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Drexler woke in the morning to the sound of his phone ringing. Bleary-eyed, he made it to the desk and answered. The voice at the end identified himself as Hungarian Intelligence and informed him that Radler was on the train and had not long left Budapest’s Keleti station.
Max checked the clock: 6.30. He’d missed an opportunity. He asked what the next stop was and was told Szolnok, in about an hour and a half. He thanked them for the information and terminated the call.
“Hans! Get me the number of the Hungarian Police in this place.” His assistant walked briskly in to be handed a hastily scribbled note. Drexler added, “I’m not sure of the spelling so use your imagination.”
Given the number he required, Max contacted the local authorities, claiming to be from the Volkspolizei, and asked them to send someone to the railway station to pass a message to one of the passengers on the Budapest to Cluj-Napoca train. He told them there had been a death in the man’s family but because he had a weak heart they should not tell him that, just escort him to a phone at the station. He supplied his number and a description of Radler.
Of course, Harald would know something wasn’t right but if he made the call, Max could tell him his lie about being required to return and possibly save him from a decision that would ruin his reputation and career. If he didn’t? Then it was simply another piece of evidence towards a conclusion that was becoming increasingly difficult to sidestep.
Hans brought a black coffee and placed the cup on Drexler’s desk. “I have the reports on Heinemann and Panzinger here, Sir.”
Max looked up. “No doubt you’ve read them so tell me what they say and give me the short version, Hans. I’ve no patience today for those long, detailed answers of yours.”
Hans nodded. “As you wish, Herr Drexler. Heinemann has a mistress and Panzinger is falsely claiming allowances. Surely, this is not the sort of thing that people like them would defect over. All the evidence in the reports suggests that, other than Heinemann’s sexual appetite, they’re happily married men with families. Internal Investigations thinks so too.”
The Lieutenant Colonel sat with his elbows on his desk, palms together against his lips and took a big breath. “Remind me never to leave my personal file lying around, Hans. Now, tell me something. Why are you here?
His assistant was confused. “I came to bring your coffee and the report, Herr Drexler.”
“No, I meant why you are here working in my office.”
“Colonel Radler didn’t require me anymore; eventually there was virtually nothing he wanted me to do, a little routine filing perhaps. Then, of course, there was that unfortunate incident when your secretary’s son tried to get over the wall and she was dismissed.”
Max considered the answer. It felt to him as if his boss had begun to dispense with assistant services on purpose. Hans had worked for Radler for two years previously and it was only relatively recently that he had less work to give him. Maybe it had been a fortunate coincidence when that stupid boy had been caught and had given Radler the opportunity to pass Hans on and so keep his secrets his own.
“Do you still file things for the Colonel?”
“Only what he asks me to but sometimes people give me copies of routine items he has received separately. Whilst he’s away, he’s had such stuff routed through me so I can put things in his diary.”
Max looked up at him. “Have you copies of his itinerary for these current visits he’s doing? He sipped from his cup and sat back. “Oh, and also those railway timetables we needed a couple of months ago?”
“His itinerary? Most probably, Sir. I didn’t pay much attention so it’s perhaps still in a tray on my desk. The timetables I know I have. They may be out of date according to the front cover but I doubt if anything has changed.”
The phone rang in the outer office and Hans went to pick it up. Popping his head around the door, he called, “It’s Captain Lemberger for you, Sir.”
“Lemberger. You got my message then?”
“Yes, Colonel. I’m not sure what you want me to tell you. It should all be in the file. I take it you’ve got it?”
“I’ve got it here, yes. I just wanted a little bit more background stuff, anything about her associates that might be interesting. We have a situation here where it might be useful.”
“You know she’s dead, don’t you? Killed in a burglary. The police seem quite convinced. These things can happen. I can understand it because she hadn’t been too productive these last two years. I was handed her three years ago and she seemed quite good, lots of low grade but still interesting stuff. Then it began to tail off. I think she was getting tired. Nice old girl though.”
“I know she’s dead but why isn’t it in the file?”
“Colonel, I’m away on a course at the moment and haven’t had time to update it. Why don’t you ask Colonel Radler about her? They were good friends. In fact, going back years, he used to be her case officer.”
Phone communications between both sides of Berlin had been severed for 19 years when in 1971 five lines each way were reopened by the DDR government simultaneously with East German price reductions and improvements in health and old-age benefits, an effort to placate growing antagonism and disaffection among the 17 million East Germans.
Whilst the lines that were opened proved inadequate for the general population there was no issue for the Stasi. The switchboard operators were Stasi employees and Stasi calls had priority over long-awaited conversations with relatives which were abruptly cut off every now and then. Veiled speech still had to be used; the Stasi weren’t the only people listening in.
The switchboard wasn’t a means used daily by the likes of Drexler and Stasi case officers but it was there for emergencies and this was one. It was clear to Max what was happening now so he picked up his handset and gave the operator a West Berlin number. He needed to warn ‘Akrobat’ so he could take whatever action he thought necessary and if that meant him crossing through the wall at the earliest opportunity then so be it. He’d served his time.
Rupert Wilkinson had waited patiently in the bar. Not able to make personal contact because the East Berlin authorities were disrupting the crossing points, he’d sat there at the same time for the last two days.
He hadn’t been worried when nothing appeared on the news about the shootings at two hotels because if the plan had gone as expected the ‘do not disturb’ signs would have resulted in the bodies not being found until the following morning when the cleaners, as all such people do, used their pass keys to enter despite whatever notice adorned the door. However, if the fact he couldn’t contact his assassin assets hadn’t particularly disturbed him then the news report he’d seen in the morning did. Both hotels were featured and a determined-looking street reporter announced the police success in an anti-black market operation. Witnesses spoke to camera and it became very clear that things had not gone to plan. He finished his beer, ordered another and stared at the clock behind the counter.
The phone rang, the barman, swarthy and heavy-lidded beneath unruly bushy eyebrows answered then held up the phone. “It’s Uncle Ludwig from the east for Leo Volkheimer.”
Rupert wandered over, took the handset and listened to Max’s voice. “Hello, Leo, it’s your Uncle Ludwig. I’m sorry we haven’t spoken recently; you know how things can be. Your cousin Harald is having serious doubts about his feelings and your aunts and uncles don’t know exactly where he is at present but when we do rest assured he’ll get all the help he needs. I know you were very close to one another so this must be worrying news. Make sure you take care of yourself.” The line went dead.
The gut-wrenching feeling that everything was over for him made his legs feel like they were trembling. For a couple of seconds, before he put the phone down, he wasn’t sure he would be able to walk. When he did he took it slow, placing a hand on the back of a chair as he neared the counter. He felt light-headed as he sat on the barstool. The barman said, “Bad news? Here drink this,” then turned and poured a double Asbach, marking Rupert’s beer mat as he placed the drink in front of him.
When he’d emptied the glass, he was thinking more clearly so he ordered another. Drexler was telling him they’d lost Radler yet he wasn’t asking him if he had any useful information which meant, in Rupert’s mind, they probably thought they knew where he was heading and it was somewhere he couldn’t influence the outcome but they still could. To him, that meant they believed Radler was heading for an embassy. Yet, Greta’s case officer, Astrid, the person who should know more than most was focusing on the Hungarian border with Austria?
If the fact that ‘Baker’ was still loose and colluding with Astrid wasn’t bad enough, the news that Radler was the defector was more than he needed to slam the truth home. He was screwed. Anger began to surge through him but alcohol and fear were not good companions. His mind raced in all directions, including several circles. For him, this meant only one thing, that’s what the border crossing disruption was about! He’d have made a run for it otherwise. He was just a ‘throwaway’. They were cutting him adrift, probably because they needed to cover up their own failures and he would be a convenient scapegoat. If he tried to cross over now they’d simply arrest him or even worse refuse him entry. The alternative of surrendering to Baker or whoever the British sent out to get him wasn’t something he seriously considered. At best, he was looking at a long prison sentence coupled with no chance of exchange once the Stasi had finished assassinating his character and worth. Worst case, when the extent of his treachery was recognised, he doubted if he would be offered a call and collect service. Most probably simple ‘extreme prejudice’. In the meantime, he might survive for a few months or even a year avoiding attention, if he was lucky. It wasn’t the life he wanted. He’d wanted to be a hero of the DDR and the only way he saw of still achieving that, and the special privileges that went with it, was to prevent Radler’s escape if he could
Austria it was then. He was pretty certain of the location, it seemed quite an obvious choice to anyone who’d studied the appropriate maps and he wondered if Max Drexler would ever get around to doing it. There were frequent flights to Vienna and his fake diplomatic papers would see him through the controls and then all he needed to do was hire a car and head on down to Rechnitz.