Stasi Child (15 page)

‘Well, as you know, we’re at a dead end in terms of identifying the girl. There’s nothing that’s a match in the missing-persons’ files. Well, other than the girl we already ruled out from Friedrichshain, and some possible girls from the West – but we have no way of chasing up those leads.’ Müller paused, and searched Jäger’s eyes for a flicker of a clue, but he wore his best poker face. ‘We’re examining her clothes, of course. And uniform officers from the People’s Police are trying to pin down exactly what sort of ink was on her fingers. They’re also checking the movements of known sex offenders, particularly ones with a predilection for –’

‘You don’t have to spell it out, Karin. In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t. I get the gist.’

The use of her first name briefly derailed Müller’s train of thought. ‘But we have made significant progress with the tyre tracks. I know it might seem at first glance to be a bit of a wild goose chase, but I feel if we can locate the car that was at the scene, then possibly we may find new clues to help us to identify the girl.’

He frowned. ‘I’m not sure that is the way forward. It risks the danger of your taking the investigation in the direction which I’ve already warned you you cannot.’

Müller held his gaze. ‘It’s solely my intention to try to identify the poor girl involved. I’ve already given you my word about that.’ Müller knew she was lying to him, lying to herself. But she got the feeling that for all his protestations, Jäger wanted this case solved just as much as she did. In
all
respects. ‘There is, however, a serious problem,’ she continued.

Jäger sighed. ‘And what’s that?’

‘As you’re aware, our inquiries show that those tyre marks are from a Volvo . . . a Volvo limousine. Our first thought was that perhaps it was a car linked to senior officials in the Republic.’

Jäger cocked his head to one side quizzically. ‘But you’ve discounted that, I take it? And how exactly did you discount it?’

‘Through our inquiries.’

Jäger frowned. ‘I hope those inquires didn’t involve the faking of a tipper truck losing its load of sand in Lichtenberg?’ Müller felt her face redden and her heart rate increase as Jäger challenged her, his eyes locking onto hers. She didn’t answer, just dropped her gaze. ‘I heard about the incident,’ said Jäger, more gently. ‘I knew immediately it was you and Tilsner. It was a very stupid thing to do. If you wanted to check that information you could simply have asked me. I want to make it clear to you that if you exceed your authority, if you break the rules, then the consequences for you will be very severe. You already know this is a sensitive inquiry, otherwise the Ministry for State Security would not be involved. So be careful.’

‘Yes, Comrade
Oberstleutnant
,’ she said, shamefaced.

Jäger’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘However, I did find it quite amusing. Now, there was something you wanted to ask me, and you still haven’t.’

Müller nodded. ‘It concerns the limousine. Once we’d established it was unlikely to be from the East, we checked at the crossing points to see if any suitable vehicle had crossed from the West.’

‘And did you find one?’ asked Jäger.

‘Yes. There was one that crossed the night before the girl’s body was found at
Grenzübergang
Bornholmerstrasse. Two male occupants, allegedly taking the limousine to a friend’s wedding in the East, but it was travelling on fake plates.’

Jäger sighed. ‘So does that mean we can’t trace it?’

‘Well, we think we may have located it. We’re only aware of one in the whole of West Berlin. It’s owned by a wedding hire company, so –’

‘So you want me to authorise, or arrange, an operation to recover that vehicle?’

Müller nodded.

‘That’s possible, of course. But it will be difficult. I will have to –’

Jäger suddenly pinched her arm through her coat. She was about to ask him why, then saw a man in a leather jacket approaching them. He looked as though he was going to come right up to where they were sitting on the fountain wall, but then diverted, to walk round behind them, through the arcade at the back of the fountain. When she was certain he was out of earshot, Müller asked: ‘Do you know him?’

The Stasi lieutenant colonel nodded slowly. His face looked ashen.

‘He’s a Ministry for State Security agent. From Department Eight. My department.’

‘Your department?’ asked Müller, her voice laced with incomprehension.

Another nod from Jäger. ‘It was a message to us, or rather to me. I did warn you, Karin, that this could get complicated.’ Jäger sighed, and started to get to his feet. Müller did the same, slapping the back of her coat to get the snow off, and to try to force some warmth back into her frozen thighs. ‘From now on,’ he said, ‘be very careful about ringing me. Just wait for me to get in touch. Do you understand?’

Müller nodded twice in assent, then looked over the Stasi officer’s shoulder to the arcade, where the agent still lingered. The fairy-tale fountains had now taken on a far more sinister air.

19

Day Nine.

Marx-Engels-Platz, East Berlin.

Waiting in the office for Jäger and Tilsner to arrive, Müller wiped the sleep from her eyes. In the reflection of her face in the compact mirror, she noticed her finger shaking. Too many late nights, too much vodka and too much arguing with Gottfried.

After the meeting at the fairy-tale fountains, Jäger had worked fast, summoning her to a briefing at the Marx-Engels-Platz office at eight o’clock in the morning.

The door to the main office crashed open. It wasn’t Jäger, but Tilsner.

‘What are you doing here on a Saturday?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were spending the weekend with Koletta?’

Tilsner smiled enigmatically. Then the door swung open again before Müller had a chance to quiz him further; there was Jäger, looking as fresh and fit as he usually did, and nothing like she felt.

‘Morning, both of you,’ said the Stasi
Oberstleutnant
. ‘I trust you slept well?’

Müller hadn’t, but she nodded all the same.

‘I’ve got the necessary authorisations for the operation, but securing the manpower was more difficult.’ Jäger pulled up a chair at the long table under the noticeboard and urged the two detectives to do the same. Müller watched him glance up at the photographs of the girl’s body which were pinned on it, before he gave a sad shake of his head and reached into his briefcase. ‘I was hoping that the Main Intelligence Directorate – with which I have close links – would have been able to supply us with agents to go over to West Berlin and secure the car. They’re the foreign intelligence specialists and would have had the necessary experience in operating there. Unfortunately, at such short notice, they couldn’t spare anyone.’ He passed over two sets of documents. ‘So you two will be going.’

Müller frowned at Tilsner. Neither of them had experience operating in the West. But her deputy simply shrugged and smiled as Jäger continued. ‘These are the authorisations you’ll need to show at the Republic’s checkpoints.’ Then he reached down into his bag again, pulling out two small forest-green booklets. ‘And these are your West German passports.’

Müller saw the same eagle, flexing its wings, as there had been on the Federal Republic’s missing persons’ file. She read the accompanying words:
Bundesrepublik Deutschland Reisepass
. She picked hers up and flicked through it. A People’s Police ID photo from a couple of years ago had been used as the passport photograph, presumably taken from her police file. She looked at the name:
Karin Ritter
. Then did the same with Tilsner’s:
Werner Trommler
. She felt a sense of relief. At least they wouldn’t have to pose as a married couple.

Jäger seemed to have read her thoughts. ‘No, you’re not married.’ He laughed. ‘But you are about to be. That’s why you’re hiring the limousine. For your wedding.’ He met her eyes. ‘So you will have to pose as a couple. Is that going to be a problem?’

Tilsner laughed. ‘Of course not, Comrade
Oberstleutnant
.’

Müller scowled.

Jäger handed each of them an envelope. ‘Some West German marks. You’ll need them to go shopping for things for your wedding and forthcoming marriage – and also to pay for the car hire and a deposit. But don’t get any ideas. Everything will need to be accounted for with an expenses form, and everything will need to be brought back to the Republic. The items you buy will be useful for our agents when they’re operating abroad in the future. Each envelope has a list of what you should buy, and where from. Please don’t deviate from it.’

Under Jäger’s watchful eyes, Müller opened her envelope and read the list. Specific brands and shops were typed out. Müller felt herself blush as she saw the list of women’s underwear she was expected to purchase – along with prices which would have bought ten times as many items in the East.

‘How long will we be staying in West Berlin?’ she asked Jäger.

‘One day only, I’m afraid. That should be enough time. You will however have a hotel room in which to freshen up. And – before you ask – you will have separate rooms.’

‘So we’re not allowed to get some practice in before our wedding night?’ Tilsner chuckled.

‘It’s not a joke,
Unterleutnant
,’ scolded Jäger, his voice as close to anger as Müller had yet heard. ‘This is a serious operation, and seems at the moment – in the absence of any leads to identify the girl – our best hope of securing some evidence, something, to build up a clearer picture about her.’

‘My apologies,
Oberstleutnant
.’

Jäger, his face serious, nodded in acknowledgement. ‘You’ll be travelling in a Mercedes owned by the Main Intelligence Directorate, on false West German plates. Try not to get involved in any traffic accidents or anything like that, or it may blow your cover. Drive carefully and slowly. Don’t be seduced by the extra power it has compared to your usual Wartburg. One of you will have to drive the Volvo limousine back to the Hauptstadt tonight, and the other will need to drive the Mercedes. Are you both OK with that?’

The two detectives nodded. Müller was a nervous driver, and always let Tilsner take the wheel whenever possible. He could have the limo, and she would drive the Merc. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

‘And you will be wearing western clothes, appropriate to your status as an engaged couple about to be married. I have the clothes in a bag in my car outside which I’ll give you in a moment. We checked your sizes from your personnel files. Again, they’re borrowed from the Main Intelligence Directorate. It goes without saying that we’ll need them back at the end of the operation.’

Müller glanced at Tilsner. He looked unperturbed: clearly it didn’t bother him as much as it did her that the Stasi appeared to have unfettered access to her
Kripo
employment record. But then there was his watch, the other luxury items she’d noticed in his apartment. He had access to extra money from somewhere. Was it from working on the side for the Ministry for State Security? It would explain why they’d been allowed to go to West Berlin without an obvious Stasi chaperone. Jäger’s protestation that there were no agents available had rung hollow. Perhaps there was one available, and he was accompanying her: People’s Police
Unterleutnant
Werner Tilsner.

20

Nine months earlier (May 1974).

Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost, Rügen.

I hear the sea, the waves crashing, and in my head I’m at Oma’s campsite house in Sellin. She’s whispering to me. Telling me it’s time to get up. My eyes open. She’s there at my bedside, but seems so much older. I try to raise my head. She shushes me. And then I remember. I am not a little girl at Oma’s. For some reason she is here visiting me.

A woman in a white coat enters: a nurse with an array of medicines on a metal tray.

‘She’s awake,’ says Oma. The nurse walks over and takes my pulse, then urges me to open my mouth and places a thermometer under my tongue. My head feels as if it is full of cotton wool. I can’t really get my thoughts straight. I glance towards the window and see the bars. They trigger a memory.

Suddenly I’m pulling the thermometer out of my mouth. I throw it to the floor and begin shouting, crying. ‘Beate. Beate. I tried to save her. I really tried, Oma.’ My grandmother strokes my head, as the nurse prepares an injection. ‘Where is she? Where is she? She’s not dead, is she?’ Then a pinprick in my arm as the nurse holds me down. My head feels heavy. Someone answers my question but it doesn’t register. I try to ask them to repeat themselves but the words won’t come. A deep, drugged sleep pulls me under.

Another voice at my ear I recognise, but this time I don’t want to open my eyes. I try to turn away from the voice, but hands move my shoulders back round.

‘Irma, we need to talk to you.’ The detestable voice. Richter’s voice.

I open my eyes and realise I’m not at Oma’s. I’m not in hospital. I’m in the sanatorium of
Jugendwerkhof
Prora Ost, and in my vision is the face of Frau Richter. Behind her, on a chair in the corner of the room, is her one-eyed, scar-faced boss, Director Neumann.

‘Where is Beate?’ I ask her. I’m surprised how weak my voice sounds. ‘Is she safe?’

Richter nods. ‘The fire brigade managed to bring her down.’

I’m so relieved that I can feel tears welling up. I try to fight them back by thinking of something else. I try to move my legs, wiggle my toes. Everything seems fine except the fog in my head that won’t let me think clearly. The elation of knowing that Beate has survived is tempered by the knowledge that both of us are still caged in this hellhole.

Neumann stands up now, so both he and Richter are in front of my eyes. ‘You are alright, Irma, but what you did was very stupid. Your friend survived, but no thanks to you. You could have killed yourself and her. That’s a very serious matter.’ The words soak into my cotton wool brain, producing no reaction. All I care about is that Beate is alive. I try to turn away from him, but Richter pulls me back. ‘Now, we are prepared to overlook all this, just this once,’ he says. ‘But you must never tell anyone about what happened. As far as your grandmother or anyone else is concerned, you simply had a fall when you were acting the fool. I don’t want to hear anything about Beate’s prank. Ever. Do you understand?’