12

Berlin-Dahlem, Clayalle

Villa of the Commander of the American Sector, 1984

Heavy flakes of snow fell and danced in the orbs of the street lanterns. The radio was playing the American Top Forty.

Quirin hummed along with the refrain to Islands in the Stream, even though he didn’t like the song. The eighties had given the charts nothing but simple pop. He regretted it wasn’t Saturday evening when he could have listened to BFBS and John Peel. He drove down Clay Allee, past the American barracks, the movie theatres, and the Post Exchange Store, or PX, reserved for the army. Everything heavily guarded and largely blocked from the gaze of the outside world. The Zehlendorf area of Berlin was as American as Spandau was British and Reinickendorf French and the whole east was Russian. The Western Allies were present, but in a parallel universe, which didn’t have much in common with the lives of the people of Berlin.

Quirin had landed at Tegel airport an hour ago on a PanAm jet from Munich. He had rented a VW Jetta and had every reason to hope he’d be on time. In the airplane there had been some deliberation about whether they should land in Hamburg instead due to the snowfall.

After Angentische Allee he turned left and drove up to a metal gate. There were already two dark limousines parked in front of the rolling gate, waiting to be processed. One was armoured and carried the British flag. Christmas carolling with the Commander of the American Sector. Allied holiday sing-alongs under the Christmas tree of the intelligence service station, a must for everyone who belonged to the tiny class of political and business elites in the Western part of the city.

Quirin waited in his Jetta until it was his turn, and a sergeant from the Military Police took his ID and invitation. The massive iron gate rolled to the side to reveal the snow-covered, expansive garden. Every tree, every bush, and every windowsill in the compound was decorated with glowing lights. Quirin didn’t know the lady of the house, but she must have grown up in Disneyland. The British car rolled off towards the illuminations.

‘Mr Kaiserley?’

The sergeant reappeared next to his car.

‘Please follow us.’

The sergeant motioned him through the gate and pointed to a car park. There were two cars parked there with Munich plates. Kellermann and Langhoff were already here. He parked next to them and climbed into a Jeep that had appeared out of the blue. His ID and invitation would stay at the security checkpoint until he left.

The lights were reflected in the black helmets of the military police. They wore sleeve covers initialled MP, smiled pleasantly, and made jokes about the similarities between the Great Wall of China and an American chief’s villa – both were visible from space – and while Quirin was still laughing, they had already arrived at the back entrance of the basement apartment. The MPs transferred their ward to a different GI wearing a full dress uniform who directed him inside with his white gloves.

The sounds of piano and singing floated through the house. Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. There was the scent of warm food and cinnamon. A staircase led up to the ground floor where the reception rooms were located. Lots of red, lots of gold, lots of glass, lots of lots. Thick carpets, heavy silk curtains, polished, dark wood panelling. Quirin had stumbled up there once, looking for the bathrooms and had a brief opportunity to cast a glance around the massive round table in the entry hall, the fireplace with artificial fire and the huge oil paintings, before two very friendly young gentlemen caught up with him and accompanied him back downstairs.

Down below were the rooms where the action took place.

Now there was a real fire in the hearth. Kellermann stood at the bar and was looking for something strong. He briefly nodded to Quirin and paid him no further notice. Langhoff, Section Chief Region East Procurement, was admiring a painting by Thomas Cole, Hudson River and Catskill Mountains. Langhoff was a tall, slender man with an artificially noble attitude, which Quirin liked as much as he liked Langhoff’s habit of constantly looking at his polished fingernails while speaking.

There were only two other people in the room. A very young woman, who looked as if she might be Puerto Rican, was talking to a man who had just turned toward the door. He came over to greet Kellerman.

‘Lindner,’ he introduced himself. He sounded nervous. Looking for allies who would help him through the evening, Quirin thought. ‘Richard Lindner.’

Lindner must have been in his mid-twenties, so just a couple of years younger than Quirin. He was a good-looking man, but someone who seemed out of place in these circles. He wore a cheap suit, and his tie hung slightly crooked. He was nervous. No one else was. It was an unofficial meeting under Allied supervision. Everyone in the room knew that except for Lindner.

Quirin introduced himself. The Puerto Rican gave him a Colgate smile.

‘Angelina Espinoza. I work at the American Embassy in Bonn-Bad Godesberg.’

Her German was nearly unaccented. Quirin returned the handshake. She wore a navy blue suit with flat pumps that would have seemed boring on every other woman. Although she was so young, her behaviour left no doubt: she knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it. Top university, Department of Foreign Affairs, career. Hungry and ambitious. He also guessed that she had an affluent background, but then again maybe her diamond studs were too small for that.

In the meantime Kellermann had found the bar and served himself a double shot. He swirled the tumbler and approached Quirin, keeping Angelina’s backside in view.

‘Shitty weather,’ he said in greeting and raised his glass. ‘I hate Berlin in the wintertime.’

Angelina laughed, Lindner remained silent. Langhoff pulled himself away from the painting and graced them with his attention.

‘Kaiserley. Always around when there’s a chance to fill your pockets, am I right?’ Langhoff patted him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘One of our best men. He’ll recruit anything that moves before you can count to three.’

‘Shitty weather,’ Kellermann repeated.

He had an alcohol problem. Everyone knew that. No one talked to him about it.

A waitress with a starched apron approached and offered an approximation of a mini-hamburger. Lightly roasted beef tartar with caviar and crème fraîche. Kellermann shovelled one into his mouth and refused the proffered napkin. Lindner declined. He hadn’t come here to eat. His gaze repeatedly returned to the door, behind which an additional MP was keeping guard.

‘I love Berlin,’ Angelina said. ‘It’s a place with history.’

‘Everywhere is,’ Kellermann spoke with his mouth full. ‘Even the San Andreas Fault. I prefer Düsseldorf or Munich. Clean streets, intelligent people.’

‘Hamburg,’ Langhoff said, examining his fingernails. He didn’t like Kellermann. Quirin, by contrast, could deal with his boss’s uncouth manner. They were both action men, rather than manicured theoreticians of culture. ‘Are you familiar with Hamburg?’

The question was directed at Angelina.

‘Unfortunately not. And you?’ She turned to Lindner.

Lindner jumped slightly. Everyone was looking at him.

‘No. Bonn more so.’

‘How boring.’ Kellermann took the next hamburger from the tray. ‘Prague, Moscow. St. Petersburg. All places where I don’t want to be hanging over a fence dead. Well, that’ll change soon.’

Quirin wondered what Kellermann was referring to. There had been another change of power in Moscow. The Russian hadn’t had much luck with their helmsmen. Andropov and Cherenkov had come and gone, and the military had just recently installed the latest marionette, a certain Gorbachev, who probably wouldn’t survive long either. The US was using the infighting to badger the Russians a little. They were supporting some madmen in Afghanistan who would have liked to bomb their occupiers out of the country. The Cold War had flared up a little on the external borders of NATO and the Warsaw Pact, but had otherwise entered into a phase of bored stagnation. Nothing was moving for the better, but luckily also not for the worse.

‘For him, I mean. He’s supposedly at a conference,’ Kellermann said, motioning to Lindner with his half-eaten hamburger. ‘He flies back to Budapest tonight. If Applebroog cooperates. What’s the situation?’

Angelina shrugged her delicate shoulders. ‘I don’t want to speak for the Commander. But the plane is waiting at Tempelhof.’

Lindner looked like someone who would get sick at the very thought of flying. Quirin wondered whether he was a prospective agent from the East, a double agent or a defector. That he would fly back to Budapest that night ruled out defector. He seemed too inexperienced to be a double agent. What remained was a prospective agent: a man to install in the power centres of the opponent and let him climb the ranks. Lindner probably didn’t even know what he was getting himself into.

‘Gentlemen?’ The sergeant with the white gloves returned. The MP at the door stood at attention. ‘The Commandant, United States Commander Berlin and Commander, US Army Berlin, General Charles Henry Applebroog.’

The sergeant hadn’t completely finished when Applebroog came through the door, a glass of punch in hand. He was a friendly seeming, average-sized man who looked just as good in a uniform as in a tuxedo. A diplomatically gifted soldier – a combination that Quirin wished occurred more frequently in positions of power. As the most influential Commander in Berlin he usually decided things that affected the Three-Powers status in West Berlin, but did so with a refreshing restraint and in a way that let the people of Berlin believe they were still governed by their elected mayor. He had probably been standing one floor above them and chatting with the Brits about the speed limit on the city autobahn.

‘Let’s do without the formalities. My name is Charles.’

He shook Lindner’s hand. Quirin suppressed a grin at the thought of the terrified Lindner addressing Applebroog by his first name. Not even Kellermann had the gall to do that – even after his fourth drink.

Applebroog turned to each of them individually, greeted them each with a handshake and finally asked the group to have a seat in the armchairs.

‘Lindner,’ he said. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Gnevezin. Near Anklam. In Mecklenburg.’

Neither the Commander nor the assembled elite of intelligence agencies appeared to have ever heard of Gnevezin. Applebroog still nodded pleasantly. He turned to Kellermann.

‘This young man would like to work with us?’

The young man gulped. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Quirin asked himself why he had been sent into the lion’s den unprepared. It was clear this was what Lindner thought this surveillance-proof cellar of the villa was.

Kellermann nodded generously at the guest. ‘He’s the messenger of an offer that can’t be refused, as the Italians would say.’

He looked around, begging for applause. Everyone was silent. Quirin asked himself how long someone with so many problems could retain a leadership position in the service. The broken marriage, the alcohol, and the town house in the Fasanengarten district of Munich that was far too expensive, even for a department head. Kellermann needed a coup, something to kick-start his career and his life back into motion. He was only ten years older than Quirin but he looked like he was on his third life.

Lindner looked at the floor. No one would get anything out of him at the moment. Langhoff had been nervously kneading his hands, waiting for the opportune moment. It appeared to have arrived.

‘Mr Lindner approached one of our men at the edges of the Fototec in Budapest. He would like to leave the GDR and offers us . . .’

Langhoff hesitated. Pausing for effect. He was one of the many people waiting for Kellermann to make a blunder. Quirin had never participated in these games. He was a man for field work. He didn’t get his adrenaline kicks at a desk.

Langhoff looked around. ‘. . . the complete list of real names of the GDR foreign intelligence service. All of the agents working for the East in the West. Germans, but also Americans, British, French. We could uncover them all at once.’

Quirin held his breath. He asked himself if he was the only person in the room who had no idea what was going on. Then he noticed that Angelina Espinoza was also fighting to maintain her composure. American Embassy Bonn-Bad Godesberg. Tell that to the birds. Ambassadorial staff didn’t belong at intelligence service meetings. They sang Christmas carols at orphanages but they weren’t present when a peephole appeared in the Iron Curtain.

Applebroog smiled. He knew about this. Otherwise he wouldn’t have provided a plane and overridden the ban on night flights. Kellermann and Langhoff also knew. Of course. So it seemed that Quirin and Angelina were the only ones stumbling around in the dark. She probably belonged to her country’s foreign service. Typical: the ones who took the rap were always the last to find out why.

‘What does it look like?’ Quirin asked. He was frustrated by the others’ advantage. But such an idea was already logistically impossible. As far as they knew – and their knowledge about these Pandora boxes was more than flimsy – the files of the Stasi agents were located in file cabinets kilometres long.

Lindner was silent. The fire crackled. The ice cubes in Kellermann’s drink clacked. Applebroog looked pensively into his punch.

‘Mr Kaiserley is right.’ Applebroog studied Lindner. He sank even further into the leather padding of the Chesterfield. ‘Of course we need information. Proof.’

Proof. The Ministry of State Security was a fortress. There was no proof. Quirin wasn’t surprised that Lindner would now apparently rather sink into the San Andreas Fault than this sofa. Applebroog lost a bit of his paternal charm. He gave a sign to the sergeant with the white gloves, who then closed the door in front of the MP post.

‘Please don’t misunderstand us, Mr Lindner. No one is forcing you to do anything. I want to reassure you: you can get up and go at any time. We’ll take you directly back to Budapest, and no one will find out where you were tonight. You have my word.’

Complete nonsense. Lindner would see neither his Mitropa hotel in the Eastern bloc nor the GDR. Instead, he could look forward to a long time under a sort of caring siege.

‘The word of the United States of America,’ Applebroog added. Even worse.

‘She wanted to go to Paris,’ Lindner said so quietly that Quirin hardly understood him. ‘She has always dreamed of that.’

‘Is this about a woman? Your wife? Then we’ll fulfil her dream.’ Applebroog smiled. ‘So we’re talking about two passports.’

‘Three. We have a child. I’ll only negotiate if they’re the right ones. I already said that in Budapest. Three passports and smuggling us over.’

Applebroog exchanged a brief glance with Kellermann. Kellermann motioned to the sergeant with the white gloves with his glass.

‘Is that a problem?’ The Commander’s polite question was directed at Langhoff.

Langhoff shrugged his shoulders. ‘In twenty-four hours, including cover story. Ironclad.’

‘And a visa for the US, of course,’ Applebroog added. ‘You’re in Times Square within three days. And then Paris, for all I care.’

Quirin didn’t miss how elegantly the Commander involved his country in the operation. And without any risk on his part. He asked himself how high the price had been and who he had negotiated it with. Quirin guessed Langhoff. Kellermann was digging his own grave if he kept up the boozing.

‘In three days, Mr Lindner. Three days. Time to practise your English. Et français, naturellement.’

This was absolutely out of the question. An operation like this needed time. Preparation. It had to be planned into the finest details. Applebroog was laying the bait before there was even a trap.

‘We won’t leave you hanging,’ Langhoff said. ‘We’ll be with you, every step of the way, and watch over you. You’re at exactly the right place. But we need security. Information. Tell us what you know about this index. We can’t buy a pig in a poke.’

Lindner looked imploringly at Applebroog. The Commander nodded at him. He was back to Charles. A benevolent advisor, a wise friend. It was like a training film from the seventies. Open doors, but pressure in the right direction. Lindner took a deep breath.

‘3,000 in total, with NATO top secret information, real names and aliases, evaluation reports, administrative details, filmed by the Real Name Registry at Section XII in Berlin.’

‘Filmed?’ Quirin asked.

Kellermann raised his hand testily. He didn’t like interjections. ‘Why only 3,000? We’re aware of sixty or seventy operations.’

‘A file doesn’t necessarily mean that the person concerned is an agent,’ Lindner explained. ‘We’ve basically separated the wheat from the chaff.’

This was enormous. The best-case scenario. Quirin shook his head lightly. How would a man like Lindner get at such information? Impossible. Someone in the innermost sanctum of the Stasi, the holy of holies, would have to take every single index card in their hand, check it, and copy it. That might work at the local residents’ registration office at some small town in the middle of West Germany, but not at the Ministry of State Security of the GDR.

‘Where?’ Applebroog asked. ‘Where do they keep it?’

‘In Berlin. Normannen Strasse, building seven, second mezzanine.’

Quirin bit his lip so he wouldn’t interrupt again. The Stasi filming its agent index cards. That was something new. The security measures must be insurmountable. And then someone like Lindner comes along, a pushover, a handsome boy, but definitely not a spy, and announced he could serve them the essence of evil on a silver platter.

The sergeant with the white gloves joined the circle uninvited and took a seat next to Applebroog. He straightened the sharp creases in his trousers.

‘Films or jackets?’ he asked

‘Films.’

‘Roll film? Sheet film?’

‘In this case roll film.’

‘Make?’

‘Orwo-DK 5, unperforated, sixteen millimetre.’

‘Camera?’

‘Carl Zeiss Jena Dokumator microfilm camera.’

It was so quiet that they could hear the water in the logs evaporating in the fireplace. A quiet hissing that was vaguely reminiscent of the whistle of a kettle. The sergeant looked at Applebroog, and nodded subtly. It was the strangest quiz that Quirin had ever witnessed.

The Commander motioned to the sergeant. The man got up, went over to the fireplace and came back with a box of Cohibas. Applebroog opened it and offered them around the circle of gentlemen. Kellermann took one, the rest declined with thanks.

‘Who are you?’ Quirin asked.

Lindner looked at him with such surprise, as if only now did he notice that he wasn’t alone with the Americans.

‘I’m a precision engineer. I develop cameras of various kinds. In the West, I worked for a company in Leverkusen and delivered information to East Berlin.’ He cast an unsure glance at Kellermann. ‘In close cooperation with your service, of course. Beyond that, I was involved in the development of table-top devices.’

‘How did you get to the films?’

Lindner’s Adam’s apple bounced again. Maybe he built good cameras. Maybe for Agfa, maybe for Carl Zeiss Jena. Maybe even for the Stasi. But he couldn’t know what was done with them in a Stasi photography lab in East Berlin under the highest levels of security and out of the public eye. Quirin would have liked nothing more than to get up and leave. This man was a nobody. He might have detailed knowledge and access to all the technical information, but you could also get that if you showed up with a pair of Levi’s and approached a student at the State Archive Administration in Potsdam and asked her to make copies of a couple of term papers.

‘I can’t tell you,’ Lindner whispered.

Applebroog puffed on his Cohiba and enveloped them in smoke. He had clearly envisioned the path of the conversation differently. Kellermann and Langhoff stared at the table. It was made of rosewood and decorated with carvings. Cuban cigars in the basement of the American Commander.

Angelina, seated next to Lindner, leaned forward.

‘We just want to be sure that everyone gets what they want. You get the passports, we get the film.’

‘What happens if something goes wrong?’

‘That won’t happen.’

‘And if it does?’

‘Then we’ll pay your bounty.’ Applebroog had enough of Lindner’s nerves. ‘The German Federal Republic, of course. But if you’re not interested – there’s the door.’

The sergeant went into motion.

‘No,’ Lindner said quickly. ‘I want to. We want to.’

‘Then please tell us now how you want to access the best-kept secret in the Ministry of State Security.’

Lindner gulped. He looked everyone in the eyes, one after another. Even Quirin was curious again.

‘It’s very simple,’ the man said. ‘My wife. She’s the one doing the photographing.’