Sam looked across at him, wearing a gentle smile. One that was so much more preferable than the look she sported when she was in action girl mode.
“New York. Now there’s a nice thought.” It was a whimsical comment.
“Why not?” Wolfgang slowed the Kadett down as they approached a roundabout.
“Other than that I should really be back at work tomorrow?”
“But I thought you were now your firm’s girl in Germany? You can’t be in two places at once.” He pulled her leg.
Sam didn’t say anything. She was too busy taking her phone out of her pocket and pressing buttons. Wolfgang remained silent.
“Hi, Frank. How’s it going?”
Wolfgang couldn’t pick up any of the return conversation over the noise of the traffic. He just saw Sam nodding and heard her acknowledge with an, “OK.”
“Look. Could you do some digging for me? There’s a British guy, probably murdered in New York, about a week ago. His name is Ned Donoghue.” Sam seemed to wait to let her friend Frank write this down. “D-O-N-O-G-H-U-E. Yes, that’s right. We think he might be part of the whole play. Wolfgang hacked his machine in New York, only to find that Donoghue was looking at exactly the same sort of thing that Wolfgang was. Energy companies and the like.”
Sam stopped talking for a second and replied to Frank with an, “Uh-huh,” nodding as she did.
“He might be the link as to why Wolfgang was originally targeted. OK?”
There was a further response from Frank, then Sam hung up.
She sighed. She was obviously still in thought.
“Look, Wolfgang. I know you think it’s a waste of time, but let’s do the BStU now and get it over with. We might find something.”
Wolfgang pulled away from a set of traffic lights. Berlin was getting busy, even for a Sunday morning.
“I think you’ll find that Federal Commission for the Stasi Records prefers to be known the name of its current head.” Wolfgang smiled knowingly across at Sam. One up for the German. “I Googled it last night! Whatever, I’m not sure ‘the Jan Behorde’ is going to have any details of actual Stasi members. All it does is hold the old Cold War records the Stasi put together on East German suspects. It’s a working museum, designed to allow any German to see if the Stasi had a file on them. I doubt Bischoff kept a file on himself.”
“You’re probably right, but let’s do this. By then it’ll be lunchtime and, as they say in the films, this whole thing will be ‘handed over to the proper authorities.’ That’s when my boss will get in touch with the BfV. You and I will then have to decide what we do next.” She looked out of the Kadett’s window and, almost to herself, said, “Although I did promise to go straight home.”
Wolfgang let out an “harrumph.” He hated to admit it, but the last thing he wanted at the moment was this thing to end. He pulled up for another set of traffic lights.
“And, if you go back to work tomorrow and nobody else tries to kill us, will you come to New York with me next weekend?”
Sam looked across at him, displaying the biggest smile she had in her armoury. She also, very softly, tapped his leg.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”
Wolfgang stopped the car in the traffic. They were a few blocks from Karl-Liebknecht-Strasse, where the BStU was based. Ahead of them was a group of people with banners and flags.
“What do they say, Wolfgang?”
“It’s . . . a march against the current chancellor. The banners say ‘Chancellor Go to Syria,’ and similar. It’s probably a reaction to her stance on letting in refugees from the East. Fuelled by, I guess, the appalling bombings in Paris a couple of months ago. Feelings are running high.”
Sam craned her neck to get a better view. Wolfgang noticed that many of the protesters had their faces covered. There was a mingling of police on either side of the group, but, so far, it all looked peaceful enough.
“Not all Muslims are extremists. And not all extremists resort to violence,” Sam said.
“True,” replied Wolfgang. “But the more there’s terror, the more xenophobic people will become. And soon, all those people will want appropriate action.”
“And what action is that?” Sam’s tone was harsh. It caught Wolfgang by surprise.
“Bombing Syrian targets. Boots on the ground. That sort of thing.”
“Don’t you think that’s what the extremists want? The more we bomb places like Syria, or invade countries like Iraq, the more everyday Muslims are going to hate us. And, as a result, the more they’re going to support hard-line groups. For every terrorist you kill, you spawn two more. It’s a hopeless strategy.”
Wolfgang was about to say something, but Sam continued. She was obviously on her high horse.
“Name one terrorist organisation since the Second World War that we have actually beaten into submission with bombs and bullets.”
Wolfgang was in unfamiliar territory now. He threw some names out there.
“The IRA?”
“We improved the lot of the Catholic population in Northern Ireland by giving them what they deserved—civil rights equal to those of the Protestants. And then we sat down and had a conversation with the IRA. And, by the way, there were as many active members of the IRA at the beginning of the conflict as there were when we all signed the Good Friday Agreement. We didn’t beat them by fighting and killing them. Actually, our ‘boots on the ground’ just extended the war.”
“The Red Army Faction?”
“The German government agreed to release some members of the RAF if they deescalated their violence. The RAF, which operated in what was then West Germany, was supported, and probably funded, by the Stasi.”
While Sam had been talking at him, Wolfgang had negotiated the crowd—he looked to see if Bischoff was in the group, but he couldn’t spot him. He noticed that as Sam was lecturing him on how to defeat terrorism, she was doing the same. As they pulled up into the BStU car park, he was pleased that eventually Sam had shut up. She looked intently across at the building. It was typical of the Soviet era, concrete, high rise. and very ugly.
They’d checked that the place was open the night before, and so headed straight for the front door and found the information desk. Sitting behind a long white counter was an elderly man. He had a name badge on: Hans Abbing. Open in front of him was what looked like a register; there was a telephone to one side and a single computer monitor and keyboard. Other than that, the entrance to the BStU was unremarkable. Sitting next to Hans was another elderly man. Wolfgang couldn’t see a name tag on the second man. Both were having a convivial discussion about the latest Bundesliga football results—in German. He’d have to do some translation for Sam.
“Guten tag!” Wolfgang got their attention. They both stopped their conversation and returned Wolfgang’s greeting.
Wolfgang then asked them about the latest football and if they knew anything of the protests they had just driven through.
“It’s the chancellor! She’s no good. We’ve let in far too many terrorists already. It’s only a matter of time before we all get bombed out of our homes. We should build a wall between us and Poland to stop them all getting in!”
Wolfgang quickly translated for Sam, who frowned. He was equally frustrated with the elderly man’s argument.
Wolfgang replied. “And we need a secret police to spy on our neighbours to find out if any of them are practicing Muslims!”
The man replied, “Ja!” and then stopped himself. He smiled at Wolfgang, shaking his head.
“Good point, well made, especially here. Please excuse an old man his right to moan.”
“Of course. We live in difficult times.” He turned to Sam as he translated. He faced the men again.
“Do you have a record of ex-Stasi staff here, or just files of those on whom they kept records?”
Hans spoke to his friend next door. No, they didn’t. Sorry.
Wolfgang turned back to Sam and, having translated, raised his hands i
n resignation.
Sam nudged him. “Ask them about Bischoff.” Then she shrugged as if to say “why not?”
Wolfgang did as he was told.
“My father remembers a young Stasi policeman named Bischoff. His first name was Heinrich. Do either of you have any recollection of such a man?”
Wolfgang thought it was the longest shot in history.
The man in front of him looked blank, but his friend took on a completely different appearance. His face seemed to drain of blood, and his mouth curled down at the edges.
Nobody said anything for what seemed like an age. Sam moved closer to the counter.
“Do you know of him?” Wolfgang pressed the friend. In front of the man was an unfinished Sudoku puzzle. He was holding a pencil in both hands. He bent his pencil so far it snapped. The action seemed to wake him from his trance.
“He is a bastard.”
That’s all he said. He didn’t look at Wolfgang; he just stared straight ahead. The colour had not returned to his cheeks.
“Can you tell me more?” Wolfgang’s gaze shifted quickly between the two men. “My father is dying of cancer, and I need to go back and tell him something.”
Wolfgang was a lousy storyteller. He had no idea if what he had just said sounded believable or not.
The man without a name badge continued in German. “There were five of them. Heinrich Bischoff, Luis Schmidt, Lutz Gunther, Ramhart Haas, and Gert Mauning. A special group. We called them the ‘Famous Five,’ which wasn’t without irony. They worked outside the law, what little law there was for the Stasi back in the 1970s and 1980s.”
Wolfgang was quietly translating as the man spoke.
“They took away my brother. He was never seen again. We heard they were responsible for hundreds of disappearances. They used poison. They took people in the woods and shot them. There was a rumour they killed people with their bare hands, they enjoyed it so much.”
“What poison?” Sam interrupted. Wolfgang translated her question.
“Ricin and some other drug. I can’t remember which.”
Wolfgang didn’t need to translate ricin—it was the same in both languages. Sam appeared to step back when she heard the word.
“Who’s we? You translated we heard. How does he know so much?” Sam asked.
Before Wolfgang could relay the question in German, the main attendant answered in nearly perfect English.
“My friend is ex-Stasi himself, but on the administration side. He despised everything they did. He works here for free to make amends for what his organisation did back then.”
Sam quietly replied, “Danke schön.”
“Do we know what these men are up to now?” Wolfgang asked.
The friend spoke again. Wolfgang translated for Sam.
“Schmidt and Gunther are gone. They escaped the country when the Wall came down. Possibly to South America. The other three were all jailed as a result of the inquest, but they were only imprisoned for a few years. They could be anywhere now.”
“Thanks.” Wolfgang looked at Sam. The question in his expression was “what now?”
She shook her head and quietly said, “We should go.”
Wolfgang offered his hand to Hans and then to the badgeless man. They both shook it warmly.
He and Sam had turned to walk out when the second man, among other words, murmured in a whisper, “Die Kirche des weißen Kreuz.”
Both Sam and Wolfgang stopped in their tracks.
Wolfgang turned sharply and interrogated the man. “What did you say?”
“He said ‘the Church of the White Cross.’ The three men are members of the church’s congregation,” Hans, the main attendant, replied.
“Do either of you know where the church is?” Sam stepped in.
Both of the men looked at each other. They knew something but seemed unwilling to say any more. It was as though they had already stepped over a line. They both shook their heads. All of a sudden, Wolfgang thought, both men looked very old indeed.
Sam was about to ask a supplementary, but Wolfgang knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. Not now. Not to these two old men.
He put his hand up to stop her.
“We should go.” He took Sam’s arm and escorted her out of the building.
Somewhere on the Saudi Peninsula
They had beaten him again last night. Up until that point, Tony had thought that he was doing well. His stomach felt better, the swelling on his leg had calmed down, his breathing was no longer laboured, and even his ribs were less sore. However, last night after prayers, two men had laid into him with their feet. They had dragged him back to his cell, thrown him to the floor, and, in broken English, had screamed “Down! Lower! When pray!” Then they had beaten him.
He got the message. They really didn’t need to kick him twenty times to reinforce the point. He was prepared to do whatever they said—anything. Wasn’t he showing enough contrition? Could he do any more? Everything hurt so much when he knelt and bent forward. He was trying as hard as he could.
As he lay there afterward, unable to move, what surprised him was his own reflection on his punishment for not praying correctly. Perhaps they were right. He should try harder and show the correct deference to God. Maybe he’d have done the same if someone had been disrespectful about his religion. Didn’t he deserve it?
As a result of the beating, this morning he couldn’t even think about crawling over to get his food and medicine. They hadn’t kicked him in the head, but anything below the neck had been fair game. Everything hurt. Everything was stiff. So he just lay on his mattress. Yes, a mattress. It was another welcome addition to his ever-growing list of luxuries: coffee instead of weak tea; a change of clothes; a toothbrush; and some dark chocolate, just a small cube, which he had been given with his goat stew and bread yesterday at lunchtime.
He couldn’t move. So, instead, he lay and listened to the wind, which had picked up overnight. Whilst anything before the last couple of weeks was hazy, he seemed to remember that with the wind, came sand. Sand that stung like hail; sand that got into everything: in your ears; up your nose. Sand that forced you to close your eyes—seeing was impossible. When the wind got up, the sand came; so, you took cover and waited for it to abate.
His cell’s window rattled in its casing. His door clunked and banged. At first, the sand that got in through the cracks just hung in the air like an early morning mist. Then it started to settle, the gentle swirling currents in the cell pushing it into a pile in a corner. Dirty sand. Sand that got into everything.
Tony felt very protective of his newly acquired possessions. Sand was bad. It would mess with his stuff! I have to do something!
Even with an abdomen and limbs that screamed in pain and were hopelessly ineffective after the beating, he forced himself off his mattress. Tears rolled down his cheeks as somehow he managed to drag his mattress into the far corner of the cell, away from the accumulating sand. Using his arms to pull himself along, he moved both of his buckets inch by inch, positioning them where he felt they were as far away from him and the growing pile of sand as they could be. Equidistant between him and the intruder. The smell of the slop bucket was sickening. He spilt some on the floor and over his hands. But it wouldn’t do for it to be covered with filthy sand.
He even moved the cassette player and the cassettes, so they were least inconvenienced by the sandy onslaught. The tape had finished. He turned it over and pressed “Play.”
As he flopped back on his mattress, his last act was to place his lovely blue toothbrush under the corner of his mattress, so it was as protected as it could be. Only then, when all was as well as it could be with his world, he thought about resting.
As he lay there watching the dirty sand build in the far corner of his cell, self-loathing was the overriding emotion. He was furious with himself for getting into this position. Why did he choose a career that sent him spying on other people? Why did he even think that it was the right thing to do, to look into
other people’s worlds? What would he do if he thought people were spying on him? He’d be furious! It was diabolical. And why, now, couldn’t he get it right? They were asking him to follow a simple set of rules. Pray correctly. And he wasn’t even able to do that well. What was wrong with him?
He tried to stretch his legs, but they were far too stiff and they hurt too much to allow him to do so. He didn’t deserve to be able to stretch. He didn’t deserve to get better, to be able to walk again, or to lead a normal life.
It was at that point that an unfamiliar picture of a woman with a child came into his head. It was a glancing image, one that immediately wanted to take over, to force everything else into the mire. He tried to focus on it, but it was gone. Lost in the swirling sand.
Self-loathing was gone now. The image had jolted something in his head. Pity soon took complete control. And with pity, came tears.
Falkensee, Berlin, Germany
Sam checked her watch. It was four thirty. They were sitting some one hundred metres or so from where Gert Mauning lived. Frank had e-mailed them his address earlier in the afternoon. He’d pressed the embassy to chase up on Mauning’s brush with the police the previous day at the schloss, and this had been the result.
Well done, Frank.
Until Sam had gotten Frank’s e-mail confirming Mauning’s address, she was at a real loss as to what to do next. She had briefed Jane about the “Famous Five,” and she had also told her of the comment from the man at the BStU, that the five had previous expertise in the use of “ricin and another poison.”
“My God! David!” Jane had said. “Surely, this is more than just a coincidence?”
“There are too many coincidences here, Jane.”
Jane had added that she was just about to file a report to someone in the BfV “they trusted.” She’d put this latest intel into the report. The chief had briefed his opposite number about an hour ago, and the report would fill in the gaps.
“It’s time for you to come home now.”
Had that been a question or a statement? Sam hadn’t known. All she did know was that there was unfinished business here in Germany.
Fuelling the Fire Page 31
