Samson 01 - Berlin Game, page 12
‘You didn’t get me over here just to tell me all this stuff about Rensselaer having an affair with Fiona, did you, Werner?’
‘No. I wanted to ask you about the office. You’re the only person I know who sees Frank Harrington to talk to him on equal terms.’
‘I don’t see him on equal terms,’ I said. ‘Frank treats me like I’m a twelve-year-old child.’
‘Frank is very patronizing,’ said Werner. ‘In Frank’s day, they were all Cambridge pansies or Greek scholars, like Frank, who thought a little job in the intelligence service would be a good way to earn money while they wrote sonnets. Frank likes you, Bernard. He likes you very much. But he could never reconcile himself to the idea that a tough little Berlin street kid like you could take over the job he’s doing. He’s friendly with you, I know. But how do you think he really feels about taking orders from someone without a classical education?’
‘I don’t give him orders,’ I said, to correct the record.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Werner. ‘I just want to know what Frank has got against me. If I’ve done something to make him annoyed, okay. But if it’s a misunderstanding, I want a chance to clear it up.’
‘What do you care about clearing it up?’ I said. ‘You’ve got some racket going that’s going to give you a villa in Marbella and Rioja and roses for the rest of your days. What the hell do you care about this clearing up misunderstandings with Frank?’
‘Don’t be dumm, Bernie,’ he said. ‘Frank could make a lot of trouble for me.’
‘You’re imagining things, Werner.’
‘He hates me, Bernie, and he’s frightened of you.’
‘Frightened?’
‘He’s frightened at the idea of you taking over from him. You know too much - you’d ask too many questions, awkward questions. And all Frank cares about these days is keeping himself pure for his index-linked pension. He’ll do nothing to prejudice that, never mind all that stuff he gives you about how friendly he was with your father.’
‘Frank is tired,’ I said. ‘Frank has got the “Berlin blues”. He doesn’t hate anyone. He doesn’t even hate the Communists any more. That’s why he wants to go.’
‘Didn’t you hear me tell you that Frank Harrington has blocked your appointment here?’
‘And didn’t you hear me tell you that that was all bloody rubbish? I’ll tell you why they don’t use you any more, Werner. You’ve become a gossip, and that’s the worst thing that can happen to anyone in this business. You tell me stupid rumours about this and about that, and you tell me that no one likes you and you can’t understand why. You need to pull yourself together, Werner, because otherwise you’ll have to add me to that long list of people who don’t understand you.’
Werner was hunched over the table, the bulky overcoat and fur collar making him look even bigger than he really was. When he nodded, his chin almost touched the table. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘When I first realized my wife had betrayed me, I couldn’t say a civil word to anyone.’
‘I’ll call you, Werner,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘Sit down,’ said Werner. His voice was soft, but there vas an urgency that transcended our bickering. I sat down. Two men had entered the café. The younger Leuschner had been checking the levels of the bottles of drink arrayed under the big mirror. He turned round and smiled the sort of smile that is the legacy of ten years behind a bar. ‘What’s it to be?’ Nervously he wiped the pitted marble counter, which was one of the very few things in the café that had survived the war as well as the Leuschner brothers. ‘Would you like to eat? I can give you Bratwurst with red cabbage, or roast chicken with Spätzle.’
The men were thirty-year-old heavyweights, with robust shoes, double-breasted raincoats and hats with brims big enough to keep rain from dripping down the neck. I caught Werner’s eye. He nodded; they obviously were policemen. One of them picked up the plastic-faced menu that had been put before them. Young Leuschner twirled the end of the big Kaiser Wilhelm moustache that he’d grown to make himself look older. Now, with his balding head, he didn’t need it any more. ‘Or a drink?’
‘Chocolate ice cream,’ said one of the men in a voice that dared anyone to be surprised.
‘Schnaps,’ said the other.
Leuschner chose from one of the half-dozen varieties of strong clear liquor and poured a generous measure. Then he put two scoops of ice cream into a dented serving dish and supplied napkin and spoon. ‘And a glass of water,’ mumbled the man, who’d already begun to gobble the ice cream. His companion turned to rest his back against the edge of the counter and look casually round the room as he sipped his drink. Neither man sat down.
I poured milk into my cup, in order to provide myself with something to do, and stirred it with care. The man eating the ice cream finished it in record time. The other muttered something inaudible, and both men came across to the table where I was sitting with Werner.
‘You live near here?’ said the chocolate ice cream.
‘Dahlem,’ said Werner. He smiled, trying to hide his resentment.
‘That’s a nice place to live,’ said the ice-cream cop. It was difficult to decide how much was pleasantry and how much was sarcasm.
‘Let’s see your papers,’ said the second man. He was leaning all his weight on the back of my chair and I could smell the Schnaps on his breath.
Werner hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether anything was to be gained by making them prove they were policemen. Then he brought out his wallet.
‘Open up the case,’ said the ice cream, pointing to the document case Werner had placed on the seat beside him.
‘That’s mine,’ I said.
‘I don’t care if it belongs to Herbert von Karajan,’ said the cop.
‘But I do,’ I said. This time I spoke in English.
He glanced at my face and at my English clothes. I didn’t have to spell it out that I was an officer of the ‘protecting powers’. ‘Identification?’
I passed to him the Army officer’s card that identified me as a Major Bishop of the Royal Engineers. He gave me a bleak smile and said, ‘This identification expired two months ago.’
‘And what do you think might have happened since then?’ I said. ‘You think I’ve changed into someone else?’
He gave me a hard stare. ‘I’d get your identification brought up to date if I was you, Major Bishop,’ he said. ‘You might find the next policeman you encounter suspects you of being a deserter or a spy or something.’
‘Then the next policeman I encounter will make a fool of himself,’ I said. But by that time both men were moving off across the room. The ice cream dropped a couple of coins onto the counter as he passed.
‘Bloody Nazis,’ said Werner. ‘They picked me because I’m a Jew.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Werner.’
‘Then why?’
‘There could be a million reasons why a cop asks for papers. There could be some local crime … a recognized car nearby … someone with a description like you.’
‘They’ll get the military police. They’ll come back and make us open the case. They’ll do it just to show us who’s the boss.’
‘No, they won’t, Werner. They’ll go down the street to the next café or bar and try again.’
‘I wish you weren’t so damned obstinate.’
‘About what?’
‘Frank Harrington. This is the way he keeps the pressure up.’
‘Have you ever stopped to think how much it costs to keep a man under surveillance? Four men and two cars on eight-hour shifts working a five-day week. We’re talking about a minimum of six men and three cars. The cars must be radio-equipped to our wavelength, so that rules out rented ones. The men must be trained and vetted. Allowing for insurance and special pensions and medical schemes all Department employees have, each man would cost well over a thousand Deutschemark. The cars cost at least another thousand each. Add another thousand for the cost of backup and we’re talking about Frank spending ten thousand marks a week on you. He’d have to hate you an awful lot, Werner.’
‘Ask him,’ said Werner sullenly. I had the feeling that he didn’t want to be disillusioned about Frank’s vendetta lest he have to face the fact that maybe Frank sacked him because he wasn’t doing the job the way they wanted it done.
I raised my hands in supplication. ‘I’ll talk to him, Werner. But meanwhile you cut it out. Forget all this stuff about Frank persecuting you. Will you do that?’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Werner.
I looked at the document case that I’d pretended was mine. ‘And, just to satisfy my curiosity, what is in “my” case, Werner?’
He reached out to touch it, ‘Would you believe nearly half a million Swiss francs in new paper?’
I looked at him but he didn’t smile. ‘Take care, Werner,’ I said. Even when we’d been kids together, I never knew when he was fooling.
11
I remembered Frank Harrington’s parties back in the days when my father took me along to the big house in Grunewald, wearing my first dinner jacket. Things had changed since then, but the house was still the same, and came complete with a gardener, cook, housekeeper, maid, and the valet who had been with Frank during the war.
I shared Frank’s ‘just wear anything, it’s only potluck’ evening with a dozen of Berlin’s richest and most influential citizens. At dinner I was placed next to a girl named Poppy, recently divorced from a man who owned two breweries and an aspirin factory. Around the table there was a man from the Bundesbank and his wife; a director of West Berlin’s Deutsche Opera, accompanied by its most beautiful mezzo-soprano; a lady museum director said to be a world authority on ancient Mesopotamian pottery; a Berlin Polizeipräsidium official who was introduced simply as ‘ … from Tempelhofer Damm’; and Joe Brody, a quietly spoken American who preferred to be described as an employee of Siemen’s electrical factory. Frank Harrington’s wife was there, a formidable lady of about sixty, with a toothy smile and the sort of compressed permanent wave that fitted like a rubber swimming hat. The Harringtons’ son, a British Airways first officer on the Berlin route, was also present. He was an amiable young man with a thin blond moustache and a complexion so pink it looked as if his mother had scrubbed him clean before letting him come down to the dining room.
They were all dressed up to the nines, of course. The ladies wore long dresses and the mezzo-soprano had jewellery in her hair. The wife of the man from the central bank had diversified into gold and the lady museum director wore Pucci. The men were in dark suits with the sort of buttonhole ribbons and striped ties that provided all the information needed, to anyone entitled to know.
Over dinner the talk was of money and culture.
‘There’s seldom any friction between Frankfurt and Bonn,’ said the man from the Bundesbank.
‘Not while you are pouring your profits back to the government. Ten billion Deutschemark - is that what you’re giving to the politicians again this year?’ said Frank. Of course they must have guessed who Frank Harrington was, or had some idea of what he did for a living.
The Bundesbank man smiled but didn’t confirm it.
The lady museum director joined in and said, ‘Suppose you and Bonn both run short of money at the same time?’
‘It’s not the role of the Bundesbank to support the government, or to help with the economy, get back to full employment or balance trade. The Bundesbank’s primary role is to keep monetary stability.’
‘Maybe that’s the way you see it,’ said the mezzo-soprano, ‘but it only requires a parliamentary majority in Bonn to make the role of the central bank anything the politicians want it to be.’
The Bundesbank official cut himself another chunk of the very smelly double-cream Limburger, and took a slice of black bread before answering. ‘We’re convinced that the independence of the Bundesbank is now regarded as a constitutional necessity. No government would affront public opinion by attempting to take us over by means of a parliamentary majority.’
Frank Harrington’s son, who’d read history at Cambridge, said, ‘Reichsbank officials were no doubt saying the same thing right up to the time that Hitler changed the law to let him print as much paper money as he needed.’
‘As you do in Britain?’ said the Bundesbank official politely.
Mrs Harrington hurriedly returned to the mezzo-soprano and said, ‘What have you heard about the new Parsifal production?’
‘Du siehst, mein Sohn, zum Raum wird hier die Zeit.’ These words - ‘You see, my son, time here turns into space’ - provided Mrs Harrington, the mezzo-soprano and the ancient-pottery expert with an opportunity to pick the plot of Parsifal over for philosophical allusions and symbols. It was a rich source of material for after-dinner conversation, but I wearied of listening to it and found it more amusing to argue with Poppy about the relative merits of alcool blanc and whether poire, framboise, quetsche or mirabelle was the most delicious. It was an argument that dedicated experiment with Frank Harrington’s sideboard array had left unresolved by the time Poppy got to her feet and said, ‘The ladies are withdrawing. Come with me.’
The desire to flirt with her was all part of the doubts and fears I had about Fiona. I wanted to prove to myself that I could play the field too, and Poppy would have been an ideal conquest. But I was sober enough to realize that this was not the right time, and Frank Harrington’s house was certainly not the place.
‘Poppy dearest,’ I said, my veins fired by a surfeit of mixed eaux de vie, ‘you can’t leave me now. I will never get to my feet unaided.’ I pretended to be very drunk. The truth was that, like all field agents who’d survived, I’d forgotten what it was like to be truly drunk.
‘Poire is the best,’ she said, picking up the bottle. ‘And a raspberry for you, my friend.’ She banged the bottle of framboise onto the table in front of me.
She departed clutching the half-full bottle of pear spirit, her empty glass and discarded shoes to her bosom. I watched her regretfully. Poppy was my sort of woman. I drank two cups of black coffee and went across the room to corner Frank. ‘I saw Werner last night,’ I told him.
‘Poor you,’ said Frank. ‘Let me top up your brandy if you are going to start on that one.’ He stepped away far enough to get the brandy, but I put a hand over my glass. ‘What an idiot I am,’ said Frank. ‘You’re drinking that stuff the ladies are having.’
I ignored this barb and said, ‘He thinks you’ve got it in for him.’
Frank poured some brandy for himself and furrowed his brow as if thinking hard. He put the bottle down on a side table before he answered. ‘We have an instruction on his file. You know, Bernard, you’ve seen it.’
‘Yes, I checked it out,’ I said. ‘It’s been there five years. Isn’t it time we let him try again?’
‘Something not very sensitive, you mean. Umm.’
‘He feels out of things.’
‘And so he might,’ said Frank. ‘The Americans don’t use him and he’s never done anything much for anyone else here.’
I looked at Frank and nodded to let him know what a stupid answer that was: the Americans got copies of the sheet that said we were not using Werner. They would not use him without some very good reason. ‘He thinks you have a personal grudge against him.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘He said he can’t understand why.’
Frank looked round the room. The police official was talking to Poppy; he caught Frank’s eye and smiled. Frank’s son was listening to the mezzo-soprano, and Mrs Harrington was telling the maid - uniformed in the sort of white cap and apron that I’d seen otherwise only in old photos - to bring the semi-sweet champagne that would be so refreshing. Frank turned back to me as if regretting that nothing else demanded his immediate attention. ‘Perhaps I should have told you about Werner before this,’ he said. ‘But I try to keep these things on a “need to know” basis.’
‘Sure,’ I said. Poppy was laughing at something the policeman told her. How could she find him so amusing?
‘I put Werner in charge of the communications room security one night back in September 1978. There was a lot of signals traffic. The Baader-Meinhof gang had hijacked a Lufthansa Boeing, and Bonn was convinced they were flying it to Prague… . You ask your wife about it, she’ll remember that night. No one got a wink of sleep.’
He sipped some of his brandy. ‘About three o’clock in the morning, a cipher clerk came in with an intercept from the Russian Army transmitter at Karlshorst. It was a message from the commanding general requesting that some military airfield in southwest Czechoslovakia be kept operational on a twenty-four-hour basis until further notice. I knew what that message referred to because of other signals I’d seen, and I knew it wasn’t anything to do with the Baader-Meinhof people, so I put a hold on that message. My interception unit was the only one to file that signal that night, and I’ve checked that one through NATO.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Frank,’ I said.
‘That damned message went back through Karlshorst with “intercepted traffic” warnings on it. Werner was the only person who knew about it.’
‘Not the only person, Frank. What about the cipher clerk, the operator, the clerk who filed the signal after you’d stopped it, your secretary, your assistant … lots of people.’
Artfully, Frank steered the conversation another way. ‘So you were talking to dear old Werner last night. Where did this reunion take place - Anhalter station?’
The surprise showed on my face.
Frank said, ‘Come along, Bernard. You used that old military identification card I let you have, and you were too damned idle to hand it back when it expired. You know those bogus cards have numbers that ensure we get a phone call when one turns up in a police report. I okayed it, of course. I guessed it was you. Who else would be in Leuschner’s cafe at that time of night except drug pushers, pimps, whores and vagabonds, and that incurable romantic Bernard Samson?’
