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Gally spent the rest of his day poring over the timetables and maps he’d collected from the consulate. Radler had specified ‘leaving for Bucharest on the tenth’ and if that wasn’t a clue then nothing was. He’d been through all the possibilities and had come up with what seemed to him to be the only viable option. He felt certain Harald was going to get off the train in a place called Oradea, the first station in Romania after the frontier checkpoints. There, with just enough time to buy a ticket, he’d take the train to Arad, another border city, from where he could take a connection back to Budapest. This part troubled him for some time until he discovered if Radler got off that train at a large station midway to the Hungarian capital, he could catch another connection which circumvented the city and took him direct to two towns that lay closest to Austria.
All Gallagher had to do now was get whatever detailed frontier defence maps they could send him and figure out which one was most likely to be Harald’s jumping-off point based on the weakest part.
He glanced at the clock. It was too late for him to travel far, and anyway, he just didn’t have the inclination so he walked to the end of the street where he found the phone there in use. He waited patiently before stepping in and lifting the handset.
The conversation was short and to the point, Gally spelling out the names of areas for which he required the most detail.
Back in the hotel, he got a double from the bar and went to his room, it would help him sleep.
The following morning, Tristan was at the consulate for 9.30. Rupert told him it needed watching again as he wanted to establish if a backup team had been sent out. It was often done he said, they’d act, unknown, in parallel just in case they were required to step in and achieve the objective or affect a suitable exfiltration. Tristan bowed to experience, bought a German newspaper and plonked himself on a bench where he could see the comings and goings. With a coffee and a Berlin doughnut, he settled in and read the headlines. Some people went in and came out, others went in and didn’t, some just came out. Around 1.30 pm, he was getting bored so read beyond the first three pages of his paper which he’d previously folded and left by his side on the bench. Not much of great interest but then an article caught his eye, or rather the picture below the headline. The previous day, he hadn’t gone back to his hotel when told. Feeling he was being left out of something, he’d followed Rupert and stood, carefully, at a distance, watching him sit beneath the linden tree. Maybe he was meeting someone? After nearly 30 minutes of nothing happening, Tristan left, mainly because he was hungry. The photograph he looked at now was the former elegant villa Rupert had sat opposite, watching.
The elderly owner had been discovered dead by her sister who’d returned from a trip to see a relative. The Police believed she’d been strangled during a burglary gone wrong but cautiously advised the reporter that a post mortem report was required to be absolutely sure. He was unnerved. Was it ‘Greta’ or simply a coincidence? He couldn’t think of a reason why Rupert would be involved, they were due for another meeting this very afternoon and she seemed keen to co-operate. Perhaps he’d seen something at the house and couldn’t do anything, perhaps he’d seen nothing? He knew they’d have to speak of the matter but he wasn’t able to think it over for long because he saw the man again, the one he’d not paid much attention to yesterday but who now strode purposefully up to the front door. He watched him enter and waited. After ten minutes, he came back out but this time with something he never had when he went in; a worn looking dark brown leather satchel briefcase, the sort secured by a flap and two straps through buckles. With his interest in the consulate waning, newspaper folded into his jacket pocket, he decided to follow.
Gallagher made it back to his hotel with no diversions, he was satisfied he wasn’t being trailed but it was true to say his mind was a little distracted thinking of the maps and the border situation.
When he’d disappeared within, Tristan started thinking rapidly. The man was surveillance conscious, obviously believing there might be a chance he’d be followed so he was definitely up to something. Tristan needed his name so he nipped into the general store opposite and grabbed the first tourist map he could. Across at the hotel reception desk, he waved it at the girl and said, “That gentleman that just came in with the briefcase dropped this, I was chatting to him outside. I can’t remember his name.”
“Oh, that would be Mister Baker. He’s just gone to his room. Do you want to speak with him again?” Her hand went to the telephone.
“No, it’s not necessary.” A little half-wave and he made to walk away but then stopped. “I’m supposed to meet him again tomorrow. I’ve a terrible memory and I’ve forgotten his first name as well now. It was something like...” he began to feign deep thought but she was ahead of him. “It’s John. I’ll write it down for you.”
Note stuffed in his inside pocket, he checked his watch, left her with a crooked smile and made back to reclaim his bench. On arrival, he found he’d left the map at the hotel when he picked up the note. Too late now, going back would be an even bigger faux pas. Another sudden thought came to him.
He flashed his identification at the man on the consulate door and entered. Coming out, he was met by an irritated Rupert who greeted him with, “Where the fuck have you been?” Tristan was explaining but was interrupted, “Ok, fine, good work, especially getting the name though I doubt it’s his real one but what the hell were you doing in there?”
“It’s got CCTV on the entrance, look over there. They have footage with our chap on it. I spoke to our man in there and he had them whizz through the last couple of days. Our mister Baker’s been here three times now.”
Rupert took a deep, calming breath. “Alright, I did want this to be low key, the less the local man knows the better but too late now. Let’s get in there so I can get a good look at this bloke, see if I recognise him.”
He didn’t but he asked who’d dealt with him. The local SIS man, not far from retirement, went off then returned with Aubrey. Rupert introduced himself and began the questions.
“What did he want the first time he came?”
“It was just consular advice, requirements for visiting the east, that sort of thing. As you know, he wasn’t here long.”
“And the second time?”
“He wanted to use the fax machine to receive some business documents.”
“What were they?”
“I’ve no idea. I left him to it. I had things to do. There’s nothing else in that room, nothing to steal and when I last checked the fax machine was still there.”
“What about today, he came empty-handed and left with a briefcase? How do you explain that?”
“Ah, yes. Well, he’d had his briefcase stolen from his room and wanted to impress the East Germans when he crossed over so when he told me I lent him mine. It may look a little worn but it is Italian leather, you know.”
“What business did he say he was in?”
“I don’t remember exactly but I think he said he was a tea or coffee importer. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“Do you know where he was staying?”
“No idea, old chap.”
“How are you getting your briefcase back?
“He said he’d drop it by when he’d finished with it.”
“And you trust him?”
The scepticism wasn’t missed by Aubrey. “Oh, absolutely, he was an awfully nice fellow.”
Outside, they shaded under a nearby tree. Rupert was seething. “He’s fucking lying, I know he is. We need to keep an eye out for Mister John Baker. Who the fuck is he really? Them or us? And if us then why?” He wiped a hand across his mouth and took his second deep, calming breath.
Tristan thought this might be the right time to tell him about the old woman’s death, time was running on and Rupert hadn’t said anything about the meeting with Greta which Tristan felt was odd. “I need to draw your attention to something,” he said, pulling the newspaper from his pocket and shaking it open. He showed Rupert the article, in particular the picture. His colleague recognised it straight away but no one would have noticed.
“And?” he replied, straight-faced.
Tristan told him what he’d done the day before.
“You did what? You fucking followed me?” He grabbed the younger man by the lapels and pushed him up against the tree. “What the fuck are you playing at? I give you this chance of some important action and all you have to do is exactly what I tell you. People get fucking hurt out here in the real world, Tristan, you prick. For your information, I sat there for two hours to see if she had any visitors. You know, like the type a man of my experience would recognise or notice. Then I left. I saw nothing of any interest.” He released him and straightened Tristan’s jacket. Turning his back, he paced up and down then said, “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry but this is probably the biggest job of my career, I can smell it, they don’t come much bigger and now I’ve got some unknown quantity wandering into play and my only fucking reliable informant has kicked the fucking bucket. To say I’m a bit tense is an understatement.” He stared up and down the street. “She was working both sides so I don’t think her death was a simple burglary. I think they were looking for something, god knows what. I think the East Germans killed her which means we could be next.”
The comments didn’t go over Tristan’s head. From the article, it was impossible to discern if either the victim or her sister was ‘Greta’. His colleague seemed to know.
What Rupert wasn’t saying was that Greta had been ‘persuaded’ to impart she worked for several western agencies as well as the Stasi, that she knew the offer wasn’t part of a Stasi bluff operation and the route ‘out’ would be through Hungary. When he released the pressure, she’d kept asking for her heart tablets but he knew if he gave them to her he’d lose the momentum of the moment. He needed a name, so he pushed it as far as he could, hands around her throat as he sat astride her, almost succeeding as she spluttered, “It’s ...’ then groaned loudly and lay still. His desperation so great, he’d tried to resuscitate her, pumping her chest and blowing into her mouth but he’d gone too far, she wasn’t coming back.
Now, he patted Tristan’s shoulder. “Come on, follow me and for goodness sake do as you’re told in future. Initiative is a great thing but on your first live mission you need to reel it in.”
It took just over 30 minutes to arrive at the safe house by taxi. Rupert briefly showed Tristan the outside of the detached property in its own grounds, not extensive or manorial, just big enough to be secluded whilst the building itself was small enough not to be easily noticeable. Inside, he got a guided tour of the kitchen, bathroom and one of the living rooms before Rupert showed him the cellar.
“There are three bedrooms upstairs, camp beds in the cupboards but this cellar is important,” he said as he led Tristan along a narrow subterranean corridor. A metal door at the end opened out revealing a small room, heavy wooden chair in the middle and a dirt-smeared narrow window high on the wall behind. On the ground by the door, a metal box. Rupert opened its lid, picked up the PPK and showed it clear then he slotted in the loaded magazine, racked back the working parts and released them with the satisfying sound of a round being carried into the breach.
“Right, Tristan, the magazine’s in and there’s one up the spout. Locked and loaded as the Yanks would say. Safety’s on. Don’t mess with it unless you’re going to fire it.” He passed him a pancake holster.”Use your own belt and here’s a spare full magazine.”
Tristan nodded. Rupert handed him a small duffle bag. “Stick them in there until you get back to the hotel. If we get pulled by the Polizei before that then, if we can and if we have to, we just lash them somewhere then deny all knowledge. If the buggers do happen to find them the consulate will get them back for us afterwards.”
They took a taxi back to Tristan’s accommodation and had a beer in the bar then Rupert placed another on the counter, in front of his companion, telling him they were done for the day, he had to report in. He left with a, “Don’t leave that duffle bag here.”
He took the U-Bahn, found a phone kiosk and called Chamberlain, giving his current knowledge of Baker and asking for enquiries to be made. Then he made another call.