Crate of Lies, page 9
Engels nodded at the rows of cabinets outside the office. "You'd be surprised what information is stored here. The art is to know where and what you are looking for and how to interpret figures and statistics. Tell me, are you good at statistics?" He held the door open for Raithe.
Raithe shook his head.
"Well," replied Engels enthusiastically, "by the time we're finished you may still not get on with numbers but you will, hopefully, have a lot more respect for them. Numbers are a language that anyone can understand, no matter what tongue you speak in."
Raithe followed the little man to a long table set in the centre of the floor. A couple of low hung ceiling lamps bathed the entire top of the table in a harsh light.
"Take a seat while I go and lock us in," said Engels. "I don't want anyone wandering in. From here you can't see the door. I won't be a moment." He disappeared down the aisle and left Raithe throwing his jacket over one of the chairs.
"What was the date again?" Engels voice echoed off the walls a moment later.
"20th November, 1952." Raithe waited and listened to drawers being opened and shut.
"Here we are." Engels appeared with two huge folders. "Since the 70's everything has been stored on computer or microfiche. Eventually all of this," he said, waving a hand at the cabinets, "will be on microfiche. It will take a few years yet so I shall be able to last out until I retire."
He placed the folders on the table. "Now, let's see. November' 52, Berlin West…that was any freight leaving for Western Europe and November' 52, Berlin East. The Russians are very methodical, they learnt that from us." He laughed but Raithe smiled politely.
Raithe sat silent for a while, watching Engels study sheet after sheet. Harry often told him that he had friends all over the world in all sorts of professions and political positions. He was a unique and resourceful man who nurtured friendships and used those friends for gathering information without making them feel used. Here was such a friend who asked no questions and was happy to offer information, trusting that Harry would use it wisely without causing him any embarrassment or trouble.
In that same way, Raithe knew he was being used although only seeing that side of Harry that the rest of the world saw. That was until recently, when Harry had no option but to tell him the truth and recruit him on Jerusalem's instructions.
"Ah, here we are."
Engels placed some ledgers on the table.
"You've found it?"
"Yes, although there seems to be some clerical error. Look there." He pointed to an entry and ran his finger across the page. "Here is the consignment of crates and as you can see, all numbered between 221 and 238. It doesn't say here if they were in a wagon numbered fourteen but the date is correct."
Puzzled, Raithe said, "Where's the clerical error then?"
"Here. Look at this last column. It should tell us whether the crates were warehoused or picked up for delivery. All records of freight movements within the Soviet bloc were uniform so even if you were Polish or Latvian, you could trace shipments easily. Who was shipping what from where and where to? What dates it left and when it arrived and what happened to it."
He tapped the page.
"If you look at all the other entries in the next but last column you'll notice either a tick that shows the shipment was picked up or a cross that shows it was warehoused. In the last column there's a date that confirms it was picked up on the day it arrived or the date it left the warehouse." He smiled triumphantly. "It looks as though we have a mystery."
Raithe looked at the date column. The initials TR appeared instead of a date against the shipment. "What does it mean…transfer?"
"Very good, Raithe. TR means transferred to another train at Warsaw. However, this is where the mystery starts. There is a freight transfer log that records a shipment movement if it joins another train. It means that the wagon was taken out of one train and hooked up to another in a shunting yard."
Raithe looked at another ledger Max had laid on top of the first.
"This is the log, I take it."
"Yes, now notice here." Max pointed to an entry. "Normally, when a wagon joined another train, there was always at least twenty-four hours before it was moved from the marshalling yard. There are two things wrong with this entry regarding your load. First, the log shows the freight's ongoing journey leaving on the same day it arrived from Berlin and second, it shows that although the crate numbers had not changed, the contents had."
He looked up at Raithe. "On the face of it these are clerical errors and something no-one would have taken a second look at. However, two errors made by two officials in Warsaw, over the same load?"
"A great coincidence, perhaps," said Raithe, studying the entry.
"I don't think so. You see, the yard manager would have checked the crates in the wagon against a manifest and then sent a freight release form, along with the transfer log, if applicable, to a clerical officer in the freight yard's control office. That officer would then double check everything, including what was supposed to be in each crate, before counter-signing the paperwork. He would then assign the freight to a warehouse or a depot for its collection or an order to the marshalling foreman to hook the wagon to another train. As I've said, records were meticulously kept. You can see for yourself."
Raithe thought for a moment. "Right, so what we're saying is this - the yard manager checked the freight and changed the manifest to list different contents in the crates. The clerical officer counter-signed the paperwork and somehow had the wagon hooked up and shipped out on the same day."
"No, not quite." Max looked pleased with himself. "On all transfer logs it is clearly shown what engine the train was hooked up to and where it was taken. Here, take a look at the original record and the transfer log."
He laid the two sheets side by side and sat back.
"They're the same engine," exclaimed Raithe.
"Yes and my guess is that the yard manager had a manifest that didn't need changing, probably typed out by the clerical officer. Any alterations would have stood out like a sore thumb. He would also have had to supply the manager with new bills of laden, tacked onto each crate in an envelope. That means the manager would have had to remove the old and replace with the new."
"So the train comes in and while other wagons are being taken off and added, the manager climbs onto number fourteen, simply changes the bills of laden and then the train leaves."
"Exactly."
"But didn't anyone ever check the contents at the Polish border?"
"Of course, an official would have checked each car for number of crates and sometimes the addressee the crates were going to. He would have information sent down the line a few hours or days beforehand from the last depot responsible for sending the train."
"And our friendly clerical officer would have done that."
"Precisely."
"Surely they knew there was a chance that someone would run a check on the paperwork?"
"Highly unlikely since it was also the clerical officer's job to file the records. If anyone ran a spot check it would have been easy to mislay just one piece of paperwork."
"Okay, Max," replied Raithe, "let's make some notes." He pulled a small diary and pen from his jacket. "Now, the crates left Berlin-"
"Lichtenberg station, just south of Normannenstrasse and the Stasi headquarters," interrupted Engels. "Too close for comfort but then they were everywhere." He shrugged.
"Right, the train left Lichtenberg with what in the crates?"
"According to this, kitchen utensils."
Raithe shook his head as he wrote. "And after they left Warsaw?"
"Machine parts for Minsk."
"Any delivery address in Minsk?"
Max got up. "No, I'll have to check the Belarus file. This office covered East Germany, Poland and Belarus. Moscow covered all the rest of the Balkan states. I won't be a moment."
Raithe sat looking at the log. Apart from the two men who were involved in Warsaw, there would have been more in Berlin. Someone had to know kitchen utensils did not exist. It was beginning to look as though the Russians or someone within Russia already had the Amber Room.
Max returned, armed with more files. "There has to be a delivery address. Mind you, in 1952, things were still very bad in Europe. There were trains carrying a lot of essentials, apart from food and clothes. A lot of deliveries were made to city depots where the stuff was distributed to the public." He started sifting through the file, his eyes scanning each page. "There's a cold pot of coffee in the office. Why don't you heat it up for us while I sort through this file?"
Raithe nodded and walked back to the office, feeling downhearted. All those involved wanted the room for political reasons but not him; although he knew their reasons were sound. His was the discovery of the room and hopefully a meeting with Liebermann.
He switched on the coffee pot and thought about calling Harry but decided against it. There was no point in spoiling his day yet. Besides, Lightfoot would be wondering where he was by now. He arranged to meet Lightfoot at the embassy where they agreed to take a closer look at STS operations in the Middle East. He poured the coffee into two mugs and took them back to the table. Several pages of the file lay in a neat row. Max looked up as Raithe handed him a mug.
"This is amazing, absolutely amazing," he said in a whisper. "I cannot believe that something on such a scale could be organised under the nose of the authorities."
"What?"
The pages, full of figures and names of cities, looked like a giant crossword puzzle.
"You had better make some more notes and then I'll explain," said Max.
Raithe sipped the black coffee as he sat down.
"From Minsk a different engine pulled the train, along with car fourteen to Krasnyj on the Russian border, where it was transferred to a Russian engine. The manifest showed that the crates were still carrying machine parts."
"How could it?"
"Because the parts by then were going to Moscow." He sat back, both hands behind his head, watching for Raithe's reaction.
"Moscow?"
"Yes, has all this helped?"
"I'm not really sure, Max. Is there a - ?"
"Delivery address? No. The mystery deepens even further. For any information regarding what happened in Moscow you will have to go there. Unfortunately, I do not have a contact there for you and I fear your trail will go cold."
He raised both hands and shrugged.
"One thing though, it is obvious that there were officials at each major terminal who were actively involved in this and I have got the names of the clerical officers and yard managers who signed these documents in Berlin, Warsaw and Minsk. I don't have the names of those in Moscow though. You will have to find out where they all live and if they are still alive."
He gave Raithe a piece of paper on which he'd written a list. "Tell Harry I'll keep digging and see if I can come up with something."
"This was professionally done," said Raithe, half to himself as he folded the paper. "We're talking about ten railway officials in four countries."
"You're also talking about 1952, Raithe. The war might have ended in forty-five but not for Europe. There were hundreds of thousands of displaced refugees; people were still starving on the streets. Cities re-emerged slowly and money was scarce. If you had a job you were very lucky. Even then, you earned practically nothing. These men accepted bribes to do what they did and who can blame them? Change some paperwork and change some labels? Look the other way? What was it to them?"
"What indeed." Raithe drank the rest of the coffee. "Well, thanks for helping us out, Max." He held out a hand and they shook.
"You tell Harry I expect to see him when all this business is over. It's been too long."
Raithe walked with Max back along the aisle. "Tell me," he said, "how long have you worked here?"
Max opened the door for him and smiled. "Ever since Harry got me the job. I couldn't stay where I was. They closed it down."
"Where was that?"
"Normannenstrasse. I worked there for many years, helping Harry from time to time." He saw the shock in Raithe's eyes. "Welcome to the dirty world of politics, Raithe."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Liebermann put the phone down. Things were moving too fast for his liking. Wainright must have made an instant decision. The pipeline was closing and a huge clean-up operation put into place. He was to send his men into the field to close down each station as they became redundant.
Now Wainright wanted Harry Cohen and Raithe killed before they found the launchers. Millions of dollars were riding on this delivery, and not just from the PFF in Syria. If they delivered on time, the reputation they earned would bring in orders from Africa, South America, and several large terrorist groups in Europe.
Despite this, Liebermann wanted Cohen and Ravelle together. Theirs was going to be a double death for him to savour, a personal revenge for humiliating him. Apart from that, he wanted the Amber Room, something Wainright had lost interest in as soon as the pipeline was threatened.
The phone rang.
"Yes," he snapped.
"I've found Ravelle."
Liebermann sucked in air through his teeth in anticipation. "Good man, Jules, where is he?"
"At the moment he's in the American Embassy. I found him staying at the Intercontinental, just like you said."
Liebermann smiled. Harry was a good agent but his weakness for staying at the same hotel chain was predictable, just as his taste for Havana cigars. It followed that he would book Ravelle into his favourite hotel.
"All right, stay with him. I'll be right there."
"I think you may wish to be somewhere else."
"Where?"
"Goethestrasse. It's where the railroad freight offices are. Ravelle left the hotel and breakfasted before going there. He came out after an hour and a half and came straight here to the American Embassy."
"Stay where you are then," answered Liebermann. "Follow him when he comes out and keep me informed every fifteen minutes."
He clicked the phone shut and put his white summer jacket on. Looking out of the window, he decided to wear the Panama to keep the sun off his head. Picking up his overnight bag, he left the rented room and paid the porter downstairs. Outside, he walked along under the shade of the trees lining the boulevard. If Ravelle was in the freight offices it could only be for one reason. He was checking records.
Wainright had good cause to be worried but as long as everyone kept cool heads and shut things down for a few months everything would be fine. All he need do was make sure they delivered before Cohen could spoil things. He clenched his fists and walked a little faster.
At the corner of the street he descended lightly into Neu-Westend U-Bahn station and bought a single ticket to the Zoo Garden. It was unusual for anyone to be working at the offices. Like most public service buildings, the staff hardly ever worked on a Saturday. Whoever Ravelle saw might have seen him by appointment and that probably meant it was one of Cohen's contacts. Liebermann looked at his watch. It showed ten forty-five as the train pulled in.
A few minutes later he stepped back out of the train and walked from the station into the Ku'damm. Approaching the platz, he heard someone coming up behind him, taking quick little steps. A small man passed him in a hurry, carrying a wrapped hamburger.
Liebermann hid his surprise. He recognized Max Engels immediately and followed him back to the freight offices. Two minutes later he entered the hallway and walked over to the lift.
"Can I help you?"
Liebermann turned to find a security guard, a large bunch of keys in his hand, walking down the stairs.
"Oh, actually I'm a little lost," Liebermann replied, softening his voice and speaking slowly. "I've come to see Max but I don't know which office he's in."
"We're closed today. Why not phone on Monday and make an appointment to see Herr Engels?"
"I had an appointment to see him this morning. Do you know if he's still in the building?"
The guard looked him up and down. "This is very unusual. Just a moment, I'll call him…your name please."
"Herr Ravelle."
The guard waved a hand. "If you'd like to wait, I'll see if Herr Engels is in his office." He disappeared down the stone steps to the basement.
A moment later, Liebermann heard him calling Max, then heard him puffing as he climbed back up the steps. His head appeared above the thick wooden banister.
"You didn't tell me you'd already been here this morning, Herr Ravelle. If I'd known, you could have saved me the trouble."
"I'm sorry," replied Liebermann. He walked to the top of the steps. "Thank you. I won't be long. By the time you get back I'll probably be gone."
Liebermann watched the guard go through the main door and close it behind him. He hurried down the steps to the door at the bottom and opened it a crack.
"Ravelle?"
The voice sounded far off. Liebermann opened the door and stepped inside, quickly moving to one side so that the nearest cabinet hid him from Max Engels view.
"Raithe." called Engels excitedly. "I'm in the office. I'm glad you've come back. I've found something very unusual that will interest Harry. I can't believe it. Come and have a look."
By the time Max finished speaking Liebermann had moved swiftly and now stood on the other side of the glass partition looking at the top of Max's head as he bent over the desk, busy writing notes. Liebermann tapped the glass and watched as Engels looked up, his excited face draining of colour and turning into an expression of sheer horror.
Liebermann smiled and waved his fingers before moving across the front of the office, watching the frightened man's wild eyes following him. He stopped by the doorway and said nothing.
Max's mouth opened but he remained silent. Tears rolled down both cheeks. "No…nooo!" he screamed.
Liebermann stepped forward and gripped the open mouth with one hand. "Now, now, Max. I thought you might be surprised to see me but I'd prefer it if we kept our meeting private. You do understand, don't you?" He released his hand.
"Please, you just startled me. I thought you were dead. Please, I don't know anything," babbled Max, cowering. "What is it you want? I haven't got-"
