Brandenburg (41 page)

‘You’ve gone all the way to the river and you haven’t put up your rod yet,’ said Apsley.

This brought a snarled comment from Macy Harp up front. ‘There’s a view in Century House that there’s nothing in the world that doesn’t benefit from the application of a fishing metaphor.’

The two BND men simply shook their heads.

At four the watchers reported that the villa received a visitor, a young woman in a headscarf and a dark raincoat who approached the two Stasi men at the front and offered her identity card. Harland knew it must be Kafka’s contact.

‘Kafka’s got some bloody balls doing it right under their noses in a Stasi safe house.’

The woman hurried away shortly afterwards. Through the window, Kafka was observed picking up the phone, speaking for a few seconds and replacing the receiver. She then put on her coat and turned off the lights. A minute or two later she was seen on the street outside hurrying towards the centre of Leipzig.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ said Macy Harp. ‘No white towel; no bleedin’ Arab. We might as well go and join their effin’ peace demo.’

A second hurried conversation ensued with London, during which it was decided that the only course was to wait. Mike Costelloe said they had separate reports that hospital beds were being emptied in the city to cope with a large number of casualties. This could mean that Abu Jamal would be required to give up his bed.

Harland hung up. It was 4.20 p.m.

The middle part of Rosenharte’s day was spent talking to Kurt Blast and smoking too much for his own good. At noon, after they’d had several beers, Kurt leapt up and started rifling through his record collection. He selected a boxed set of J. S. Bach’s Christmas Oratorio and showed it to Rosenharte.

‘This is appropriate for two reasons,’ he said, holding the record sleeve in his long, slender fingers as though it was a dish of food. ‘First of all, it’s two hundred and fifty-five years since it was first performed here in Leipzig. Second - and this is the most important reason - Bach did not favour either of the two big churches: he composed the Oratorio for both of them. The first part was played on Christmas morning in the Nikolaikirche, with a performance at the Thomaskirche in the afternoon. The second part opened in the morning of the twenty-sixth of December in the Thomaskirche and was repeated in the afternoon in the Nikolaikirche.’

‘Impressive,’ said Rosenharte, wondering anew at the extraordinary man he found himself with.

‘Bach alternated between the two churches until January the sixth, the feast of the Epiphany, when the last part was played in the Nikolaikirche.’ He darted a look at Rosenharte and his eyes danced with pleasure. ‘I see Bach hurrying between the two churches with his assistants in the dead of winter - snow on the ground, choirboys sliding along in their surplices, musicians and singers clutching their wigs with their instruments borne along by servants in gaiters.’

He stopped, put the first disc on the turntable and bent down to blow some fluff from the needle. ‘The Nikolaikirche was really the centre of it all because of course it’s the church of Christmas. You know, Saint Nicholas?’

He had a tendency to lecture his audience, which Rosenharte recognized in himself. ‘You know a lot about it all,’ he said.

‘A little. But you see the relevance now! The two churches are to be united this evening. In fact, all the main churches are going to be open so as many people as possible can attend the peace prayers.’ He placed the needle on the record and the Oratorio opened with the chorus:
Jauchzet frohlocket, auf, preiset die Tage
- Christians be joyful, praise these days.

They listened to the first two sides before leaving the house and walking briskly to a bus stop. On the way, Rosenharte spotted a phone box and dialled Vladimir’s number in Dresden. A Russian answered but it wasn’t Vladimir. Without waiting to be put through he said, ‘This is Rudi. It’s
all
happening in Leipzig this evening. You understand?’ and hung up.

They took the bus and arrived outside the hospital on the south-east of the city at 3.30 and headed for the Georgi Ring, the road that encircled the heart of Leipzig. Kurt had done his best to tone down his appearance with a black overcoat that covered the tops of his boots. He had also cut a bleached inch from his Mohican and removed some of the rings from his ears. Yet still he drew some odd looks as they went and it was plain that some of the young soldiers forming up in the side streets wanted to teach him a thing or two about order and self-discipline. Rosenharte suggested they wait until after four o’ clock before crossing the ring road and making for the church. They stood at a street corner, where they were joined by a man who had a small transistor radio pressed to his ear. He lowered the set so that they could hear the hourly news bulletin. A declaration had been made by some of the Party’s cultural figures, such as the director of the Gewandhaus orchestra, Kurt Masur and a cabaret artist named Bernd Lutz Lange, both of whom it seemed carried weight with Kurt Blast. The presenter read out the joint appeal twice with studied neutrality. ‘We are full of concern about the developments in our city, and we are looking for a solution. A free exchange of opinion about the continuation of socialism in our country is needed. This is why the undersigned promise everyone to use all their power and authority to ensure that this dialogue is held in Leipzig and with our government. We urgently call upon you to be careful and thoughtful so that this dialogue can take place.’

It seemed to Rosenharte an awkward statement, hanging with respectful reticence midway between support and the condemnation of
Kampfgruppenhundertschaft
- the armed units of the working class that had called for violent suppression in one of the newspapers. Still, it was astonishing that such a thing was being read out on state-controlled radio; unthinkable a few weeks before. He wondered aloud whether the Party had approached the liberal and well-respected Masur, or if it had been his idea. Kurt Blast said it had to be Masur’s suggestion: the Party was too stupid to think of it.

They waited until 4.15 listening to the radio, then began to walk towards the church.

It wasn’t just the absence of rush-hour noise - the buses and trams having been taken out of service - or the massive presence of the security forces; there was something profoundly different about Leipzig which Rosenharte likened to a sudden leap in barometric pressure, or the peculiar heaviness that silences birds before an electrical storm. The people now making for the churches had evidently taken all their courage in their hands, many leaving families without knowing if they would return in a few hours’ time. By far the greater proportion was young, but even so, the act of opposition to the state was a big step. They were sombre, yet also unburdened, because it was clear that something would be settled that night, that an outcome, one way or the other, was imminent.

They reached the church after twice dodging plainclothes Stasi asking for identity cards ahead of them, and struggled through the press of people around the door to find Ulrike standing just inside, gesturing and shrugging to a group of men. Her eyes lit up when she saw him. She continued talking for a few minutes, then broke away, putting her hand to her lips and wishing them all good luck and peace. Not for the first time Rosenharte sensed her ability to switch on a different part of herself.

‘It’s over,’ she said as they hurried up the stairway, her fingers digging into his arm. ‘Don’t you see? It’s coming to an end.’

He said nothing because he didn’t believe her. But he smiled a truce and searched her eyes. Had they stormed the villa? Or was the Arab still safe in his hospital bed? She shook her head as though to say that everything he wanted answered would have to wait until later.

They climbed to the first gallery and when they had settled in the beautiful old painted pews she popped her head over the parapet. ‘Look, the entire Party membership is down there. They’ve been here since two thirty. That’s why we can’t sit there.’

‘What’s going to happen?’ whispered Rosenharte.

She bent towards him, her eyes darting around the congregation in the upper gallery. He could smell her hair.

‘My informant says Krenz was persuaded by the argument. They are sure. But there’s a rumour that the orders were given out by the Minister for State Security anyway. These may have been countermanded, but we don’t know for certain. We do know that the Stasi are all carrying weapons, and that armed reserves are to be held so they can be used at a moment’s notice.’

He moved closer so he could speak directly into her ear. ‘What about the Arab?’

‘He hadn’t returned by the time I left, so I guess your friends are just going to have to wait, or postpone the whole thing. But that’s not our problem now, is it? We’ve done what we can. I have led them to him. All I know is that I will never see the inside of that villa again. That part of my life is finished.’

‘I’m glad,’ he said. She had deceived him about the presence of Abu Jamal in Leipzig and her attendance on him. What else was she concealing? How much could he trust this woman?

All eyes had turned to the front and a sudden calm settled over the congregation as one of two pastors got up, greeted the packed church and began to read. ‘Jesus said, “Blessed are the poor,” not “Happy are the wealthy.” Jesus said, “Love your enemies,” not “Down with your opponents.” Jesus said, “Many who are now first will be last,” and not, “Everything stays the same.”’

It seemed a little simple to Rosenharte but it was the essence of the protest. The pleasure of watching the Party officers having to listen easily compensated for any doubts he had about the sentiments. Prayers followed. The appeal for calm from Kurt Masur and the Party was read out. On the second hearing Rosenharte wondered if in fact it contained a coded permission to demonstrate. Perhaps what was happening behind the scenes was a dialogue in which the voice of the people was gradually prevailing. It was on this theme that a preacher named Wendell spoke. ‘The reforms will come if we allow the spirit of peace, calm and tolerance to enter us. The spirit of peace must go beyond these walls. Take great care you are not rude to the police officers. Be careful that you don’t sing songs or chant slogans that could provoke the authorities.’

It might just work, thought Rosenharte.

At 5.10 p.m., one of the watchers on the far side of the villa reported that a car had drawn up and a man in an overcoat had been helped from the front seat. He wore a cap and carried newspapers and a folder under his arm. A nurse accompanied him inside and stayed for about half an hour, during which she made him a sandwich and set it on the table with a glass of milk.

An identification was made in the interval between the man lowering himself heavily to the chair and the nurse walking to the sliding window and drawing the curtains before leaving. He was still wearing his cap and a straggly beard covered his chin, but it looked very much like Mohammed Ubayd, better known to the world’s intelligence services as Abu Jamal.

Three clear pictures were taken as he faced the window in those brief seconds and were received on the new portable Apple Macintosh that Harland had borrowed from Griswald unused. He attempted to send the pictures via the Inmarsat phone to London, but failed each time. Eventually Mike Costelloe left it to Harland to decide whether they’d got the right man.

‘This is the cove we’ve been watching, for heaven’s sake,’ said Harp. ‘We all know it’s him. Let’s get on with it.’

Harland rubbed his chin. ‘It would suit them down to the ground if we lifted some poor bloody sod they’re using as a double.’ He reached for a briefcase where there were two black and white shots of Abu Jamal, and held them alongside the computer screen. The first had been taken in Syria in 1982 and showed him smiling to a female companion as they left a house in the suburbs of Damascus. The more recent picture was snatched by the BND at Lake Balaton in Hungary, where Abu Jamal holidayed with another lady friend while using the name of Mustapha Riffat. This was in 1986 and there were no signs of the kidney and liver complaints for which he had been receiving treatment in Leipzig’s university hospital at the time. The man in the villa was puffier around the jowls and had dark rings under his eyes. Yet there was still much in the line of the eyebrows, the shape of the nostrils and, more important, the force of personality betrayed in his eyes, which made Harland call London and tell them Samaritan was going ahead.

At 5.55, Harp and Harland transferred to a dirty cream-coloured Lada saloon while a BND agent named Johann Horst climbed into the driving seat of the truck. Both vehicles rolled to the end of the street without turning on their engines or lights. Ahead of them was the gathering darkness of the oak woods, wedged into the city from the south. Everything seemed clear. Harland listened to the watchers reporting in for the last time. A shadow against the mesh curtains had told them that Abu Jamal was still in the main downstairs room at the table reading. Four of the BND team were in the garden at the rear of the villa. Having fed a tiny microphone into the room through a hole bored in the window, they were now quite sure that no one else was in the house.

Harland nodded to Harp, who flashed his headlight at a truck that moved off ahead of them. Five minutes later Harland said, ‘Right, let’s get on with it, shall we?’

Because of Abu Jamal’s obvious infirmity, Harland had decided that it would be hopeless to try to remove him over the fence and into the park. They would have to enter and leave through the main door, which meant that the most risky part of the operation would take place the moment they arrived in the narrow road in front of the villa.

It took seven minutes to reach the street, at which point Harp cut the engine and turned off his lights. Harland pressed his fingers to the earpiece. Two members of the BND who had been hidden nearby were now approaching the Stasi car parked directly under a streetlight opposite the villa. One bent down and showed his ID card. Harland heard the surly response of the driver in his own earphone. The second BND man approached the passenger side and made a gesture for the man to wind down his window. At this, both men covered their faces and sprayed the inside of the car with aerosol canisters. The gas acted immediately and the Stasi officers slumped forward. Harland knew that the additional dose of flunitrazepam, now being administered by a jab in the arm, meant they wouldn’t wake until six the next morning at the very earliest, by which time they would find themselves deep in the countryside with a couple of flat tyres and a bust distributor.