by Alex Gerlis
‘So you do know me after all!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Downstairs, you said you weren’t Werner.’
‘I was shocked… the entrance is not a safe place to talk.’
‘Is that all you can say Werner, after four years? You tell me to go? What happened to you? You just disappeared…’
‘My mother was ill.’
‘You told me your mother was in a home in Switzerland, and you rarely saw her.’
‘She was taken ill and I spent time with her before she died. I was so devastated, I…’
‘Seriously Werner, you expect me to believe that? You never contacted me: couldn’t you have at least let me know what was going on?’
He leaned forward, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them up. ‘I know, but look… I also had serious business problems. I managed to lose most of my money and was too embarrassed to contact you. I felt ashamed. I mean, look at this place… and tell me, how on earth did you find me?’
‘I saw you in the street.’
‘Why are you even in Cologne?
‘Do you work in that place Werner?’
‘What place?’
‘The place I saw you coming out of on Innere Kanalstrasse, the BfV headquarters. Were you always a spy Werner? Was that what it was all about – you were spying on me for the BfV? You’re not really Werner Pohl, are you.’
He looked down at the thin carpet and closed his eyes for one moment. The shock of her turning up had been so profound that he hadn’t known what to do at first other than get her into the apartment. Now he was clear what to do.
‘It is much more complicated than you realise Sabine. I’ll tell you everything, but first you tell me why you’re here.’
It was only when she began to reply that he realised she was weeping. ‘Everything has gone wrong Werner, everything. I should have stayed in Aachen, but I went to Düsseldorf a few months ago and got mixed up with the Red Army Faction again, which I didn’t mean to, and then the police arrested me and handed me over to the BfV and they found out my real name and now they’re trying to link me with the killing of that Heinrich Albrecht in Wuppertal and…’
‘Hang on Sabine, slow down. You said the police handed you over to the BfV?’
She nodded.
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘If I tell you, you’ll not be angry? You’ll understand the pressure I’ve been under?’
‘Of course Sabine. You must know I’ve always cared about you.’
‘They interrogated me so hard in Düsseldorf that I’m afraid I told them about you. So they brought me here to Cologne to try to find you. I’d seen you in Innere Kanalstrasse, in July I think it was, and they got that out of me. We had to sit outside your office building in a van with special windows, but when I saw you last night I didn’t say anything, I…’
‘Jesus Christ, Sabine. Jesus Christ.’
‘Please don’t be angry with me Werner: I promise I didn’t say anything when I spotted you.’
Werner’s voice sounded much calmer when he replied. It was as if he was back in control. ‘I’m not angry with you, Sabine. I just need to know what happened. Do they know who I am?’
‘No –I think tomorrow they planned to show me photos of all the men who work at the BfV headquarters, so this morning I managed to escape from them. I hid from them all day and then waited for you near Innere Kanalstrasse, and followed you here.’
‘They could have followed you too!’
‘They didn’t, I’m certain of that. I need money Werner; I won’t bother you after that. Just give me some money, enough to get to Frankfurt, and I’ll find people there to help. I promise I won’t tell anyone anything.’
‘You’re certain they don’t know who I am?’
‘Positive.’
He was now even clearer about what he had to do. He sat next to her on the sofa and put his hand round her shoulder, pulling her close to him, kissing her gently on the cheek and stroking her hair with a degree of affection he’d rarely shown her.
‘Don’t cry Sabine, it will be alright. Of course I will give you money, enough to get yourself sorted out. Don’t worry. But maybe stay here tonight. It will be safer to travel in the morning, I’ll think of a way. I’ve got some money here, enough. We can enjoy ourselves before you go... like old times.’
She was so relieved that she resolved to tell him how she felt about him; she’d come to realise – to her surprise – that she cared about him in spite of herself. She was sure he’d understand, maybe he’d even feel the same and then they could disappear together, though she was aware this was looking at a desperate situation in a perhaps ridiculously romantic way.
She never got the chance.
They’d only been in bed for a minute when he climbed on top of her. She feared he was going to slap her again, and she thought that if she told him now how much she loved him he wouldn’t hurt her. But there seemed to be no need to say anything to him: he stroked her gently on the face and kissed her and promised her he’d treat her well. He’d missed her, he said.
So she didn’t argue when he tied first one hand to the headboard and then the other, promising he was going to be gentle, that he’d never hurt her again. At that moment, she trusted him so much she began to speak. But he placed a hand across her mouth.
Quiet.
Both his hands caressed her cheeks, cupping them before moving gently down to her neck. By the time both his thumbs were positioned on her windpipe and when she realised what he was doing, it was far too late.
Chapter 27
Bonn and Cologne, West Germany
The Wednesday
Early in his career, Edgar had been given a particularly sage piece of advice which had stuck with him. ‘Watch out for questions suspects ask you, they’re far more revealing than their answers to your questions. Answers can be anticipated and rehearsed. Questions tend to be more spontaneous and unguarded: they are more of a reflex.’
The advice had come from an experienced interrogator who had learnt his craft in the Great War. ‘And also watch out for the unasked question. I’ll give you an example. Imagine you tell a man you’re interrogating, “we found something very interesting in your briefcase,” you’d expect him to ask what that was. An innocent person certainly would. But someone who is guilty will avoid asking you what it was, most likely because of course they know what you’ve found, and the last thing they want to do is draw attention to it. This approach is far more effective than saying, “how come we found a map of the Humber ports in your briefcase?” ’
Edgar had woken up confused in the very early hours of Wednesday morning. He was on top of a bed in a Bonn hotel room, dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when he arrived at the hotel just a few hours previously, after spending the evening with Clive Cowley. The few hours’ sleep he’d managed to grab had been fitful and disturbed. Something was on his mind, and as he lay on the bed it became clear what it was.
Clive Cowley: the unasked question.
Cowley’s behaviour the previous evening had been odd to say the least, even allowing for the man’s caseload of grievances. He’d managed to be both helpful and evasive at the same time, and Edgar had been too exhausted to spot the unasked questions. At dinner he’d gently pressed him about Heinz Fleischhauer: how often did Cowley see him?
‘Very rarely Edgar, really not very much I can tell you about him.’
‘I thought you said you’re running him Clive?’
Cowley shrugged and delicately spread a generous helping of foie gras onto a curled slice of toast. So Edgar had let it drop for a while, and talked once more of how well rewarded Clive Cowley would be in the City. Not just well rewarded, well regarded too: appreciated. Cowley liked that, just as he enjoyed most of the second bottle of Pomerol Edgar allowed him to order. He looked carefully at Cowley: eyelids drooping now, slightly rheumy, a lack of focus. When he moved to the next stage of drunkenness, Edgar felt it was safe
to broach the subject of Fleischhauer again.
‘The BfV, are they still based on Innere Kanalstrasse?’
Cowley’s mouth was full and a wine glass was at his lips. He nodded, a bit of foie gras dropping from his mouth and settling on his tie.
‘Last time I had any dealings with Fleischhauer he was living very near there I seem to recall, just south of Innere Kanalstrasse.’
Cowley’s mouth was once again full, but he shook his head. ‘No, no,’ a pause while he digested his mouthful, ‘don’t think he was ever there, other direction actually. Niehler Strasse, just past the park – block on the corner of Kuenstrasse, he’s above a pharmacy, pretty green shutters, like some Black Forest cottage. It’s not too far from Innere Kanalstrasse though. He…’
And then Cowley shut up, stopped in mid-sentence, wiped some crumbs from his lips and filled his wine glass, drinking its contents in one go. He looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry Edgar, I’ve got confused: Fleischhauer lives over in Porz, other bank of the Rhine. What I meant was I always meet him there – on the corner of Niehler Strasse and Kuenstrasse, in a bar opposite the pharmacy. Sorry, all this wine, eh?’
That was what had disconcerted Edgar; it was what he should have picked up at the time. Cowley’s unasked questions: why was Edgar asking about Heinz Fleischhauer? What, for that matter, was Edgar doing in Bonn? Hadn’t he retired? Why had he looked him up? These were all obvious questions, and Cowley had asked none of them. And then he’d made such a mess of telling him where Fleischhauer lived. He should have let that one go. And always meeting him in one location? No-one meets an agent all the time in just one location, not even Cowley.
As he lay on the bed, Edgar remembered Viktor’s warnings. In Berlin in March, he’d warned him to trust no-one on his side and in Budapest in May, Viktor had been far more explicit. Just be careful, especially if you go anywhere near Bonn, which you may well have to. In the last couple of years your embassy there has been the source of very high-grade intelligence… possibly MI6. I can’t be sure, but it is someone there who has links to Goalkeeper.
Up to now Edgar had assumed the double agent to be wary of was Lassiter, always mindful of Porter’s initial description: disagreeable type, a very high opinion of himself, too clever by half… you’d absolutely detest him. Notwithstanding his dislike of the man, he had ample reason to suspect Lassiter.
Lassiter, he had realised after Paget told him about their meeting, was a classic example of the unasked question. Paget himself had remarked how Hugh Lassiter hadn’t shown any emotion when Paget told him Lothar Meier had died and, tellingly, did not ask about the circumstances of his death. And then there was the way he’d enquired about Captain Canterbury. Everything pointed to Lassiter being a double agent, no doubt working with Canterbury and his Nazis.
But Edgar’s certainty about Lassiter had caused him to ignore Viktor’s warning about the Bonn connection. More than one person in the Service was spying for the Soviets. Cowley, he now realised, was almost certainly a double agent too, this time serving the KGB. He was the source in the Bonn embassy Viktor had warned him about.
As Edgar stood under a cold shower he admonished himself. Years ago, despite his exhaustion, he’d have spotted this. He wondered to what extent he’d alerted Cowley: had the slightly drunken behaviour been a mask? They’d been together for around three hours, and Edgar doubted the exchanges about Fleischhauer had taken up more than five minutes of that time. Cowley had been drunk enough to let slip where Fleischhauer lived, covering it up too late with an unconvincing correction, but Edgar must have rung some alarm bells. Cowley would probably get word to Fleischhauer, and Edgar had to assume Cowley would have followed him to the hotel. From now on he’d be watched.
Edgar waited until four o’clock before getting dressed. Despite everything, a sense of thrill settled over him. He’d made some mistakes, but he’d still back himself to outsmart Cowley and the others. He’d paid for the room the night before, so he didn’t need to check out. He imagined Cowley would have the reception area covered, he’d probably already found out that Edgar had booked a six o’clock alarm call.
He edged open the door: the corridor was clear. He left through the fire exit and, once outside, stood for ten minutes with his back to the door, making certain he wasn’t being been followed or watched. He took in the fresh air as he planned his next move. He edged round the side of the hotel. From behind a bush, with no light on him, he could see the front of the hotel, the Rhine glinting behind it. The street appeared to be deserted, but there was a delivery van parked immediately in front of the hotel, and on the other side of the road, a figure in the driver’s seat of a dark-coloured Mercedes.
They’d be waiting for six o’clock, when he was supposed to be waking up. It was now four thirty, and within ten minutes Edgar had walked to the rear of the hotel then through the shadows to his car on Adalbert-Stifter-Strasse. He was sure Cowley had no idea he was parked there, but he sat in it for ten minutes nevertheless, watching the street carefully until he was certain once again that he wasn’t being watched.
***
That same Wednesday morning was the worst of Reinhard Schäfer’s life. They were in Kozlov’s office, the one with the panelled walls, the heavy drape curtains and thick carpet. The large clock, tilted at a slight angle next to the portrait of Leonid Brezhnev, showed that it was twenty to nine. The head of the KGB station was sitting at his desk, playing with a dozen or so cigarettes loose on his desk. For some reason he’d tipped them out of the packet and was now arranging them like toy soldiers.
Schäfer was standing at the front of the desk. He had not been invited to sit which, given his short stature, made him feel especially uncomfortable. Nor had the two people next to him: a man and a woman, both of whom had been among the group following Viktor the previous evening.
‘Let me get this correct,’ said Kozlov. He had now formed a square with four of the cigarettes and was in the process of creating another square alongside the first one. ‘Six of you followed Viktor Leonidovich when he left here yesterday afternoon.’ The couple both nodded. ‘Six of you!’ Kozlov shouted and banged his desk, squashing a cigarette. ‘You followed him to a bar in Marx-Engels-Platz you say. Do we know anything about this bar?’
The three people standing in front of the desk looked at each other. The woman replied. She was German, on secondment from the Stasi. Schäfer had had high hopes for her, but suspected the end of her secondment was now imminent.
‘It’s a small basement bar sir. An older clientele, popular with people who fought against the Nazis.’
‘Huh, can’t be very busy then,’ said Kozlov. The cigarettes were now being formed into a series of triangles.
‘When the subject entered the bar, Wilhelm and I followed him down there. I instructed two of the others to watch the main entrance and the other two to go to the back, in case there was a rear exit. As far as we could ascertain sir the bar comprised just the one room, with the stairs the only way in or out. The subject remained in the bar for over two hours, drinking and talking with various people, most of whom he seemed to know. Then he vanished sir. One minute he was talking to a very large man who had his back to us, and the next minute he was gone. We waited a few minutes; we assumed he’d moved towards the counter, where it was quite crowded. When we realised we couldn’t see him any longer we moved over to the counter, but he wasn’t there. We questioned the large man who we’d last seen talking to him but he said as far as he could recall, the subject had just walked away.’
‘Who was this man?’
The woman checked her notebook. ‘A Max Lazerowitz sir, an address in Friedrichshain.’
‘Lazerowitz you say? Typical…’
‘Once we realised the subject was missing we instructed everyone to remain in the bar. I went upstairs and alerted the others. Wilhelm and I then searched the place. Near to where the subject was last seen, with Lazerowitz, was a small door in the wall which led through to a cellar. This led to o
ther cellars and eventually to an exit on Dircksenstrasse.’
‘And I assume none of you idiots,’ the last word was shouted with particular feeling, ‘saw him in Dircksenstrasse?’
The man and the woman shook their heads. Schäfer sighed and looked away from Kozlov.
‘And the woman –Irma?’
‘She left the embassy at four o’clock through the back, into Behrenstrasse. We were going to follow her but then Viktor Leonidovich left a couple of minutes later through the front. There were only four of us at that point – the other two joined a few minutes later – and I felt we all needed to follow Viktor Leonidovich as he was the priority. I called for help and told them to pick her up near their apartment, but she never got there.’
Kozlov slammed the table again, disturbing his cigarette arrangements. From under the desk he produced a bottle of vodka and poured himself a glass. ‘You’re fucking amateurs, fucking amateurs. The oldest trick in the book and you fall for it like you’re at kindergarten! Leaving from separate exits to confuse you, her not going to where you assumed she was going… When this is all over I’m going to have this written up as a case study in how to fuck up following an elderly couple!’
‘I’m afraid, Piotr Vasilyevich, there is some further bad news.’ Schäfer was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Once we realised we couldn’t find either of them I ordered the records for all the border crossings to be checked. A woman matching Irma’s description crossed at Bornholmer Strasse at a quarter to five yesterday afternoon. She had Federal Republic papers and…’
‘How can you be sure it was her?’
‘We have since seen photographs, it was definitely her. She must have gone to Bornholmer Strasse straight from here with false papers. I wasn’t aware she was not being followed. However, the good news sir is that Viktor Leonidovich did not pass through any of the crossings…’
