Brandenburg (11 page)

But why threaten him now? If they were eager to get their hands on more of Annalise’s material - and he was sure they were - what good did it do? Maybe it had something to do with their twisted obsession with the control and ownership of people. They were giving him a sense of their omniscience, their ability to reach inside someone’s head and destroy whatever they wanted to.

The leaden deprecation of everything about him and all he held dear was dragged on until evening, when the interview suddenly ended as though the pair were meeting a pre-arranged timetable. They closed their files, got up and walked out, leaving Rosenharte gazing through the grilles of the window. He turned to see if the silent observer was still there, but he had left also, and Rosenharte wondered if this man would be his eventual nemesis, a shadow of a person ready to materialize when his fate was sealed.

Five minutes elapsed before two of the resident guards came and led him back to the basement. There was food - bread, sausage-meat, cheese and another solitary apple - waiting for him, together with a packet of Cabinet cigarettes. He ate the apple, deciding to save the rest for later, and settled down to a new batch of old magazines and newspapers.

He read until ten, without hearing a sound outside or in his own building, then ate and smoked a couple of cigarettes. A little later on he lay down on his bed without undressing.

As he expected, they came for him again. In the dead of night, two men rushed him, still drowsy, across the damp grass to a low concrete tumulus surrounded by lights. He had the impression of a fortified storehouse; inside there was a lot of equipment - hoses, protective suits, helmets and implements. He was roughly placed on a stool in front of three dazzling lights.

A voice came from behind them. For some reason, Rosenharte was certain that it belonged to the man who had sat so quietly through the first interrogation in the adjacent room.

‘I’m sorry?’ he said.

‘You met the woman known as Schering in August 1974,’ said the voice more loudly.

‘About then,’ said Rosenharte, straightening his clothes. ‘I had picked her up in a bar. At the time, I was working as a guide in the Musée des Beaux Arts. She came to one of my tours about a week later and things developed from there. You know all this: it was in my reports at the time.’

‘And you became lovers. How would you characterize her feelings towards you?’

‘I believe that soon afterwards she became very attached to me.’

‘She fell in love with you.’

‘If you put it that way, yes.’

‘When did you discuss working for the GDR?’

‘I left it for about four weeks, then introduced the subject one evening.’

‘She wasn’t shocked?’

‘No, but she said there was very little of interest for us in the Commission. She was hoping to land a job at Nato.’

‘This was not mentioned in your reports.’

‘I didn’t want to say anything to Colonel Neusel - my controller at the time - until she’d definitely got the job. Besides, she wouldn’t tell me which department she’d applied for.’

‘But when she did receive news of the job, she dumped you. Is that what happened?’

‘I don’t know. Some time that winter she seemed to lose her enthusiasm for our relationship. She said it had come at the wrong time for her: she wished that we had met five years later. Then she refused to see me. I tried to get in touch but she wouldn’t answer her phone or the messages I left at her apartment.’

‘She cut you out of her life?’

‘Yes. Look, why are we going over this again?’

‘Please just answer the questions. Did she leave you immediately?’

‘Yes, but I had hopes of renewing the relationship, which is why I was unhappy to be recalled. Now I understand that she had offered to work for you through another channel and that my attempts to get back on good terms with her were pointless.’

‘But this great love of yours had disappeared overnight? It evaporated. Is that a fair statement?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Then how do you account for the sentiments that she expressed in her letter to you this summer? They were somewhat passionate, were they not?’

‘She told me she had written more than one letter. If I had been able to see the others I might have understood her motives better. But now, having talked to her, I realize that the time we spent together all those years ago meant a lot to her . . . and in retrospect, to me also.’

‘How did she know where to contact you? You’re an obscure art historian, not the conductor of a famous orchestra or a film star. How did she know where to write?’

He coughed. ‘This is difficult.’

‘Go on,’ said the voice, patiently encouraging Rosenharte to ensnare himself.

‘Five or six years ago I sent her a couple of notes. They were posted abroad by a friend who is now dead. I told her what I was doing and said that I would give her a tour of the collection of old masters in Dresden if she came to the city. It was a light-hearted message, I suppose. To my surprise, she replied by the same means - she got someone to post the letter in the GDR. I don’t know who that was. She told me that she was going to marry and leave Europe, but her tone was affectionate and, well, wistful.’

‘You have the letter now?’

‘I’ve got it somewhere, I’m sure.’

‘Why did you not say you’d been in communication with Annalise Schering before we took you to Trieste?’

‘I didn’t want to admit that I had been in touch with a foreign national, which I well appreciate could be interpreted as a crime. The other reason is that I didn’t want to be involved. I thought if you knew that we had corresponded it would encourage you to send me. And I had my doubts - doubts about the project and doubts about my feelings for her. A lot of water had passed under the bridge.’

There was silence behind the lights. The voice was taking its time. Rosenharte coughed again and wished he could have a cigarette. He peered beyond the glare and made out the shapes of at least four people.

‘So you say that Schering was familiar with the techniques of posting a letter in our country so as to avoid the vigilance of the state security?’

‘Yes,’ said Rosenharte, seeing the trap but unable to avoid it.

‘Then why did she not arrange for the letters she wrote you this summer to be mailed from within the GDR?’

‘I don’t know. She didn’t say. Perhaps she didn’t have someone she could trust to do it for her.’

‘Or perhaps she knew that this correspondence would not escape the notice of Department M, the postal control services. In other words, she knew that her letters from abroad would be opened. She was making the offer to us, not you.’

‘That has occurred to me, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that she is trying to deceive you.’

‘You have heard the phrase, “beware of Greeks bearing gifts”?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you have considered the possibility that the gift she proposes to make the GDR could damage state security.’

‘That possibility is implicit,’ said Rosenharte. ‘I myself pointed this out when you first proposed it to me. All along I have said she could be used by the Western intelligence service.’

‘So now we must decide on the nature of the person who is making this gift.’

‘Yes, I suppose—’

‘And we have reached the conclusion that this person is remarkably inconsistent. In some circumstances, she demonstrates prudence and foresight, for instance when she got rid of you in favour of a more reliable means of communicating with us. Indeed, all through the years of dealing with her she showed detachment and good judgement - a model agent. But there’s another Schering, who can also be hotheaded, given to emotional outbursts and to excessive drinking. When she left you in the restaurant in Trieste, that was most unlike the woman we knew.’ The voice stopped. ‘Although it was entirely like the woman that you wrote about in your first reports. It’s almost as if we are dealing with two different people.’

They were so close. Rosenharte felt his pulse race. He inhaled and put his hands on his knees. ‘But your people saw her in Trieste,’ he said at length. ‘It
is
the same woman.’

‘We know that. But how would you explain the difference in her behaviour?’

Rosenharte leapt in the only direction he could. ‘Maybe,’ he started thoughtfully, ‘it has something to do with the way we respond to each other. We get under each other’s skin, though we are still attracted to each other.’

There was a murmur behind the lights. ‘It is odd that she refused to meet any of our people in Trieste - she specified as much in her letter to you - and yet for ten years she worked with us and had no problem meeting different officers from the MfS. Why has she suddenly developed this phobia for the very people that she wishes to help?’

‘She did tell me that she had been scared by the lax security in your people at Nato. She didn’t want to expose herself to the same risks, and when Heise approached us in the restaurant she expressed the same fears.’ Again it was the only answer he could give. Rosenharte felt his stomach constrict. Just two sessions and he had been forced into a space where it was impossible to manoeuvre. Then the inevitable question came hurtling from behind the lights.

‘Which foreign intelligence agency are you working for, Rosenharte?’

‘I am working for no one except the Gemäldegalerie in Dresden.’

At this, a large man appeared from behind the lights and walked to Rosenharte, took his face roughly in his hands and peered into his eyes. Rosenharte felt his gaze oscillate nervously between the shadows of the man’s eye sockets.

‘You are working for the Americans,’ he said. ‘I can see it in your face.’

‘Maybe I am,’ Rosenharte said and pulled back, out of the man’s shadow. ‘Maybe I am working for the Americans . . . Or the British or even the West Germans.’

This brought silence to the room. Rosenharte held the man’s eyes. ‘But if I am, I don’t know it. Only you can tell if I am being used.’

The man let go.

‘What makes you think that you’re being used?’

‘I have repeatedly said that this could be a trap. It’s for you to decide. I have told you everything I know.’

The man looked down at him steadily, without giving the slightest hint of his feelings. It occurred to Rosenharte that he was at that moment fighting for his life. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘this isn’t a problem. You know what Annalise gave you before. Judge her on her past performance; judge her on what your people are analysing in Berlin. But don’t judge her on me. That isn’t logical.’

The voice came from behind the lights again. ‘What do you know about her past work for us?’

‘Nothing. But she did tell me to ask you a question.’ He stopped, as though he was making sure he was getting something right. ‘Why no thanks for her news on the Ides of March in 1985?’

‘The fifteenth of March?’ asked the voice. ‘What happened on the fifteenth of March?’

Someone cleared their throat. Schwarzmeer. ‘It refers to the death of Konstantin Chernenko and the succession of General Secretary Gorbachev four days before.’

‘Yes,’ said Rosenharte. ‘On the fifteenth, everything changed in the Geneva arms limitation talks and she told you about it. She gave you the updated briefing documents, the telegrams between Washington and Brussels, and the agenda of a meeting between defence ministers held by the new Secretary General, Lord Carrington. What she couldn’t copy, she memorized. It was her last job for you. And you never thanked her.’

‘There were other things on our minds, I expect,’ said Schwarzmeer.

‘Well, she hasn’t forgotten it. That’s why she wants to run this operation on her own terms. She will decide what to give you and when . . .’

‘It’s not for you to dictate terms to us,’ said the voice behind the lights.

‘I’m not. She is, and whether you choose to believe her is your responsibility, not mine. I have no interest in this matter, other than seeing that you complete your side of the deal.’ He paused. ‘Now you must free Konrad as you promised you would.’

‘You have not told us about the arrangements for taking delivery of the material,’ said the voice.

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Rosenharte.

‘Well?’

‘I will tell you when you have allowed Konrad to return to his family.’

The big man’s expression didn’t change as he stepped back and delivered a powerful blow to the side of Rosenharte’s head, sending him sprawling from the stool on to the compacted earth that served as the floor of the bunker. There was a scuffle as another came forward to help beat him. Rosenharte received several kicks to his back and kidneys and a pistol-whipping across the nape of the neck. Even in that moment he understood that each blow confirmed that the Stasi was, in its brutal way, showing interest in the material that Annalise Schering had to offer them.

He supposed that he had been carried from the shelter unconscious, but that didn’t explain the taste in his mouth, the heaviness in his limbs or the sense that a long time had elapsed. He readied himself for the shock of being in prison, but when he cracked open his eyes he saw that he was wrong. He was in a very light place, which was pleasantly warm; there was a smell of dust in the air. He moved his head and found that he was lying on a bare wooden floor. He shut his eyes against the brightness and became aware of someone beside him urging him to raise his head. This woman kept on saying ‘water’ to him. ‘Drink, Comrade.’

And he drank, cup after cup, before lying back and allowing his eyes to focus on a plaster ceiling that had holes punched into it so it was possible to see the timber that supported the floor above. He was directly beneath a plaster roundel of a hunting scene - men with muskets and dogs pursuing a stag. It seemed familiar to him but he could not for the life of him think why.

‘In this very room.’ It was Schwarzmeer’s voice, low and casual from behind his head. ‘In this very room your father said farewell to your mother for the last time. They drank champagne, brought up from the cellar on 1 January 1945. It was noon on a very, very cold day. The Red Army was a few hundred miles away, but they still thought that the Führer would perform a miracle. Your mother had less than six weeks to live; your father would be dead before spring came. This is where they last saw each other - General Manfred von Huth and his fascist wife, Isobel von Clausnitz. The young men of Germany were being slaughtered on the Eastern front, running backwards, starving, dying in the snow. One last toast to the Third Reich. Here, in this room.’ He spoke as though setting a scene for a drama.