Winter Work, page 16
“Do you know his first name?”
Emil pretended to rack his brain for an answer.
“Ludwig, maybe? No. Andreas, that’s it. Andreas Plotz. But anyone trying to get close to him now is probably going to draw a lot of unwanted attention.”
“From who?”
“Just about anyone and everyone. On all sides.”
“What do you mean, ‘all sides’? People like Krauss?”
“Plus the Russians, the Americans.”
“The Americans? They have an interest in these things?”
“Haven’t they always?”
“Of course, but, well, they’ve just won, haven’t they? I mean, not to express an improper political attitude, but why would they even care any longer?”
“Trust me. As far as ministry records are concerned, they care more than ever. Does it make sense? No. But when has sense ever had anything to do with our struggle against the West?”
“You’re sounding almost as incorrect as me.”
“There’s no longer any such thing as an incorrect opinion, Lieutenant Dorn, or else we would both be racing to report one another as soon as this meeting was over, yes?”
“I certainly can’t say that would have been my reaction, but, well…” He hemmed and hawed, then began to redden as Grimm smiled. “Okay. Perhaps for my own protection I might have said something to someone. These records, then. These archives. If they still retain such value, do you believe that’s what Krauss was looking for?”
“You’ll have to ask Krauss.”
“I plan to. We’re going over there tomorrow.”
“I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell him how you found him.”
“Of course.”
“You might also ask who is providing him and his men with their new workspace. Although you may need to check the building’s records, to see which cooperative runs and manages the property. And keep me apprised of what he says.”
Dorn nodded uncertainly.
“I’d be more inclined to do so if you could help me figure out the source of this microfilm. Surely you must know someone who could help, especially if you believe this fellow Plotz is off-limits.”
Emil frowned and picked up one of the strips, as if to study it further.
“He might at least take a phone call from me.”
“Plotz, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll try to reach him? And ask him about the possible source of these items?”
“If you insist. I’ll do what I can.”
Emil then put all three strips of film back into the plastic bag and pocketed the bag.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“You want them identified, yes?”
“But that’s evidence! I can’t possibly allow it to leave the building!”
In the old days, of course, Emil could have just ordered Dorn to yield the microfilm, the way Krauss would have done it. But that had never been his preferred style, and it wouldn’t have worked now anyway. Besides, guile was more enjoyable.
“Very well. Then I guess there’s no way I can show it to any of the few people who might know. Plotz and some others. I could give you their names, of course, but…”
“What?”
“Under current circumstances? There’s no way they’d ever feel safe enough to speak to a stranger. And certainly not a policeman. Even for me it will be a stretch, but you won’t stand a chance. These are the kinds of items no one wants to be connected to any longer, not with all the talk of trials and prosecutions. In fact, I’ll be better off not having them in my possession. So, here. Take them.”
He tossed the bag back onto Lothar’s coat and turned toward the door.
“Wait!”
Emil stopped with his hand on the knob.
“How long would it take you?”
“A few days, maybe? Certainly no longer than a week.”
“A week! That’s far too long!”
“Fine, then. Give me a deadline.”
“Two days.”
“Four. Tomorrow’s Friday, and it’s always harder reaching these people over the weekend. You said yourself they’ve already been dusted for prints, right?”
Dorn nodded.
“And I’m guessing Lothar Fischer’s were the only ones.”
Dorn looked him in the eye for a second before nodding again. Emil pressed his point.
“Meaning there’s no forensic reason you’ll need them to establish the identity of his killer, in case you come up with a suspect in the next four days.”
Dorn picked up the bag and gazed at it longingly for a few seconds.
“How about if I made some enlarged copies for you?”
“You don’t understand these archival people. They’re hopelessly consumed by little details, like the type of film, or special coatings. They’ll insist on the genuine article.”
Dorn sighed. Then he handed over the bag.
“You’ll be fully responsible for any loss or damage.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll have to sign for it. There’s a form to fill out.”
“There always is, but your name will also be on it. Do you really want to establish that kind of a paper trail?”
Dorn sighed again as he weighed how far he was willing to go. It was fairly amazing to Emil how quickly he had been able to steer the young policeman back to the old way of doing things. But he supposed ambition was a useful tool under any system.
“Very well, then. But guard it with your life.”
Oh, he planned to. That aspect was unavoidable.
There was a noise from the hallway—approaching footsteps—and Dorn raised a hand for silence. He waited until they had passed beyond earshot before speaking again.
“Let’s continue this discussion in my office, where we’re less likely to be interrupted.”
Emil again felt like a pariah, but he understood. He didn’t particularly want to be spotted here, either. He nodded, and they proceeded stealthily to Dorn’s office on the second floor.
23
Emil tried to get a better read on Dorn by scanning the landscape of his tiny office. There was a framed photo of a pretty young woman who must be his wife, but no shots of any children. Hanging from the back of his chair was a new-looking sport coat—made of fine wool, not polyester. Dorn and his wife had probably been splurging with their welcome money. His recent change of fortunes must have come at just the right moment for them. An up-and-comer with his eye on advancement.
But anyone that intent on getting ahead might yet change his mind about letting someone leave the building with a key piece of evidence, so Emil came up with a question to distract him, something he needed to ask anyway.
“What do you make of the use of the suppressor on Lothar’s gun? That was odd, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“Well, if it was a suicide, why the need to keep the shot quiet, especially in such a remote location?”
“Oh, I’ve ruled out the possibility of a suicide.”
“Have you, now? So you were able to verify he was left-handed?”
“It was evident from the fingerprint pattern on the everyday objects in his house. His toothbrush, pens and pencils, items in his kitchen.”
“Smart. Very good. And when you dusted the gun, I’ll bet that not only were Lothar’s prints the only ones, but the gun was clean otherwise. As if someone had wiped it down before putting it in his hand.”
“You’re correct. But the more interesting story was told by the footprints.”
“I’m surprised there was any story at all in that muddy mess.”
“It was the trails leading to and from the body that told a story.”
“Yes?”
Emil worried where this might be headed, especially if Lothar’s path had come from the hunting stand. But Dorn’s explanation took him by surprise.
“Lothar Fischer’s footprints weren’t on any of the approaching trails. None.”
“Meaning his body was carried there.”
“That’s the most logical explanation. And apart from your footprints, and those of my men, all the other ones nearby were for that woman, Frau Kunstler, who first phoned us after seeing the body. Plus those of Krauss and his men from the Spezialkommission.” He then raised a finger to the air, as if to heighten the drama. “Plus, three other sets of footprints.”
“Belonging to…?”
“Three males, most likely. We haven’t yet identified the make of their shoes.”
Probably because the shoes had been made in another country. East or West? American? British? Russian? If Dorn knew, he wasn’t saying.
“I see.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I suppose I don’t understand why everything would have been done so…”
“Sloppily? Obvious?”
“Yes, don’t you think?”
Emil shrugged.
“That was the old way of doing things, for people like Krauss. Unlimited authority has that effect. You grow accustomed to never having to explain yourself, especially when everyone else is always having to explain themselves to you, and you’re the one who always writes the final report. The last thing he was expecting that morning was to see you coming up the path with your men. Even then, I’m sure he figured he would simply brush you aside. Until you reminded him that the old ways no longer applied.”
“Maybe you’re right. Or maybe those other footprints are something that even he would be unable to explain.”
“Also possible.”
Emil now had more questions.
“What about Lothar’s body? Any sign that he had been beaten or tortured?”
“There were no obvious blows or bruises. No cuts.”
Emil was relieved to hear it—for his friend but also for himself.
“But there was one item, less obvious. Having to do with, well, his scrotum. His balls.”
Emil swallowed hard and waited for the rest.
“There was a red mark on them. A blood blister, in a narrow seam, with a sign of some burning. Not from an incision, but probably from a clip. The examiner wasn’t positive, but he surmised that an electrode had been attached. Probably to administer a shock. Perhaps several.”
“I see.”
“Yes.”
The whole hideous idea of it hung between them for a moment. Deeply disturbing, but it helped Emil steel himself for the maneuvers he needed to make next.
“Is there anything more you need from me?” he asked.
“Yes. Anything that you might have heard since yesterday morning from neighbors or old colleagues. Your wife’s caretaker said you were out and about earlier today. Did your travels take you into Berlin?”
“They did.”
“For errands, I believe you said. What sort?”
“Groceries. Gas for the car. Pharmaceuticals for my wife.”
Dorn smiled knowingly.
“Nothing more?”
“It may surprise you, but the everyday details of life can become all-consuming when you’re down to your last paycheck.”
“Surely you’ll have a severance package coming to you as well, yes? And at the rank of colonel, I can imagine it’s likely to be generous.”
Spoken like a budding careerist, Emil thought. But Dorn was right, and now he was the one who was a little off balance, so he decided to play his final cards, a couple of items he’d come up with during the drive into Bernau.
“You’re right, of course. There will be a severance payment. And as to your earlier point about my neighbors, I’ll admit that I’ve been wondering what some of them might know. Frau Kunstler, for one, the first person who called you. And Wolf, of course. Don’t forget to check with him.”
“Markus Wolf? I’d heard he was gone.”
“To Moscow, yes. But he has returned.”
“When?”
“You’ll have to ask him for the exact time. But it must have been early yesterday morning, or the night before. I saw smoke coming from his chimney as we were climbing the path back to my dacha.”
Dorn looked astounded, and maybe a little upset with himself for having failed to notice this earlier. It took him several seconds to absorb the news. Emil was fascinated that the name could still cast such a powerful spell.
“Do you think he’ll speak with me?”
“He’ll have to, won’t he?”
“Well, yes, of course, but…”
“Would you like me to ask him for you? Maybe tell him to give you a call, so you can set up an interview?”
Dorn flushed with gratitude.
“That would be an immense help.”
“I’ll see to it tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
Emil turned and opened the door, hoping to reach his car before Dorn changed his mind about the microfilm. But he had one last item to leave behind, figuratively speaking—a final seed to plant in the soil of Dorn’s imagination. Because if thirty-four years of working for the Stasi had taught Emil anything, it was that it never paid to go poking around in sensitive places if you could get someone else to do it for you. So he paused on the threshold and turned back toward the young policeman.
“Oh. And a word of advice about Dieter Krauss, if you’re open to that sort of thing.”
“I’m all ears.”
“If you’re interested in seeing how he tends to operate in investigations like this, I can refer you to one he took off the hands of the Volkspolizei down in Leipzig a few years ago.”
“I’m already quite familiar with how Krauss likes to throw his weight around. I have firsthand knowledge of that, remember?”
“Yes, of course. But I was thinking more in terms of matters that got a bit dirtier, and more brutal, and then needed to be erased. Although who’s to say that will be the case with Lothar Fischer’s death? So maybe this information wouldn’t be relevant to you.”
“No. It’s a valid point. This was in Leipzig, you said?”
“Yes. Krauss was working with a Russian, if memory serves.”
“A Russian? In the same line of work as you and Krauss?”
“Very much so. Based in Karlshorst.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“I don’t. But I’m betting the police in Leipzig would still have it in their file, since Krauss closed the case for them. And I do remember the victim’s name, which is probably how it’s filed.”
Dorn took out a pen and a pad.
“Go ahead.”
“Barkov. Boyan Barkov. A Bulgarian.”
“I’ll follow it up first thing tomorrow.” Then, with a gleam in his eye, he checked his watch and said, “Actually, I’ll call them now. Records never closes, not in a department as big as Leipzig’s.”
His zeal was mildly disturbing.
“And mum’s the word on how you heard about that Barkov file, if you don’t mind.”
“Not a problem.”
Emil backed into the corridor and shut the door. He tucked the bag with the microfilm deeper into his coat pocket. By sometime tomorrow, or maybe even late tonight if all went well, Dorn would have come up with Yuri Volkov’s name. That might lead the policeman in an intriguing new direction, although Emil was even more interested in learning the identities of any other Russians whose names turned up. Because Volkov was essentially a KGB errand boy, and in tidying up the matter Dieter Krauss would have eventually dealt with Volkov’s boss. That’s the name Emil wanted.
He stepped briskly down the stairs, and by the time he reached his car he was feeling a bit smug about how deftly he’d handled the young detective.
The satisfaction was short-lived, mostly because he also couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of Lothar with an electrode clipped to his balls. The images were vivid enough to make him shift uncomfortably on the car seat. A few miles later, as a crescent moon rose across a stubbled field during the lonely ride home, he began to reconsider the wisdom of his recent moves.
Yes, he had succeeded in putting Dorn onto Volkov’s trail, and onto Krauss’s as well. Yes, he had opened a conduit for new and perhaps vital information. For the moment, he had also fended off Krauss’s probing curiosity. Wolf’s as well. But in doing these things he had obligated himself to help all three of them on several fronts, and in each instance it would be difficult for him to fake it. All three men would demand further information in return for what he still needed from them. It would take some juggling, and dropping even a single ball might be dangerous, even fatal.
Meanwhile, Volkov was still at large, out on the hunt with his two sidekicks like feral creatures in the woods. Emil needed to take special care to leave as few tracks as possible as he moved among them all.
Then there were the Americans. So much hinged on what they did on Monday. Even if they complied with his wishes, would any further contact be compromised? He had already concluded one thing: The woman he had passed the note to was not the one who had called Lothar’s dacha to set the time for the initial rendezvous. Their voices were too different. Was that where Lothar had gone wrong—some leak on the American side? At least he had the coming weekend to think about it, and prepare.
The other wild card was Andreas Plotz. Emil had hoped to never have to contact that difficult man ever again, directly or indirectly. But now he had promised both Dorn and Krauss that he would give it a try. Just as well, he supposed, because he had his own reasons for doing so, even though any attempt was likely to be risky.
It was too much, all of it—too much for one man to take upon his shoulders. But there was no one he could possibly recruit to assist him.
Those were his troubled thoughts as he turned the Wartburg onto the dirt lane toward the Bauersee, its headlight beams tunneling through the darkness.
Emil craved a steaming mug of coffee, a comfy seat next to Karola on a warm couch, a quiet chat about anything other than these concerns. But by the time he rolled up to the dacha, all the windows were dark.
