Brandenburg (57 page)

Zank was saying that once caught, magpies never left the trap, when three small explosions occurred behind him, causing his two companions to reel backwards and start shooting wildly in the direction of the Genslerstrasse watchtower. Rosenharte was ahead of the game because he had at least expected something to happen, though he couldn’t have predicted the blinding flash of the stun grenades or the clap of localized thunder that was now occupying the greater part of his consciousness. He spun round and saw that Kurt and Ulrike had fallen to the ground. As he moved to haul them up, he was aware of the Bird rushing at Zank’s men, hitting them with terrifying force, one in the throat and the other in the small of his back. It appeared an almost preordained sequence as he recoiled, crouched, slid to the left, then rose behind Zank to hook an arm around his neck and place a gun beneath his chin. He waved to Rosenharte and shouted for them to make for the truck. As they scrambled into the office and passed the unconscious gatekeeper, he saw the Bird backing towards them with Zank held like a child’s soft toy in one long, powerful arm. With his left hand he chucked two more objects into the compound, then delivered a single blow to the crown of Zank’s head. Zank crumpled at the base of the steps.

A few seconds later they were all three crowded into the front of the truck. The Bird revved the engine and reversed furiously out of the bay, clipping the edge of the electronic door that some remote hand had ordered to close. The vehicle spun round and they caught a glimpse of dense white smoke leaking over the prison walls.

‘Well, what now?’ said the Bird with a lunatic grin. ‘Know anywhere you three can put up for the evening?’

‘Where are they?’ demanded Harland.

‘Somewhere in Prenzlauer Berg. They’re being sheltered by political friends of Kafka.’

‘You know the address?’

‘Not exactly,’ said the Bird.

They were standing in the car park near the three-storey building that housed the endless deliberations of the Central Committee of the Socialist Unity Party. Theoretically Harland was there to cover the meetings as a member of the press corps, but it had just been announced that news of the day’s proceedings would be given at a conference held at the new International Press Centre. When the Bird’s call came through it had been the best rendezvous he could think of.

‘Why didn’t you get the address?’

‘Because we had to split up. Half the bloody Stasi were pursuing us at one point. We did pretty well to get away in that little car.’

‘Anyone hurt?’

‘The lad’s not in great shape, but he’s got guts and he’ll pull through.’

‘But you don’t know where they are. That’s the point, isn’t it? I could do without this today. I’m meeting the Russian and I still haven’t heard from Griswald. Why the hell didn’t you take them over last night? You had everything you needed.’

‘Keep your shirt on, Bobby.’ The Bird shook his head in annoyance. ‘Look, this little unofficial op of yours resulted in springing two bods from Hohenschönhausen. I believe that’s a Cold War first. It should be written up with a dramatic flourish in the annals of Century House by one of those pert little numbers in Records. Come on, Bobby, we did well. We couldn’t go last night because Rosenharte and Kafka wouldn’t leave the other man. Besides, we still need a picture of her for her passport.’

Harland made an apologetic nod. Cuth was right: he had done magnificently.

‘You seem out of sorts, Bobby. Is there anything I can do?’

‘No, I’ve got a lot on, that’s all. And those bloody idiots in London just won’t free the funds we need. We’re on the threshold of the greatest intelligence coup in the history of the Cold War, and they’re still scratching their heads wondering about flaming cost-benefits. This could save millions on the budget. Literally millions. To say nothing of increasing security tenfold.’

‘It’s that good, is it?’

‘Better. It’s so good you and I could retire and leave the running of the Intelligence Services to Jamie Jay.’

The Bird smiled. ‘A likely outcome, I’m sure. What happened to the young sprog, anyway? I rather liked him.’

‘As a matter of fact he’s temping at the Stadium for a few weeks. I think they got tired of his boundless enthusiasm in the Gulf so I said I’d happily use up his excess energy. He appeared at the tail end of last week, listening to language tapes. He’ll bring the passport over this afternoon.’

‘So we just wait for the call from Rosenharte?’

‘Yep, then you arrange the reception committee the other side. Get Kafka and the other chap any treatment they need. Put Rosenharte in a hotel. And we’ll follow up from there in a few days. Rosenharte will want to go see his sister-in-law. There’s all that to fix. But that’s Jay’s job.’

The Bird was smoking a rare cigarette and had begun to pace in a circle. ‘So let me guess: you’re buying something from the Russians. Right, Bobby? That could only be information.’ He paused and considered this. ‘Jesus, what a bloody merry-go-round we’re in. Buying intel’ from one lot of Commies about another lot of Commies. We live in interesting times, Bobby. Interesting times. How good is this info?’

‘Sorry, Cuth. I can’t tell you, certainly not here. But you’ll be the first to know if we get the go-ahead. We’re getting a sample delivery this afternoon.’

‘That sounds familiar. Are you sure they aren’t having you on? I mean it doesn’t take an IQ higher than the average biscuit’s to see they might well be playing a return match for your little jape with the disks. One lot of false information in exchange for another lot.’

‘I think not.’

‘Where are you going to get this free sample?’

‘At the conference this afternoon.’

‘Well, I hope there’ll be a suitable number of unwashed scribes in the room, otherwise you’ll stick out like the Pope’s prick.’

‘There will be,’ said Harland. ‘This is a big day. The Council of Ministers is going to discuss the new travel regulations and the GDR economy. Actually, I’ve picked up a lot of useful stuff this week. For one thing, Mielke’s still very much in the saddle at Normannenstrasse, even though he’s resigned.’

The Bird’s attention had wandered. ‘Look, old cock, I need some breakfast and a kip. I’ll be in touch later.’

They said goodbye. Harland’s gaze followed the remarkable figure of Cuthbert Avocet as he passed unnoticed through the news crews assembled outside the building to film the uniformed members of the Stasi, the Grenzpolizei and People’s Army as they arrived for the first session of the day. He reflected that whatever happened during the panicky deliberations of Egon Krenz’s government, the Bird’s exploits in Hohenschönhausen would provide far better copy than any journalist would find for himself that day.

Ulrike’s friends, Katya and Fritzi Rundstedt, were two mathematicians who lived on the top floor of a once gracious nineteenth-century building in Prenzlauer Berg, which still bore the scars of Allied bombs and Russian shells. It stood on a gentle rise, and from the fifth floor you could follow the line of the Berlin Wall from the north, observe the bulge as it swooped round the old ceremonial and administrative centre of the city captured by the Soviet forces in 1945 and continued its jagged path southwards towards Schulzendorf. Rosenharte spent some time with Fritzi early on the morning of Thursday 9 November, watching the light and shade play across the free part of the city, picking out the crossing points and a corner of the Brandenburg Gate. They turned from the window with empty coffee cups and looked down at Kurt and Ulrike, who were still asleep on the floor in the adjacent room. Fritzi nodded benignly and they stole away to the kitchen.

During the night Katya Rundstedt, a quiet woman with short grey hair and watchful eyes, had become worried about Kurt and phoned a doctor friend at the local hospital. Half an hour later he appeared to treat the fugitives without the slightest qualm. In Kurt’s case, he diagnosed two fractured ribs on the left side, together with several broken bones in his right foot, which had apparently been slammed in a cell door. Ulrike needed rest. The shock of nine days’ interrogation had buried itself deep inside her and he told Rosenharte that he mustn’t imagine she’d recovered just because she was showing such concern for Kurt. ‘It’s the beginning of the process of denial,’ he said, regarding him sternly over wire spectacles that made him look like Gustav Mahler. ‘You see, it’s difficult for someone who has such a positive view of her fellow human beings to accept that they are capable of such behaviour. It may shake her faith in those around her. I have helped several people who were in Bautzen and I believe that she risks depression and a possible breakdown if she doesn’t acknowledge her own suffering.’

‘You speak as though you know her.’

‘Yes, she’s been active in the same circles as me and my wife. We’re members of the same church. Your friend is a woman of rare spirit and very special qualities, Dr Rosenharte, but I’m sure you already know that.’

Rosenharte had nodded and found himself suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of how close he’d come to losing her, and how much he wanted to look after her.

At midday a photographer, another contact of the Rundstedts, came to take passport pictures of Ulrike and Kurt. Both were made up by Katya with foundation to cover their bruises and injuries. The photographer returned at two with the pictures and Rosenharte was able to fix Ulrike’s into the passport of Birgit Miller. Now all that remained was for the British courier to turn up with Kurt’s passport.

At four he went to a phone box and dialled in the code for the second time that day, to be told that the man had crossed the border and was on his way to the meeting place arranged by the Bird in a park near Greifswalderstrasse station. The courier knew what Rosenharte looked like and would find him.

It was a five-minute walk. Rosenharte went, promising himself this would be the very last clandestine meeting of his life. He was sick of the whole ridiculous business of subterfuge and spying.

He chose a bench under a lime tree that had not quite yet shed all its leaves, and read a book he’d borrowed from the Rundstedt apartment. Some ten minutes later he was approached by a young man in a stone-washed denim jacket, scuffed suede ankle boots and black jeans. He sat down and asked for a light with an excruciating English accent. It was then that Rosenharte recognized the young man who had pulled him out of the gulf of Trieste.

‘You can speak English. No one’s going to overhear,’ he said, weary of hearing the British butcher his language.

‘Did I introduce myself before? I forget. I’m Jamie Jay of Her Majesty’s et cetera, et cetera and I’ve just put the passport in your pocket. So, we’ll expect you when we see you. Cross by Checkpoint Charlie any time after six. We’ll see you coming and have an ambulance ready for your friends. Everything is organized for you. Hotels, money, so on.’

Rosenharte studied the avid, healthy young face beside him. ‘Why are you in this business? Couldn’t you find anything else to do?’

‘King and country, and all that stuff,’ said Jay simply.

‘Patriotism? It seems an odd way to show it.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

Rosenharte nodded. ‘There’s one other thing. The Pole - the man who died in Trieste. Do you believe he was killed?’

‘At first we thought he had been, but we checked his hotel and found several different types of pills for heart and liver disease. He was a very sick man, it seems: he looked much older than he was and, well, we gather he liked a drop more than was good for him.’

‘He was an alcoholic?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Grycko was what age? Fifty-eight or fifty-nine?’

‘Thereabouts.’

‘Can you tell me anything more about him?’

‘We didn’t bother to learn more after we realized he wasn’t relevant to the operation in hand.’ He paused and flashed a bright, uncomplicated grin, then clasped his knees. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’d better be getting along, sir.’ He rose. ‘It’s good to see you have come through all this in one piece. Many congratulations.’

Rosenharte acknowledged this, thinking that in truth half of him was still missing.

He returned to the Rundstedts’ building. He was let in by a neighbour with an impressive spreading moustache who said: ‘There’s trouble. The Stasi have traced the car to a street nearby. Two of them are here now.’

‘Where are my friends?’

‘They’re fine. We have decided to detain the Stasi while you make your way from here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we are having words with them - putting them right about certain things that we in this building feel strongly about. It seemed a good opportunity to act. We’ve locked them in the cellar and your friend Fritzi is plying them with a cheap brandy and giving them a piece of his mind.’

Rosenharte realized that Zank must have worked out they were using number plates stolen from Schwarzmeer’s retreat in the country, and put out a general alert for the missing pair. ‘Okay, we’d better leave.’

‘Not all at the same time,’ said the neighbour. ‘Leave one by one and meet up somewhere. Your friend has been given some crutches. We’ll help him reach his destination.’

Rosenharte thanked the man and tore up the staircase, the noise of his pounding feet reverberating through the tired old building.

Harland filed into the press conference at 5.45 p.m. with members of both the Western and communist media. Already twenty or so TV crews had set up, and about a hundred journalists were in the room. There were still seats free but he took up a position at the side of the room, just behind one of two banks of cameras trained on the dais. The air of expectation was palpable. This would be the first time that a member of the Politburo had taken part in a news conference broadcast live to the people of the GDR. Once Gunther Schabowski, a former newspaper editor whom Krenz had appointed to handle the media, was sitting against the willow-green satin backdrop Harland knew he’d be at the mercy of the press in a way that a career communist could not possibly appreciate. Even a former newspaper editor wouldn’t see the perils ahead.