The Helsinki Pact (30 page)

“Was it really suicide?” Thomas
asked.

“No, I don’t think
so.”

Again there was
silence.

“There was nothing in the files
about his living wildly." she said. "He didn’t gamble, maybe the
odd small bet on a horse or something, but nothing regular or
serious. He dressed well and lived well, liked good food and wines,
ate out quite a bit but well inside his income levels and, anyway,
he’d have wangled a lot of that as expenses on Party
business.”

“What about women? Girlfriend in
a fancy flat somewhere, prostitutes, nightclubs, trips to the
West?”

“There was a wife earlier but
they’d divorced, oh, '67 or so, and there seems to have been no
more contact. She’s remarried and lives in Bonn, apparently. There
were no children. There’s no record of any regular visits to
brothels or of prostitutes visiting him. There have been a few
girlfriends but just very ordinary relationships which seemed to
just run their course and peter out. Last one finished a year or so
back after a couple of years, Angela, an informer and a waitress in
one of the restaurants he’d go to. He may have showed off, taking
her to the odd lavish weekend in Berlin but that’s probably as far
as it went.”

She laughed. “Pretty boring guy
really! Unimaginative. Not my type at all, for all his Party
status."

Thomas sensed her head turning
slightly towards him.

"He joined the Party’s youth wing
and later became an informer, trained as an accountant, apparently
met Mielke somewhere and so got more involved. Kept his nose clean,
learned quickly how the system worked, enjoyed the things his
position brought him, became recognised as reliable and someone
able to keep his mouth shut. Moved around a bit between offices,
small places first then Leipzig, Berlin and seven years ago became
Treasurer here and moved straight into his smart house in the
Prussian quarter.”

“Enemies?" asked Thomas.
"Treasurers probably get to know all sorts of things people
sometimes want to keep hidden. And if they’re on the make as nearly
everyone in this fucking Party seems to be now, he’s probably
covered up quite a lot of dodgy stuff.”

There was a pause.

“Blackmail.” said Bettina. “Maybe
he was blackmailing somebody for money, or maybe for power. I
remember there was talk of his taking over the Berlin Treasurer’s
job. Maybe that’s what he was after and he pushed things just too
far.”

“Or maybe he was being
blackmailed.”

“Maybe, but why kill him? Why
kill the golden goose?”

“Perhaps he’d had enough. Perhaps
it really was suicide. He’d run up debts and was being hassled to
clear them and when the money came in he just took it, like he
said. Afterwards he was ashamed, got drunk and put the gun to his
head. It's what people do sometimes if they're in too
deep.”

Thomas turned towards Bettina,
reached over and switched on the bedside lamp. He leant on one
elbow and looked down at her. She raised an eyebrow and shook her
head slowly a fraction.

“No.” he said “You’re right. It
just doesn’t fit, does it? He was killed, that's for sure. But who
did it? Who wanted him that badly out of the way?”

A lock of hair had fallen over
Bettina’s cheek and Thomas reached over and gently moved it behind
her ear. He lowered his head slightly to kiss her but felt her
stiffen and turned the move into a clumsy nod. “Who could have
wanted him dead? And why?”

“There was something Dieter said
to me recently … it was about unification, something he'd heard
about hiring the Firm to keep tabs on people being funded to change
money into Deutsche Marks. Seems the top guys are looking at fixing
pensions for themselves when everything changes. Maybe the money
was something to do with that.”

“You didn’t mention this before.”
Thomas looked at her and wondered what else she was keeping
back.

“Dieter doesn’t know the details,
it was just something he'd heard and then he started joining up the
dots. I think he thinks that it's maybe that organisation from
Frankfurt that's involved somehow, the one he wants you to find out
about, Phoenix something, isn't it?"

“Phoenix Securities. Phoenix was
what they called the currency when the modern Greek state was
founded last century. Meant to signify rebirth, apparently, but
then it became the drachma." He frowned as she yawned and glanced
up. "What else do you know about this Phoenix and what else has
Dieter told you but not me?”

She shrugged. “It didn't seem
important right then. I've told you now anyway."

“Did Dieter tell you why he’s
looking into Phoenix, why he wants me to check up on them?” He
looked straight into her eyes. “It would help me know what to ask.
I have the impression he didn’t tell me the whole
story.”

“You’re probably right. Same with
me. But Dieter never does tell anyone the whole story. It’s not
because he doesn’t trust you, or me − it’s just too dangerous. If
one of us gets caught and talks, the whole project could
fail.”

“Hmm, the classic cell
demarcation strategy. Makes sense, I suppose." He lay back and
folded his arms behind his head and they were silent for a bit.
"OK. I’ll call Stephan tomorrow, maybe, as Dieter suggested. He’s
travelling all over East Germany now, looking for possible bank
branches for Deutsche’s new network. Maybe he knows something, come
across Phoenix or something. I guess Dieter will be following
through what you've just told me about the Stasi."

"If you find out anything useful
about Phoenix and just what it's up to we might end up having to do
some more work on it ourselves, find out if and how the Stasi’s
involved with them, perhaps. That's if they are.”

“They’re going to be involved,
somehow, somewhere anyway. It's all starting to make some kind of
sense. The Stasi network’s still in place and they’re not going to
pass up the chance to make money. They get the money into Dresden
supposedly to pay agents or operational costs or whatever, all
legitimate and signed by Henkel. But it’s not really for that at
all, it’s for, it’s for, well, maybe something to do with this
Phoenix, though we don't now yet what that is, maybe something else
entirely … Anyway, maybe Roehrberg or someone like that’s behind
it. Henkel finds out and threatens them for a cut but doesn’t
realise the extent of it and the power behind it and so wakes up
dead.”

“Hmm. Maybe, but I don’t really
think that holds together very well. That’s a lot money that’s
gone. What are they going to do with it? They can’t just change it
into DM and lose it, even with the resources open to them. And they
must know that even with the upheaval and confusion going on it's
not just going to be forgotten. Not that amount. It's much too
big.”

“Well, maybe they'll buy up
stuff, you know, houses, companies, factories …”

“Mills! The mill!” She sat up and
smacked a fist into one palm. “Mills, factories, all those things
are cheap now but won’t stay cheap. That’s it! Anyone buying now
will make a killing. Maybe that's what the money was really for.
Doesn’t explain Henkel’s death, though. He was an ambitious
apparatchik, basically, and I don't suppose he had that much
integrity. He wouldn't shop anyone if he found something out, he'd
cut himself in if he could. Hmm. Maybe your blackmail idea has
something in it.”

She smiled at him, snuggled down
under the huge meringue of an eiderdown, then turned on her side,
her back against his chest. With the back of his fingers he idly
stroked her hair, sometimes lifting strands free and letting them
trail through his fingers. Half asleep, she murmured and settled
closer obliging him to move his hips away so as not to press his
arousal against her.

Now more awake Thomas slid his
lower arm through the gap by her shoulder, settling her neck in his
elbow, then brought his forearm round to rest the tips of his
fingers on her upper shoulder before letting his arm slide with
slow, disingenuous intent back down as if his muscles had relaxed
in sleep so that his wrist and then, as he settled into a more
comfortable position for them both, his palm naturally rested where
he could cradle her lower breast. She murmured again, settled
herself slightly and as he swirled his fingers as if trailing the
faintest of arpeggios he felt through the cotton the stiffening of
a nipple. She murmured again and nestled in closer as they both
fell asleep.

The alarm jangled, marking seven
thirty and wrenching them awake. Bettina shot upright in bed,
yawning, rubbing her eyes and shaking the sleep out of her head.
She looked down at Thomas and her eyes softened.

“I had the strangest dream.” she
said. “Can’t remember details but you were in it, I think.” She
nodded. "You were." She paused and smiled slowly. “Safe. I felt
safe and warm and at home and I wanted to stay there and we’d
forgotten all this shitty Henkel stuff we’ve now got to deal
with.”

As Bettina showered Thomas lay
with his arms behind his head, thinking about her rapid changes of
mood, particularly as she moved into operations mode as now. “But
it is developing.” he thought. “It’s moving. That fucking alarm
clock! If only, if only … ”

He reached out to the files
Bettina had left on the table and began reading about Henkel,
searching for some clue in his background as to why he’d apparently
killed himself. Bettina returned, wrapped in large towel, a smaller
one turbanning her head.

“Anything
interesting?”

“Nah, boring stuff so far." He
looked up and smiled at her. "But of course if your towel drops ...
”

“C’mon Thomas. Get up!” She
clapped her hands imperiously and then shrieked as the large towel
started to unwind. Securing it and trapping the end with one arm
she grabbed the eiderdown and partially flicked it off Thomas’s
body. She giggled and pulled harder but Thomas easily overcame her
grip and pulled the eiderdown back over himself.

“OK, if you’re going to laze
around there just look away, please, while I get
dressed.”

Thomas turned to face the wall.
He knew how marvellously lean and fit she was, both from being with
her so often and from lying close the night before and it was with
difficulty that he stopped himself glancing in her direction.
"Maybe by accident?", he thought.

“Dieter. Umm, I expect Dieter
said whether he thought Henkel, no, I mean Roehrberg don’t I,
whether Roehrberg was behind all this. How long has Roehrberg been
there? Henkel's going on holiday soon, isn’t he? No, I mean Dieter.
Roehrberg, that is. Does he go to expensive places too? A lot
depends on a person’s character, and there’s very little on that in
the files.” He eased his hip from the slightly sticky patch on the
sheet and forced his thoughts back to their mission.

“Holiday? Dieter? Expensive
places? What are you on about? Dieter knows Roehrberg from his time
in Berlin and was impressed with him, and that's rare. The files
are compiled by bureaucrats who simply talk to informers and note
everything that's been reported, and that’s why they only have
limited use. No, Dieter made no comments, except that I should be
very careful whatever I do.”

“I know he thinks a lot of you
but I found it very surprising that he asked you to handle such a
delicate and dangerous affair single-handedly.”

“Ah, but he didn’t, did he? He
asked both of us. You can turn round now, guardian angel. What do
you think I should wear tonight, this white dress or this shirt and
trouser suit?”

Thomas looked frankly at her, at
the clothes she held up, and then back again. “Nothing!" he
thought. "Absolutely nothing at all would be just fine for
me.”

“The dress would be good.” he
said.

Chapter 24

Monday January 15
1990, morning onwards

THERE was a squat brick chimney
stack at the north end of the Stasi's Dresden HQ, the only clue to
the building's earlier life as a factory. On one side it overlooked
the Elbe, less than a mile away, with the city, now partially
hidden by the morning fog, sprawling in the background. Behind the
building there was a large car park and it was here that Bettina
left her car. The lowering threat of the building and the clammy
feel of the fog affected her mood and made her think nostalgically
for a moment of being back warm and safe in bed, luxuriating in her
dream before the alarm clock shattered it.

As she walked towards the
entrance Bettina remembered how she'd taken a dislike to the
building when she'd first seen it as a little girl and before she
even knew anything about its function. Clearly designed to contain
secrets and prevent casual curiosity about what went on behind the
heavily barred sashes and the rows of tiny windows, barred in turn,
it was ugly and intimidating. In the middle of the building there
was a tall rectangular frame holding many minute glazed openings,
the whole covered with yet another of the ubiquitous metal
gratings. As it loomed out of the fog as she approached she saw
that its grubby white surface was stained and soiled, the paint
damaged in places with water dripping down from the
roof.

The security guard at the
entrance glanced at her identity card without enthusiasm or
interest and sent her up the stairs to the first floor. There she
met Gina Schmidt, Roehrberg's secretary, who led her down the
corridor and into Roehrberg's spacious office. He got up from
behind his desk, walked over smiling and shook her hand
warmly.