Berlin Game

22

The next morning was very sunny. Even Prenzlauer Berg looked good. But Rolf Mauser's second-floor apartment faced out onto a cobbled courtyard almost entirely filled by a large soot-caked chestnut tree. The greenish light reflected from its young leaves made it seem as if the whole place was under water.

Only a few stunted bushes grew in the yard. But there were bicycles there by the dozen and prams double-parked. Rows of rubbish bins too, their contents distributed far and wide by hungry cats that woke me in the night with their angry screeches. The narrow peeling stucco walls of the courtyard, which had brought the chestnut into early bud, echoed every sound. Everyone could hear the admonitions, arguments and shouted greetings of two women who were throwing pailfuls of water onto the mess and scrubbing energetically with stiff brooms.

'It's not exactly the Kaiserhof in its heyday,' said Rolf, serving himself from a dented pot of coffee and leaving me to do the same. He had the bluff manner of a soldier, the self-centred ways of a man who'd lived alone too long. 'Those damned cats kept me awake.'

'Cobbler's Boys,' I said, picking up one of the triangular wholemeal rolls that Berliners eat at breakfast time. 'I slept very well. Thanks for the bed, Rolf. I'll push on today.'

'It's difficult to get them now,' said Rolf. 'All bread prices are controlled. None of these lazy swines of bakers want the extra work of making anything but ordinary bread.' He'd recovered from his self-doubts of the night before, as all soldiers must renew their conscience with every dawn.

'It's the same everywhere,' I said.

'Stay a week if you want to. I get a bit fed up being here alone. The couple who let me share it are away visiting their married daughter.' He took his cup of coffee from the tray he'd brought, put milk into it, and sat down on the bed while I finished shaving. 'But you'll have to take your turn carrying coal from the cellar.'

'I hope I won't need a week, Rolf.'

'You're going to see Brahms Four?'

'Probably.'

'Is there really a person called Brahms Four?'

'I hope so, Rolf.'

'I always thought it was the code name for a syndicate. Why else would the Brahms Four material always be kept separate from everything else we sent?'

'Nothing so unusual about that.'

'Officially he's in the Brahms network.' He paused to let me know he was about to say something significant. 'But no one hi the Brahms network has ever seen him.'

'How do you know that?' I said sharply. 'Damn it, Rolf, you should know better than to discuss named agents with third parties.'

'Even if the third parties are also agents?'

'Especially then, because the chances of them being interrogated are that much greater.'

'You've been a long time away, Bernd. You've been sitting behind a desk in London too long. Now you talk like one of those memos that Frank Harrington likes to write.'

'Save some of that coffee for me, Rolf,' I complained.

He stopped filling his cup, and looked up and grinned at me. 'Suppose you find he doesn't exist?' he said, pouring the last of the coffee into my cup, dregs and all. 'Suppose you find he's just a postbox in the KGB building and you've been made a fool of for years and years?'

'Is that your guess, Rolf?'

He bit off a mouthful of roll and chewed it. 'No. I'm just being devil's advocate.'

Rolf Mauser was right: although not a Department employee, I trusted Werner Volkmann more than anyone Berlin Station could provide. He had a car he used on the East side of the Wall. He was waiting for me at that part of Schönhauserallee where the underground trains come up into the daylight and rattle along the antiquated construction that patterns the whole street with shadows.

I opened the door and got in beside him. Without a word of greeting, he started up and headed north.

'No wonder Brahms Four is getting jumpy,' I said. 'Too many people are becoming curious about him.'

'He'll not go undetected for another six months,' said Werner.

' London were hoping to squeeze another two years out of him.'

He made a noise that expressed his contempt for London Central and all then: plans and ambitions. 'With Brahms network channelling his reports?'

'Other ways could be tried,' I said.

'Such as VHF radio, just powerful enough to transmit to Olympia Stadion?' said Werner with an unmistakable edge to his voice.

'That was mentioned,' I admitted. It had been Dicky's one and only contribution to a very long meeting the previous month.

'By a fool,' said Werner.

'But what's the alternative? Putting him into a different network?'

'It could be done, couldn't it?'

'You've never had a job of introducing an agent into a network,' I said. 'Most of the nets are run by temperamental prima donnas. I couldn't face all the arguments and anxieties that go with these damned shotgun marriages.'

'Put him in contact with another network and you'll slow up the delivery,' said Werner. He was guessing, of course; he had no knowledge of what other networks we had with access to Berlin. But in fact his guess was right. There are lots of men like Werner; they just can't stop working, pay or no pay. It was probably Werner who'd held Brahms together so long.

'And you increase the number of people who know he exists,' I said.

'Does he exist?' said Werner. 'Sometimes I wonder.'

'Have you been talking to Rolf Mauser?'

'Of course I have,' admitted Werner. 'Do you imagine the network can handle material for years and not wonder where it's coming from? Especially when we get bombarded with priority demands for immediate handling.'

'I'm seeing him as soon as possible,' I said.

Werner looked away from the road for long enough to study my face. 'You're sharing secrets today, are you? That's out of character, Bernie. Why would you tell me you're seeing him?'

'Because you've guessed already.'

'No, no, no,' said Werner. 'That's not it.'

'Because we might have to get him out of East Berlin fast, Werner.'

'I'll take you to wherever you want to go,' offered Werner. 'Downtown? I have nothing to do.'

'I'll need the car, Werner. You've got plenty to do. I want you to take the London flight and be back here by evening.'

'What for?'

'When it happens, it will happen very fast.'

'When what happens?'

'Suppose, Werner…' It was hard saying it out loud. 'Suppose it's Fiona who's the KGB agent in London.'

'Your wife?'

'Well, think about it. Everything fits: the Giles Trent fiasco, and the way she tried to pin the leak of that Karlshorst signal on him. Bret wasn't in Berlin at the time in question. Dicky never saw the signal. Fiona is the only one in the right place at the right time, every time.'

'You can't be serious, Bernie.'

'I want to be wrong, Werner. But if it is Fiona and she decides to run for it, she'll take the children too.' I wanted him to say I was talking nonsense.

'But, Bernie, the duty officer at the airport would probably recognize her. Going out alone, she could say she was working. But with two kids I'd say any airport duty officer would be bound to check back with the office before letting her through.'

'So what will she do?' I said.

'If she really is KGB, she'll have them arrange about getting your children out separately. Jesus, Bernie. It's too awful to think about. It couldn't be Fiona, could it?'

'We'll have to trust Dicky,' I said. 'He'll give you whatever you need. Take the children over to my mother. Make it all sound normal. I don't want Fiona to know I suspect her. But have someone with them all the time – guards, I mean, people who will know what has to be done, not just security men – and arrange things so I can swear I know nothing about it, Werner. Just in case I'm wrong about Fiona.'

'I'm sure you're wrong about her, Bernie.'

'You'd better get going. I'll drop you at a taxi rank and then take your car. I've got a busy day. See you at Rolf's tonight.'

'I'm sure you're wrong about Fiona,' said Werner, but every time he said it he sounded less and less convinced that I was wrong.