Little Grey Mice (37 page)

There were still lumps, parts of the Wall not yet removed, but no proper preventive barrier. People stood about in groups, being photographed against it or looking at the broken-down remains as they would have regarded the skeleton of some prehistoric monster. Which was what it represented now, he reasoned. Hardly a skeleton, even. Merely a marker, to ancient history, another time now past. Except for a few: a few of whom he was one. They were all stupid, these memorabilia collectors! Didn't understand. So few understood. They would though: eventually they would.

Reimann walked unchallenged across the dividing line: not that there was a line, a division, not any more. There were still grey-suited border soldiers, mostly looking bewildered – guards with nothing left to guard.

His reception at the Johanisstrasse safe house was as smooth as before. The room was the same, but this time the pudgy Russian was alone, waiting behind the bare desk: the ashtray was already overflowing.

‘So you've got her!' It was Turev's only greeting.

‘Yes,' said Reimann. As before he sat, uninvited, on the only visitor's chair. Where was the other, higher-ranking Russian, the one with the tight beard?

‘Excellent!' praised Turev. ‘You're sure you can manipulate her?'

‘I think so: there's still some reserve.'

‘It wasn't a full Cabinet meeting,' Turev told him, a hint of triumph in his voice.

‘How do you know?' Reimann felt aggrieved to be receiving instead of imparting the information.

‘We've checked the movements of every member of the Cabinet, for the week you say the gathering took place: three of them weren't in Bonn, not at any time.'

It was an obvious elimination procedure and one he should already have followed. Reimann was annoyed at himself, but he would look even more inefficient trying to make an obvious recovery. ‘A special group then? A committee, maybe?'

Turev nodded. ‘Yet she felt able to comment, about certain members…'

‘… as if she had been there,' Reimann completed, determined to catch up.

‘Beyond the authority we believed her to have,' said the Russian, unnecessarily. ‘But something else has come up that we can't explain. Her bank records show a four hundred and fifty mark increase. Any idea how that could have come about?'

‘None.' Reimann felt completely ineffectual.

‘Could she have attended such a meeting?' asked the Russian hopefully.

‘I've no way of knowing,' Reimann had to admit.
Why
hadn't he made the deduction himself? He'd become complacent: complacent and sloppy.

‘A possibility,' Turev insisted.

‘I'll find out,' Reimann promised. I hope, he thought.

‘It would make her far more valuable than we've so far believed her to be.'

‘If it's true that she does have personal access.' Reimann was still cautious. She had sounded distracted, not as anxious as he'd expected, when he'd telephoned before leaving Bonn: still insufficient for any definite conclusion.

‘It's a priority, to find out.'

‘I realize that.' Reimann was surprised the Russian had not rebuked him by now: he deserved criticism.

‘Anything else?' Turev demanded.

‘I know about the thirty thousand Deutschmarks. It was given to her sister.' It wasn't much but at least it was
something:
because Reimann had been told about the access to Elke Meyer's bank account at their previous personal meeting it had not been something he could pass back through Jutta.

‘Why should she do that?' said Turev, reflectively.

‘There could be a possible advantage.' Reimann was anxious to restore as much as possible any lost respect. ‘The woman's husband is an executive with West German telecommunications.'

Turev nodded. ‘Leave it with us: I don't want to risk you becoming involved in any way. And well done again, incidentally, about the Transport Minister. The resignation was disruptive.'

Reimann was still annoyed at himself, and the congratulations did nothing to ease it. He said: ‘I'm going to try to pressure the woman in a particular way. I don't believe for a moment that she initiated the security check, but just in case I want a communication sent to me from Australia through the Press Centre. It's to be very critical of my last article. Get a phrase inserted about being deeply disappointed.'

‘Anything on the documents coming through Vienna?'

‘Nothing,' said Reimann, another admission of failure.

Turev stretched to a drawer on the left of the desk and produced a box. Inside was what looked like the type of pump-operated inhaler asthmatics use to relieve breathing difficulties. ‘The poison you wanted. It's a gas that causes cardiac constriction. It dissipates within minutes of death. Is it an unpleasant dog?'

‘Appalling,' said Reimann. ‘And it smells.' He wasn't at all satisfied with how the meeting had gone.

It had been the sub-committee considering the financial implications of the East German exodus, and the report and listed recommendations had not taken Elke as long to prepare as the account of the full Cabinet committee. She still cancelled the usual midweek lunch with Ida to compile it, so it was not until the Saturday that they talked, and even then not until the afternoon, when they were alone in the garden.

‘For someone with a lover as good as you say he is you certainly don't seem very happy!' Ida accused, although lightly. She'd listened without interruption to everything Elke had told her. Seizing the rare opportunity, Elke had gone into considerable detail.

‘I'm going to have to tell him about Ursula, aren't I?'

‘
Don't
', if you're so frightened!'

‘It would be worse, when he eventually found out. Why shouldn't I, anyway? I'm not ashamed!'

‘That's what I'm saying, for Christ's sake!'

‘This week,' declared Elke. ‘I'll tell him this week.'

Chapter Twenty-Six

Elke poured herself some wine before his arrival, and was lifting it to drink before she realized what she was doing, behaving like one of the ludicrous characters in those American TV soap serials she'd always disdained. She put the glass down too firmly on the kitchen ledge, spilling some. She was very frightened: empty-stomached, weak-kneed, numb-faced frightened. She'd gone through all the reassurances – too considerate, too wonderful, too long ago, wouldn't mean anything, he'd accept it because he was so understanding – but nothing had helped. Ida had been marvellous, telephoning as she had, knowing he was coming.
You're making a drama where one doesn't
exist… it can't matter, if he
's
as good as you say … bring him to lunch next weekend… if he dumps you, I'll have him … you can have Kurt … Kurt and Horst, with my blessing.
Trying to make her laugh: unbend. Dear Ida. That hadn't helped, either. She sipped some wine. It tasted sour, although she'd bought the bottle – six bottles, in fact – on her way home from the Chancellery that night. The spilled wine made her fingers wet. She dried her hands on a paper towel, using it to mop up the wet ring.

I want to talk.
Too abrupt: too peremptory.
I have a secret.
Ludicrous, like a soap opera again.
There's something I want you to know.
Soap opera once more.
There's something I haven't told you.
Why did everything sound so facile, so artificial? Ida was right. It wasn't the drama she was making it out to be. Something that had happened long ago. Nothing to affect him. Nothing to affect them. She'd had a baby. So what! His choice. He could either accept it – accept Ursula – or he couldn't. If he couldn't then it would be over. Dear God, no! Don't let it be over. Don't let me be wrong, believing him to be so kind and gentle, so considerate, so wonderful! Don't let him be offended or hurt or digusted! She loved him too much: wanted him too much. Maybe that was the way.
I can say it now: want to say it now. I love you. And because I love you I want to be honest …
Not quite right, but better. Definitely say she loved him. Because she did. But wasn't that trying to trap him, imposing a burden on him, before saying what she had to say? A possible interpretation. Whatever she said, however she said it, would have more than one interpretation. Not really. Just one interpretation.
I
had another man's child. I'm soiled
goods.
Soiled goods! They didn't even speak like that in soap operas. She sipped more wine. How then? She didn't know.

She'd thought she knew, when he'd called. Let's not talk about where we're going, what we're going to do, until you've been here first. Very strong, very positive. What's wrong? he'd said, the concern obvious. When you get here, she'd avoided. So he already knew there was something: was warned.
I
didn't mean to sound dramatic. It's just that …
No! Ursula wasn't ‘just that' anything. Ursula was her daughter: her darling, sweet, lovely, sadly crippled daughter. Not ‘just that'. Never. If it came to a choice … Elke stopped the thought, shocked by it. There wasn't a choice. Never had been, never would be. She would always be with Ursula, close to her, always a mother, as best she could. His choice, then. Hadn't she concluded that already? She thought she had. It didn't matter. Only Ursula mattered. If he couldn't accept Ursula, acknowledge Ursula, there was no future for them. Nothing for them. She'd have to tell him that, make him understand. No! she told herself at once. That was a demand, an ultimatum. She didn't want to present him with ultimatums: wasn't in a position to do so. It had to remain unsaid: unsaid but inferred.
I'm sorry, but if you can't …
How did she know – how could she guess – what he could or could not accept?

When she lifted her glass she discovered it was empty, so she filled it again. Poppi fussed around her ankles, but Elke ignored the dog. He had to have had other lovers, from the way he'd made love to her. Maybe he had a child, somewhere. Not a factor. Not possible, either, she decided firmly. If he had fathered a child it would be here with him in Bonn, being cared for as she knew he would care for it, doting on it, protecting it. Definitely not! Otto might have had lovers, a lot of them, but he hadn't had children.
Darling. I don't want there to be any secrets, so you should know …

The bell sounded.

Elke jumped so profoundly that her wineglass spilled again, and for a moment she stood unmoving, staring down at the new ring of wetness, her mind blank of any thought, her body urged by no movement. The bell sounded once more, longer this time, and the dog skittered around, barking. Elke moved at last.

Reimann closed the door behind himself, after she admitted him, but remained in the hallway, solemn-faced. ‘No kiss?' Confession time? It could be something else, but he guessed at unburdening herself being the most obvious. Good, he thought: hurry up, for God's sake!

Elke came forward quickly, offering herself, but staying stiff, and knew he would notice. She stepped back, separating them, when he released her.

‘It seems serious?' he said, lightly mocking. He'd hear her out, let her flagellate herself, before doing anything to assist.

‘Come in,' said Elke, leading the way into the main room. ‘You want a drink?'

‘Not particularly.' He presented her with the chocolates.

‘I do.' She accepted the offering, forgetting to thank him.

‘Then I'll join you.'

She didn't worry about the dog, which scuttled in from the kitchen after her when she returned with the glasses. Reimann scooped the animal up, settling it on his lap. He had considered bringing the gas dispenser with him, in the event of an opportunity arising that night, but had decided against it. It had to be done to achieve the maximum possible advantage. But soon. The dog disgusted him. Let the comedy begin, he thought. ‘Whatever it was I did, I'm sorry.'

‘It's not you! Nothing you've done!'

‘Why the gloom and doom?'

‘I want to talk.' Her glass was already half empty: maybe she hadn't filled it properly.

He'd been right, Reimann decided, confidently: as he invariably was. He sipped his whisky. The dog
did
smell. He said: ‘Definitely serious?'

‘Yes … no … I mean it's important. Important for you to know, now, before …'

‘… before what?'

‘We go any further.'

‘Do you want us to go further?' Always, in every circumstance and at every chance, she had to imagine they had a future together.

‘You know I do!' said Elke, almost irritably. ‘You know I love you!'

‘I didn't, not until now,' said Reimann. ‘It's something I have been wanting to hear.' He wouldn't say it back, not yet. She had to remain unsure for a little longer. Reimann waited, patiently, watching her fidget and fuss in the facing chair. ‘Well?' he encouraged, kindly.

She was going to make a mess of it: Elke knew she was. It was all going to come out jumbled and nothing was going to sound right and she was going to drive him away and it would be her fault. ‘I have a baby …' she blurted. ‘No … a daughter … grown up. No, not grown up … fifteen almost … wasn't married … it was an accident. Well, no … becoming pregnant was an accident. Her being born wasn't. I love her …' Elke couldn't think of how to go on: of what she'd said, immediately before. ‘I wanted you to know … now you do.'

‘I see,' said Reimann, soberly. He had to treat it seriously, because that's how she regarded it. But not for long. She had to be lifted up, reassured, quite quickly. She'd talked with her face turned away and still wasn't looking at him.

‘Her name is Ursula,' added Elke, lamely.

Reimann decided to urge her to talk, to purge herself further: the more she told him the closer she would consider herself bound to him. ‘Where is Ursula now? With her father?'