The Berlin Assignment (65 page)

Hanbury's head sank into his hands. An urgent, broken whispering began. The rear seat became a confessional. Yes, he worked the Stasi files. Schwartz was doing a monograph on Nazi war criminals. Cooperation between former Nazis and the Stasi would be one dimension. He asked for help. And why not? Revelations from the files were in the papers every day. Access to the Normannenstrasse complex was no problem. But the idea from the beginning was to look for former Nazis, not abet the far right. And, yes, there was an outing to Potsdam. An unguarded remark about skinheads had been taken by Schwartz as a challenge. “I was there for twenty minutes, Gerhard. I wasn't comfortable. I never want to go near a place like that again.”

Stacked against all that emotion, von Helmholtz knew, were hard facts. He did not relent. “You spent a week doing Schwartz's bidding in the Stasi files to flesh out a paragraph or two for a monograph?” he said incredulously. “A whole week?” Hanbury now let all he knew flow. He described the process, Schwartz providing names, he tracking them down, going ever deeper into the files.

“You found what Schwartz wanted?”

“Yes.”

“Schwartz was happy?”

Hanbury nodded.

“And you were convinced you were looking for Nazi war criminals.”

“At the end I suspected some of them were not.”

“Why?”

“I found a room.
DDB
. The files there referred to people too young to have been Nazis and they didn't seem involved with Nazi things – the death camps, extermination of the Jews, all those things. But most of the information I took out made little sense to me.”

“It did to Schwartz?”

“It seemed to.”

Von Helmholtz had the full picture now. He felt tired. Throughout the night he pressed Graf Bornhof to provide
all
the information, not just carefully chosen pieces. After a further stream of faxes, a few pieces began to fit. The constitution's protectors had tried to trace Hanbury's paths criss-crossing through the files, but failed. He had handled too many indices; the routes were too random. So law enforcement got involved and broke into Schwartz's university office, where they found neatly ordered bundles of cards covered front and back with notes in the consul's handwriting.

“You were not looking for old Nazis, Tony,” von Helmholtz said wearily. “You were picking out Stasi collaborators in the west.
DDB: Deutsch-Deutsche Beziehungen
. Inner German Relations, that's what you were looking at. Dozens of West Germans, well-known and in high places. You were handing Schwartz one political time bomb after another.”

Hanbury, spirit crushed and in a hoarse voice, said he didn't know, he really didn't.

“Politicians, senior government officials, journalists, scientists, businessmen, artists, entertainers. That's what you found in
DDB
. Some were simply paid spies, but others traded in controlled technologies, handled stolen works of art, siphoned off private money transfers from West to East, or supported terrorists. Schwartz planned to leak the information little by little. He wanted to create an atmosphere of the established elites everywhere being morally bankrupt and corrupt. Schwartz's group would then agitate – in the media, on the opinion
pages, through publishing houses – for a clean-up of all the elements that cooperated with the East German regime over the years. Eventually, who knows, an investigation, maybe a parliamentary committee might have been struck. In a situation like that, a fresh political movement with a clear direction and no links to the Communists, embodying the old Prussian virtue of order might do well. As for the skinheads – I don't know – perhaps he saw them as having potential to become the move-ment's workers after some indoctrination. Would it have worked? Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

The Mercedes arrived at the airport. Hanbury sat transfixed. He asked who found out, who recognized him on the photo, but he met a wall of silence. At the terminal the barons spilled out of the BMW. Von Helmholtz went to talk to them and came back with one. “Horst here will take your luggage and check you in. We've got twenty minutes. Let's walk a bit.”

“Who recognized me on the photo?” Hanbury repeated. “Who knew I was working on the files? Is Kurt Stobbe part of it?”

Von Helmholtz nudged Hanbury to start walking. “No,” he said. “Not Stobbe.”

“Did our spooks feed yours? Is that how you got my reports?”

“No.”

“So your side fed my side.”

“Not my side, Tony. Information has been coming to us.”

Hanbury did a mental check. “The Yanks,” he said.

“Not necessarily, Tony,” von Helmholtz said. “Not them.”

All the questions that plagued Hanbury throughout the night came gushing out. If not the Yanks, then who? Who checked his Stasi file? Who organized the Christmas phantoms? Who was listening in
Friedensdorf
? Who got hold of his reports? Who observed him in the Stasi complex? And why was a photographer handy in Potsdam? Hanbury beat his forehead with a palm. “I've had all night to think
about it. It's systematic, but I can't see any links. Is Gundula part of it? Is she working for them?”

“Not Gundula.” Von Helmholtz's eyes bored ahead, like someone wanting no distraction, someone wanting to forget. “You don't want to know,” he advised curtly. “Take my word for it.”

“I may keep trying to figure it out all the same,” Hanbury said bitterly. He took a deep breath. “Well, I'm paying for my mistakes. What's happening to Schwartz?”

Von Helmholtz was severe. “Your judgement, to say the least, was poor. You're getting off mild. Keep that in mind. As for Schwartz, he's been questioned. I'm told he was composed. Since he no longer had your material stashed away in some hiding place he lacked bargaining chips. I suppose he weighed the pros and cons. Did he want a leaked picture of him on the front page identifying him as a suspected right-wing extremist? Did he want the same leaked story to say that he might soon face investigative custody of indefinite length. I'm sure he thought about it and saw reasons to cooperate. I understand he did. In return…” A resignation came over von Helmholtz. “…he will continue a quiet academic life.”

“Hushed up,” The consul concluded. Von Helmholtz looked neither right nor left. “He hasn't, strictly speaking, broken any laws.”

“And the Stasi collaborators in West Germany?”

Von Helmholtz didn't reply.

“Hushed up too?”

“It's too early to be sure. I understand you matched cover names with real names on the basis of intuition. So far there's no direct evidence that the pack – the Scorpions and Midnight Angels – are the personalities you assumed they were. They may eventually be identified, after due process.”

“No one called to account…” Hanbury said.

“It's not something we are traditionally good at.”

“…except me, and in half an hour it will be as if I've never been here either.”

“You'll be better off in South Africa.”

They were half-way around the airport's inner circuit. With the time left shrunk to minutes, Hanbury denied this. He seemed set vehemently to contradict it, but after a pause he became thoughtful instead. This was the one place in the world he might have stayed, he said, to have been somehow part of it.

“Gundula?” Von Helmholtz asked. He finally glanced sideways at the consul and saw him nod. “It would be a mistake to stay because of her. I would advise against it.” Fresh bafflement formulated on Hanbury's face. “I mean,” von Helmholtz said, “Gundula's staying would be a mistake. She has no future here. Your places – South Africa, Brazil, India – that's where her future lies.”

“When she finds out why I left, it's not too likely she'll want to have much to do with me. Closet neo-fascists aren't her cup of tea. Simpletons and dupes don't rank high either.” The Chief of Protocol muttered regret, but had he understood right? She didn't know he was leaving? He hadn't called her? Hanbury said he didn't know where she was, only that she was somewhere on the Baltic coast with her family. In three days she would be on a railway platform forming the conclusion he'd run out on her.

“You underestimate her.”

“I haven't handed her too many reasons for having a high opinion of me.”

“Write her,” Von Helmholtz commanded. “Do it fast. Send it off quick. Invite her to South Africa. I'll explain to her you were caught up in things not of your doing.”

Hanbury remained doubtful, but the Chief of Protocol was insistent. He belaboured his point until Hanbury acquiesced. They were back at the entrance to the terminal. “Does Schwartz's wife know?”
Hanbury then asked. This irritated von Helmholtz. “I doubt it. Is it important?”

“She inherited Geissler's bookstore. She offered me a partnership.”

“In that case, it's a very good thing you're leaving.”

Hanbury thought about this. He stood for fifteen, perhaps twenty seconds, looking at the Chief of Protocol, realizing he would need longer to think that through. Horst was motioning. “Visit me, Gerhard.”

The Chief of Protocol looked stern, then broke into a thin smile. “I will, but not until Gundula is there.” The agency reps came up, tugged at the consul, and led him away.

Von Helmholtz got back into his limousine. Before he was outside the terminal his office had patched him through to the police chief in Schwerin and before they were at the first traffic light he had issued an order. “I need to know where somebody called Dieter Jahn is,” he instructed. “He's on vacation somewhere on the Baltic coast.” Within the hour, von Helmholtz was dialling an obscure guest house on the northern tip of the island Rügen. “
Haus Kap Arkona
,” a crackly voice said. “Gundula Jahn, please,” the Chief of Protocol replied with sonorous importance. When Gundula heard what had happened, she told von Helmholtz he needn't bother with arrangements for forwarding mail from Tony. “Think it over,” he cautioned. “Don't make a rash decision.” “Too late.” Gundula said. “I've made up my mind. I'm going back to Berlin now. I'll wait there for his letter.”

The former consul couldn't complain about Arnold's arrangements. He had the last seat on the plane, first class, all the way to Jo'burg. The journey began with champagne. Calmer now – internal reparations ongoing – he gathered his thoughts, about the place he was leaving, and where he was heading. Sporadic questions crowded in. If not the Yanks,
then who? Who intercepted his reports?
You don't want to know
. But he did. Someone he knew?

A change of thought.

Your places – that's where Gundula's future lies.
Von Helmholtz the optimist. The irony was that Gundula's career as a journalist died with Gregor Reich, whereas his stay ended on account of Schwartz. Gregor searched for truth; Schwartz planned to abuse truth. Both of them, he and Gundula, had dabbled in truth, and it did them in.
More champagne?
an attendant asked.
Yes please. Leave the bottle. Thank you.

The letter to Gundula, he ought to do it before he reached the bottom of the bottle. He needed to be careful. He didn't want to be known as
Goethe
for the remainder of his days.
Dear Gundula
. Too trite.
Dearest Gundula.
She would break down with laughter. Something impertinent? Impertinence worked for Gundula, but with him it would sound contrived. He had no choice but to send her one line only:
Gundula, please, please come.

He wrote a short note to Sabine too. The explanation – that he had been reassigned quite suddenly – came easily, but the ending was lame. How could he write her that her husband was the cause? So he wrote that in his career change was a fact of life. But this time, he promised, he would regularly write.

He came back to a pressing question. Who was behind it? Someone local? Someone he knew? A member of the staff? Frau Carstens? She had access to his reports. No, not Frau Carstens. The other ladies? Sturm? Rule them out too. Gifford? Hard working, pious, sweating, earnest Earl, always ready with bags of money to do anything for the consul? British Council Gifford. Was he the front man for an unseen universe? It had to be Gifford.

Knowing this made Hanbury feel strangely better. He extended the seat to its full length; the cabin attendant supplied a blanket; the world closed in. Comfortable now, he saw Gundula. She was at the wheel of a
Jeep Grand Cherokee powered by a smooth engine with the kind of size that she deserved. The vehicle was in four wheel drive and a determined Gundula, handling the gearbox flawlessly – as if she had never driven anything else – was bouncing across the South African veldt. He was strapped into the seat beside her studying a map and reading a compass and trying to figure out where she was going. And in the back, holding on for dear life, was a vacationing Chief of Protocol, sun-burned, wind-ravaged, eager eyes under the broad brim of his safari hat, taking in every square inch of the magnificent landscape.

Somewhere over the sands of northern Africa, with this peaceful preview of the future, the former consul fell asleep.

That same morning the news hit the yacht. Earl and Frieda had just finished making love and lay on the circular bed studying the ceiling mirror. Frieda, satisfied by Earl, was stroking her belly. Earl was watching her every movement with a bird-like stare.

A loud knock was followed by sheets of paper shoved in under the stateroom door. The intrusion hit like a thunderclap. “
Ach, nein
,” Frieda complained. She wanted no disturbances. He grunted, swung his legs into a sitting position and hobbled over to the papers. “A fax from Frau Carstens,” he announced. He didn't mind. Faxes with
URGENT
big and black at the top gave an impression that in his job he had to keep the world spinning. But, as Earl scanned the pages he swore and Frieda stopped playing with her body. “
Liebster!
” she said. Earl frantically wrapped a towel around his waist – it didn't entirely make it, so he bridged two corners with a fist – and ran out the cabin. “Captain!” he yelled, stumbling up the steps to the back deck where the luncheon table was already set. “
Capitaine!
”