Another Kind of Country (37 page)

Miller watched the two older men exchange a glance.

‘I know nothing,’ General Reder said. ‘I just got here.’

‘Not here,’ Dieter whispered. ‘You never know – we’re too close now.’ He pointed at the window, smiled. ‘Coats, outside.’

Miller hurried to get coats in the hallway. Rosa helped the general back into his leather greatcoat.

Almost sheepishly, all of them trooped out of the back door into the darkened garden. In the light spilling through the kitchen window their faces looked pale, tense.

‘What is it, Rosa?’ The general was standing beside Rosa; he took her hand in his.

‘Will you . . .?’ Rosa looked at Miller.

Miller shook his head. ‘You tell it.’

In the end they told it together. It didn’t take long: a few words to describe the scene at the Wall crossing point, the confiscation of Miller’s passport.

‘I’m sure it was Redgrave’s doing,’ Miller said. ‘He’d already threatened me, warned me what my life would be like in a different world if certain files were exposed.’

‘Not just his own files on you,’ Dieter said. ‘The danger to you, Patrick, lies in the Stasi files in Normannenstrasse and in how they might be used against you by Redgrave – by your own side. If I were Redgrave, I’d have already compromised you in some way. All it would take is a note or memo in the Stasi files showing that you’ve delivered some
information, however unimportant, to the regime here in East Germany – that you destroyed the country of your birth as well as your adopted country.’

Miller was stunned. ‘But how – why?’

‘The
how
is easy. You think Redgrave is without a conduit to Normannenstrasse? And putting something in there is not as difficult as getting something out.’ Again the thin smile. ‘As to the
why
, it’s what we do in my world, Patrick, the way we control our assets.’

Words failed Miller. This glimpse into Dieter’s world – Redgrave’s world – revealed a corrupt darkness deeper than any at the top of the surgery stairs. But he also knew he should have expected it.

‘If the Americans and the British succeed in toppling the GDR,’ Dieter went on, ‘one of their prime targets will be the huge cache of files in Normannenstrasse. For two reasons, first to protect their own assets identified by the Stasi – these assets may need protection, they may even have continuing value so it’s going to be important that their identities are not exposed.’ Dieter paused, looked around the darkening garden as if listening.

‘And the second reason?’ Miller prompted.

‘People like you,’ Dieter said. ‘Any so-called traitors exposed in the files will be at risk. We all know,’ he looked quickly at Rosa, ‘that the Americans like to punish those they see as their enemies. It’s not always obvious – sometimes a traffic accident, a sudden heart attack, a fatal dose of food poisoning. If the Americans ever get on your case, Patrick, the best you can expect is to be allowed to go on living while you do what you’re told. And Redgrave will simply follow American instructions. Can you see yourself as a convert who has seen through the very heart of socialism
and now writes propaganda for the rightwing press?’

‘And that’s what
you
would do, Dieter?’

‘I’m sorry, Patrick. I’m just telling you the truth about my world.’

Miller shivered; the darkness had grown icy cold.

‘Can you help us, Dieter? Patrick and I . . .’ Rosa didn’t finish but Dieter and her father both knew that she was speaking of a life she might share with Miller. ‘What are we going to do?’

The Slav cheekbones seemed to sharpen, the thin lips almost formed a smile. ‘We’re going to steal those files,’ Dieter said.

General Reder broke the silence that fell upon the circle.

‘Dieter, we haven’t time for this. It’s the seventh of November, our plans—’

‘We have time, Hans,’ Dieter said. ‘I have contacts inside Normannenstrasse who may be able to lift the files for us.’

Miller was watching them closely.
Soon
, the general had told him: the sound of marching feet, of growling tanks, of gunfire in the German air.

‘So “soon” is almost here, General?’ Miller asked.

General Reder nodded.

‘But we have time to do just this first,’ Dieter said. ‘We’ll have to lift those files tomorrow night or the night after.’

On Wednesday Dieter said there was a slight problem. He had three ‘live’ contacts in Normannenstrasse but one was in hospital, one was on honeymoon and the third had decided to join the throng in the West German embassy in Budapest. The usual thin smile, his hand on Miller’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, it’s on for tomorrow night, the ninth. I know someone who will open a door. He’ll open it because he has no choice.’

Dieter had been gone all day; so had General Reder. They’d left separately, returned separately, then closeted themselves in
the general’s study for an hour. Only silence issued from behind the closed study door.

The TV carried news of further resignations from the Politburo. New appointments followed, fresh promises, new plans to keep the citizens of the GDR happy. From Leipzig came the promise of more candle-lit vigils. Like predators circling a wounded animal, the protesters were growing more daring. Concerned citizens across the land promised more candles, more marches.

Miller wondered about Redgrave’s plans, Herbert Dover’s plans – for Berlin, for the rest of the German Democratic Republic.

Soon
, General Reder had said.

Tomorrow night, a break-in at Normannenstrasse, Dieter had told him when he’d surfaced from General Reder’s study. And he knew someone who’d open a door in Normannenstrasse because ‘he has no choice’.

His own choices,
Miller knew, had also run out.

Thursday, 9 November 1989

West Berlin

‘It’s for you, Herr Redgrave.’

Redgrave looked with distaste at the large-chested German woman who handed him the phone.
Herr
Redgrave indeed. In these Wilmersdorf offices of the service – in the
British
sector of Berlin – one might reasonably expect not to be addressed in the German style.

‘Yes?’ He couldn’t quite keep the irritation out of his voice. Three rooms, a middle-aged civil servant on secondment from Whitehall and a pair of well-padded German matrons in twinsets didn’t constitute much of a secretariat for Redgrave’s organization in Berlin.

‘Yes?’ he said again into the phone.

‘It’s me.’

‘Ah.’ His conversations with Dr Pamela Shearing were often satisfyingly monosyllabic; they were never more than brief and to the point.

‘Something you should know and probably act upon.’

‘Yes?’

‘Our cousins are said to be arranging to collect some excess paper tonight from Norman’s storage
facility and you might like to pop along and pick up our own material.’

‘You’re sure of this?’ Redgrave turned his back to Brunhilde – it was his generic name for all large-busted, blond-helmeted German women of a certain age – and inwardly cursed again the failure of Her Majesty’s Government to supply the Berlin secretariat with sufficient accommodation to ensure privacy.

‘As sure as we can be,’ Dr Shearing said.

If Dr Pamela Shearing said it was so, then it was so: the Yanks were going to try to spirit some files out of Normannenstrasse tonight.

‘Our friend from the white cliffs?’

‘The very same,’ Dr Shearing said.

‘Thank you,’ Redgrave said.

He heard the click of the receiver being replaced in London, handed his own phone to Brunhilde: at least make the Frauen work for the generous salaries paid to them by Mrs Thatcher and Her Majesty.

So Herbert ‘white cliffs’ Dover was planning an excursion to Normannenstrasse. The American was a loose cannon: one moment he’s attempting to rape a general’s daughter, the next he’s raiding Stasi HQ. All the same, Redgrave reflected, the fellow could be devastatingly effective.

Redgrave crossed the landing, looked into the tiny office where the Whitehall secondee was, as usual, engrossed in the records of the costs of running the secretariat.

‘We solvent today, Percy?’

Percy Palmer, low-grade Whitehall secondee, gave Redgrave his usual frightened look. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good show. You couldn’t locate some extra legal tender for us to hire more space and more bodies to keep the show on the road?’
Like the blasted Yanks, a whole army of personnel – even cooks! – over at their intelligence HQ in Tempelhof
. ‘Even a few
tenners might help.’

‘No, sir.’ Percy smiled sheepishly.

‘Carry on.’

Truth was, Redgrave didn’t dislike Percy Palmer. He wasn’t a
complete
liability, and the overseas allowance helped pay to keep Percy’s eight-year-old boy at some prep school that nobody had ever heard of.

‘Any calls for me,’ Redgrave said, ‘you take them.’

‘Sir.’

Salt-of-the-earth, Redgrave thought, not like that prig Miller he’d sent into East Berlin all those years ago. Fellow seemed to have gone completely native over there. He’d be cooling his heels for a while now, without his passport, with crossing restrictions against his name.

Redgrave dismissed Miller from his thoughts, started down the flights of stairs. One of the unintended benefits of the under-funding of Her Majesty’s service in Berlin was that one couldn’t afford an office with a lift; the high and narrow stairs in the Wilmersdorf building helped keep you in shape.

Redgrave’s mind was also in shape. If the Yanks were set on raiding the files in Normannenstrasse, then things were close to breaking point in East Berlin. The Yanks weren’t the only ones who needed to remove files, protect sources – and conceal evidence of collusion with a Politburo that was being rapidly dismantled.

In the event of the collapse of the GDR, God alone knew what chaos might ensue. Gorby might sulk on the sidelines but Kohl, Chancellor of West Germany, might decide to take matters into his own hands. Or Thatcher might decide to pull another Falklands stunt. The only certainty you could entertain was that, as usual, the French didn’t count.

One
could
count on Herbert Dover: an excursion to Normannenstrasse meant that something was
brewing. Herbert Dover didn’t know it but Redgrave intended to be there to share in the brew.

Redgrave stepped out into the street of tall, imperial houses. The air was chill, the Berlin sky low and heavy but snow had not fallen yet. Redgrave checked his watch. Ten minutes after noon, time to grab a bite before presenting himself to Dover. He was looking forward to seeing the expression on the American’s face.

Dieter Jessen thought General Hans Reder’s idea was simply too risky. Rosa was frightened by the general’s suggestion.

‘Please, Hans.’ Dieter spoke softly, almost plaintively. ‘Getting involved in this could jeopardize our plans completely. Suppose something goes wrong and both of us get picked up – who’s going to coordinate our larger plans?’

It was mid-afternoon; the house in Pankow had been electronically swept that morning so they were speaking indoors.

‘And it’s too dangerous for you, Papa.’ Even Rosa didn’t dare tell General Reder that he was too old, too feeble, to play a part in Dieter’s break in to Normannenstrasse.

‘I can be useful,’ General Reder said. ‘I can keep lookout. If we’re questioned, I can speak with the authority of a general of the People’s Army.’

‘And if a general of the army is arrested in the course of a treasonable raid . . .’ Dieter left the rest unsaid. Even Patrick Miller, listening, saying little, stateless Englishman at large, knew that the penalty for treason would be death – and what Gorbachev or Kohl or any other foreigner might say would count for nothing.

‘I have cancer,’ Reder said, ‘or have you all forgotten? Another month, another year – I want to do what I can while I can.’

‘But without
you, Hans—’

‘Without me, Dieter, our group will go on and can still succeed. You saw our leaders the other night in Dresden – d’you think such men need an old man to lead them?’

‘Even so, Hans—’

‘I’m going with you, Dieter.’ In Reder’s easy, determined words Miller felt he could hear the voice of the tank com-mander who had fought – and survived – against impossible Soviet odds on the eastern front. ‘Nobody expects us,’ Reder went on. ‘Surprise is on our side. We’ll be in and out with Herr Miller’s files,’ he glanced at Miller, at Rosa, ‘and those crooked bastards in Normannenstrasse won’t even know we’ve been there.’

His words produced silence. The four of them were seated around the kitchen table: somehow this small, functional room with its domestic machines and cooking utensils had become their war chamber.

‘Then I’m going with you, Papa.’

Rosa’s words seemed to galvanize the three men into a flurry of speech.

‘No.’ The protest simultaneously voiced by General Reder and Miller.

Rosa turned to Dieter. ‘Tell them,’ she said.

Miller saw the look they exchanged, knew that Rosa was reminding the Russian of their flight from Santiago, their journey across the Andes, her mother’s stony grave in the mountains.
I survived that
, she was telling Dieter,
I can help in this
.

‘We don’t need to doubt Rosa,’ Dieter said. ‘She and her father stay in the car to keep watch. Two pairs of eyes, after all, are better than one. We,’ he looked at Miller, ‘will go in together. If my information on Patrick’s file is not
accurate, then both of us may have to do some searching in the stacks.’

Dieter had gone out at dawn and returned by noon with the information that Miller’s file was stored in the British section, in the basement of Block 5; Dieter’s ‘associate’ – a Stasi quartermaster – would be on duty by 4 p.m. The quartermaster would himself open the door – or have the door left open – to the basement at 6 p.m.

‘Agreed, Hans?’

‘Agreed, Dieter.’ You had to know when the negotiating was over, Reder thought. Colonel Kulakov had taught him that in the wastes of the Ukraine, in the ruins of Berlin in 1945.

‘We leave at five.’ Dieter, they all knew, had assumed command. ‘And no weapons.’ He was looking at Reder.