The Valkyrie Song

10

Turning the shower-tap selector to cold, she let the chill water run over skin that protested by bristling into goose bumps. Sylvie Achtenhagen stood in the shower, arms braced against the wall, palms flat against the wet porcelain tiles. Her body was firm and youthful, and she knew it would remain so for some time to come, but, at thirty-nine, she was also aware that time was slowly and insidiously turning up the pressure on her. Where would she be in ten years’ time? By then, she would be competing with younger women. She would always be looking over her shoulder. Watching for someone taking away everything that she had worked so hard to build. Someone like her.

Someone who would make the news to find it.

When she could no longer bear the cold and she felt fully alert, Sylvie switched off the shower, wrapped the hotel bathrobe around her, went through to her hotel bedroom and twisted the top off a gin from the minibar. She was staying in one of the older Berlin hotels. It had a worn and weary grandness and the rooms had the old double doors: the inner door opening into the room, the outer opening into the hall. The windows too were the old, robust type. It all gave the hotel a feeling of belonging to an earlier age. And of being more than a little institutional.

After adding tonic to the gin Sylvie flopped down onto the vast bed and started to go through the information she had got from Wengert, the star-struck clerk at the BStU commission for Stasi files. Once she had eliminated the people who had died in the intervening period, she was left with a list of a dozen names, all connected in some way to Drescher. But, as Wengert had said, the connections could be coincidental. Drescher, or someone else with an interest, had made sure the main files were not to be found. Yet Sylvie knew that, somewhere among these dozen names, was the lead she was looking for. And, just maybe, one of them was Siegfried, the ex-Stasi scum who had sent her the photographs and Drescher’s name. She took out her notebook and transferred the four most likely names to it. She had addresses for two, a partial address for another and just a town for the fourth. She would see how easy it would be to track them down. The easier they were to find, the less likely it would be that they were Siegfried.

She had just taken out her Baedeker to check some of the addresses when her cellphone rang.

‘Hi, it’s Ivonne. I’ve got more information on Norivon, the company the latest St Pauli victim worked for.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Not really. It couldn’t be more boring, in fact. Norivon is an environmental waste-management company. They help companies comply with federal and EU regulations regarding waste. They make it go away, basically. But I got some new info through the contact I have in NeuHansa. She said that Armin Lensch, the guy who got wasted, was a grade-one arsehole and universally despised. Ambitious bastard, apparently, and didn’t mind treading on toes to get ahead. He was responsible for dealing with companies within the NeuHansa Group and had a reputation as an ass-kisser when it came to management.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Oh yes — this is the good bit. His little excursion into the Reeperbahn was a regular occurrence. He would go in with a bunch of others from work — none of whom could stand him, by the way — and get completely pissed and even more obnoxious than usual. Anyway, the night he was killed, he had a run-in with the law. Two plain-clothes cops were arresting a woman in Silbersacktwiete and Lensch started to get lippy. So one of the cops kneed him in the balls. A woman cop.’

‘Who were they arresting?’

‘That I don’t know, but they were Murder Commission.’

‘What did the female cop look like? Shortish, pretty, dark hair?’

‘That I don’t know, either.’

‘Anna Wolff…’ said Sylvie, more to herself than to Ivonne.

‘Sorry?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Good work, Ivonne. I’ve got some names and partial addresses for you. Can you see if you can locate them and get as much info as possible?’

‘Sure,’ said Ivonne. Sylvie ran through the information Wengert had given her.

‘We’re looking for a male Stasi officer, probably administrative staff stationed at the Lichtenberg headquarters.’

‘Okay,’ said Ivonne. ‘There was something else I meant to tell you

… nope, it’s gone.’

‘Phone back if you remember.’

Sylvie hung up and was tidying the file on the bed when her cellphone rang again.

‘That was quick,’ said Sylvie. ‘You remembered what it was?’

‘I hope you’re settled into your hotel, Sylvie.’ As soon as she heard the breathless voice she knew it was Siegfried.

‘What makes you think I’m in a hotel?’ she asked.

‘Now you’re just being stupid. And you’re not a stupid woman. Still on the trail of the big story? I suppose you think that you have my name now… that you can track me down and get what you want without paying? Oh yes, I know all about your chat with Herr Wengert.’

‘You Stasi scum really still have your tentacles everywhere, don’t you?’

‘There is no Stasi any more, Sylvie. And I resent being called scum. We did what we did because we believed in it. We believed in equality and freedom from poverty and exploitation. And because of that we’re now compared with the Nazis. So yes, some of us work together for self-protection.’ He had a sudden fit of coughing. ‘Anyway, I’m not interested in justifying myself to you. Especially to you. Have you got my money?’

‘Do you think I can just conjure up quarter of a million euros based on three photographs and the name of somebody who doesn’t exist?’

‘Who doesn’t seem to exist… Drescher and these girls were involved in an operation so secret and so ambitious that every effort was made to keep it hidden even from some of the command structure inside the MfS. Anyway, I thought I’d give you a little more, on account. Simply to prove that I really do have the information I say I have. Take a look under your pillow.’

Sylvie reached under the pillows, sliding her arm along until her hand found something. It was a large brown envelope.

‘How did you…?’

‘Now, Sylvie,’ the husky voice interrupted her. ‘Don’t be so naive. We were trained to get in and out of private spaces without detection. I’ll be in touch.’

The line went dead. Sylvie checked her phone to try to retrieve the number, but it had been withheld.

She opened the envelope. Inside was a magazine and four sheets of copy paper. Examining the magazine first, Sylvie saw it was called Muliebritas, and from what she could see was some kind of feminist title. She flicked through it quickly to see if there was anything stuffed into it, or if Siegfried had made any markings on the pages. Nothing. She would have to take time later to study it carefully. In the meantime, the only thing that was of interest to her was that Muliebritas was published by Bronsted Publishing, part of the NeuHansa Group.

She turned her attention to the four sheets of paper. Three of them each had one of the images that Siegfried had sent her in the email. Except, this time, there was a name beneath each face: Margarethe Paulus, Liane Kayser, Anke Wollner. The fourth sheet again had the name Georg Drescher, but this time it too was accompanied by an image: a man of about forty to forty-five. He had a strong, handsome face, with deep furrows in his cheeks and creases at his eyes, as if his had been a face accustomed to smiling. His amiable countenance was at odds with the uniform lapel flashes that indicated he was an officer of the MfS. Unlike the other photographs, his picture was in black and white and it was difficult to tell whether his hair was blond or greying. Given that twenty years had elapsed since anyone had worn a Stasi uniform, Sylvie tried to age him in her mind.

She looked at the pictures of the young women again. They were all pretty but gazed blankly and emotionlessly at the camera. Sylvie was again drawn to the girl with the so terribly empty eyes.

Liane Kayser. Her name was Liane Kayser.