The Berlin Assignment (23 page)

The staff had adopted the habit of looking at the consul's feet. If he wore the suedes they knew he planned to be away.
Reconnaissance
, Hanbury sometimes called it. Sturm referred to it as
Selbstmord
. Suicide. “Herr Konsul, with all respect, in those psychedelic sneakers you're a marked man. If word gets out it's a diplomat wearing them, you'll be crushed to death by the crowds wanting to see for themselves.” Gifford was especially solicitous if the suedes were on. “Going any place in particular, Tony? Can we assist?” And the next day. “Saw anything interesting? Met useful people? Don't forget the contact list. Put them on. We'll soon start the Christmas card effort.” On a high-tech cushion of air, the consul roamed through fascinating places – Prenzlauerberg, the Scheunenviertel, Pankow – all of them moody, all of them stuck between a desire for transition and a deep reluctance to change.

Hanbury didn't mind Gifford asking about his plans, but seldom replied. They had more important things to talk about. Gifford, that
management genius, was fashioning extraordinary change. The office was being redone from one end to the other. And the computers had arrived. Once they were unpacked and wired up, Gifford proposed shutting the consulate for two days. For familiarization and training, he said. The hallway became a classroom and the administrator turned instructor.

“This is how they're turned on,” he began. The ladies hesitated, worried the machines would bite, but their courage grew. They began stroking certain seductive keys not found on typewriters –
page up, page down, typeover, delete
. Frau Koehler loved the escape key. Why didn't a key like that exist in real life, she asked. Gifford took them repeatedly through the basics, regularly adding a new twist. “Like ballroom dancing lessons,” tittered Frau Carstens, thinking of her girlhood. “Every week we had another step.”

More than the others, Sturm grasped the machines' inner logic. As the ladies felt their way forward, he plunged directly into word processing. He pecked away with two fingers. A laser printer whirred. Gifford took the sheet coming out. “What's this?” he asked. “Mine,” replied Sturm. The administrator read it.

A leaf falls from a tree,
The wind touches the water,
The lovers sleep.

“Herr Sturm!” cried Frau von Ruppin. “I had no idea!”

“Japanese poetry,” he said awkwardly. “I came across some in the paper last weekend. No wonder nobody understands the Japanese.”

Frau von Ruppin protested. “It's beautiful. It's sensitive.”

“Copy for a deodorant ad, if you ask me,” replied Sturm.

By the end of the second day Sturm was experimenting with a spreadsheet for the car log and Frau Carstens was getting the hang of a macro for the preparation of the consul's schedule. Other software was
bestowed on Frau von Ruppin and Frau Koehler. With the simplicity that defines great moments, Gifford then declared the electronic office open. The consul was applauded: it would have been unthinkable, they told him, without his impetus to modernize.

“Well done, Earl,” he said to Gifford later. “Two days well spent.” They were in Hanbury's office. Gifford was on the floor connecting wires that linked the consul's computer to the telephone system for access to databanks, stock exchanges and other real-time information. “No problems paying for all this?” the consul asked. “All tidy, Tony. Ample spending authority. Computers don't cost much nowadays.” Gifford got up, his face red from the exertion. He pressed a few keys. The screen woke up. Graphs, tables, information bulletins – the whole universe it seemed – flashed by. “The world is at your fingertips,” he said. Trying the buttons himself, Hanbury asked about progress with the new residence. “Going well,” Gifford assured him. “A week or two and we'll do some viewing.”

“No problems with the money aspects?”

“None. Headquarters understands you're not well-housed. They know it's a good time to invest. They recognize where the future lies.”

“High time they did that. I appreciate what you're doing, Earl.”

Gifford left the consul, returned to his desk and initiated a series of tests. No one knew the computers were linked into a network which he controlled. He searched out Frau Carstens's macro; instantly it appeared. Tests with the other work stations were equally successful. Spectating made easy, grinned Gifford.

At home too, the atmosphere couldn't be better. Frieda had been ecstatic over a new diamond necklace. All evening, wearing nothing but the diamonds, she ran around the apartment. It was, she said, to concentrate Giffy's attention on the light the gems threw out. Her nudity was infectious, so he joined in. Frieda hung the necklace over his erect penis. “Now
all
the family jewels are together,” she cried. They
became wild with desire. Afterwards, Frieda admitted she understood now why Gif was having to spend so much time at work.

Frieda had her diamonds and he had a Mercedes. Not an every man's Mercedes, but a big 600 model. Outside the city on the ring road – that masterpiece of engineering by Germany's finest autobahn
artistes
, that space devoid of limits – he'd take the car to 250 KPH. For years he'd wanted to own the autobahn's left lane, streaking up on cars incapable of doing more than 190, flashing headlights, scaring drivers out of their wits, sending them swerving to the far right. Stay there forever, Gifford's grin commanded as he accelerated past.

Diamonds for a woman and a fast car for her man. The computers were in. Soon the consul would have a mansion. Life was unfolding as it should. Gifford estimated a few more weeks of working the market would do it, a few more deals, a few hundred thousand more skimmed off the margins. When the proceeds amounted to five million it would be time to quit. Keeping the long string of buy and sell transactions hanging together – the diplomatic seal preventing the precarious edifice from tumbling – required nerves of steel. A couple of times he resorted to tough language.
I represent a sovereign state. It's assets are thirty million taxpayers and a chunk of real estate that's the second biggest in the world. And you doubt this statement of intent?
The pressure was without precedent. No one should want to do this for a living all the time, he had concluded.

Satisfied with the computer tests, he departed for the club. The military guard saluted when the big Mercedes drew up.

“Hello Earl,” Randolph McEwen sang through lips that scarcely moved. “How are you? Trust the family is well?” Gifford said things had never been better. Over their first pint, McEwen gossiped about developments in the Allied Powers Coordinating Committee, now enlarged by an outwardly friendly Russia. “It's agreed the occupying powers will leave Berlin, but who goes first? We think it should be the losers of the
Cold War.” McEwen peered at Gifford over the rims of half-glasses. “Funny, isn't it, Earl?” he mused. “The Russians knew more about us than we about them. They should have won. But they lost. That's why we think they should get out of Berlin first. Not co-temporally. Not jointly. But
first
.”

Gifford nodded.

“There was some soggy mumbling by the Hun,” McEwen said darkly. “Shouldn't there be just
one
goodbye party, he said. As if we – us and the Russians – are family. But that won't be. All the same, it's creating a spot of work. The Hun has a rather ponderous mentality. He likes things written down.” McEwen shook his head in disgust. “Well, over to you, Earl,” he said, brightening once more. “What's the latest with Friend Tony?”

Gifford took a long, thoughtful sip. “Some things are going well, very well indeed, Randy. Others, to be frank, continue murky.”

“Who has he been seeing? Anyone of specific interest?”

“I think so.” Gifford pulled a paper from his pocket. “Fascinating pattern. He meets people. The names go on the contacts list. He invites them for lunch. All quite proper. But look who, Randy. It's of absorbing interest I'd say, for him to have so many friends so suddenly in high places.”

Gifford read through the list, the functions of the people on it, the locations where the consul met them. Top bankers, prominent jurists, illustrious politicians, well-known artists, big name impresarios, influential industrialists. Reviewing it took Earl and Randy into a second pint.

“I'll take that.” McEwen stretched out a proprietorial hand. “I doubt it contains much of
real
interest, but we shall check. Anything on the unofficial side, Earl? Visits to cosy out-of-the-way flats? Long walks in the Grunewald with individuals unknown? Anything of that sort?”

“A little short of help on that side, Randy. As I said. It's murky. Sturm keeps the car log, but there are holes. I have asked the consul
about his free time, but he is reserved. How did the weekend go, I ask. Listened to music, he says. Farfetched, I think. Don't you? Listening to music. The whole weekend.”

“Your driver Storm…”

“Sturm.”

“Quite. Sturm. Has he reported anything?”

“I mentioned last time. Sturm won't play. No change in that. He did say the consul voiced suspicion his mail is being monitored. But overall, not much comes out. Sturm complains about his silence.”

“And is it? Is Friend Tony's mail monitored?”

“Not really. Not yet. Not unless you want it.”

“We're not quite ready for that yet. Still, he suspects it's happening. Proves he has something on his conscience. Most regrettable – the chauffeur not helping.”

McEwen sank into thought. He closed his eyes. His head fell to his chest. It shook slightly, almost a shivering, as he created and rejected the options he knew from a lifetime of weeding out duplicity. McEwen's instincts told him something was waiting to be discovered, but identifying it required resources and his were disappearing fast. He came to a reluctant conclusion. He would have to approach Pullach, obtain the support of Graf Bornhof. So deep in thought that he looked asleep, McEwen's face turned hard.

When he stirred, Gifford spoke. “Three areas stand out where we need more information. Speaking frankly, I don't know how to get it. I'm reluctant to hire an agency to monitor. Some things a diplomatic mission shouldn't be seen to do.”

“Of course. Of course,” murmured McEwen. “Three things, Earl?”

“First, Thursday evenings stand out. He seldom accepts engagements then. Sturm takes him home and stands down. Fridays he looks the worse for wear, as if he's been out late, possibly carousing.”

“Every Thursday evening. How remarkable. A secret society?”

“Second, he continues to go walking, always in East Berlin. He makes no secret of it. Once he let the word
reconnaissance
slip. But reconnoitering what? Why solely in East Berlin? It nags, Randy, it nags. And third, weekends. Who knows what he's up to on weekends? It's difficult to accept he listens to music two days straight.”

McEwen lifted his pint slowly to his lips. “I shall have to think Friend Tony through more thoroughly,” he finally said. “He's more complex than I suspected. Anything else?”

“Yes. Proceeding nicely on the other fronts. The computer network is in. Tests were good. I can access his work now. Might stumble on something.”

“Helpful,” nodded McEwen. “Very helpful.”

“And arrangements for a residence are nearly final. The effect is as predicted. His confidence is increasing. Only this evening he expressed gratitude. Intimate chats are just around the corner, I think.”

“Good. Do keep up with the house. We shan't cut corners.”

“Indeed, Randy. Imagined that would be your view.”

“Some news from my side. The Beavers are on side, eager to assist. They are worried about their man here. As I would be. I shall be in Pullach next week to work on other matters with Uncle Teut and I will raise these vexing indicators surrounding Friend Tony. We may need a little of his help. The tedious fact is, Uncle Teut tends to question everything, always wants more information. Extraordinary how the Hun's mind works, Earl, wanting to see the ultimate result of an operation before he can bring himself to launch it. Of course, he has had his setbacks, throughout the whole century really…” McEwen emptied his glass in a joyless way, as if mourning someone's passing.

The next day, Gifford sat down with Hanbury to practice the telephone dialling software. “A marvellous time-saver, Tony,” the administrator said enthusiastically. “Click here and an index pops up. Click a name and you see everything you need to know about that
person. Click here if you want to call. The rest is automatic. Your phone buzzes when the connection is complete.” The consul, Gifford sensed, was impressed. “This chap here, incidentally, has been helpful finding you a new house. Reliable. Eager to assist. We shall have a short list soon. Then comes the viewing.”

“Do what you think best, Earl.”

“See the beauty of the system? Try it. Makes you feel on top of things.”

“I will. Incidentally, I'll be out this afternoon. Scheunenviertel.”

“Shouldn't Sturm accompany? Rough part of the city.”

“I'll manage, thank you.”

Back at his desk, Gifford punched a code into his computer, entered the network, clicked a few commands and accessed the consul's C drive. He scrolled through and experienced a rush when he saw the consul had created his first file.

The Scheunenviertel was a suggestion from Viktoria. She mentioned this quaint neighbourhood to Hanbury at von Helmholtz's dinner and afterwards sent him a pamphlet with a map showing the places of interest. The afternoon was marked by sporadic, slashing downpours; the consul's suedes turned into sponges and water crept through to the inside of his coat. But he scarcely noticed. Trekking through cemeteries he studied names on Jewish gravestones in one, and of Huguenots in another. He discovered the places of eternal rest of famous personalities: Hegel, Fichte, Schinkel, Heinrich Mann, Bertolt Brecht. Nearby in Oranienburgerstrasse the New Synagogue with its restored gold dome stood resplendent, as if the rain had cleansed it. Under an overhang, he read in the pamphlet that the Scheunenviertel, the barn quarter, when it lay outside the city walls, sheltered
vagrants, beggars, swindlers, forgers and whores. Jews thrown out of principalities further east came along, so that centuries later it was a location where the Nazis did some concentrated killing. After the war, communism's disinterest brought on a slow decay. Roofs collapsed, stucco peeled, mortar leaked from between the bricks. And now, the smashed windows, like diseased eyes, seemed to look onto a world whose future had resided deep in the past.