The Berlin Assignment (33 page)

At the corner table McEwen was fiddling with a black case. “Delighted you could make it at short notice, Earl. How's Frieda? Looking after you?”

“Couldn't be better, Randy.”

“Splendid. I'm a great admirer of marital bliss, Earl. Don't laugh. I am.” From the case McEwen extracted a file kept together with a ribbon and placed it on the table with a pat – to attest to its value. “I do hope your marriage is in good shape,” he said. “It will need to be to survive what I have to show you. Might cause thoughts of hanky-panky, moral crisis, that sort of thing. Shall we order?”

McEwen kept Gifford in anticipation. As lunch was served, the administrator was invited to report on progress, so he presented the C-drive printout plus recent versions of the consul's program. The meta-diplomat studied them with care. “Friend Tony is still walking I see. Whereto, we ask. A continuing conundrum. To be resolved soon. Twenty-four-seven is not far off, Earl. Bornhof rang this morning. He had a spot of trouble with Cologne. Cologne has the home mandate and wanted proof the catch would be worth the fishing. Don't know why he bothered with them. Could have set up his own operation. Ninnies they are, the world over really, the chaps with the home mandate, always having to see the shark inside the lagoon before hanging out some netting to prevent the beast from entering.” McEwen sighed. “But eventually they see the light. Friend Tony will be watched
around the clock. A few weeks of that and I expect they'll realize the waters are infested. Anything else Earl, anything not on paper?”

“A few items. Some days ago, quite unannounced, he ran off to a funeral. We checked who might have died. Nobody we could find; not a single flag at half-mast in Berlin. It struck us as odd.”

“That was when?” McEwen brought out a stubby pencil, licked it and began to write.

“Tuesday.”

“Ah. The day before the Wintergarten. He was seen there. Did you know that?”

Gifford nodded. “
That
was in his schedule.”

“Got chummy with the President, I'm told. Doesn't fit, does it? How does a diplomat get to be chummy with a head of state? Two personalities, Earl. One for you and me; one for another, hidden set of friends. In my view, what we see is cover.”

“Damn fine cover,” agreed Gifford.

“He's a clever man, but I dare say he'll tumble. We merely have to discover the connections between things that are made to seem unconnected. A funeral last Tuesday? What's the death rate in Berlin? Two hundred a day? Dead easy to find the names.” McEwen put aside his notebook and picked morosely at his food.

Gifford, chomping energetically on some uncooked greens, thought McEwen looked tired, a man feeling the weight of age. “Ever had one like him, Randy?” he asked to fill the silence. “I imagine you've seen a few bent ones in your day.”

McEwen stopped eating. He seemed to tap into the past, opening up inner filing cabinets of memories. “Nothing
quite
like him,” he finally said. “That's the charm, Earl. Each wandering child has its own reasons, its own way of wandering. I helped the Aussies with a girl in Peking. Poor creature had decided to give China a helping hand. And of course the Oxbridge boys can be frightfully deceptive. Brought a few
of them back from the brink, I dare say. But similarities with Friend Tony are remote. It's the gap, the twenty-five years between the young man in Berlin and today's accomplished older version. Only a man of remarkable patience will hibernate that long. Admirable patience, Earl. Dangerous patience. I'm finished when Berlin Station shuts. Gone next summer. Out to pasture. I want him, Earl. Badly. My last hurrah.” His eyelids drooped until they nearly closed.

“You'll get him,” Gifford said, munching with dedication.

“That's all on your side? House hunting going well? He loves you more everyday? Opening up his soul nicely. That was the plan, I believe, you playing father confessor.”

“He's out choosing draperies this very moment. He's been chirpy as a parakeet the last few days. We're starting to have some very decent chats.”

“Lovely. Keep stroking. Every slip is helpful. Well, my side then.” McEwen again patted the ribboned file. “
Gundula Jahn
. You don't know her? Never heard of her? Nowhere to be found on the C-drive? Correct?” The administrator thought, then shrugged. “Part of your catch nevertheless, Earl. Recall you mentioned his visit to the local paper? Useful information that. We followed through. He had a jolly lunch with her. Just the two of them, he and Jahn in a corner, very cosy, very jolly. He hasn't mentioned her to you?”

“Sorry,” said Gifford.

“A columnist. Writes about how bad the Ossis have it. Weepy stuff. But she's more than that. The Stasi file on her runs to six volumes.”

“Isn't that good?” Gifford wondered. “Nowadays, I mean.”

“Earl! You're jumping to conclusions. Let's first ask ourselves what is in the Jahn file. It tells us that Gundula is a delightful little devil, a regular temptress, a siren, the kind of woman one should
never
want on the other side.” McEwen undid the ribbon. With elaborate ceremony – as if pouring tea or taking snuff – he took out some sheets. In a monotone,
he commenced a life story which started in the north, in Schwerin, where Gundula's father had been a renowned swimming coach.

“Important point, Earl. A successful chap. Produced those flawless machines that won Olympic gold. In the vanguard of the doping movement. May well have applied the fifth or sixth generation steroid developed before anybody else learned how to spell the word. With each Olympic success he rises in the state's esteem. Boys come from all over to be trained. Russian ones too. A truly happy socialist family, the Jahns. But then dishonour strikes. Gundula's older brother defects to the West at a swim meet in Vienna.”

Flipping through the file, the meta-diplomat described how, after the disgrace in Vienna the Stasi listeners gave the family the full treatment. “Day and night, Earl. The result? There's nothing about our little siren from age seventeen to twenty-seven that we don't know, her deepest thoughts being a possible exception.

“Although under surveillance, trainer Jahn was not easily dispensed with, so the spectacular bodies kept coming to Schwerin. Then something happened. Seeing the tide of world opinion was moving against steroids, Jahn stopped administering them. This paved the way for accusations of not demonstrating socialist behaviour. Belatedly he was blamed for his son's defection. The accusation is based on a recording of a soulful discussion Jahn had with his wife, from 2:59 am to 3:47 am on September 8, 1979. In the darkness – the trainer and his wife were lying awake in bed – he reproached himself for their son seeking Austrian asylum.
It was my doing. I was the one that wanted him to compete in Vienna
. Half a dozen years had gone by since the defection, but this self-reproach was conveniently interpreted as an admission he had planned it. It constituted proof he'd been anti-socialist all along.”

McEwen took a deep breath. “What about our siren, Earl? Let's backtrack. Naturally she admires the big, strapping boys that parade through the Jahn household. They love her too: big brothers, little
sister. A certain Vladimir arrives from Leningrad for a year of training – a special arrangement agreed to at high levels. Olympic gold is written all over Vladimir. Trainer Jahn's job is to administer the magic substances that will get him there. The files record that Vladimir and Gundula become affectionate while walking along Lake Schwerin at 10:52 on the evening of June 11, 1981. Some embraces are observed in the twilight, a bit of fondling takes place. They leave the path and move into dense vegetation, emerging 41 minutes later when it is nearly dark. The file surmises sexual intercourse took place. No photos. If sex did not occur in the bushes, then it definitely did at 00:33 that same night – on some mats in the weight training room next to the Jahn residence. The room is permanently wired for sound and the files are precise. Our little siren's effect on men is ample. It takes Vladimir a mere 18 seconds to reach orgasm, though it is assumed it is his second of the night. At 01:29 am he starts again and performs well for 1 minute 57 seconds. Remarkable, Earl, the Stasi precision when it came to chronicling acts that undermine the security of the state.

“Six months later Vladimir is back in Leningrad and Gundula now fixes on Georgi from Murmansk. Then comes Valentine from Minsk, Ivan out of Moscow and Vassiliev from Kiev. She reportedly ignored Karl from Leipzig, Horst from Dresden and Frank from Rostock. No value judgements were made by the Stasi about this soft spot for Soviet boys.

“Pictures, Earl. We have them too. Don't tell Frieda I showed them. Keep our reputation intact. Which ones are suitable for you? Here. Have a peek. Don't drool. Superb photographers, the Stasi. In case you're having difficulty recognizing the bodies, that's our siren, in the middle. The others – count them, six – are men. Notice they're unclothed, Earl? Stark naked little heathens. Ever seen so many stunning bodies in one picture? Look at Gundula. Small, but perfect,
quite perfect. Taken on the beach at Usedom. The object they are chasing is, I believe, a volleyball. A few more, Earl? I'll choose them randomly. What is changing and what remains the same? Everything is changing, only Gundula is constant. She's progressing from her eighteenth to twenty-first year. Yes, Earl, you're right. She's changing too. She's getting better. Oh, here's a rare snap. Gundula inside some clothes. Another walk along Lake Schwerin. That spectacular male rear end she is palming belongs to Vassiliev. Ah, thank you. I shall put these works of art back.

“What happened to the boy lovers? She maintained contact only with Vassiliev. She travelled to Russia, spent a summer there. Vassiliev stopped swimming to become an engineer. Naturally their letters were intercepted, copies made and put on file. Gundula becomes an opponent to the regime once her father is shunted aside. She had nothing to lose. Her brother's defection denied her opportunities. She was expected to take a job sewing buttons on shirts, but she refused. Instead, she joined groups that discuss redefining socialism, how to transform it into something with a human face. She writes about this to Vassiliev, who writes back counseling her to be careful. Too late. The Stasi now have real material on her. Conform, they threaten, or see your family pay.

“And then, Earl, European communism crumbles. The Stasi are stopped in mid-flight. The last thing on the siren's file is a letter from Vassiliev in which he says he is now a nuclear engineer at a reprocessing plant in the Ukraine. We don't know if she answered. Moscow Station is checking into it.” The meta-diplomat retied the ribbon. “And now Friend Tony is seeing her. I assume you see the connections.”

“Indeed,” Gifford replied gloomily, not seeing a single one. All he saw was photos disappearing into a folder.

“They're working on a project. Someone is directing them. I feel it.”

Over dessert they lapsed into gossip. “The Hun is eager to see us disappear,” McEwen said with bitterness. “It won't be long and this club will be his. Rather humiliating, really.”

“Entirely outrageous,” Gifford agreed.

On the way out, Gifford still wasn't seeing connections, at least not between the consul, the journalist and a Russian nuclear engineer. All he saw were lingering images of photos, of the siren's smile and the wavy outline of her body. Suddenly he clenched his teeth. She's too small, he told himself, feeling the onslaught of a brutal desire for Frieda,
his
Frieda, from Kreuzberg. A new image came on strong, of Frieda on her back and she was moaning.
Oh, Gif. Yes, yes. Oh, Gif
. Let the consul have that skimpy bird, he thought. I've got two of her with Frieda.

At the same moment those images were torturing the administrator, Hanbury faced a torment of his own: buying draperies. Gloomy, feeling oppressed, he was in Charlottenburg, ringing a bell on a well-manicured building. He was there to make decisions, not just on draperies, but eventually on dozens, maybe on hundreds more household items. The residence required carpets, kitchen tiles, bathroom fixtures, chandeliers, wallpaper, and the like. He had tried delegating, but the staff told him this was his piece of the action. The way he now stood at the Charlottenburg door – shoulders stooped, looking burdened – a random passer-by would have concluded he was there to confront doom.

Letters cut into solid brass above the bell said
Das Meisterwerk. By appointment only
. After nearly a full minute – the consul beginning to hope a reprieve was in the offing – Herr Neumeister, the agency's proprietor, opened the door. He popped his head into the street. He was short with a blond moustache and thin hair, and wore an oversized jacket in brilliant crimson. The way he moved and looked with wonder
at the world made Hanbury think of a chick hatching. Herr Neumeister bade the consul to enter.

Das Meisterwerk
consisted of cavernous consultation spaces arranged in a figure eight around two internal courtyards. The lighting was subdued. In all directions cave-like hollows contained marvellous items: Persian carpets, marble sculptures, rows of vellum books by French enlightenment writers, Gobelins furniture, oriental textiles, boudoir ornaments, antique paintings. Neumeister whisked the consul through the salons and, arriving in an open area decorated as an imperial council chamber, motioned him to a vast chair which resembled a throne. Hanbury sat down. Neumeister, with short quick motions also like a chick's, poured champagne, said
zum Wohl
, sipped, and reclined in the Roman style on a dark blue divan where his fiery jacket showed still brighter. Propped up on an elbow, he brought his fingertips together.

“Herr Konsul.” The voice was high pitched and extravagant, as if he was some emperor's secret consort. “I was informed you have numerous decisions to make.” Hanbury nodded. Neumeister described the philosophy of his service: to enact a harmonious meshing of the human personality with the physical environment in which it resides. “As I sit here,” he crooned, “as we enjoy champagne together, I am psychoanalysing you, Herr Konsul. Don't be offended. It is part of my approach. I am trying to determine what you were, who you are and what you may become. It will be my task to guide your inner essentiality into effective decisions. My assistance to clients is based on
character effusions
and I have to say that at this moment
character effusions
are leaping out of you – powerfully, like solar flares. Very, very explosive.” Neumeister studied the consul. Suddenly he snapped, “Why did you decide this morning to wear
that
tie?”