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With access gained to Harald Radler’s last drawer, Max Drexler rummaged through it finding some old western soft porn magazines beneath which were two green folders; one marked ‘Akrobat’ the other ‘Fiedler’.
He thumbed through the pages of the Acrobat file; the usual stuff, background, recruitment, information he’d supplied and the agent’s real name. He opened the ‘Fiddler file, another well-placed member of the British SIS, a chap called Hugh Chamberlain.
A thought occurred to him. The other Warsaw Pact countries, on their home ground, didn’t appreciate foreigners parading armed through ‘cultural’ visits unless there was good reason and prior permission. There was no way these ‘visiting’ duties required anyone to carry a weapon.
Radler’s service pistol wasn’t in any of the drawers and cabinets. He might have left it at home but, seeing as he departed for his visits from the office, surely he would have had it with him on coming to work and following strict protocol left it locked safely in his drawer?
Back at his own desk, Max told Hans, “Find that locksmith again, this time he’s to meet us at Colonel Radler’s home. You’re coming along as well.”
The journey took place in silence. Drexler obviously didn’t want to talk and Hans certainly wasn’t going to ask.
As the locksmith tinkered away, a neighbour approached, a little tabby cat following sedately behind. Was everything alright? Nothing had happened to Herr Radler, had it? He is such a nice man. Yes, they were looking after his cat for him but the little thing spent so many hours at their house these past months she wouldn’t complain if it stayed forever.
Once in, they split up. Max did the bedrooms, bathroom and anywhere more personal to the Colonel; he thought it inappropriate for Hans to be poking around in such places. The house was clean and tidy, family pictures on cabinets but not much evidence the cat stayed there now on a regular basis; a cat flap in the kitchen door with water and food bowls in the cupboard beneath the sink but a wipe of his finger on the uppermost revealed a light covering of dust showing him they hadn’t been used for some time. There were no toys or amusements and no cat hair; either Radler had a secret mania for vacuuming or the cat was slowly being acclimatised to a new home.
They didn’t find the East German produced Makarov, or its magazines and ammunition. It didn’t look good.
The locksmith re-secured the door and the Stasi men returned to the office where Max told Hans his tentative suspicions
Hans was shocked; so much was obvious from the look on his face. “But, surely, you don’t think he would do such a thing as to defect, Herr Drexler?”
Max looked around and sighed. “Believe me, Hans. I don’t want this to be true and I’m dreading finding more pieces to this puzzle in case they don’t lead me to where I would like them to go. I really hope it is all a simple misinterpretation but I don’t like what I’m finding at the moment. It’s not something we can just dismiss.”
Meanwhile, in Budapest, Harald had convinced one of his Hungarian intelligence agency hosts to supply him with a permit to visit a small town on the Austro-Hungarian border. He’d told him his great grandfather had been born there and it would be nice if, on returning from Bucharest, he could make a little detour and see the old place; he said it must be age that brings such things out in one. His Hungarian colleague agreed, stating he’d done the very same thing in respect of his family only the previous year and found it most rewarding. Any particular date? No? Best leave it open-ended.