Jane sat alone with a mug of black coffee in an all-night café somewhere north of the city centre. She had asked the taxi-driver to find a place that was still open. On the floor at her feet was the sportsbag containing Red’s clothes. The gash in the side was proof that she had not been dreaming.
Two shabbily-dressed, middle-aged men occupied other tables. They probably took Jane for another of the city’s homeless. There was no point in returning to Haselhorst. The mental agony would be worse in Red’s place, surrounded by his things, knowing she had failed him.
She despised herself. She had screwed everything up. She had to hold the mug with both hands to stop it from spilling, she was in such a state. Whatever illusions she had had about herself as a frontline journalist were shattered. At the first flurry of action, she had caved in. She had read about violence often enough and watched it on the screen, deeply moved by the suffering, but without ever understanding what it is like to be involved. The act of grappling with Heidrun, twisting her arm, helping Red to tie her to the bed, now filled her with revulsion. And the moment of terror when Heidrun had come at her with the knife would stay with her for ever.
But what was that to the violence coming to Red because of her stupidity? That bitch Heidrun had crossed the border to shop Red to the Russians.
‘Oh, God. God help me!’
One of the shabby men stared across at her, and then back at his newspaper. He would probably not have given a glance if she had spoken in German. It was nothing remarkable to hear someone talking to God in an all-night café.
Jane had a vivid picture of Red risking his life to bluff his way to Hess, actually getting into the prison, only to be betrayed by a phone call from the KGB. What would they do to him?
She was going to vomit. She retched.
The café owner pointed to the door marked Damen. No one else looked up.
When she came back, one of the men had gone, and so had the bag with Red’s clothes. She ran to the door and looked up the street. It was deserted.
‘Bastard!’
But her head was more clear and her brain was functioning better. There was something else Red had told her to do. She ran over to the counter.
‘Where is Der Chamissoplatz?’
‘Chamissoplatz? That is Kreuzberg. Near Tempelhof, the airport. You know?’
‘How far from here?’
‘A taxi-ride. You want me to call one?’
‘Please. And do you have a telephone directory?’
He was positively eager to help, no doubt wanting to be rid of her. He turned to the shelf behind him. ‘What name?’
‘Becker. Willi Becker.’
‘Plenty of Beckers in Berlin.’
‘But in Chamissoplatz?’
In twenty minutes, a taxi was setting her down in a spacious, poorly-illuminated square formed by a children’s playground surrounded by trees. Five-storey blocks with darkened windows and arched entrances loomed up on each side. She looked for numbers, found the entrance she wanted and went upstairs. Willi Becker’s name was on the door.
Jane pressed the bell, conscious that this was some ungodly hour of the morning and she spoke almost no German. She had to press it twice more before she heard the click of a light-switch inside. The door opened a fraction.
‘Ja?’
‘Herr Becker? Sprechen Sie Englisch? Please, Red told me to come.’
‘Red?’
‘Red Goodbody.’
‘Ah … Red!’ A spluttering cough turned into a laugh and he came out with a passable impression of Red. ‘Now pull the other one, darling.’
Willi Becker opened the door to admit her. Short, dark, almost bald, in his forties if not older, he had only one good eye. Where the other should have been was a depression overlaid with loose skin. He was wrapped in a brown duvet. She had expected him to be a pressman, but there was a bright yellow jacket hanging in the hall, the sort worn by people who work on the roads.
‘You look all used up,’ said Becker. ‘Want to get some sleep?’
Jane shook her head. ‘I need help.’
‘Give me two minutes, then.’
She walked into a cheaply-furnished room that smelt of tobacco. There was a framed photo in black and white over the fireplace of Becker and his bride, a slight, dark-haired girl in a sixties-style, calf-length dress. Jane could hear no voices from the room where Becker had gone to dress, and the place didn’t give the impression of a woman’s presence, so she assumed that the girl had died.
He came back in green cords and a black sweater. He had put in an artificial eye which didn’t match the bloodshot look of the real one. Despite his unshaven face, creased from interrupted sleep, he still managed to look approachable, a sympathetic listener.
‘So who are you and what sort of trouble are you in?’
Just as Red had suggested, she told him everything.
Occasionally Becker interrupted the narrative to say affectionately, almost in admiration, ‘He’s a bloody madman, you know.’
By the end, she knew he would do anything in his power to help, but the process of telling the story had brought home to her the realisation that there was little anyone could do now. Willi Becker was a reassuring listener, a comfort in adversity, but he was in no position to influence events inside the walls of Spandau Prison.
‘This Heidrun Kassner. You’re sure she is working for the Soviets?’
‘Red is just as sure as I am.’
‘And you are certain she has gone over?’
‘I watched her go.’
Becker shook his head. ‘Let’s face it – Red is finished. Don’t blame yourself. He was a crazy idiot. Cigarette?’
‘But he said if I came to you …’ Jane sobbed, and couldn’t go on.
‘I would try to help, huh? Because I’m a crazy idiot also?’ He put a cigarette to his lips and reached for a lighter. ‘I have to be crazy to go on smoking these things.’ He lit up and exhaled. ‘Would you pass me the phone? Let’s see who else is out of his mind in this crazy schizoid city.’