Stealing the Future (20 page)

I looked at the untidy diagram I’d scrawled and I wasn’t particularly impressed with my own efforts. But even this had to be better than just reacting. The whole of this last week I’d been a mere chess piece, moved around the board by the Minister, the police, the prison service, a KGB officer and even by my own daughter.

But I had to be honest with myself, I wasn’t getting anywhere. I wasn’t uncovering clues or putting together a theory about the whole case. I looked at each of the points I’d jotted down—searching for anything I could pull on, make the whole thing unravel; some aspect I could check out, some lead to follow. There wasn’t anything. The investigation into Maier’s death was being followed up by Schadowski and his team in Dresden. And I could hardly march up to the Minister and ask him what the hell he was up to. The only gap I could see, the only point where I could find any room for manoeuvre was Dmitri’s conspiracy theory. If I were to accept Dmitri’s ideas then I needed to check them out first. It would be next to impossible to find out whether there were any Stasi sleepers posted at the Ministry. I had even less chance of finding out why the KGB had sent a detachment from Moscow. The only thing I could check was whether I was in fact being followed or not. This morning I’d nearly told my colleagues that I thought I was being followed, but was I really certain? The Lada at Ostkreuz station had brought back bad memories, but were they really there for me? I couldn’t shake the idea that I was just being paranoid, encouraged by Dmitri.

Time for a little test.

17:06

“Thanks, Nik, I’m glad you could help.”

Nik didn’t say anything, he was too busy peering over the top of a book, making a mental note of a battered old Citroën that was parked about twenty metres up the other side of the Karl-Marx-Allee.

“I’d say it feels like the good old days,” Nik replied eventually, “except it’s not, is it? No, in those days we knew why we were doing it. But now? Shouldn’t we have got past all this bullshit?”

I waited for Nik to answer his own question, but for once he didn’t seem inclined to do so. He closed the book, and slotted it back into the gap on the shelf, stepping away from the plate glass window to join me in the shadows at the back of the shop.

“You spotted the green Citroën? I didn’t see any others, but they could just be driving around the block, waiting for you to go out again.” He looked me up and down—beige raincoat, slouch-hat, “I see why you wanted me to wear my coat and hat. So that’s your plan. How long do you need to get rid of them for?”

“We should swap hats, yours is a bit different,” I answered. For the rest, we matched up pretty well: similar size, age and build, same vintage raincoats. If Nik kept his head down then he could easily be mistaken for me.

“I don’t actually need any time—it’s enough for the moment just to check whether I am actually being watched, and if so, how serious they are about it. It’s enough if you take them round the corner—but if you feel like taking them on a tour then please, be my guest!”

Nik chuckled, pulled out a newspaper, unfolding it as he stepped out the door on to the street, then walked off, head buried in the paper. I stood by the window and kept my eyes peeled. The Citroën drove off, did a U-turn further up, then slowed down just past the bookshop, picking up a grey woman wearing an anorak and carrying a shopping bag. I leaned out of the shop and watched as the Citroën peeled off around the corner, following Nik.

20:32

I couldn’t get comfortable, sitting at home. The roll of wallpaper was still spread out on the table. I stood up and looked at it, shaking my head. So now I’d confirmed that I was being followed. So what? It didn’t get me that much further.

I picked up the whisky bottle and the wallpaper rolled itself up, slowly at first, but gaining enough momentum to knock the shoe onto the floor before sliding down after it. Pouring myself a measure of scotch, I stood by the window, looking down at the shadowy S‑Bahn tracks below. I was too restless to stand here drinking whisky, waiting for trains to pass. I put my jacket on and left the flat.

I walked around the streets near my house, no destination in mind, no purpose to my journey. Just movement. A block or two away there’s a site where a house had collapsed. It was, I thought, a sort of representation of what has happened to our country. For 40 years the Communists had simply ignored the need to maintain buildings all over the GDR, all their hopes, dreams and money had gone into building pre-fabricated concrete flats. By the 1980s the pre-war housing stock was literally crumbling: whole streets like the Mainzerstrasse, whole quarters like Prenzlauer Berg, even whole towns like Görlitz were falling into rubble. This tenement block here in my neighbourhood had given up the fight against gravity by the end of 1989, and the neighbours shifted the debris, putting huge timber beams into place to shore up their buildings on either side, then turning the empty space into a park. A play area for the kids at the front, a rose garden with seating at the back.

The garden was unlit, the orange semi-darkness of street lamps not quite penetrating as far as what had once been the back yard. I wandered the narrow, curved paths between the rose-beds for a while, imagining rather than seeing the dark green and brown of the mottled leaves. Reaching one of the sturdy wooden props against the side of the house next to the park I turned towards the front. A figure was stood on the empty street, but from the silhouette I couldn’t tell whether it was looking towards me or the other way. As I watched the shadow it slipped away along the street. It was time for me to be getting home too, it was getting cold.

I left the park and turned back, heading home. I could never understand why the streets were so empty in the evenings—thousands of people lived in this neighbourhood, the lights in all the windows were some kind of proof of their existence. But once people had come home from work, once the shops were shut, the only signs of life were from the old-fashioned pubs on the corners. I turned onto another road, the pavements here were narrow, hemmed in by concrete street lights and parked cars. A man, tall, wide, wearing raincoat and tweed hat was coming the other way. As he came close I drew aside, standing on the kerb to give him enough room to pass. But he must have felt that I wasn’t giving him enough space, shouldering me into the gutter as he drew level. I spun as I stumbled down onto the cobbled road, trying to keep myself from falling. By the time I’d found my balance he’d disappeared around a corner.

In my agitation the minor incident affected me more than it should have. A drunk, weaving his way home, nothing more. But I had begun questioning my own ability to gauge distance, trajectory, movement. I was beginning to question my own judgement.

I was just walking up the stairs to my flat when Margrit came down.

“Hi Martin! I’m glad I bumped into you—the neighbourhood Round Table has just told us that our allocation of paint has come in. I’ve called a house meeting so that we can decide what colour we want. Can you manage the weekend?”

This was good news, for years our country had drowned in greys and browns, the Communists never seemed to plan for the production of bright paint, and it was only now, after three years, that we were in a position to start livening up our towns and cities with splashes of colour. It didn’t really improve the standard of accommodation, but it did make us feel better about the places we lived in.

Pleased as I was by this piece of minor good news, I wasn’t really in the mood to have a chat in the stairwell about it. I told Margrit that Sunday would be fine by me, and was about to carry on up to my flat.

“Are you doing anything now? I thought we could have dinner together, or a drink later?” Margrit asked.

“I don’t know, it’s been a heavy week. I was thinking of having an early night.”

“Why? What’s been happening?”

Until that moment I’d felt pleased that Margrit was taking an interest, but now the dark cloak of mistrust cast its shade over me again: why did everyone want to know what was going on at work? Could she know I was interested in Maier’s death? I tried to clear my head, this was crazy; I was becoming paranoid.

“Sorry Margrit, just too tired to be good company tonight. Maybe next week?”

I carried on up the stairs, reproaching myself for being unfriendly and too wary, the whole time hearing Dmitri’s voice playing in a loop:
trust no-one!

As I opened the door to my flat the telephone started ringing.

“Grobe?” I said into the receiver.

“Martin! It’s me!” Evelyn. The last person I wanted on the end of the phone right now. “Martin, I wanted to apologise for dragging you out last night! It was very naughty of me to do that, but I hope you’ll give me another chance?”

Completely lacking in the energy required for decent conversation I just grunted. I wasn’t sure what to say, and I distrusted my ability to navigate the difficult emotional waters surrounding Evelyn.

“Why don’t we have a proper date, maybe next week, or what about the weekend? Oh that would be lovely! Say you will, Martin—you have to because I’ve had the worst day ever!”

My ears pricked up at this, I knew that Evelyn had been in the Ministry this morning, in the archives. I’d thought about it on and off all day, but could come up with no reason why she would have been there.

“I spent the
whole
day following the District Secretary of the
Kulturbund
around the cinema. He wants to put art on the walls of the auditorium! Imagine that, Martin! ‘It’s a cinema!’ I told him-”

“I’m sorry Evelyn, I have to go—I’m meeting someone. I’ll phone you back.” I put the phone down on her, and stood there in the hall, looking at the grey apparatus, wondering why I’d been so pleased to get one in the first place.

Dmitri’s voice was still echoing around my skull.

Görlitz:
Boxberg power station in West Silesia is to be privatised. A spokesperson for the West Silesian Union announced this morning that the power station and all coal fields in the region are to be transferred to a Trust Company and that propos­als from the international markets are being solicited. The Berlin Ministry for Coal and Energy said they had not been consulted on the plans.

Moscow:
Clashes between KGB and Interior Ministry troops have continued throughout the night. Reports of fighting have also been received from the capitals of other Soviet Republics, including Kiev, Minsk and Tbilisi.

08:12

Morning meeting, again. Normally they were slow and gentle, easing us into the workday. The only one who worked hard at these meetings was Bärbel, keeping minutes for us. The rest of us used it as a chance to make contact with each other, keep up to date on what was happening in our lives, inside and outside of work. But I wasn’t looking forward to this one. Once again I’d got out of the wrong side of bed—my alarm clock went off early again, even though I could swear that I’d reset it. The weather was foul, all the worse after the last few days of sunshine. But to cap it all, I couldn’t find my shoes—I’d ended up splashing through the rain and puddles in an old pair with cracked soles.

All of this rather put me on edge, and made me worry that Laura might criticise me again—it wasn’t much of a fear, I know, but I had wet feet, hadn’t any coffee inside me, and I’m always a lot happier when we get along at work.

As it was, it wasn’t too bad. I wouldn’t say it was a harmonious atmosphere, but everyone listened attentively when I reported back on yesterday’s events. Laura kept her peace, and Klaus snorted when I got to the bit when Nik helped me to spot my tail. I had their attention now.

“You need to tread carefully, Martin. Somebody out there isn’t happy about you sniffing around,” was Klaus’s response.

“I think they’ve been following me all week, even before I started actively looking into the Maier case. It feels like they’re just keeping an eye on me, I don’t think I’m in any personal danger.”

They looked sceptical about my reassurances, and, thinking about the state Chris was in, I wasn’t particularly convinced myself. But they didn’t make any more of a fuss, agreeing to my suggestion that I try to talk to Chris again.

We finished up and Erika asked Bärbel to go and fetch more coffee from the
Konsum
shop in the next street, then asked me to go over to her office with her.

“Are you OK?” she asked once we’d got there.

“Yeah, fine. It’s all a bit surreal, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m wasting everyone’s time. On the other hand, Chris has been really badly beaten up. It’s like nothing has changed. When you go inside those prison walls it’s like you’ve stepped back in time.”

“Have we changed anything at all about the prison system?” she replied, thinking aloud. “We’ve broken down the walls of the prison-state that we lived in, but we haven’t touched the walls of the physical prisons. Why aren’t we coming up with other ways to see justice done?”

Since my visit to Rummelsburg yesterday I’d been asking myself much the same question. Murder and other violent crime was still being committed—and prison was the traditional remedy for such ills. But even if most prisoners weren’t treated as badly as Chris, had been it was still inhuman to simply lock people up. Where were the second chances, the opportunities to make good any damage done, the option of living a life?

“I think this is something we should talk to the Round Table about—we’re part of the Ministry of the Interior, so in a sense this is our area. Let’s find out what’s being done about it, let’s get involved. I mean, we’re already involved—we’ve got some responsibility already: Chris is there because we found him.” I noted that Erika had said
we
, accepting a collective responsibility for his capture. “And he’s not the only one we’ve dealt with that has ended up in jail. We need to be coming up with alternatives to the current system.”

“Yes, let’s talk to the others about it, I agree.”

Erika nodded before staring into space, tapping her pencil against a pad of paper. Finally she turned her attention back to me:

“But Martin, what I wanted to talk to you about—I’ve been thinking about what you said about the Minister. Let’s say, just for the moment, that Maier was involved in negotiating with Westgermany about coal and electricity. And if that’s the case then maybe he was the one who negotiated the money, arms and BGS troops too? What if the Minister is involved in Maier’s murder—because he wanted to stop the
Diversant
. He could be involved because he wants to protect the GDR.”

Erika’s face was flushed, she was quite excited about her theory. It wasn’t an impossible scenario that she’d painted, it just seemed very improbable. But then again, there were no reasonable explanations for what was going on.

I thanked Erika, and went to the door, turning back to look at her just as I opened it. Erika was staring back at me, her eyes troubled.

Sidling out of the door I could see Bärbel had got back from the shop, the packet of coffee was on her desk next to the typewriter. Erika’s office was behind Bärbel’s desk, so she couldn’t see me in the doorway—her eyes were fixed on the door to my office, on the other side of the reception area. She had the telephone receiver cupped in her hand and was talking quietly into it:

“Yes, he said he was going to the prison again… that’s right, bye,” she said softly before putting the phone down.

“Bärbel, who were you talking to?”

She jumped, and looked around at me, shaking her head.

“Bärbel, tell me—who were you talking to on the phone?”

“Martin, I was talking to a friend about dinner—as if it has anything to do with you!”

How sure was I that I’d heard her right? And even if I had, she could have been talking about anyone—it didn’t have to be me. I stood there looking at Bärbel, she’d just shrugged and turned her back on me, shifting files around her desk. The more I thought about it, the more uncertain I became. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was misjudging everything at the moment, I should probably just leave it, after all, maybe I was just being paranoid.

I went into my office and phoned the director at the power plant. “Do you know who was negotiating the power-line deal with the Westgermans?” I asked him.

“Oh, didn’t I mention it? Until last week that would have been Hans Maier, you know, the guy who was found dead in the mine.”

14:12

Here I was again, for the second day running: Rummelsburg prison. I checked in at the guardhouse by the gate, and was asked to wait. After a few minutes a prison officer marched up to me.

“I’m to take the Comrade Captain to the director’s office,” he reported to me, as if he were talking about someone who wasn’t present.

Before I had a chance to reply, he did a smart about turn, and headed back the way he’d come. I followed him across to the red brick administration block, up some steps into the hall, then up more steps to the first floor. He knocked on the door of the office, and we entered.

“I regret to inform you, Comrade Captain, that Accused 264721 was found dead in his cell an hour ago,” said the director without looking up. He was a tall man, wearing civilian clothes and a narrow, clipped moustache. He didn’t bother rising from his chair to greet me, merely extended a hand over the paperwork he was still perusing.

“I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey,” he added distractedly.

“How was he killed?”

“Not killed, Comrade Captain. Suicide. Now if you’ll excuse me–”

“I want to see his body.”

Finally the director looked up at me, a faintly surprised and indignant look.

“Very well, if you wish.” He gestured at the guard to take me away, and we left without another word.

The guard and I headed back into the main body of the prison, through a gate in the fence that ran across the centre of the site, then past the huge three storey cell blocks and some modern concrete buildings, under a mesh of steam and heating pipes. Finally we came to a more human sized red-brick house, with a low concrete wing added to the right of it. A plaque by the entrance marked it as
Haus 8, Prison Hospital Wing
. The basement served as a basic morgue, Fremdiswalde lying on a steel table. His left knee was still noticeably swollen under his trouser leg, and some fresh bruising could be seen around his right eye and cheek. He was wearing only the standard issue blue nylon jogging trousers and socks, and two long, parallel welts could be seen running diagonally across his left breast.

“How did this happen?” I asked the nervous orderly, although the answer was obvious to anyone looking at the body. Tongue protruding from blue lips, red marks around the neck, eyes bulging and bloodshot.

“He was found just over an hour ago, when they came to take his breakfast tray away. He’d hung himself from the bars, using his tracksuit top.”

I stared at the orderly until he turned away, taking a form from the desk behind him. It was the custody record. An entry had been made late last night advising that force had been used to subdue Accused 264721. That was it, nothing else.

“Tell the director that I want a report on Fremdiswalde’s death, on my desk by tomorrow morning,” I snapped at the guard, and marched out of the hospital wing, letting him follow me for a change.

I stood at the tram-stop in the rain. Water was leaking through my shoes, but in my anger and agitation at Chris’s death I hardly noticed the dampness. I hadn’t expected this. Chris had been frightened yesterday, but I hadn’t taken him seriously. If I’d listened to him, maybe I could have done something, got him out of there. He’d still be alive.

I turned my back on the biting wind blowing down the Hauptstrasse, hunching my shoulders against the cold and burrowing my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. The fingers of my right hand closed around a thick wad of papers, and I pulled them out. That cop had handed them to me on Tuesday, during the raid. I unrolled the bundle, and looked at the first page. It was Chris Fremdiswalde’s Stasi files. I’d seen them before, there wasn’t anything useful in there. Except, perhaps there were more than the few pages I’d already seen. The first page listed Fremdiswalde as an IM working for the Stasi, not just someone with a criminal record—that too was different from the version of the files I’d seen.

I shuffled through the pages, rain spotting the paper, wind ruffling the edges. What I read didn’t make too much sense to me, wrapped up in Stasi jargon, codenames for groups, handlers and operational processes. But from what I understood, Fremdiswalde had been recruited when he was lifted for stealing at school—they’d signed him up when he was still a kid, under the codename WERTHER. The Stasi seemed to have had him reporting on youth subculture groups until late 1988, when he was given the new codename FELD and used in operations against individual targets, his handler named as IMF MILCHMÄDCHEN. That was Maier.

So Maier had been handling Fremdiswalde. That was a turn up for the books, although on consideration it wasn’t too much of a surprise considering the close contact between the two men. Reading between the lines I could see that Maier was also in charge of several other IMs—the name TRAKTOR came up a lot in that last period, and it seemed odd: from what I’d seen, codenames of IMs were usually proper nouns, mostly first-names, but just like FELD, this TRAKTOR was a thing, not a person’s name. I looked through again, checking the references to TRAKTOR. The first time he was mentioned there was a note added by hand in the margin: DÄ GOTTFRIED. Meaning
Decknamenänderung
—the codename had been changed from GOTTFRIED. I’d seen the old codename before, I’d noticed it because GOTTFRIED was Bishop Forck’s first name—until recently the protestant bishop of Berlin-Brandenburg. That particular codename had cropped up several times in the file the Stasi had kept on me. Maybe I needed to pull the file on GOTTFRIED/TRAKTOR, see how significant he or she was.

At that point the tram rattled up, and I got on. I folded up Chris’s papers, and wiped away the condensation on the window to see outside. It had stopped raining, and the grey cloud was lifting. My eyes drifted down from the sky to the road running either side of the tram tracks. To our right I noticed a Trabant spluttering along next to us. I was too high up to see who was inside, but I didn’t like the way the car was keeping pace with the tram. It looked like the watchers had picked up my scent again. I thought fast: the next stop was Rummelsburg S‑Bahn station, if I got off there then I’d have two choices—get on a train, or just go through the station to the other side. The tram stopped and I climbed down the steps, crossing the road behind the little grey car, passing between the row of workshops and huts that lined the entrance to the station. I didn’t look back, but I could hear the tram move off. The cyclical whining of the Trabant’s engine remained at a constant pitch, telling me that the car was still stationary, watching my movements. In the station I turned round the corner, ignoring the steps that lead up to the platform, continuing instead through the tunnel towards the Nöldnerstrasse exit on the far side. A moment’s hesitation as a train rumbled in overhead, and then I ran out on to the street and turned right. I’d intended to hide round the back of the church further up the road, but as soon as I made it out of the station I could see that it was too far away. A scrubby patch of grass and several mature trees were right next to the station, I quickly slid behind the damp trunk of a chestnut.

A moment later I hear footsteps and panting. Peeking round the bole of my tree I could see a small, bald man run out of the station. He leant forward, hands supported on his thighs, taking a few deep breaths before going to the phone box. He spoke for a few moments, in which time the Trabant whined up, having taken the long way round by the road. It splashed up next to the phone box, and the small man got in, the car starting up and going past me as I edged around the broad tree to stay out of sight.