Babylon Berlin (40 page)

‘Only a few days ago you just about lynched the commissioner because he didn’t want to cough up any new information about the corpse from the Landwehr canal.’

Weinert laughed. ‘Journalism is a day-to-day business. People forget quickly.’

‘Then you need to make sure they remember! Whether a case makes the headlines or gets tucked away on page fifteen is still something the free press decides.’

‘You want me to go against what everyone here in the press is writing and build up a case that no-one’s interested in anymore?’

‘Isn’t that the real scandal? That the commissioner’s frozen all current homicide investigations and has CID working at full capacity to solve the Jänicke murder? An unknown corpse is dredged from the canal – nothing happens. A police officer is shot dead – and the commissioner applies a completely different set of standards.’

Weinert whistled through his teeth. ‘You should have been a journalist. Or a politician.’

Rath had known Weinert would bite the moment he saw how the journalist reacted to the phrase
Krasnaja Krepost.
They ordered another round of coffee.

‘So, Alexej Kardakov,’ Weinert began. ‘When I moved into Nürnberger Strasse about a year and a half ago, he was already there. As a neighbour, I saw him even less than I see you. I always had the feeling he was deliberately avoiding us Germans. He was still living in Russia, really. Played host to a little Russian colony most evenings. Things got pretty lively.’

‘That’s what El…that’s what Frau Behnke said.’

Weinert hesitated for the briefest of moments before continuing. ‘If she’d known the heads of the
Red Fortress
were meeting under her roof, she’d probably have called the police.’

‘Kardakov was one of the leaders of the
Red Fortress
?’

‘I’d never have thought him capable of it either. I always assumed he was a hard-working but unsuccessful author. The typewriter was always rattling away. I only discovered two months ago that he was involved in politics.’

‘Just before he moved out?’

Weinert nodded. ‘We knew each other pretty well by then, even if it was about half a year before we had a coherent conversation. He ran out of paper and knocked on my door to see if he could borrow some. We chatted for a bit, mostly about writing. He speaks excellent German, by the way, but writes in Russian.’ Weinert paused and took a long drink of sparkling water. ‘Well, and then – it must have been sometime in March, it was bitterly cold anyway – I overheard something by chance. For the first time since I’d been living in Nürnberger Strasse, German was being spoken in the next-door room. I have to say it made me curious.’

‘You eavesdropped on the conversation?’

‘Curiosity is an occupational disease. Besides, they were discussing interesting things, money and politics. From time to time they switched to Russian, but mostly they spoke in German, even if some had trouble understanding. I think the Russians had a couple of German visitors and were making an effort. The only Russian words I heard again and again were
Krasnaja Krepost.
’

‘The
Red Fortress.
That was when you knew they were commies?’

‘I didn’t discover all that until later and didn’t give it much thought at the time. Incidentally, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the first time they had met.’

‘What kind of Germans were they? Politicians?’

‘I wondered that myself. Businessmen, I suspect. The Russians were talking about percentages at any rate. The Germans wanted fifty percent, but the Russians were only willing to give ten. Finally, they agreed on forty.’

‘So we can safely assume that the Russians weren’t businessmen…’

‘As they were getting up to go, I had a look through the keyhole. Couldn’t see a great deal though. One of the men was rather short and stocky and wearing an expensive fur coat. That is, he didn’t look anything like a politician, and he definitely wasn’t a communist. Seemed more like a director general. And strangely, there was a Chinese man there too. Pretty international crowd really.’

Marlow
, the thought flashed through Rath’s mind. The man in the fur coat could only have been Johann Marlow! Marlow and his Chinese shadow in Nürnberger Strasse! But why was the underworld boss visiting a small-time coke dealer, a tiny wheel in his organisation? Forty percent could be lucrative. Forty percent of eighty million marks!

‘Well,’ Weinert continued, ‘like I said, curiosity is an occupational disease. I wanted to know what this
Red Fortress
was all about.’

‘And Kardakov told you?’

‘Of course not, and I didn’t ask. Far too risky if he discovered that I’d been eavesdropping on his meeting. The
Red Fortress
operates underground. I kept quiet and did my research elsewhere. There are other ways of getting information. Yielded some pretty interesting findings too.’

‘The
Red Fortress
wants to overthrow the German government?’

‘The
Soviet
government.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘I’d known since that evening in March that they had nothing good to say about Stalin. That night they moaned so much about the Moscow government that I’d never have guessed they were communists. But they are, hardliners at that. The name tells you everything you need to know. The
Red Fortress
regard themselves as the guardians of true communist doctrine after Lenin’s death.’

‘So do Stalin and Thälmann.’

‘So does just about every Red. That’s the problem with the Left: they spend more time fighting themselves than their opponents. For Thälmann’s followers, being called a
Trotskyite
is worse than being called a
Nazi.
’

‘Does Trotsky belong to the
Red
Fortress
then?’

‘Difficult to say. There are rumours, but Trotsky himself has never said anything about it. Perhaps he’s just waiting for the
Red Fortress
to succeed before revealing his true colours.’

‘So, what does the
Red Fortress
want?’ It wasn’t until he’d asked the question that Rath realised he’d quoted the title of Weinert’s article.

‘Their ultimate goal is world revolution, of course, but first they want to get socialism in the Soviet Union back on the right track. For that to happen they need to overthrow Stalin.’

‘Of course. Am I mistaken or are this lot a little power crazy?’

‘They’re just ambitious. They’re realistic about the fact that idealism isn’t enough for a
coup d’état
, you need lots of money too. I just wonder where they’re going to get it. What sort of businessman supports the communists? Even the ones launching an attack against their own?’

‘I think I can tell you that,’ Rath said.

Weinert had told him a great deal, so he decided, as far as possible, to tell him everything he had learned up to that point: about Kardakov’s connection to Countess Sorokina; her family’s gold, which had allegedly been smuggled into Berlin from the Soviet Union; and about Marlow and Red Hugo’s
Ringverein
, both of whose roles were still unclear. Yet, having listened to Weinert, Rath now had a better idea of what their roles might be. Together with his girlfriend, Kardakov was intending to smuggle the Sorokin gold into Germany and use it to achieve his ambitious political aims. Marlow’s job was to take this conspicuous supply of gold, which Stalin’s people were also trying to locate, and convert it into inconspicuous Reichsmark bills and bank statements. Kardakov was using his boss as a fence – for forty percent.

‘Interesting, interesting,’ Weinert said. ‘Why didn’t you announce that in the press conference?’

‘Because it would’ve have compromised ongoing investigations,’ Rath lied, without going into any further detail. The tried and tested killer blow that thwarted every journalist.

‘So why are you telling me?’

‘Because, thanks to your help, I’ve just taken a giant leap forward. Just please don’t publish anything I’ve told you yet. I promise you’ll be the first to get the story. You’ll have it going through the rotary printer while the others are still attending the press conference. I’ll give you the green light in a day or two.’

‘Green light?’

‘Just like at Potsdamer Platz. Be ready and, when the light switches to green, step on the gas!’

The morning was getting on by the time he returned to his desk. In fact, it was almost lunch. He’d give it a miss today. He hadn’t even started looking for a new room yet.

First of all, he had to bring his view of the
Aquarius
case up to date. He was finally making some headway. True, he still didn’t have anything that would stand up in court, but collecting evidence was Böhm’s job, not his.

By now he could at least present a coherent argument, provide an additional line of inquiry. That was all Zörgiebel had asked of Böhm; it was just that he hadn’t managed to deliver. Not so Rath, who could hand the commissioner a murder suspect, perhaps even two. If not exactly on a silver platter, since Kardakov and Countess Sorokina had disappeared, at least it was a start. Something would be stirring with
Aquarius
again, for the first time since the evidence had been secured, Rath suspected. It felt like Böhm had been going through the motions ever since.

The telephone rang. Rath picked up and stated his name.

‘How far have you got with that list?’ Speak of the devil. Böhm’s list! He hadn’t even properly looked at it yet, let alone worked out what he was supposed to do with it.

‘The list, sir? Well, I think tomorrow…’

‘Tomorrow? How long do you need to follow up on a few alibis? Do you want to give the Red Front time to go underground? I want to see your report on my desk by the end of the day, is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir!’

Rath hung up noisily. What an arsehole.

At least he knew what he had to do now. Böhm must have obtained a list of RFB members from Section 1A and divided the names amongst the officers.

He examined the sheet of paper. Six names, all beginning with I. No addresses. He would have to head to the passports office as it was unlikely any of them would own a telephone. That meant he would have to drive out to see them, to Wedding and similarly unappetising districts. He had imagined his Thursday afternoon differently, but at least the drive would give him time to think. He called the motor pool and reserved an Opel.

A little while later he was standing in the passports office.

‘You’re late, your colleagues were all here this morning.’ It was the same official who had got on his nerves the last time. At least the old boy didn’t seem to recognise him.

‘Well, I’m here
now
! So get your lazy arse going. It’s only six addresses.’

‘Don’t you tell me how to do my job, young man! It wouldn’t hurt you youngsters to take a little more care over things.’

The old man put on his glasses and marched over to the roll-front cabinets, comparing the names at least ten times with the index cards he pulled from the drawers. Once he was convinced he had the right addresses, he returned to Rath at the wooden barrier.

‘Here you are.’ The passports official laid the index cards on the table. Rath put them in his jacket and made to leave.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to my office, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘You can’t take the cards with you.’

‘Just for a few hours.’

‘Sorry, but it’s the rules. You’re only allowed to look at them. Make a note of them instead.’

Rath pulled out his pencil and notebook and began to transfer the addresses. When he was finished he could only count five. So much for taking a little more care over things.

‘Hey, over here!’

The man was offended. ‘I’m not some sort of
maître d’
,’ he protested. ‘Remember that!’

Rath ignored him. ‘You’ve only given me five addresses,’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘There are six names on my list.’

‘Only five Germans, though. This one here…’ He pointed to the fourth name down. ‘We don’t have him. Must be a foreigner.’

‘A foreigner in the Red Front?’

‘Why not? Ivanov. Sounds Russian, don’t you think? And there are plenty of red Russians.’

‘So I need to go to the foreign passports office?’

‘The alien passports office. You’ll find it…’

‘…left at the end of the corridor, room 152,’ Rath completed the sentence.

The passports official examined him wide-eyed, his reading glasses still perched on his nose. By the time a flicker of recognition spread across his face, Rath had already disappeared.

The official in room 152 was more straightforward and less concerned than the old boy about sticking to the rules, though he wasn’t any cheerier. If anything, he was grumpier.

He had things to do, he had scolded, when Rath lodged his request. ‘Take a look yourself. I’m sure you can open a cabinet.’

So there he was, standing in front of the same roll-front cabinet that the old man had used two weeks ago to locate Kardakov’s index card. He couldn’t resist the temptation. Before going through the letter I, he turned his attentions to K. Perhaps he had renewed his identity card in the meantime… but now that he was holding the index card he saw that everything was exactly the same as before. The last registered address was Nürnberger Strasse 28, which meant that Kardakov’s documents were no longer valid. Perhaps he didn’t need them anymore, because he had long since acquired false papers, along with a new name. Rath put the card back. He thought of two more names, Russians with whom he still had a score to settle, the pair that was surely linked to Kardakov, and who thus ought to be included in the file he would present to Zörgiebel. Fallin lived in Yorckstrasse, while the second address was in Kreuzberg; the entry must have been changed only recently. When Rath realised what the entry said, the pencil almost fell out of his hand.

Vitali Pjotrevitsch Selenskij lived on Luisenufer!

Most likely in the rear building with the good old German name
Müller
on the doorplate. Now Rath was certain that the Russian heavies were with Kardakov and the
Red Fortress
. They were probably his bodyguards, one of whom had been detailed to protect the boss’s girlfriend, smuggled into her tenement under the name Müller. Not exactly very original, but it had worked. Until now.