Brandenburg (16 page)

‘It depends how,’ said Vladimir. He had an interesting face, pale and unmistakably Slav, with a good deal of authority in his expression. He took his time to respond and had a rather expressionless young voice. The other two men plainly deferred to him.

‘I want news of my brother. He and his family have been arrested.’

‘And your brother is?’

‘A man who makes films - a broken man who was once a dissident. His name is Konrad Rosenharte. My twin.’

‘And they took his family as well. That’s unusual.’

‘His wife Else is under investigation for violations of emigration laws.’

‘And yet the whole of East Germany seems to be travelling to Czechoslovakia to apply for visas at the West German Embassy in Prague. It’s not difficult to leave. You can even go via Poland if you wish. The GDR is like a sieve at the moment.’

‘She wasn’t even trying to leave the GDR. They’re using her detention to gain a hold over me.’

‘Why would they do that? Your brother is the troublemaker, not you.’

‘I cannot say. But I’ll tell you everything I know if you help me.’

‘Do you have a lot to tell us, Doktor?’

‘Yes.’

Vladimir circled him, with his hands thrust forward in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. Rosenharte took him to be completely ruthless yet also someone whom he might be able to deal with. The KGB could be very useful to him. It was the second intelligence power in the land with a vast station in Berlin and satellites in every major city. Theoretically there to watch over the Soviet Union’s interests, particularly the 400,000 military personnel stationed in the GDR, the KGB also still had something of a supervisory role which had been established after the war when Stalin’s men constructed the East German state. During Rosenharte’s time in the Stasi, Normannenstrasse deferred to the KGB in everything from training to the broad strategy of intelligence gathering in the West. To some extent the Stasi still looked for inspiration from one of the KGB’s earliest antecedents, the Cheka. But while the Chekist spirit was still very much alive in the Stasi, the KGB had moved on from its obsessions with fascists, class enemies and imperialist agents to make a reluctant accommodation with the new Russia of
glasnost
and
perestroika
.

At length Vladimir spoke. ‘Idris is a friend of ours and I trust his judgement, but it’s difficult to see how I can help you. We have no access to people in Stasi jails and they don’t share information with us like they used to before Herr Gorbachev came to the Kremlin. But maybe we can open up some avenues. We’ll see what we can do for you.’ He looked at Rosenharte thoughtfully. ‘Idris said you were interested in a man named Abu Jamal. Now why would you ask him about that?’

‘I wanted to know his relationship with Michael Lomieko - Misha.’

‘Ah, Misha!’ said Vladimir. ‘Everything always comes back to Misha. I repeat the question: why do you want to know about him?’

‘I travel on the train with him to Leipzig, that’s all.’

Vladimir gave him a broad grin and shook his head. ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Rosenharte. I know that you went to Italy a week or two ago because we have done our research on you. I cannot guess at the relationship you have with the Western intelligence services, or whether the Main Directorate for Foreign Intelligence knows what you are up to, but that is why you want to know about Abu Jamal and Misha, is it not? Come on, let’s be straight with one another.’

Rosenharte felt out of his depth, but he did have a glimmer of an insight. Idris must be watching Misha for the KGB. That meant the KGB were interested in Misha’s relationship with Abu Jamal and the Stasi for exactly the same reasons as the British. That could mean the KGB disapproved of East Germany’s support for terrorism.

Vladimir stood with a look of deep contemplation. Then he nodded encouragingly. ‘Tell me your problem, Rosenharte.’

‘This is difficult,’ he started. ‘I have been given hope that if I gain information about Abu Jamal I may be able to get my brother released. The slightest information could help.’

The calculation was visible behind the Russian’s eyes. ‘Abu Jamal is not in the GDR, but we understand that he is returning for consultations at a villa in Leipzig. Is that any help to you?’

‘A villa? Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because I expect an exchange of information. I want you to tell me everything that you pass to your friends in the West.’

‘What is the villa’s name?’

Vladimir approached one of his men and whispered to him. The man left the room.

‘Are you a reformer?’ Rosenharte asked him after a few moments’ silence.

‘Everyone is a reformer today. It is the only way. But the Party in East Germany hasn’t understood this and won’t implement the necessary modernization programme. The writing’s on the wall. Isn’t that the way the Bible puts it?’

‘Not on the Berlin Wall. Honecker says it will last another hundred years.’

Vladimir turned to him. ‘Yes, and the president of the Volkskammer, he agrees with him; the secretaries of the Central Committee, the Minister for State Security and the first secretaries of all the districts, including Dresden, all say the Wall will last for ever. We must take their word for it.’ When a Russian spoke with this sarcastic tone, one could only conclude that the KGB understood that things were changing or had to change. It made him wonder how much of the KGB’s time was spent watching the leaders of the GDR.

The other man came back with a folder. Vladimir spent a few moments leafing through it before flourishing a map, spreading it on a table in the corner and summoning Rosenharte to look him squarely in the face. ‘I am a loyal communist, Rosenharte, and a loyal citizen of the Soviet Union. Understand that. You should know also that I value loyalty in all my associations.’

Rosenharte nodded and looked down at the city map of Leipzig. It was covered with about sixty round black stickers. Some were accompanied by notes in Cyrillic handwriting, others by blank labels. ‘These are the Stasi safe houses in Leipzig. There are seventy-eight in all.’

‘Seventy-eight!’

‘They increase every year. But we no longer have access to the latest information. We have three addresses.’ He pointed to dots around the city centre. Then he turned and gripped Rosenharte’s shoulder with one hand. He was much smaller than Rosenharte and had to look up into his eyes. ‘No matter what complications and intrigues you experience, our help must be kept secret. I will not tolerate you keeping anything back from us. I want to know everything. That is the price of my help.’

‘I understood the first time you said it,’ said Rosenharte amenably. ‘I’m here only to help you any way that I can. I will keep to my side of the bargain.’

‘Good. The girl you were with earlier this evening, have nothing more to do with her. She’s working for the Stasi. I don’t want the slightest hint that you and I are collaborating.’

‘I work with her.’

‘Then keep your distance. And no more episodes like this evening.’

‘There wasn’t an episode this evening.’

‘Good.’ He paused. ‘Make love to that woman again and you’ll regret it.’

Rosenharte nodded.

‘I’m glad we’ve got these things straight. I will find out about your brother, if I can.’

Rosenharte stood for a moment. ‘Sometimes I feel this is like a novel by Kafka.’ He watched Vladimir’s face for a reaction.

‘I don’t read Kafka,’ he said indifferently.

‘So Kafka means nothing to you?’

‘I read him when I was a young man. It seemed juvenile stuff to me even then.’

Rosenharte tried another tack. ‘Have you had me followed? Did you send someone to meet me in Trieste?’

‘Herr Doktor! I didn’t hear your name before last week. How could I send someone to Trieste to watch you?’

‘And you didn’t send anyone to the gallery where I work?’

‘Of course not. Why would I do such a thing? We don’t operate like that.’

The interview was coming to an end. ‘How will I contact you?’

‘You won’t. We will make contact with you in a week or so.’ He paused. ‘If you want to free your family, you must make sure that you keep everything that has passed between us secret. Now go off and read some good Russian authors. Forget the Czechs; they’re too dark for these times of light.’

‘Times of light?’

‘Oh yes, times of light, Herr Doktor, times of light.’ He appraised Rosenharte openly then put out his hand. ‘I will see what I can do for you. Goodbye.’

One of the men gave him a piece of paper and he memorized the three addresses in Leipzig. Then they took him to within a kilometre of his apartment and left him in a wasteland between three huge blocks. It was past four o’clock when he turned the corner into Lotzenstrasse and saw a car waiting for him. He ignored it and kept moving towards his building with the unsteady purpose of a drunk. Before he reached the door, two Stasi leapt from the car and approached him.

‘Identity card please,’ shouted one.

As the man examined it, the other asked where he had been.

‘Trying to get laid,’ Rosenharte mumbled.

‘You should be in bed, old man. No woman would look at you in your state.’

Rosenharte asked if he could go. They returned the card and he shuffled to his door.

He slept much of Sunday and read through his lecture in the evening, making one or two cuts. Very early on Monday he packed a case and made his way to the Hauptbahnhof to catch the first service to Leipzig. As far as he could tell, there was no one following him. The train was late and he drank several cups of coffee while he watched a group of disconsolate Volkspolizei standing round a stack of riot shields. An officer came over to buy coffee.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Rosenharte pleasantly.

‘Negative hostile elements have threatened to disrupt the order of the station.’

‘Don’t negative hostile elements ever sleep?’

‘We have to be vigilant at all times,’ said the officer disagreeably. ‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’

‘Nothing. I am just pleased we are in such safe hands.’

‘Thanks,’ said the man without a trace of irony. ‘Good day to you.’

Rosenharte climbed up to one of the elevated platforms where trains passing through the city stopped. About a dozen people boarded the train. Having secured a seat, he went straight to the lavatory where he washed his face in a trickle of cold water and stared at his reflection. The mirror was scratched with some words which he had to stoop to read:
Glasnost in Staat und Kirche. Keine Gewalt
! - Freedom in church and state. No violence! On the wall the same hand had etched:
Wir sind das VOLK
! - We are the PEOPLE!

Noble sentiments for a piece of vandalism. It was interesting how more graffiti was appearing everywhere.

Dawn came with a chilly, autumnal light that picked out patches of mist lingering over the rivers and lakes. Everywhere summer was in retreat: the trees were on the turn and weeds along the rail track were dead and broken, ready to collapse into the winter earth. Oddly, the coming of autumn always made Rosenharte feel invigorated and full of possibility and, as he looked out on the cows grazing in the heavily dewed pastures of Saxony, a sudden optimism surged in him. Somehow he would free Konnie, Else and the boys.

They reached Leipzig just after nine, having been delayed twice by unspecified engineering problems. At the station there were scores of Vopos in summer uniform and the familiar huddles of men in civilian clothes with no obvious purpose to hand. But no one seemed to be interested in him, and he was able to walk unobserved from the entrance and head towards Karl-Marx-Platz, the place where he had once watched First Secretary Honecker preside over a festival by the Freie Deutsche Jugend - the Free German Youth. He had recoiled from the sight of the dapper little old man in a grey suit, blue tie and red rosette feeding on the youth beneath him, leaching their energy and creativity.

He went to a newspaper stand and bought a copy of
Das Magazin
. Holding it in his free hand, he walked a couple of hundred yards to the Nikolaikirche and entered by a side door, the main door being blocked by construction work. He stood for a few moments in the back row of pews, gazing up at the plaster palm fronds that sprouted from the columns, then moved to a small office at the back of the church where a few religious books and postcards were for sale. As instructed by Harland and the American in their last hour together in Trieste, he bought three cards, all views of the church, signed a visitors’ book with the name Gehlert and wrote, ‘Mine eyes have seen the coming of the glory.’

The first postcard was posted in the door of Number Thirty-four Burgstrasse, bearing the same quotation; the second was left blank between two pilasters under the clock of the old town hall; and the third, inscribed with the words ‘To Martha with love’, was deposited with an unwelcoming manageress at a cafe nearby.

This done, he walked to the Thomaskirche, the imposing church where J.S. Bach once led the choir, and repeated his remarks in a second visitors’ book, signing as Harry Schmidt. Outside, in the thin autumn sunshine, he lit up and read
Das Magazin
. A young couple came up to him wanting cigarettes and the price of a beer. He gave them cigarettes but told them he was broke, which was true.

Harland had told him not to expect Kafka to make contact immediately because this initial procedure was simply a way of announcing himself, and more important, a sign that he had been briefed by MI6. Kafka would make his move only when he was sure it was safe. After about an hour, Rosenharte made his way to the university canteen, for which he’d been sent a meal ticket by the organizers of the lecture series, and ate an early lunch of stew and dumplings. It transpired that he had hit the place at the same time as various university sports teams, all on high-protein diets. He sat among the rowers and their trainers and got himself a second helping, some cheese and a cup of coffee.

By two thirty he was standing at the front of a full lecture hall, with students and university staff crowding the aisles, slightly regretting the meal. He was always nervous before speaking, which was why he took such pains, rewriting and rereading his papers so often that when he came to give them he had memorized the entire text. A long introduction by a professor of philosophy did little to calm him, but then the lights dimmed and an image of a bull from the prehistoric caves of Lascaux in Central France appeared on the screen. Rosenharte let his audience gaze at the bull for a few moments then began to speak, the words that had seemed so stale on the page now coming to life. He talked of the technique, the limited palette of prehistoric man, the conditions in which he painted and the use of such modern ideas as composition, perspective and foreshortening. He felt invigorated, totally in charge of his material and his audience.