My watch told me it was exactly six. I was on the bench in the woods that surround the stagnant puddle they call the Fauler See. There was nobody around, nothing to be heard in the still heat of the afternoon. For ten minutes I watched the vague reflections of the still reeds on the scummy water. It was hard not to doze off in the sharp scent of the pines.
I heard wheezing and the rustle of dederon long before the old man stumbled into view, leaning heavily on a crutch. He slumped down next to me, and, still gasping for breath, pushed a filterless cigarette between his lips. He lit up and inhaled deeply.
I wondered whether the old man had been sent by Dmitri. If he wasn’t one of Dmitri’s then I was in trouble—he looked like a talker and while he was here my contact wouldn’t approach. But I was wrong, the man sitting next to me didn’t say a word, just sucked heavily on his cigarette. When his cigarette was exhausted, he pulled out another and lit up, dropping the packet on the bench between us as he began to cough. He hawked up a mouthful of tanned phlegm, spitting onto the marshy ground, and in the same moment flicked the packet of cigarettes towards me. Without thinking, I placed my hand over it as the smoker got up. He nodded to me and dragged himself off down the path, cigarette dangling from his lips.
I waited until he was out of sight before leaving the bench. It was now a quarter past six, I’d been here for exactly fifteen minutes.
The path meandered around trees and bushes and I waited until I was between two bends before checking the cigarette packet. It had been emptied of cigarettes, but nestling between lining and carton was a cigarette paper, the kind used for rolling tobacco. I took it out and unfolded it, squinting to read the cramped handwriting.
70 → Zingsterstr
Alight Ribnitzer Str
S-Bahn 1st carriage → H-schönh
Steps to bridge
58, 2nd carriage → M-E-Platz
S-Bahn → Alex
Centrum menswear
I headed out of the woods, back into the baked fetor of civilisation, jogging the last few metres to meet the tram that was already shuffling around the corner.
I boarded and stamped my ticket, casting an eye over the other passengers. The smoker had passed me a dry cleaning list, a zig-zag course through Berlin that would hopefully show up any tail I might have. Dmitri would have one of his spooks shadowing me, keeping an eye out for any other followers—all I had to do was play the game, work through the list until I got to the menswear department of the Centrum store on Alexanderplatz.
Fifteen minutes later I got off and walked down the canyon of new-build flats, using plate glass shop windows and the side mirrors of parked cars to keep an eye on anyone coming up behind. The few people who had got off the tram with me were quickly swallowed up in the concrete labyrinth of Hohenschönhausen.
Even though I knew Dmitri would have people watching my back I was sensitive to my surroundings. As I stopped to buy an unnecessary ticket at the station, a man in a white shirt with a sparse purple paisley pattern, dark blue corduroy trousers and straw hat walked past me. I pushed my 20 Pfennig coin into the machine and watched the man go up the steps to the platform, unable to shake a feeling of familiarity.
I took my ticket and followed the man up to the platform. He was walking up and down, a lit cigarette cupped in his hand.
The train whined in and I got in the first carriage. The man in the paisley shirt flipped his cigarette into the gap between train and platform edge and entered through the same door. Our eyes met as he looked around for a seat, and instead of glancing away I held his eyes for the half-second or so before he moved his gaze.
I kept Paisley Shirt in my sights, watching his reflection in the window, wondering whether he’d try to stop me leaving the train. I could feel sweat trickling down the back of my neck, sliding under my collar, making it damp. The windows were open, the wheels clacked loudly along the track, a beat that gave rhythm to my thoughts. I had to get away from this man. I had to lose him when I got off at the next stop. He was young, wiry, he could easily outrun me. Did Dmitri have anyone nearby, had they already picked up my trail? Could I rely on them to take out Paisley Shirt?
Using the reflections in the window I checked the other occupants of the carriage, hoping I would recognise somebody as being associated with Dmitri. I could see two young women at the end of the carriage, laughing at the antics of a small child in a pushchair. No help to be expected from that direction, I was on my own.
The next station was already drawing near, the train slowing, the sound of the wheels deepening and slackening. I had to time my next movements exactly, if I were even a couple of seconds out, my plan would fail. In my head I measured the distance to the doors, calculated how long it would take to unpeel myself from the sticky vinyl seat. We were on one of the new red and grey S-Bahn trains, doors operated by push-button. Once the doors were closed they couldn’t be hauled open again. That was my chance.
I stayed in my seat as we pulled into the next station. Adrenaline pumped through my body, I had to make a real effort to remain where I was, peering through the dusty window. The platform was empty, and the tannoys almost immediately crackled, coughing commands to stay back: Zurückbleiben. On the train the red light glowed, the signal sounded Tu-tüüü-tu.
I jumped up, jamming my hand between the closing doors, pushing against them, slipping through the gap.
“Zurückbleiben!” the tannoys yelled as I landed on the platform. I turned, facing the train. Paisley shirt was no longer in his seat, he was pinned against a partition, his arm pulled high up his back by one of the women.
As the train pulled out of the station the mother met my eye. She winked.
***
A tram, then another S-Bahn took me to Alexanderplatz station. It was hotter in the centre of the city, and I was glad to enter the relative cool of the Centrum department store. I climbed the steps to the fourth floor, checking for any tail at each landing, then pretended to admire the meagre offerings in the men’s department.
After a minute or so a member of staff announced the store was closing. He came closer, as if to flush out any errant shoppers from between the aisles.
Even though menswear was empty he whispered, using the corner of his mouth to mutter the words as he sidled past, Emergency exit, then stairs to roof.
I followed the signs to the fire exit, first up some concrete steps, then climbing a rusty steel ladder, before pushing at the steel hatch above. It opened easily, and I climbed out, lowering the hatch back into place.
“Martin, glad you could make it!” Dmitri was standing behind the hatch, looking comfortable despite the heat. He was no longer in uniform but wore East German clothes: light shirt, grey trousers and brown closed sandals. A warm breeze made its way across the open rooftop. There was no shelter up here, it was obvious we were alone.
“So, you’ve been caught up in the Kaminsky situation? What’s the interest?”
“There’s a plot to assassinate Kaminsky, we’re trying to find out more. We have a source, we don’t know who it is, but British Defence Intelligence might.”
“Assassinate Kaminsky?” Dmitri chuckled. “Are you not tempted to let them get on with it? No, no, a small joke. I understand your concern. So, DIS are interested in your informant? Are they aware that he is working for you?” Dmitri’s one good eye was dancing, he was having his fun with me, for all the seriousness of the matter. “Maybe your informant is actually working for the Queen, perhaps the product comes directly from Major Clarie?”
I considered this for a moment. It seemed possible, but not likely. Why would the British want to feed us information? Or disinformation? The whole situation simply felt improbable, and that was perhaps why I was feeling so lost.
“You’d better give me the whole story, my friend. Start at the beginning.”
I told Dmitri what I knew. There wasn’t much to tell; for me it had all begun less than a week ago. Dmitri listened without interrupting, but I could see he was making his usual mental notes.
“So you are working with Lieutenant Steinlein. The name is familiar, who is he exactly? And why are you not working with your team at RS?”
“Steinlein is uniformed Volkspolizei, but he’s seconded to the political policing unit, K1. He was hospitalised by the fascists a few days before they got hold of me.”
“Let me guess—he used this fact to build a bridge to you? Something you have in common, being attacked by skinheads?” Dmitri smiled as I nodded my head. “And your colleagues at RS?”
“Steinlein is insisting on secrecy. He says he doesn’t know who to trust.”
“Does he suggest your colleagues may be part of this plot?”
“He suspects the Ministry and the police. He seems very worried, sees a conspiracy wherever he looks.”
“Does he know we are meeting? No? Very good. Tell me, are no alarm bells ringing in that head of yours?” Dmitri lit one of his black cigarettes. “No, of course not, ever the trusting Martin.”
“I haven’t any energy for alarm bells. I haven’t the energy to deal with this shit, not today, not ever,” I replied. “Kaminsky wants to destroy what we’ve created. And right now he’s succeeding. Everything we stand for, everything we ever fought for—if Kaminsky has his way, all that effort will have been wasted.”
Dmitri let me ramble, pulling on his cigarette, looking up at the Television Tower that loured over the railway station opposite.
“Somehow, back in 1989, the revolution started, the Party fell, people wanted change, and together we made that change happen.
“But now I’m wondering whether people really wanted change. Because as soon as Kaminsky crawls out of the ruins of the Party … it’s like he’s the answer to everyone’s prayers.”
Dmitri didn’t answer immediately, instead leading me to the edge of the roof. Seven storeys below us, Alexanderplatz was crowded with shoppers, ants negotiating their way around each other, dividing and clumping together again.
“Martin, you’re tired. But are you not also apprehensive about the future? For years you’ve been thinking about all of this, imagining and discussing different ways of organising society. Yet still you’re afraid. How do you think all of those people down there feel? They want to be reassured, they want to know what’s going to happen next. As a nation you’re feeling your way. You want people to be responsible for their own lives and communities, but is that what they want? They’ve always been told what to do. They’ve always known what was acceptable and what would bring them trouble and grief. Why shouldn’t they want a return to simpler times? Times when they felt they had control over at least the immediate aspects of their lives.
“With your revolution you are offering people freedom. Freedom to take on the responsibility for running society. Freedom to negotiate with their co-workers, their neighbours, their city, their country. They are able to take part in the constant dialogue that is freedom at a societal level. But when there’s a fair dialogue no-one knows the outcome, there is no way of predicting the results. Not knowing how things will turn out is scary. Don’t underestimate the power of fear. And don’t underestimate the power held by those who say they can take fear away.”
The smoke from Dmitri’s cigarette hung in the air between us as we watched at the masses below. “Freedom is change,” he said to the shimmering skyline. “Freedom is danger. Freedom is insecurity.” Dmitri dropped his cigarette onto the cement roof, carefully grinding it out with his sandal. “Not everyone wants that. To them Kaminsky offers simple answers, a return to simpler times. He offers to remove the burdens of thinking and doing. He offers a return to the old days.”