Ultimate Issue (35 page)

He signaled the burly man with the apron who was sweeping the floor with a broom. “.Voch zwei,” he ordered.

He was slightly red-faced, and a single rivulet of sweat ran down the side of his neck. But the eyes were alert. As alert as ever.

“Helga was quite a catch, wasn’t she?” said Verago suddenly.

Pech blinked. “Catch? Why catch?”

“Well, Walter Ulbricht’s secretaries don’t defect every day.”

The schnapps came, and Pech raised his glass.

“Prosit.” He smacked his lips. “Excellent.” But he could see Verago was waiting for him to reply. “Ah, yes. I see what you mean. But of course she was not the only secretary. She worked in his office. One of the secretaries….”

“Nevertheless, she must know a hell of a lot.”

“So?”

“You just let her stew in Marienfelde? With three thousand other refugees? I should have thought she’d get

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very special treatment. A VIP hideout. Away from Berlin.”

Pech reached over and slapped his back. “Good, very good. I should have thought so too. God knows how their minds work.”

Verago sipped his brandy. “Whose minds?”

“In Berlin, the left hand doesn’t know what the right is doing. Do you know how many intelligence agencies operate in this city? In the three western sectors alone? Thirty-three, my friend. And I don’t count the freelances.” He laughed. Perhaps it was a little too loud. The schnapps was having its effect. “Sometimes I think there is one spy here for every two citizens. And we have two million people in the western sector. That’s funny, isn’t it?”

“Have another one,” invited Verago, and nodded to the burly man.

“If you want to make me tipsy, you’ll find me very happy to accommodate you.” said Pech.

“I was thinking,” Verago ruminated slowly. “Supposing … supposing Helga came across with something really big. That’s why she was smuggled over. That’s why Tower and the other guy risked their necks to bring her out. Well, supposing they didn’t want to know.”

Pech held up his glass against the lamp on the table and peered into it. “Who didn’t want to know?”

“Our people. Your people. Supposing she told them something they didn’t want to hear.”

“Verago, why don’t you go back to England, finish your little courtmartial, and take a long leave?”

Pech’s eyes looked straight into his.

“In fact, why don’t you go to that phone in the corner, call Tempelhof Airport, and reserve your seat on the next plane to London?”

The man with the apron came over. “Are you Herr Pech?” he asked.

“I might be,” Pech said warily.

“There’s a call for you,” said the man.

Pech looked across at the pay phone. “I didn’t hear it ring.”

“In the office,” said the man, surly. He pointed at a staircase leading down into the basement. “Down there, first door on the right.” Pech stood up and followed him. “Don’t go away,” he said to Verago.

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The bar was half empty. At a table by the entrance sat a woman who kept looking across at Verago. Her face was in the shadows. He wondered whether she was interested in him or just curious about an American army offlcer in this joint. Her companion had his back to Verago, and he wore Italian-made shoes. Fancy shoes with trimmings.

Pech came up the staircase.

“The department,” he explained, as he sat down again. “How the hell they tracked me down I don’t know.”

“Anything urgent?” asked Verago.

Pech appeared lost in thought for a moment. Then he caught on. “Oh, no, just routine.

Some bloody duty officer wanted to check something. They can’t leave a man alone. Where’s my drinks”

The surly man brought another two schnapps. He ticked the beer mat. There was a formidable array of pencil ticks already on it.

“We’re both still too sober, but the night is young,” said Pech. He paused. Then he asked, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“What about?”

“Getting hold of the Braunschweig girl.”

“Of course,” said Verago.

Pech looked around the room. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t know where she is except it’s in the East sector. I don’t know how you could find her. But if you insist on being a fool and want to break your neck, that’s your problem. I can give you an address.”

Despite the lamp on the table, there was a shadow across Pech’s face. Verago wished he could see it more clearly.

“What address?”

“Her parents. Here.”

He took out a little pad, tore off a page and wrote an address on it: 99b Kolwitz strasse.

‘Wake it,” said Pech. “It’s in the Russian sector.”

“Why are you doing this?” asked Verago, putting the paper in his wallet.

“To get rid of you, Captain Verago.”

And Pech wasn’t smiling.

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Friday, July 28, 1961 The Cell

TEIBpretence had stopped. There was no longer any suggestion that he was in a hospital, being given special treatment. This was a cell, a prison cell.

And it was in a big prison, of that Captain Kingston was sure. He could hear doors clanging, and the echo of boots on stone floors.

His cell had a tiny window, with three bars and wire mesh between them. The door was heavy steel, and there was a peephole through which a guard peered from time to time.

From the ceiling hung a bulb that was never switched off. At night he tried to shield his eyes from the yellow glare.

But he didn’t know where he was. They had given him some kind of shot that confused everything; he was pretty sure there had been a helicopter flight, and a car drive in the dark. But he couldn’t actually remember arriving there.

The place was different, but Major Fokin was still around.

“I’m sorry they’ve brought you here,” he said, as if he had nothing to do with it. “I’m afraid that’s the result of not cooperating. You haven’t answered a single question after all this time. You may think that’s heroic, but there are those who consider it dumb insolence. And dumb insolence, Captain, is a military offence in the service, as I’m sure you know.”

He walked around the cell.

“Pretty bleak, isn’t it? And I’m afraid the diet won’t be very appetising. Prison food never is.”

The copy of al lice in Wonderland lay on the bunk.

“Oh, good,” said Fokin, “they let you take it with you. Have you finished it?”

Kingston stared at the wall. It was damp. Outside the July air was warm, but in here everything was dank and moist.

“Pity is your people don’t even know how resolute you are, Captain,” Fokin went on. “All this wasted effort. I

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know General Croxford would be very proud of you, but the joke is he doesn’t even realize you’re still alive. You’ve been written off, and you might as well make things easier for yourself. No? Ah, well.”

He rapped on the door, for the turnkey to open it.

“Just think of this. You may force us to put you on trial. After all, you are a spy. You intruded into our air space on a spy flight. You know what happens to spies.”

There was a rattle of keys, and the door swung open. A gray-uniformed guard stood waiting for Fokin to come out.

“I’ll leave you Alice,” added Fokin. “It’s a book worth rereading and” he glanced up at the eternal light “you’ve got plenty of opportunity. It’s a wise book too, Captain. Chapter Three, for example. ‘I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury, I’ll try the whole cause and condemn you to death.’”

The door slammed, and the footsteps gradually died away.

And in the cell, Captain Kingston cried.

East Berlin

So this is what it feels like to put your head in the noose, thought Verago as he entered the S-bahnhof at the Zoo station.

He was in civilian clothes. For what he had to do, it was better not to wear a uniform. As an allied serviceman it would be easier to get through the checkpoint, but once he was in East Berlin the American officer’s uniform would stick out like a blazing torch.

No, he was going to be Tony Verago, U.S. tourist. He had his civilian passport, and it described him as “attorney.” Which, after all, was fair enough. He wondered about carrying his military ID card; if they found it, there could be complications. On the other hand, with luck he wouldn’t be searched; he decided to take the risk.

The train came into the station, and Verago took a window seat. His fellow passengers were a drab lot. Was it his imagination, or did they all avoid each other’s eyes? But one or two did furtively steal a look at him; his clothes were American. He looked too smart, too prosperous to be one of them.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the Friederichstrasse stop. Now there was no turning back. He had crossed the line.

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He got off the train and started walking toward the exit steps, trying to look confident. But almost at once a green-uniformed Vopo, a carbine strapped to his shoulder, stepped into his path.

“You,” he said unceremoniously, “papers.”

“American tourist.” Verago smiled. He waved his green passport. He tried to work out why he had been stopped. The other passengers were shuffling along the platform. Then he attempted to reassure himself: Of course, I stand out. It’s way I look. But he wasn’t totally convinced.

“Over there,” ordered the Vopo, pointing. “Passport control.”

People were lining up in a long queue, all the passengers from the train. They knew the routine. He joined them. It was a slow, agonizing wait. The line moved forward at snail’s pace.

Two men were sitting at a table, in front of a shack. The shack had a little opening, like a box office in a theater. Nearby hovered three Vopos, with the customary carbines.

One of the men at the table had a pince-nez clipped on lapis nose, like the one Ulbricht sported on all his photographs. Clearly pince-nez were fashionable in the East sector.

Pincenez held out his hand. “Passport,” he demanded.

He opened it, studied it, turning every page slowly, then handed it to his colleague, who repeated the process, then passed the passport through the window of the shack.

“I want that back,” said Verago.

“Foreign passports have to be checked,” said Pincenez. Verago didn’t expect the next question.

“How much money have you got with you?”

“Eighty marks,” said Verago, “and two hundred dollars. In U.S. currency.”

“Show me.”

He took the money and counted it. “Is that all? You have no other currency?”

“None.”

“It is a serious criminal offence to import or export smuggled currency or to engage in financial speculation in the German Democratic Republic,” said Pincenez pretentiously, handing him back the money.

“I understand.”

“Why are you visiting East Berlin?”

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“Pleasure,” said Verago. “Pure pleasure. Also . .

.”

“Yes?” the second man demanded sharply.

“I much admire Brecht. I want to visit the Berliner Ensemble. Your theater is very famous.”

Pincenez frowned. “You are an American tourist?”

“Correct.”

“And how long do you intend to stay?”

“Twentyfour hours.”

“Where are you staying in West Berlin?”

“At the Hilton.”

“You’re alone?”

Verago took a chance. “I hear there are some very attractive girls in East Berlin.”

It was a mistake. Pincenez drew in his breath audibly. “I must warn you that hooliganism is severely punished. Nor do we allow immorality. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely.”

The two men exchanged looks. Then the second one said, “You’re an attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you will have the opportunity to study our justice at firsthand.” He laughed. “I am sure you will be welcome at a sitting of the People’s Court. It might open your eyes.”

“I don’t know if J’ll have time,” Verago said mildly. He was beginning to feel the strain.

A hand suddenly appeared in the opening in the shack, holding his passport. Pincenez took the document.

“Very well,” he said. He started filling in a card. “V-e-r-a-g-o. An unusual name. It does not sound American.”

“My folks came from Greece … way back.”

“Ach so,” Pincenez said agreeably. “I forgot. There are no pure Americans.”

He finished filling in the card and stamped it. Then he stapled it to the passport.

“You have a tourist visa for twentyfour hours. Do not lose it. You must show this when you leave, or you cannot depart.”

“Thank you,” said Verago. He turned to go.

“I hope the Berliner Ensemble is not booked up,” the second man called out. “It would be a pity to have come for nothing.”

Verago left the station. He didn’t once look back.

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He knew what they had done with his passport in the shack. They had photographed it. Every single page.

East Beriln

He had the feeling he was being followed, but every time he turned around to glance back, he could see nothing to confirm it.

He was surprised by how strangely deserted the streets were and, sixteen years after VE-day, the many scars of wartime still around him. Shell holes still pockmarked the sides of some buildings. There were ugly gaps in rows of crumbling houses, like cavities caused by rotten teeth.

The grimness of the place was a shock after the bustle and prosperity of the western sector. An even greater shock were the first Russians he saw, two soldiers walking on the other side of the road. Verago had not seen Russian troops face to face before, and he had to stop himself staring at them. They strode past without a second look at him.

He found a cab at last and asked to be taken to Kolwitz strasse. It was only a short ride, and when the driver stopped outside the block of flats, Verago told him to wait.

It was a four-floor apartment house, and like so much in East Berlin, it looked down at heel. There were eight flats, and each had its own buzzer at the front door.

He pressed the one that said “Braunschweig.” Nothing happened.

He pressed the bell again and stood waiting. Plat C was on the second floor, but the front entrance of the building remained shut, and there was no sound from the call-down system.

He tried a third time and then saw a man’s face peering at him blankly through the window of the ground-floor apartment next to the front door.