Baltic Approach Read online

  Baltic Approach

  Reim #4

  Max Hertzberg

  www.maxhertzberg.co.uk

  Map of the GDR

  February 1984

  A list of main characters and a glossary of GDR and German terms are available at the end of this book.

  1

  Berlin Lichtenberg

  “Know this man?” asked Major Kühn. He didn’t bother looking round as I entered the conference room, he was too interested in the television screen. Same as the rest of the brass assembled around the wide table.

  “No, Comrade Major.” I didn’t have a good view, and the picture was jumping around—the way it does when the videotape is paused—but I was certain I’d never seen the grey-haired pensioner before.

  “Carry on,” ordered Kühn, and a man in a blue dust coat bent to press the play button.

  We all watched as the subject flickered across the monitor. He was facing a hidden camera in a narrow Sprelacart-lined cabin: one of the entry control booths at Friedrichstrasse railway station border crossing point. At the bottom edge of the screen we could see the back of the passport controller’s head bobbing around as he examined paperwork, checked lists and kept a discreet eye open for any instructions that might come through on the screen below the shelf. The subject didn’t fidget, but observed the proceedings closely, his eyes darting regularly up to the camera in the corner.

  There was no soundtrack, but my mind provided the buzz as the door to the booth opened. The subject stretched his arm out to collect his passport and exited stage right.

  “Any further footage of the subject?” asked a stout lieutenant colonel, his mouth moving around an unlit cigar.

  In answer, Kühn passed him a folder of still photographs documenting the subject’s progress down the steps from the platform and then along the windowless passageway that connects the platforms with passport control. The final still showed him leaving the station by the south exit on Georgenstrasse.

  The lieutenant colonel flicked through the pictures, took the cigar out of his mouth long enough to grunt and passed the folder to the next man along, a major general.

  They were all in uniform, those men at the table, and they all wore silver or gold caterpillars of braid on their shoulders to show how important they were.

  “That’ll do.” Kühn waved at the man still hovering near the video player, and with a click-click-clunk the tape stopped and ejected. The technician left it jutting out of the machine, and I followed him out of the room, shutting the door behind us.

  “Want one?” I offered the man in the dust coat a nail and he took it, his hand reaching into his pocket for matches.

  We smoked, but we didn’t talk—there was nothing to talk about. The material on the tape and in the photographs was classified, even the tape itself was not a safe topic for conversation—I’d glimpsed the colourful label, JVC, as it ejected—doubtless confiscated from a Western parcel that had never quite made its destination.

  We leaned against the wall, ears flapping, wary of footsteps approaching or doors opening. We were on the brass’s corridor, didn’t do to be found lounging around smoking.

  It was a quarter of an hour before the door behind us opened. The caterpillar carriers filed out, none of them acknowledging our presence, preferring small talk amongst themselves: wives and imported cars, weekend homes and Western domestic appliances they’d acquired.

  Once the officers had reached a safe distance, I looked around the door frame. The head of my section, Major Kühn, was still sitting at the table, photographs of the subject spread out before him.

  “Come in and shut the door, Comrade Heym,” he ordered. For some reason, when I’d been posted to ZAIG, Major Kühn had decided my name was Heym, and it wasn’t my job to put him right.

  So I came in, shut the door behind myself and stood by the table, thumbs along the seams of my trousers, shoulders back and eyes pointing dead ahead.

  He left me like that while he shuffled through the photographs again. When he finally looked up, his eyebrows were raised, as if surprised to see me still there.

  “Sit down, take a look at these—I want to hear your thoughts.” He gathered the pictures together, tapped them square and pushed the pile across the table.

  I remained standing, bending over to examine the fuzzy pictures—stills from the video cameras at the border, too grainy to see much—and I still didn’t recognise the grey-haired man. That was all there was to it—what other thoughts did the major expect me to have?

  “Codename Merkur,” said the major, ripping the cellophane from a brand-new red and white packet of Marlboro. He lit up without offering me one, filling the conference room with the scent of Western tobacco. “Came through Friedrichstrasse Station crossing point at midday, headed straight for the police registration desk in the Haus des Reisens on Alexanderplatz. Asked to speak to a Gisela Bauer.” He took another sip of his cigarette and checked to see whether I was impressed.

  I wasn’t. So far, I hadn’t heard anything to make my ears stick up. A Western tourist goes to register at the police desk—but sooner or later, almost every foreigner who plans to stay for more than a day in our half of Berlin ends up at the registration desk of the central travel agency.

  I played around with the photographs a bit longer, just for the sake of appearances. The man had a name now—Codename Merkur—but he looked the same as he had a moment before.

  Who dreamt up these ridiculous names? When an informant is recruited, they get to choose their own handle, but in these cases, when potentially negative-hostile individuals are identified, the naming is done by whoever has the honour of opening the case file.

  “Gisela Bauer is the legend used by Lieutenant Ruth Gericke. You knew her as Sanderling,” my superior continued. “As you know, Sanderling is deceased.”

  I kept my eyes on the photographs, even managing to finger through them a bit, but with that brief statement, Kühn had caught my interest.

  Of course I knew Sanderling was deceased—I was the one who found her body. It was the end of last year, I’d been working with her for just a day or two, and until now I hadn’t even known her real name. But I’d liked her—that’s something that doesn’t happen too often in this business.

  I stopped fiddling with the photographs and looked directly at the major, hoping he’d tell me more.

  “The police officer at the desk sent Merkur away, he was gone before anyone thought to do anything about him.” Kühn tapped his cigarette on the cut glass ashtray in front of him, his eyes large and blurry behind thick glasses.

  “Are Main Department II showing any interest, Comrade Major?” I wanted to know why we were talking about Sanderling when she’d been an operative in HA II, the counter-intelligence department. I’d been in this situation before—covering the preliminaries for a case only for another department to take over as soon as I’d done the groundwork. But this time was different, I’d be happy to do the boring research—I wanted to know more about Sanderling, about the work she’d done in the West. And why someone on our side had wanted her dead.

  Call it a debt if you want. It was something I owed her, and this could be my chance to pay it off.

  2

  Berlin Lichtenberg

  When I got back to my office, I stood by the window, thinking and smoking. Lights from the building opposite shone across the void of the courtyard. How plausible was it that Merkur, the grey-haired gent from West Germany had really crossed the Wall just to ask after Sanderling?

  People often do things you’ll never understand unless you can find a way into their heads. And since Merkur wasn’t here to ask, I poured myself a drink and opened his file. The facts, such as we knew them, were all in there.

  The hea
d of Passport Control at Friedrichstrasse Station reported Merkur’s entry into the GDR as being logged at 1151.

  Just half an hour later, the policeman at the travel bureau was giving Merkur the brush off. The Westerner had disappeared into the wind and sleet and not been seen again. We were still waiting for an exit time, assuming he had left the territory of the GDR.

  I went back to the window, drawing on my cigarette until it burnt my fingers. Merkur’s trip over here, asking for Sanderling … was he leaving us a message in a bottle?

  If so, what did his message say?

  Considering the case was only a few hours old, the paperwork was admirably comprehensive. In the reports, the grey haired man from the photographs was referred to only by his assigned codename, but the copies of his West German passport, the day visa and the compulsory money change receipt all showed his real name: Werner Seiffert.

  I stared at that name. It wasn’t a coincidence—the grey haired gent was Source Bruno’s father.

  I first met Sanderling during an operation in West Germany, right at the end of 1983. Back then, she’d been in position in Bonn, observing Source Bruno, real name: Arnold Seiffert.

  Source Bruno had asked to come over to the East. He was an employee of the BKA, the West German Federal Crime Agency, so the Ministry had been more interested in turning him around and sending him back to spy for us. No doubt there had been the usual promises: stay in place for a year, maybe two, definitely no more than that. A year of uncovering secrets and passing them back to us, then we’ll set you up, a hero, a new life over here.

  But things had gone wrong from the moment Bruno had offered his services, and the operation had ended with him lying dead on his living room floor in Bonn, and Sanderling and myself needing emergency exfiltration.

  After my return to the GDR, I’d been informed that Bruno had been murdered by First Lieutenant Sachse, an officer of our foreign intelligence department, HV A.

  That was a surprise, but I could cope with it. Yet about the same time, I found Sanderling’s body under the ice of the River Spree, and her death was something I had still to come to terms with.

  I lit a cigarette to distract myself from thoughts of my dead colleague, and once the room was dense with smoke, I turned back to the file.

  At this stage of any case, we don’t bother ourselves with questions like why? We focus first on the who? the when? and the what? My first task was to establish Merkur’s background, such as it was already known to us, which meant fetching his son’s files and dusting them down.

  Even now, six weeks after I’d sent those files to the archive, I could remember practically every detail in the notes: I’d spent days reading and rereading the reports, questioning as many of those who had any contact with Bruno as I could find. I knew the paperwork didn’t have much to say about Bruno’s father: Werner Seiffert was a postman who’d left the GDR with his wife sometime before the Wall was built and had never returned. Until now.

  Nevertheless, I dutifully took the stairs to the basement and started the search for Bruno’s files. It took a while to find the F16 card. It wasn’t just that his index card was hiding somewhere in the midst of four million others, but that the whole collection had been split between various cellars because somebody at the very top had decided it was a good idea to build a bunker under the archive.

  I tracked down Bruno’s F16, but my work was far from done. The index card only gave me the information I needed to go on to the next card in the paper trail: the F22.

  Until you have the F22 in your fist, you don’t know the accession number, and without the accession number you won’t find the actual file you started the process to see.

  Convoluted? Sure, but it kept us out of trouble.

  When I had all the necessaries, I collected the files and sat at the small reading table. A strip light buzzed above me, the archivist flitted between shadows, eyeing me with enthusiastic suspicion.

  I ignored the distractions and reacquainted myself with the contents of Bruno’s file, flicking through until I found the pages I wanted. Here it was: familial background. Reports on his parents and those members of his extended family who still lived in the GDR. I turned the sheet, revealing a photograph of the father, a mugshot for an Ausweis he’d applied for over thirty years ago. I looked at this photo of Werner Seiffert, and he winked back in the wavering light. Pulling out the copy of his up-to-date West German passport, I compared the documents.

  Merkur’s recent paperwork stated clearly that we were dealing with one Werner Seiffert, the details of his age and place of birth tallying with the information here in the old file.

  For any other organ of the state, an Ausweis or passport is enough to prove identity. But the Ministry isn’t just any organ. We always want more.

  The photograph in our files had yellowed and deteriorated over the years, but the outline of Seiffert’s features were clear enough. Thirty years can change a person—hair goes grey, recedes, is cut and oiled into different styles; skin sags around the eyes and jowls. Moustaches and beards come and go. Even noses can change if you survive long enough or show sufficient dedication to the bottle. But ears retain their shape, even when they grow with advancing age.

  In the recent passport picture of Merkur, his pomaded hair was combed over the top of his ears—no positive identification possible with available material.

  I returned the file to the trolley and, since the appearance of Merkur meant the Bruno case had become active again, I went to the main desk to fill in a requisition slip for the file to be sent to my office. The archivist wasn’t anywhere to be seen, probably lurking in the stacks, waiting for fresh victims to stare at. I left the slip on his desk and returned to my office.

  The day was over, the brass had long since been driven home in their Chaikas, Volgas and Citroëns, leaving us apparatchiki to finish the day’s business.

  But I was in no rush to leave the office. I locked away the Merkur dossier and found a few other files to revise. There was nobody and nothing waiting for me back at my flat, and since the turn of the year I’d been having trouble sleeping. It was a new thing—I used to be able to sleep anytime, anywhere, untroubled by the workings of conscience. But 1984 was turning out to be different.

  Closing my eyes and drifting off wasn’t the problem, it was what was waiting for me when I got there.

  3

  Berlin Friedrichshain

  The sun didn’t bother to report for duty the next morning—wasn’t even due to return from winter leave for a few more months—but the fading street lamps told me it was time to put the restless night behind me and to start a new day.

  I parted the curtains and looked out—the featureless grey clouds were still there, pressing even lower than usual. They matched my mood.

  Three weeks and one day since I’d watched a crematorium worker shove Sanderling’s plain coffin into the oven. The same day I buried my friend Holger Fritsch. Twenty-one nights of fractured sleep, waiting for one or the other to creep into my bedroom, but it was always her, never him.

  Despite the frosty temperature, the bins next to the entrance to my block stank of damp brown-coal ash and rotting cabbage. A passing Trabant added to the stringent brew already scratching at my throat.

  But I didn’t care about smells or sub-zero temperatures, I’m not the type for phenomenological or meteorological philosophy. What I did care about was getting to my office before the brass had a chance to trundle in. As a rule, the bigwigs enjoy catching us underlings out, even if they have to get up early to do so. I hadn’t been in this department long enough to get the measure of the head of my section, Major Kühn, so, for the time being, it was safer to make sure I was present and ready when he came calling first thing in the morning.

  I’d had more contact with Captain Dupski, my immediate superior, and I felt I understood him a little. After much observation and consideration of the matter, I decided Dupski really didn’t care much about anything other than Kegeln. And since I h
adn’t made the section’s bowling team, I could rely on his lack of interest in me and my cases.

  I climbed the steps of the U-Bahn station and walked up the hill. A light fog wavered in the air, coating pavement and walls with greasy ice. Magdalenenstrasse is buried deep between tall walls, the blank windows of the MfS Central Headquarters to one side, the barbed wire of the Magda prison on the other. Opposite the gap between spiked prison walls and courthouse, that’s where you’ll find the back gate I use to enter Berlin Centre. I opened my clapperboard for the sentry, waiting for him to check my mugshot and the coloured stamps that show me to be a fully paid-up employee of the Ministry.

  Through the courtyard, stepping over fingers of ice that trace cracks in the concrete, down the side of the Ministry’s own supermarket until I arrive at Entrance 1 of House 4.

  I wasn’t planning on staying long in the office this morning, a brief skim of Bruno’s dossier. But when I checked the secretariat, there were no signs that the file had been released from the archive, nor of a report from Friedrichstrasse Station Border Crossing. I was still waiting for an exit time for Merkur.

  Back in my office, I leafed through Merkur’s thin folder, reaching into the drawer for a lemon-flavoured mint, letting the acid stickiness smother a tongue still thick from a broken night’s sleep. I stopped when I got to the reports on Merkur’s entry into the GDR and read the short statements twice, making notes as I went.

  The next page was a statement from Hauptwachtmeister Fries, the cop from the foreigner registration desk at the central travel bureau on Alexanderplatz. I read his statement twice too before reaching into the drawer to pull out a Berlin phone directory.

  Flicking through until I found Reisebüro der DDR, I dialled 2150, the number listed for the Alexanderplatz office, and asked for the police desk. The line purred as the extension rang, then a click as the receiver was lifted: