The Woman from Bratislava (34 page)

Toftlund and Bastrup nodded and waited for their boss’s next words:

‘So she’s sendng you a message, Toftlund, loud and clear.’ Vuldom picked up the printout of Irma’s diary and read aloud: ‘“I looked at him. That may have been the moment when my life acquired meaning. At any rate, when he took me in his arms and held me I burst into tears. There in that bare, hushed clearing in the woods I knew that I would never let this man down.”

Vuldom looked up, put the paper down and repeated:

‘“I knew that I would never let this man down.” I’m right, aren’t I. A heavy hint.’

‘And a confession,’ Toflund added.

‘That too, but not one that would stand up in court. So who’s E–?’

‘Our spy. The one passing secrets to the Serbs. Or to the
Russians
, who pass it on to the Serbs. It may well have been E– who provided the details of the Stealth’s flight path, thus enabling them to hit it. It shouldn’t have been possible to shoot that thing down. It was invisible, for God’s sake. Irma doesn’t have access, but E– does.’

Toftlund paced up and down. Vuldom followed him with her eyes before saying:

‘If he has worked with NATO’s armed forces, or the Foreign Department, or within the EU organisation, and if we’re to believe Irma, then he must be nearing retirement age, or already retired. He’s a relic from the cold war. He thought he was safe because Stasi managed to destroy the tape containing the names of its foreign agents. Or most of them, at least. If he himself does not have access then maybe he recruited someone who has. Then suddenly one day there’s a knock at the door and there’s some Russian, say, who knows him by his Stasi cover name and wants to reactivate him. He has to get hold of the flight coordinates of NATO planes over Yugoslavia and Kosovo or else …?’

Vuldom let the sentence hang.

Bastrup cleared her throat and said:

‘I know the Russians are against the war and are, to some extent, on the Serbs’ side in this matter, but it’s not like them to go so far as to risk compromising their own agents and – more importantly – letting the rest of us know that they actually have a complete list of Stasi’s old network of moles and undercover agents and, hence, a potential bargaining tool and possible blackmail
material
. Although they could, of course, also find themselves called upon to make such a list public. Is that what you’re saying, boss?’

Vuldom smiled and nodded, like a teacher receiving an answer from a good student:

‘Exactly. So the reward for revealing to the rest of us that they have a copy of the details of Wolf ’s old network would have to be very big. And it was. Access for Russian engineers to America’s top-secret Stealth technology is a reward beyond price. The cold war and all that may be over, but Russia is still keen to possess this technology. And if the Yugoslavian air defence knew the flight coordinates, the odds of them shooting down a Stealth bomber would suddenly be greatly improved, and with them the chances of Russia building its own Stealth aircraft, which they could hawk to the Iranians or the Chinese, or whoever else buys arms from the Russians these days. It would be worth it, even if it meant giving away information or compromising an agent.’

Toftlund said:

‘But who is E–?’

‘Yes, who is E–?’ Vuldom repeated. ‘What do the files say? About the liquidations during the war? Have you found anything?’

Toftlund walked over to Bastrup, who handed him a sheet of paper. He ran a quick eye over it then said:

‘The resistance carried out somewhere in the region of four hundred liquidations in ’44 and ’45. After the war, representatives from the resistance movement looked at all the unsolved killings and if there was any mention of an informer liquidation the case
was shelved. And since the occupation no one, not the press, nor the historians nor any other researchers have had any inclination to delve into that matter. It’s still very much a taboo subject. No one has tried to find eyewitnesses or surviving relatives. Both those who did the killing and the families who were hit bear the scars to this day. The majority of those who were directly involved are dead. Many of the surviving spouses changed their names,
remarried
and so on. There are a lot of faded old case files. But they got us nowhere. We can find no trace of any young man fitting Irma’s description of E–. It’s like this blank spot in Danish history. We’ve been able to track down hardly any survivors, in fact. Or locate any relative now occupying a post which offers access to classified information. But E–’s mother could have remarried and taken her secret with her to the grave. That’s what usually happened.’

Toftlund regarded Vuldom regretfully.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s rephrase the question then: who knows who E– is?’

‘Irma does. But she’s not telling. I’m convinced that, while Irma may well be Edelweiss, she is not the actual spy, only the spy’s carrier pigeon. E– has survived this long only because he has had plenty of filters between himself and the recipients of his reports – be it the KGB, or Stasi, or both. Irma was one of these filters. E–’s identity was not even known to the normal spy chiefs within Stasi or, earlier, the KGB. Apart, perhaps, from the director himself. He was a vital asset, and as such was closely protected. He delivered his reports through human carrier pigeons like Irma. But there was more than one Irma in his life.’

Toftlund glanced at Vuldom, who nodded:

‘I’ve reached the same conclusion,’ she said. ‘E– is our man. He thought he was home and dry, but there’s always just one more job. Always one last job when you’ve pledged your soul to the Devil.’

‘And the other sister? The secret one?’

Toftlund was anxious to hear whether, here too, Vuldom had reached the same conclusion as himself. She had:

‘I see where you’re going, Per. E–’s real name may have been the currency which Mira Majola or Maria Bujic, or whatever this good sister calls herself, brought to Teddy, thus ensuring that it went into his suitcase. And what she wanted to buy – having burned all her bridges – was, of course, a new name and a new identity in peaceful little Denmark.’

‘Exactly,’ Toftlund said.

‘So if we’re to get any further with Irma, then we’ll have to establish a link between them. Not in the past, but in the present. Between all three of them, if possible.’

‘And how are we to do that?’

Charlotte looked up, a smile on her sensual red lips as she held aloft a sheet of paper. Laughter lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, so fine as to be almost invisible, and Toftlund had a most unprofessional urge to kiss the smooth bare nape of her neck below her cropped hair.

‘I think I may have managed it last night,’ Charlotte Bastrup said with a self-confidence which Toftlund found both attractive and annoying, reminding him as it did of the invulnerability he too had felt at that age, before life became so bloody complicated.

TOFTLUND AND BASTRUP
drove down towards the Storebælt Bridge. It was still the same day, but the springlike weather of the morning had been seen off by grey clouds which had just sent a shower of sleet sweeping across the motorway. The road glistened dull-grey and made the tyres hum faintly; then suddenly they were running over dry tarmac again. Toftlund was in the driver’s seat with Charlotte sitting, legs crossed, next to him. They were listening to Radio 2, its smooth stream of hit tunes running in one ear and out the other, unbroken by the incessant chatter that pervaded Danmarks Radio’s programmes. Toftlund was acutely aware of Charlotte’s scent and if he glanced sideways and down he could see her slim thigh and rounded knee showing below the hem of her skirt. He could not help thinking he should really have been the one to arrive at the deduction which Charlotte had made. By reasoning. By deduction. By inference. The holy trinity of every investigation. But his experiences in Prague had hit him harder than he cared to admit. It was like being a bodyguard again. Which he wasn’t. So why these shadows of doubt in his mind? Maybe he should talk to Lise. Try to explain how he felt. But that just wasn’t in his nature. He was not like Irma, who could write about the most intimate details of her life. He did not understand the current penchant for putting oneself on display, for baring one’s soul in public. He just did not get it: how could television make people say and do the things they did? Exposing the most private sides of themselves. And why this great need to talk about oneself and one’s feelings? Lise too believed that you could get to the root of any problem by discussing it. Even Vuldom had deemed it only natural, although she herself would never have
done it. ‘It’s a form of self-therapy which works for a lot of people,’ she had said. ‘It’s no crime to be unhappy, to have suffered. It’s a far greater crime not to face the fact that one is merely human.’ He had not been altogether sure what she meant. As far as he was concerned, opening up was a sign of weakness. His personal problems and inner doubts were nobody else’s concern. You had to fight these things on your own. There – now his mind was wandering again. Running off at a tangent, where it had no
business
going. In an effort to thrust aside what he could not bear to think about he forced himself to concentrate on and consider the discovery which Charlotte had made and presented. It was
actually
very simple, but then breakthroughs often were – if, that is, this was a breakthrough. Or at the very least a piece of evidence with which he could confront Irma and thereafter persuade the prosecutor to submit in court.

Charlotte Bastrup had made yet another study of the extensive surveillance material they had procured. This included Irma’s bank statements and records of phone calls made and faxes sent from her work, from her home phone and her mobile. This last was especially important. Not only could they check whom she had called and at which numbers, they could also pinpoint the
physical
location of a recipient phone to within a radius of a few metres. Bastrup had obtained the last piece of the puzzle through the
unofficial
channels commonly referred to in the media as ‘Echelon’. Major intelligence gathering stations in the UK and other parts of Europe as well as Greenland and the US traced, intercepted and recorded the mass of electronic traffic travelling along the wireless motorways of cyberspace, via the Internet and email. Rows of dry numbers, lined up like soldiers on parade, traced the electronic life of a modern-day individual – here disclosed, laid out, courtesy of the huge hearkening ears and all-seeing eyes which dog a
person’s
every step along the global highway.

Bastrup’s search had paid off. She had noticed that,
according
to Irma’s bank statements, in the weeks prior to her arrest she
had made regular trips across the Storebælt Bridge, paid for with her bank debit card. A clear pattern began to emerge. These trips usually followed a call from abroad – from a call box to Irma’s mobile. Not always, but often enough for it to be more than a
coincidence
. Between the brief call to her mobile and the debiting of the bridge toll from her account she received an email, sent via a public domain such as Hotmail or Yahoo mail from a computer in some library or Internet café. In each instance the sender address, set up for this express purpose, was used only once, thus ensuring that the sender could not be traced.

Leaning over the long printouts spread out on Vuldom’s white conference table, Bastrup explained how these regular
meetings
had been arranged. She had chosen to circle four groups of numbers which closely predated Irma’s arrest.

The first three read: 1302 /54, 2402/ 47 and 0303/ 65/15. The fourth circle was drawn around a double set of figures: 1203/30/13 and 1203/68/16. This was all that appeared in the emails. Sent via Hotmail, each time using a new, randomly selected sender name. In this universe people could invent both names and identities for themselves when chatting with others or sending messages. You could reinvent yourself again and again. Become the person you dreamed of being, or highlight those sides of yourself which were normally kept under wraps.

What Charlotte detected in these random numerical sequences were coded messages – setting up meetings or telling Irma to pick up a document, a roll of microfilm or a package, possibly from E–. From what, in the trade, was known as a dead letter drop or dead letter box. The first part of the sequence, she explained, gave the date. In the first set of numbers she had circled this would, therefore, be February 13th. The second part denoted the closest motorway lay-by – in that first set the Kildebjerg lay-by on Fünen, off exit number 54. So: on February 13th, Irma could pick up a message from her controller or from E– at the Kildebjerg lay-by. They must have agreed in advance whether the drop would be
made on the southbound or the northbound side since the coded message did not say. What had struck Bastrup was that each trip tied in with an e-mail. She had checked the other sets of numbers. She pointed to the fourth, longer, sequence and explained that the numbers thirteen and sixteen referred to times. This too she had concluded after comparing the emails and the record of the bridge-toll payments with the driving distance from Copenhagen or Roskilde. In each case the dates and times fitted. And each time Irma had received a brief call, or had made a call herself at the lay-by. Or close enough to it to confirm the pattern.

So on March 12th it appeared that Irma had met someone at one p.m. at the closest lay-by to exit 30. Which would be the
Karslunde
Vest services, south of Copenhagen. There she had picked up the person in question and driven on. Almost an hour later she had used her debit card at Halsskov. The travelling time – driving at normal speed, observing the speed limit – corresponded with the closest lay-by to exit 68: Ulstrup services, south of Haderselv, not far from the German border. At any rate, Irma had made a call from there around five p.m., a seemingly routine call to the university. Which accorded with her having rung to say that she was unwell and would have to cancel her lecture for the
following
morning. On March 12th the war drums had started
thundering
and NATO had prepared to initiate its bombing raids. On March 12th the Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland had become members of NATO. This move on NATO’s part was regarded in Moscow as an unnecessary and alarming measure which could only result in a crisis-hit Russia turning inwards and electing a hawkish, nationalistic president. The doom and gloom merchants had not minced their words. By then E– must have been well and truly active again. Things were, it appeared, coming to a head – or so Charlotte Bastrup reckoned.

Vuldom eyed her approvingly:

‘Very good,’ she said. ‘But exactly how does all of this help us?’

Toftlund could tell from Charlotte’s face that she had saved her
trump card till last. That she had been looking forward to
revealing
it to him, to Bjergager, the silent secretary and Vuldom who, fair though she was, made no secret of the fact that if she had to choose between two equally good candidates for a job, one male, one female, she would choose the woman.

With a smile on her thin red lips Charlotte said:

‘Everyone who pays by credit or debit card at the Storebælt toll plaza is photographed, and these pictures are kept on computer file for at least three months. We know the dates and times of Irma’s payments. I thought maybe the people down at the bridge might be able to dig up her picture. We might be able to see her passenger.’

‘Excellent. Well, what are you waiting for?’

‘The Storebælt guys say they’re happy to help the police, but that we’ll need a warrant. We’re talking confidential information here.’

‘So we’ll get one. I’ll fax it down to them. Now off you go. Go get a picture of little Irma with the big, bad wolf who’s hiding behind the initial E–. And thinks he can play games with us.’

The massive pylons of the bridge loomed into view, then
disappeared
again as yet another shower of sleet burst from a low, black cloud, then gradually turned to lashing rain which stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

‘Spring in Denmark,’ Charlotte said. She had a light, but very pleasant voice.

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘When this is over I’m heading south. I’ve got about a million hours of overtime owing to me.’

‘On your own?’

She turned to look at him and he held that amazingly clear gaze for a second before concentrating on the road again. There was not much traffic. Mainly heavy trucks which he overtook without any trouble. Muddy water spraying the windscreen every time.

‘That depends on whether there’s anyone who fancies coming with me,’ she said.

‘A boyfriend, maybe?’

‘Not at the moment,’ she said. ‘Or, not anyone I’d want to go on holiday with anyway.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You’re wearing a ring.’

‘Yes, I am,’ he said, and was saved by a sign informing them that they were approaching the toll plaza. Toftlund indicated to leave the motorway, drove up to the roundabout and past a petrol station, heading for the Storebælt Bridge administration
building
. They passed the defunct ferry terminal where yellow grass had forced cracks in the grey cement of the old marshalling lanes, although it was less than a year since the cars had last queued up here to board the ferries. It all looked so derelict and forsaken, as if no one knew quite what to do with it now. It might have been years since it had been in use. Dilapidated pipes ran down to the water and the snack bar was dark and deserted. It was a long time since its opening hours had accorded with reality. The wind whipped up the water in the empty ferry berth. The gulls hovered almost motionless on the wind as if waiting for a boat to leave, not knowing that the age of the ferries was long past.

‘God, many’s the time I’ve sat here waiting for the ferry,’ Toftlund said, nodding towards the abandoned marshalling lanes. To their right the cars were driving in under the toll plaza canopy which extended from the administration building to hang suspended, like a flying carpet of glass and steel, over the driving lanes. They could see the small cameras directed at each booth and even with the windows closed they could hear the squeal of the trucks’ brakes as they pulled up to them.

‘I do miss the ferries sometimes,’ Charlotte said. ‘They were kind of part of being Danish. Of being a kid, in fact. Going on summer holiday, racing up the stairs to grab a table in the
cafeteria
, have a hotdog. And a lemonade. Don’t you miss that?’

‘Not one bit,’ came the curt reply. ‘Load of romantic claptrap.’

‘Well, pardon me.’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. But that bridge is a blessing. It’s made life so much easier. It feels as if it’s always been there. No one ever regretted a bridge being built.’

‘Well, there was plenty of opposition to the idea of this one being built.’

‘The Danes are a conservative lot. They’re like children. They want everything to stay the same as it’s always been. We’re a nation of romantics, dreaming of a Denmark straight out of some corny old Morten Korch film – all country lasses and jolly vagabonds breaking into song. A Denmark which we imagine once existed, but which never did. Come up with a suggestion for any new venture in this country, from EU membership to a bridge, and right away someone will form an action group to protest against it. Because we don’t want change.’

‘How perceptive,’ she said wryly, but with a smile, as he parked the car. ‘I had no idea you were such a thoughtful man.’

‘I’m not,’ he said, pulling on the handbrake. There were only two other cars in the car park. The wind buffeted the trees and they could hear the sea as they stood there shivering in the bitter cold. The concrete and steel administration building stood square and solid in the grey light which played across its big windows.

‘What’s the name of the guy you’ve arranged to meet?’

The wind made her short, black hair flutter around her neat rounded head and her cheeks were already pink. Her skin was very delicate, almost transparent despite the faint olive teint. Her nose was straight, but there was a little white scar over one nostril where she must have cut herself at some time. It was very
attractive
, the tiny flaw in that pure complexion.

‘Peter Svendsen. He’s the operations and security manager.’

Svendsen, a tall thin man in an open-necked blue shirt, came down a spiral staircase to meet them in reception. He was around forty, with close-cropped hair and a friendly smile on
his fine-featured face. He shook hands and asked to see their ID: ‘Purely as a matter of form,’ then he led them up the spiral
staircase
to his office. Upstairs the corridor walls were painted grey, the pale parquet flooring was new and scrupulously clean.
Svendsen’s
office was large and bright; there was a desk with a computer on it and a conference table strewn with papers. Pleasant,
unremarkable
Danish prints on the walls. A view of cars driving onto Zealand. Others on their way across the bridge.