Steinlein had said it himself: if Kaminsky were assassinated this country would rip itself apart. Steinlein and I wanted not just different things for our country, what we wanted was incompatible. Yet despite our opposing political views, neither of us wanted the GDR to descend into chaos.
That’s why, just after half-past eight this morning, I caught the S-Bahn to Friedrichstrasse. Despite the early hour the roads and pavements around the station were hot, the tram tracks shimmered into the distance.
I’d deal with Steinlein later, I decided. First we had to prevent Kaminsky from being assassinated. Once we’d done that I’d take them both down.
My destination wasn’t far: a half-ruin just at the beginning of Oranienburger Strasse. Tacheles, they called it. I’d never been there but I’d heard about it, even seen it on a culture programme on Western TV. A group of artists had squatted the building in 1990, just before it was due to be demolished. They did emergency repairs and moved in, using the building as ateliers and exhibition space, as well as the inevitable political meetings.
The main entrance was shrouded in wooden scaffolding, a wide staircase led off the foyer. As the note said, there was a poster taped to the window on the second half-landing. There was nobody about, still too early for the artists.
I clasped my cigarette between my lips, squinting through the smoke as I eased the tape off the bottom left-hand corner of the poster. I pushed my fingers underneath the paper and felt around until I snagged a small square of paper. I slid it out. Another look up and down the stairs, then I was off, back onto the street.
I walked a few blocks before ducking into a cellar doorway, wondering whether I should have suggested to Steinlein that he come along too, hang back and try to spot the source. But I knew what his response would have been: It’s about trust, he would say. But that was my problem, I didn’t see any reason to trust our so-called source, and I had serious doubts about my partner too.
I unfolded the note, same paper, same neat printed letters as last time: Prinzenstrasse open-air swimming pool 12:30. Bring 400 DM
Prinzenstrasse was the same road as Heinrich-Heine-Strasse, the name changed when you crossed into West Berlin. I was fairly sure the open-air baths were right at the far end, by the Landwehr canal, but I could do with checking a map, not to mention finding 400 Westmarks. I phoned Steinlein from a phone box.
“I told you not to contact me!”
“It’s OK, I gave the switchboard a false name. Listen, the source wants 400 DM. He wants to meet in Kreuzberg just after midday.” I listened to the static on the line, waiting for Steinlein’s answer.
“Meet me. Warschauer Platz, eleven-thirty.” Steinlein’s words were chased down the line by the click of his phone being hung up.
***
When I got back to my flat there was a message on the notebook that hung on the door. Not seen you in ages (underlined twice) let’s have beer and a catch up! There was no signature, but I recognised the scrawl as Karo’s.
I tore the message off the pad and went inside. Beer and a catch-up, even though she’d only been here the other day? She probably wanted to talk about whatever was happening at RS. But right now I didn’t have time, I had work to do.
The phone rang while I was in the kitchen pulling a towel off the clothes horse. I ignored it, going instead into my bedroom to find swimming trunks. I was in too much of a rush and in no mood to talk to whoever was on the other end.
The phone was still ringing as I left the flat.