carefully. When he spoke it was in fluent German, but with an accent Winter recognised as Russian.

  ‘You liked Clara?’ he asked, gesturing with his head towards the bathroom.

  Winter found himself nodding more enthusiastically than perhaps he should have done in the circumstances.

  ‘I thought you would. You were eager, weren’t you, eh?’ He winked at the British diplomat, but without smiling. ‘We have photographs, by the way – if you should want a souvenir!’ The man laughed loudly, genuinely amused by his joke. Winter found himself staring at an array of gold teeth. The older man said nothing more for a while, as he removed his heavy overcoat and took a leather-bound notebook from his jacket pocket. From another pocket he removed a pencil, and from yet another a flick knife with a long blade, which he used to sharpen the pencil.

  ‘You’ve not been in Berlin too long, have you Martin Michael Winter?’ He pronounced the three components of his name as if they were one word and his surname as if it began with a ‘V’. MartinMichaelVinter. ‘And they warned you about this, yes? They always do, and people almost always fall for it – even some of our people!’

  ‘Look, perhaps…’

  ‘And what will they do to you, eh? Send you back to London, obviously. And will you lose your job at the Department of Trade and Industry, or will you just be warned? Whatever happens, this is not good for you at all, is it MartinMichaelVinter?’

  The Russian paused, waiting for an answer from. The only sound was of the bathroom door opening and then, a moment later, the front door of the apartment opening and closing.

  ‘Clara,’ said the Russian, by way of an explanation. ‘Now then,’ the Russian was rubbing his hands together and sounding almost jovial – upbeat, even. ‘You will be feeling now that you are in the most terrible predicament, that your career is in ruins, your life too. But it is not as bad as it seems, MartinMichaelVinter. As it happens, you have a choice. If you do as I ask, nothing of what happened here tonight will ever be revealed. Otherwise…’ The Russian spread out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘I want you to be a messenger. That’s all: nothing that will compromise you. You will not be putting yourself in any danger, I am not asking for secrets or information or anything like that. I simply want you to be a messenger. I suggest you get dressed before we talk properly, maybe you’d like to wash too.’

  ***

  The small lounge was comfortable but with a typically East German utilitarian feel. When Winter entered the room, the Russian was sitting on a shiny sofa smoking a small cigar. He patted the space next to him, indicating that Winter should sit down. As he began to speak the Russian leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. Winter moved forward into the same position.

  ‘There is a retired politician in your country, a man called Edgar. Have you heard of him? If it helps, this is a photograph.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. Quite distinguished in his day, wasn’t he?’

  The Russian smiled. ‘I understand he was a Member of your Parliament and retired in 1970. You are so civilised, allowing people to retire like that. My information is that Edgar now lives in a place called Door Sat. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Door Sat?’

  ‘It is a region in England; on the south coast I am told.’

  ‘I think you may mean Dorset. It is a county in the south of England.’

  ‘Not like Siberia then, that’s where our people retire to!’ The Russian laughed, revealing flashes of gold teeth. ‘I understand you’re due to return to England next week for your annual leave, correct?’

  Winter nodded, wondering how on earth the other man knew this.

  ‘You are to go to Door Sat. I will give you Edgar’s address. Be discreet please. Do not let anyone know you are going to visit him, or even going to that area. Do not warn him you are coming. When you approach him, please make sure he is on his own.’

  ‘And what am I to say to him – how do I know he won’t treat me like a complete fool?’

  The Russian stood up and walked to the window, pulling the curtains back just far enough to be able to observe the street below. After a silent minute he allowed the heavy curtain to fall back into place, but remained standing, facing it.

  ‘The first thing you say to him is that Baron Otard is trying to contact him. Baron Otard. It is most important you say this clearly and correctly. Baron Otard. Once he hears that, you will have his full attention, I can assure you. I am now going to give you the details of the message. You must memorise it, nothing can be written down. Once you have given him the message and leave, your role is over; you will have fulfilled your obligation. You can resume your career.’

  ‘And if he asks who gave me the message… are you Baron Otard?’

  The big man turned round, looking exasperated before speaking carefully. ‘Be clear: you are to say a Baron Otard is trying to contact him. That is enough.’

  Chapter 8

  Dorset, England and Hannover, West Germany

  March 1976

  Martin Winter returned to England as planned. He was due in London for the first few days of his leave, for meetings and to catch up with friends, then to travel to Exeter on the Friday to stay with his parents for a week. He told his friends he had to leave for Exeter on the Wednesday, thereby creating a couple of days he wouldn’t need to account for. The subterfuge, he found, was quite exciting. Perhaps Edward Law had been right to warn him about the attractions of espionage.

  On the Wednesday morning he hired a car and headed south. The Russian had given him an address in the small town of Wareham. Just before noon he found Edgar’s house, over the River Frome on the southern edge of the town, on a small lane off the main road to Stoborough. Martin walked to the end of the lane, which had a dozen or so large cottages on one side, concealed behind high hedges and long drives. The other side of the lane was open fields.

  When you approach him please make sure he is on his own, the Russian had instructed, which was easier said than done. If he hung around the lane for too long he would draw attention to himself. He walked to end of the lane again and then, on the way back, allowed himself a few steps up the gravel drive to get a clearer view of the house. On the lawn in front of the house he saw a tall man watching a small dog running in circles. The man looked up.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Winter recognised Edgar as he walked towards him. The older man was eyeing him suspiciously, standing upright with his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘I have a message for you.’

  ‘Oh yes – and who would that be from?’ Edgar was peering beyond Winter, checking he was alone.

  ‘You are Edgar, aren’t you?’ The other man said nothing and just raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘It’s just that the message is for Edgar: only Edgar.’ Winter worried his voice a bit too high pitched.

  ‘Yes, I’m Edgar.’

  ‘The message is that a Baron Otard is trying to contact you.’

  Edgar’s eyes betrayed no hint of shock. He stared at Winter for few seconds, looking him up and down.

  ‘I’m supposed to be taking Harry for a walk. Come with me. We’ll go into the fields. No need to talk until we’re there.’ Edgar spoke in the manner of a person used to giving instructions. They walked along a narrow grassy path on the edge of a ploughed field, the dog haring off in al
l directions, chasing birds into flight.

  ‘I have to ask you who you are, if you please.’ Another instruction. Winter produced the identity card which showed that he worked as a trade attaché at the British Embassy in East Berlin.

  ‘Foreign Office?’

  ‘Department of Trade and Industry,’ said Winter. ‘On attachment.’

  ‘And you were given the message about Baron Otard in Berlin?’

  Winter nodded, unsure whether he was allowing Edgar to lead him into saying more than he should.

  ‘East or West?’

  ‘East.’

  Edgar walked along, hands clasped behind his back, looking down at his shoes. ‘And this was all away from the embassy, eh? No-one else knows about it?’ Edgar paused to remove his gloves and pick up a piece of wood to throw for the dog. ‘Honey-trap, was it?’

  Winter didn’t answer.

  ‘Wasn’t worth it, eh? Never heard of one that was.’

  Winter resisted the temptation to say that it was, actually. ‘The man who gave me the message…’

  ‘… describe him,’ interrupted Edgar.

  ‘Very large chap, but well-built rather than fat if you know what I mean. I would say he is a bit older than you. He spoke excellent German but I recognised his accent as Russian, one hears an awful lot of that in East Berlin. He also made...’

  ‘You’d better give me the message.’

  ‘Will you want to make notes?’

  Edgar looked at him as if he were mad, so Winter carefully explained how Edgar was to get into East Berlin, where he was to go to when he got there, and how to know it was safe to approach the address.