Stealing the Future Read online

  She saw herself as the grounded and rational one in the office, and she wasn’t wrong about that. She had a mixture between a bossy character and a need to keep busy, and see others around her being kept busy too—I think this led her to chivvy us along, make sure we were doing our work, that our meetings didn’t go off topic and down sidelines. It could be annoying, but on the whole I think we appreciated having her around—she kept us on our toes.

  “No, not really. It just all sounds a bit weird. But no, I think you’re right,” Klaus looked down, concentrating on fiddling with one of his evil cigars.

  “OK, so shall we leave it there then?” Still the voice of reason, Laura was looking around at us, checking that each of us was agreeing. “Right, so that’s that. What else have we got on the agenda today?”

  After the meeting I decided to write up the report on my trip to Weisswasser, get it out of the way so that I could concentrate on the stuff that I ought to be doing. It didn’t take too long, after all there wasn’t too much to say. I went to West Silesia, I saw a body and a mining machine, the police seemed to be taking care of everything so I came home. I didn’t bother mentioning that we’d had a look at Maier’s Stasi files—it didn’t seem relevant, particularly since we weren’t actually going to do anything with that information.

  I finished the last page and pulled it out of the typewriter, putting the top sheet with the others in a file to take to the Ministry. The two carbon copies went in another pair of files, one to keep here, the other for the central RS archives. I sat back in my chair and peered through the dusty net curtains. It was a nice day out there, the sun was shining, the sky blue. Shame to be cooped up in the office, I thought, much better to be outside.

  10:23

  I handed my report to the secretary, I could have sent it in the internal post, but I had enjoyed the short walk from the S‑Bahn station to the Ministry. I was about to leave when she did that thing with her hand again, the disdainful wave at the chairs. I looked at her, and waited while she decided whether she was going to tell me what she wanted.

  “If you would take a chair, the Staatssekretär’s assistant wishes to speak to you.”

  The secretary handed my report back to me, and I took both the file and a chair, like a good little boy. So Gisela Demnitz, the assistant to the senior civil servant at the Ministry, wanted to see me. She was the person I usually dealt with, the one with the responsibility for all the peripheral agencies in the Ministry of the Interior.

  She didn’t make me wait long—a buzzer on the secretary’s phone sounded, and she informed me that Frau Demnitz was ready to receive me. I walked along the corridor and went into Frau Demnitz’s office after a polite knock. She was sat behind her desk, a standard woodchip number, with grey steel legs.

  “Herr Grobe,” she said, as she stood up to shake my hand. She and I were still on formal terms, perhaps because she’d always worked for the Ministry and valued the traditional protocols of government.

  I sat down in the chair opposite her, the desk between us. Frau Demnitz fiddled with some papers, peering through the horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Finally she looked up and addressed me.

  “Herr Grobe, I understand that you have been receiving information from the police officer responsible for the Maier investigation in Dresden. I can only assume that you requested this information while you were in personal and contiguous contact with the Comrade Unterleutnant yesterday, but I am certain that I need not remind you that the Minister has explicitly stated that there is no need for any further involvement on your part. The Minister has in fact asked me to inform you,” and here she looked at her notes, presumably in an effort to get what she was about to say exactly right, “that the investigation is in hand.” Demnitz paused before starting her next sentence. “Additionally, the Minister wishes to instruct you to take over the liaison between this Ministry and the Four Powers. In its wisdom the Central Round Table,” and here Demnitz broke off to give what I’m sure was a disparaging sniff, “has advised that such a task should be carried out by this Ministry. Your instructions are to provide the formal framework for contact between the German Democratic Republic and the military missions of the Soviet Union, the Republic of France, the United States of America and the United Kingdom. You will begin this afternoon. A meeting has been agreed in principle with Major Sokolovski of the Soviet Army Western Group of Troops in Karlshorst. I would be obliged if you could contact his office to confirm the time and communicate the details of your appointment with this office.”

  Frau Demnitz handed a file to me, and I gave her my report in return. She held out her hand, and I took it as I got up, but before I’d made it to the door I was called back.

  “Herr Grobe,” and this time it was definitely a sniff, “while I am sure we appreciate the fact that you have prepared this report in a remarkably short frame of time, I would like to ask you to provide us with a more comprehensive account. If you would be so kind?”

  11:58

  Coming through the door to the offices I could see that Bärbel was not there, and that the post had been delivered. It was in a pile on the secretary’s desk. I shuffled through the letters and parcels. There was only one for me: a fat letter from Dresden, LdVP Sachsen stamped in the top left corner. It was from the Saxon police. Perhaps this was the information from Dresden that Demnitz had been getting so excited about? It did make me wonder how she’d known about the letter even before it arrived, but I suppose it just meant that Schadowski had been on the phone with someone from the Ministry.

  I went into my office, tearing open the envelope and poking my hand into it. The cover letter included an inventory identifying the contents of Maier’s pockets when his body was found. None of it looked familiar, even though I had probably looked at it all when I was down there. But at the time I must have asked for the list to be sent to me at the office, because otherwise it would have bypassed me and gone straight to the Ministry.

  A second sheet informed me that fingerprints had been taken from some scraps of paper (copies enclosed) found in Maier’s pockets. These fingerprints had been identified as belonging to Chris Fremdiswalde, DOB: 17.09.1973, place of birth: Löbau. Currently registered as living in Thaerstrasse in Berlin-Friedrichshain. He had been arrested in 1987 for theft at his school in Hoyerswerda, and a photo of Chris at the time of his arrest had been included. There was no explanation of why the police had bothered to compare his fingerprints with those on the papers in Maier’s pockets—there must be some close connection with Maier, otherwise they couldn’t have come up with the fingerprint match so quickly.

  The other items in the envelope didn’t look particularly interesting. There was no diary, only a few scraps of paper that looked like shopping lists. Except one, which had a date, the 25th September, along with the time 14:00, and a name: Alex. Looking at the note, I pulled out the crumpled leaflet that Karo the punk had given me the night before: For a sensible energy policy—in East and West: Alexanderplatz, Saturday 25th September, 14:00. I stared at both pieces of paper for a while. Why would Maier be interested in a demo here in Berlin? True, he’d been involved in the mining business, but that was before the revolution, three years ago, before he’d got involved in politics and the business of Silesian devolution.

  I shovelled the bits of paper back into the envelope and tossed it on to the pile that I called my in-tray. Time for some proper work. But before that I had an appointment to confirm with the Russians.

  15:12

  Fortunately my meeting with the Russian liaison officer was in Berlin-Karlshorst. It could have been worse—I might have had to go all the way to the Soviet Army headquarters in Wünsdorf, about thirty kilometres south of the city. I’d got here with the office Trabant, parking it near the S‑Bahn station, and wandering through Karlshorst to arrive at the grey steel gate sporting a red star. One of the guards posted in front checked my pass and ushered me in, the gate clashing shut behind me. I was in a small paved yard, Sovie
t soldiers in dress uniform and fatigues hastened between the main building and various side wings. No-one paid any attention to me, and not quite sure where to go I just headed in through the main entrance.

  Behind the tall wooden doors the hall was both large and high, with expansive bay windows at the back, and a wide staircase to my right. Soldiers bustled around here too, looking both purposeful and efficient, clacking over the polished parquet. Not even sure who to ask for, I stood just inside the doorway, and flicked through the file Frau Demnitz had given me. It contained nothing but the addresses and telephone numbers of the headquarters for each of the Four Powers, each on a separate sheet. When I looked up I noticed that a soldier, wearing fatigues and a cap, was standing right next to me. He spoke in Russian, and although I tried to work out what he was saying, I really hadn’t a clue. He held his hand out, pointing at some chairs just to the side of the stairs, before he too moved purposefully off. I watched him march away, and as he went past an open doorway another soldier caught my attention. It was the eye patch that did it—a very noticeable fashion accessory. And now I looked more closely at this second soldier, I noticed the blue flashes on the collar and the blue stripe on his shoulder boards: KGB. Now that I was looking at him I could see that he too was mustering me with his only eye. A curt flick of his head, acknowledging my existence, then he moved further back into the room, beyond my line of sight.

  I hadn’t quite got to the chairs when someone else spoke to me, this time in German.

  “Lieutenant Grobe! Very pleased to meet you. I am Major Mikhail Vassilovich Sokolovski. No relation.”

  I didn’t understand who he might not be related to, and didn’t like to ask for fear of causing offence. But the major in front of me had a smooth and clear way of speaking German, which was also a good way to describe his appearance. Dress uniform, red flashes, very neat. Several rows of medals did his chest proud, indeed the medals would have looked cramped on a narrower chest. He held his hand out for me to take, a huge paw of a hand that could easily crush mine, but thankfully didn’t. The major pointed the way upstairs, arms gesticulating the whole while, underscoring the small talk he was using to show off his flawless German. I was far too busy looking around me to pay much attention to what he was saying, something about a cultural event at the embassy.

  I’d never been in a Russian military base before, and it was not at all how I’d imagined it. Outside rigidly controlled ‘cultural events’ the population of the GDR had been kept well away from the Russian brothers. To us, the Russians were different, alien, scary—and even after nearly three years of revolution I found it hard to believe that I was standing here in the Soviet Military Berlin HQ. But it all felt rather informal, I could see through open doors how soldiers and uniformed secretaries were shouting down phones, taking down dictation, typing away at noisy old typewriters, and all the while the endless stream of people moving around, carrying papers, boxes, radio sets, furniture—anything you could imagine. Nobody bothered to salute the major as we went past.

  We reached an office at the back of the building, overlooking a large parade ground surrounded by flag poles. The major gestured that I should take a seat while he closed the door. Turning to a filing cabinet he took two glasses and a bottle of vodka from the top drawer. He set the glasses up on his desk and filled them to the brim before handing me one.

  “Before we start, a toast. I propose we drink to the architect and inspiration of the colossal historic victories of the Soviet people; the banner, pride, and hope of all progressive humanity. To the great leader and the teacher of my country and yours: da zdravstvuyet Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin!”

  My glass tipped in shock as I listened to his words, recognising the style from a time not too long past. The major laughed loudly at my reaction.

  “No, my friend, times are different now! A small joke is allowed between friends, no? But perhaps you had better make the toast?”

  Still not quite sure what to make of this man who looked so formal, yet started our first meeting with a joke about Stalin, I stood up, glass (adequately replenished by the major) in right hand, looked him in the eye, and tried my best:

  “In these uncertain times let us drink to continued and fraternal co-operation between our people!”

  Again, the loud laugh, and Sokolovski tipped back his glass, swallowing the vodka in one go. I nervously followed his example.

  “Good, very good, tovarishch.” he said. “My colleagues might at this point recharge the glasses, and make another toast. They find it amusing that you Germans, so very exact and proper in all you do, are unable to get beyond even the tenth toast without falling over. And I? I consider myself open to the civilising influences of your culture, so instead I give you the bottle, and we shall meet again. We shall talk about whatever it is we need to talk about, and have many more toasts.”

  He shook my hand, opened the door and ushered me back out into the busy chaos beyond.

  This was pretty perplexing, but I considered that I had made contact and that, at least so far, I had neither questions nor reports for my Russian liaison. All in all, the major was probably right: we were finished for now. At least it meant I could go back to the office and get on with writing up that report.

  I wandered out of the building and to the gate, the sentries merely nodding as they let me back out into the street. Arriving back at the car I looked down at the bottle of vodka in my hand. That’s enough vodka for one day—I opened up the bonnet, took the cap off the petrol tank and poured the Russian alcohol in.

  Day 3

  Friday

  24th September 1993

  Moscow: For the first time since the crisis began, large numbers of KGB forces have been seen on the streets of Moscow. The KGB issued a statement saying that they have mobilised troops to assist militia and internal forces in their efforts to keep public order in the Soviet capital. It remains unclear whether or not they support President Gorbachev who remains under house arrest in the Crimea.

  08:11

  A nice short morning meeting today—that suited me, I was getting anxious about the backlog of work that was building up on my desk. We all had ongoing projects we were already working on, and there was no need to divvy up any further work. The others thought it unfair that I had been ticked off by Frau Demnitz, which made me feel a bit better, and they were surprised about the liaison task I had been given.

  “She asked you to do liaison by yourself, or did she mean we should take on that task jointly?” Erika asked.

  “Just me. But as far as I’m concerned we can share it. Sounds boring, really. Anyway, I’ve already been to see my Russian counterpart, it was quite strange. He toasted Stalin, then laughed at me and threw me out!” My description garnered a chuckle from my colleagues but I could see that they thought I was exaggerating. The meeting moved on to more general matters before we ended.

  There had been nothing to decide today, but even when there was we very rarely voted. Most decisions in the Republikschutz departments were taken in the small teams that were working on any particular topic, but if we thought a case might have an impact on any other team we would check in with them first. Here in RS2 we generally talked any issues through until we found a way forward that worked for everyone involved. It used to be quite a frustrating process, but with time, as we got to know each other, to understand how our colleagues ticked, it all became both easier and quicker. Knowing each others’ quirks and interests—along with Laura’s help in making sure that we didn’t talk for hours about something that didn’t matter—meant that we’d become quite efficient in our decision making.

  I was just making a start on a report about my visit to Karlshorst when the phone rang. It was the Minister’s secretary informing me that a meeting had been set up with Major Clarie at the British Army offices in the Olympic Stadium for this afternoon, at 4 o’clock. It looked like the Minister wanted me kept busy for the next few days.

  After the phone call I found it hard to c
oncentrate on writing the report. And if I was to be in Westberlin this afternoon then I didn’t really have enough time to get involved in any of the other pieces of work waiting for me. I found myself looking again at the stuff the Saxon police had sent me, I was particularly intrigued by the slip of paper with tomorrow’s date on it. Alex, 14.00—it just had to be the Energy Demo. Or, at least that seemed the most likely. It could just be that Maier had been planning to meet someone called Alex on Saturday afternoon. But I wasn’t convinced.

  Thinking about it—the demo, with its focus on brown coal; the site where the body was found; Maier’s own past in the brown coal mining industry—I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that there were too many coincidences. I shook my head, trying to rid it of questions. I wasn’t the one investigating the murder. Not only did I not have any part to play in the investigation, but I had already been warned off by Frau Demnitz. And I’d agreed with my own colleagues not to pursue the case.

  10:47

  I caught the tram heading down to Rummelsburg, finding a seat as we creaked round the corner and under the railway tracks. Brown coal was a seam running through this case, and even if I wasn’t actually involved, well, I asked myself, why shouldn’t I express an interest in a matter that clearly had the potential to become a security issue for our Republic?

  I could see the twin chimneys of the Rummelsburg coal power station beckoning from way down the road; but they were much further away than they had seemed—it was several stops before the tram finally arrived at the main gates.

  I showed my pass to the works guard and asked to speak to the director. A short wait, then I was met by a guy in a suit who took me to a high Art Deco building made of slim, reddish-brown bricks. Everything about it was narrow, it was huge, but its ten storeys made it look tall and lean, the same as the windows, stretching virtually from marble covered floors to the soaring ceilings. We clacked our way across the marble to the stairs. On the first floor the walls were covered in glassy green tiles, the floors with well polished red lino. I was ushered into an office, where another suit sat behind a dark antique desk. The suit rose and took my hand, beckoning me to sit down.