I heard the front door slam shut, followed by Steinlein’s cane drumming up the stairs.
“Where have you been? I waited for you all night!” He stood in the doorway, jaw clenched, hands on hips, playing the disciplinarian father.
I held out a few sheets from the papers I’d brought back from West Berlin and Steinlein closed in for a look. Jamming his cane under his elbow, he took the proffered sheets. “What happened?”
“British intelligence pulled me in. Kept me overnight.”
“British intelligence?” Steinlein’s eyes were buried deep below his brow, darkness directed at me. “What did you tell them?”
“They were following the person who had this bag,” I gestured to the carrier bag, still half full of reports. “When he passed it to me the Brits decided they’d like a chat.”
“What did you tell them? Did they see these?” Steinlein’s cane swung into the pile of papers, flattening them against the desk.
“A few hours of interrogation. Nothing too bad, just the kind of thing you’ve probably done yourself a few times. I didn’t tell them anything.”
“And the files?”
“Of course they’ve looked at the bloody files, what do you think?”
“You should have stopped them!” Steinlein’s cane swooped again and the papers flitted through the air, spilling over the floor.
I left him to his tantrum and went over to the kitchen-niche. While the water was boiling I watched Steinlein awkwardly stoop down, using the head of his cane to gather in the loose leaves.
“Is this what the source gave you? This is dynamite!” Steinlein had regained a measure of his former calm, but he was still gripping the walking stick so tightly that his knuckles were white. “What did he say? Did he tell you anything useful?”
“He didn’t say anything—I didn’t see him.”
Steinlein was hardly listening, he was sitting at the desk now, carefully turning over each sheet, scanning the text as he went. “This is an impressive haul.”
“Any theories on how he managed to get hold of these files?”
“Heaven knows, but it’s pretty extensive.” Steinlein pushed his chair back and stretched, a sheet of paper in one hand. “Look, there’s another note from our source: Use Tacheles dead drop to contact. At least now we know how to get hold of him.”
I looked at the writing Steinlein had found—same as last time, vague pencil marks between the lines of a report. How did Steinlein find these messages?
“I’ve got some more good news,” he said, his voice softening still further, the ghost of a smile beginning to tease his lips. “The officer responsible for securing the outer perimeter of Kaminsky’s next rally has fallen ill, I’m taking over his squad. I’ll be on the inside, I’ll have access to collateral and can corroborate at least some of this material. Might even give us a clue who our informant is.”
“Why are you a cop?”
Steinlein stopped rustling through the reports, the sudden change of subject confusing him.
“What do you mean?”
“Just curious. I still don’t understand why you’re doing all this.” I looked around the office, taking in the scope of the investigation that Steinlein had kicked off. But it was really the same question that I had asked the other night: was Steinlein doing this for Kaminsky, or because preventing crime was his job?
“I told you, I’m a police officer. This is what I do.”
“But why?”
Steinlein took a roll of parchment paper from his bag and limped over to the wall. He unrolled the sheet, tacking the upper corners to the wall. It was a blueprint of the area around the Soviet War Memorial in Treptower Park.
I waited patiently as he smoothed the plans out and tacked a bottom corner down. Eventually he spoke, his back still turned to me.
“My father was a builder, he headed up the construction and maintenance brigade on an LPG farm in the Uckermark. The whole brigade had this racket going, they’d steal building materials and sell it on to people building their Datsche and weekend cottages.”
“And that bothered you?”
“At home he was a real stickler for discipline. He’d get drunk every Saturday night then come home and beat me and my brother for the week’s transgressions. Once he beat us for scrumping apples from a neighbour’s tree. Kids are sensitive to hypocrisy and injustice, and when he beat me that time it was like a switch had flicked. I hit him back.” Steinlein pushed the last drawing pin in.
“And that’s why you became a cop?”
“I told the Party Organisation at the farm about my father’s activities.” Steinlein took a step back to admire his handiwork. “Nothing happened—he was too well-connected. There might have been an internal Party disciplinary hearing, but if so then nothing came of it. It’s no surprise the Party collapsed in 1989; it was high time for change. Internal renewal.
“Anyway, when I informed on my father he made me leave home. I signed up for three years in the army, after that: officer career path in the Volkspolizei.”
Steinlein limped back to the desk and sat down. He didn’t say anything else, just concentrated on his file.
***
We were looking through the paperwork again, comparing notes. It bothered me that we didn’t know who the source was.
“The person who gave me this bag is connected to Kaminsky. That’s why British Defence Intelligence were interested in him.” My words made Steinlein pause, his brow was furrowed, the eyes receding again under his stern brow. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon, I reckon our source-”
“Why are British intelligence interested in Kaminsky?” he interrupted.
“Clarie said he has to take a professional interest in what happens in East Berlin.” I answered. “Called it his back-yard. Said it’s his job to know if anyone’s rocking the boat, and if so, how hard.”
Steinlein pulled out a pack of f6 cigarettes and lit one, looking up at the ceiling as he exhaled the first puff. “How does he know our source is connected to Kaminsky?”
“He didn’t say. But who is our source? Is Clarie right about the Kaminsky connection? We should check out Kaminsky’s staff and supporters—it’s someone with access to the Stasi archives, that’ll help narrow it down-”
“There’s not enough time for all that.” Steinlein waved a hand, dismissing the suggestion. “The rally is on Saturday and there are hundreds of people on his personal staff alone. Add all the Party apparatchiks he might be connected to … What about your British major? Why don’t we just ask him?”
“Clarie knows, but he won’t tell me, not unless we can trade something, some intelligence he’d be interested in. That’s the way he works.”
Steinlein passed me the pack of cigarettes and his lighter.
“We haven’t got anything for your Englishman, have we?” he asked while tapping the tip of his cigarette against the side of an aluminium ashtray. “Can we not persuade him it’s in his interest to help us?”
Steinlein’s questions had given me a new idea: Dmitri. “I could ask my FSK liaison. If Captain Pozdniakov knows anything he’ll tell us.”
“It’s like talking to a brick wall!” Steinlein stabbed out his cigarette. “How many times do I have to say it? We can’t let anyone know what we’re doing here. No-one!”
“I don’t see the problem, if Clarie knows about it then surely we can talk to the Friends-”
“The Friends? Talking to the Friends went out of fashion with Perestroika! We can’t trust the Russians, they’re too close to the Party!” Steinlein went to the window, leaning his forehead against the glass. “There’s no way you’re talking to your Russian. There’s too much at stake, and that’s final!”