The Helsinki Pact (32 page)

Bettina followed Roehrberg and
the agent, flinching as the familiar scene she had revisited
mentally so often appeared. Two policemen were standing in front of
the desk taking pictures. The more senior one, a tall and skinny
man of around forty, shook Roehrberg's hand then gave him the
letter she'd read earlier.

“We’ve taken prints.” he said.
“It doesn't matter if you handle it.”

Roehrberg read carefully then
handed the letter to Bettina who took it in her fingers and
immediately regretted holding it.

“I guess this clears up the
mystery. I still can’t believe it, though. Henkel ... ending up
like this. We had lunch together yesterday.”

Bettina stared at the letter for
the time it might have taken to read it, glanced at the sentences,
then handed it back. As she was doing so another man entered the
room. From his picture in the files, Bettina recognised him as
Spitze.

He nodded to Bettina and turned
to Roehrberg. “I can’t believe it. I just heard and immediately …
”

“Such a tragedy. A tragedy.”
Roehrberg said. “If he’d spoken to us, maybe we could have helped
in some way. He’s confessed to having taken the money, Heinz.
That’s why he committed suicide. He said it was to pay off debts
he’d run up.”

Spitze’s face was impossible to
read. Bettina noticed he had kept the same expression from the
moment he had stepped in to the room. He hadn’t flinched even when
he first saw the gaping hole in Henkel’s head or the blood on the
floor but had stared coolly at each in turn.

“Can I have everyone’s attention
please?” There was silence in the room as Roehrberg spoke. “The
final wish of our colleague, Gerd Henkel, is to be respected. His
memory must not be soiled by this tragic death. I want to see no
mention of the word suicide anywhere, in the press or in any
reports on the incident. There must be no mention of a violent
death. I’m sure I can count on the full cooperation of all of you
in referring to his death as a result of ... as a result of a
sudden and fatal illness. A heart attack, perhaps, something of
that kind. The full details will become known after the autopsy.
Our resident doctor will conduct that privately, of course.” He
glanced over at Spitze, held his gaze briefly.

He looked at everyone in turn
while he spoke. “I shall speak with Modrow. I know he will also
understand that it’s in nobody’s interest to wash dirty linen in
public just before unification.”

He flicked a finger at Bettina to
follow, turned on his heel and strode from the room.

Chapter 25

Monday January 15
1990, morning onwards

THE bedroom was chilly and Thomas
lay and dozed for half an hour or more after Bettina had left
before finally forcing himself to get up. The bathroom was even
colder, the window partially open at the top, and as Thomas glanced
out into the yard he could see tendrils of fog curling round the
trees and in the distance some street lamps giving out a patchy,
ghostly light in places. He shivered, splashed water on his face
and neck and shaved quickly, then rushed back into the bedroom and
dressed in warm clothing.

There was no sign of Frau
Dornbusch in the kitchen but a note told him that she'd gone to
visit her sister and would return in the afternoon, reminding him
to lock the door carefully when he left and adding he should borrow
the bicycle in the shed if he needed it. He made coffee and
breakfasted on warmed rolls, spread with local farm butter and Frau
Dornbusch's apricot jam, and some ham and cheese he discovered in
the pantry. It was now just after ten and as he drank the last of
the coffee he knew that he could no longer put off going out into
the dreary day to follow Dieter's instructions to find out what he
could about Phoenix. He must phone Stephan as well, he thought, to
ask if he'd come across Phoenix and to check out when he was going
to be in Dresden so that they could all meet for dinner.

The fog seemed to penetrate
everywhere and despite his layers of clothing Thomas felt chilled
as he wheeled the old and somewhat rattley bike from the shed and
started pedalling up the road away from the house. When he got to
the area of small shops he'd been seeking the fog was almost gone,
dispersed by a gusty, cold wind from the north-east bringing slight
flurries of snow. He found a phone sheltered by two buildings and
began trawling through the list of informants' numbers which Dieter
had given him, a pile of coins ready on the shelf.

It was frustrating work. Several
of the numbers appeared to have been discontinued and from number
after number there was no reply. “Probably escaped to the West when
the Wall came down.” thought Thomas with irritation as yet another
number gave the unobtainable tone.

Finally a number connected. No
one spoke but Thomas could hear harsh breathing at the other end
and then a hacking cough which crackled on and on. He waited and
then just as he was about to speak the phone was put down. He
dialled the number again, speaking as soon as it
connected.

"Herr Pomberg?" There was a long
silence over which he could hear some strained breathing. "Herr
Pomberg?" he asked again, firmly.

"Moight be." said a woman's
voice, rasping and stifling a cough. "'Oo wants 'im?

"Heinz Schmidt. I just want to
talk to him about a company called Phoenix."

Again there was silence, followed
by a faint scuffling sound, and then more silence. Thomas was about
to hang up when a man's voice growled in.

"Don't know nuttin' about any
Fee-nucks." it said. "Wossit anyways? And 'ow'd you get my name?
'Oo are you?" The accent was strong and Thomas had difficulty
understanding what was being said.

"It's a company making loans to
people in the East. I was told thatyou might be able to help me, Mr
Pomberg ... "

"Domburg! Hans Domburg. I knows
your gyme, mister, you wi' your fancy Wessie voice. We doan' need
no loans 'ere so just you stop botherin' we. Go'way." And the phone
was put down.

The next two numbers Thomas tried
were discontinued and that this was followed by another wrong
number added to his growing irritation. Finally he made contact
with someone who seemed genuinely to be connected with Phoenix and
got an invitation to visit immediately once Thomas agreed that some
money might be forthcoming for help.

Tracing the address on his map
Thomas found that it was right on the other side of Dresden. Given
the hills it would probably take him half an hour to get there, he
thought, and that the fog had now given way to a light sleety
drizzle with the chilly wind showing no sign of letting up made him
feel greatly dispirited as he pedalled off.

The man who answered the door,
Hans Treufel, was around fifty, seriously overweight, unshaven and
dressed in soiled brown trousers held up with a pair of braces
under which showed what appeared to be a pyjama jacket loosely
buttoned over a grubby vest. A splash of old egg yolk decorated the
man's front, stopped on its way to the floor by the uplands of his
belly. According to the file Treufel had been a medium ranking
Stasi officer but had been demoted for some misdemeanour which the
file didn't specify. It appeared that he'd been more than merely an
informant although again the file said nothing about this or about
his actual role.

Treufel led the way down a narrow
corridor into a small living room, stiflingly hot and noxious with
the smell of stale tobacco smoke mixed with rancid fat. A dirty
plate, some half eaten bread and a frying pan lay in the hearth.
His manner was unctuous and sly and Thomas instinctively took an
immediate dislike to him.

The man pointed to a small
rexine-covered settee and sat down in a matching armchair which had
been a long time away from any showroom. He took a cold cigar from
the mantelpiece, held it to the blazing gas fire at his feet till
it started to smoulder, drew on it and puffed till it was going to
his satisfaction, tapped the ash on to the thin carpet in front of
him, and turned to Thomas.

"Let's see the money first and
then we can get started. I can tell you all you want know about
Phoenix. It'll cost you, mind. But I can tell you're a man what's
clear what he's after, wants the secret stuff, the best bits." He
took a puff on his cigar and blew the smoke in failed rings towards
the browned ceiling. "You've come to the right place. It's not many
that knows what I knows."

Resisting an urge to leave
immediately Thomas pulled out his wallet, riffled ostentatiously
through the contents and chose a fifty Ost Mark note, laying it on
the table between them. "Let's start with that and if what you
say's any use to me there'll be more." Treufel snatched it and
folded it into his pyjama pocket.

"It'll have to be DMs" said
Treufel. "Ost Marks is no good to me now. I'm just taking this one
to save you having to get rid of it somewhere else. OK. Phoenix.
Yes. I know pretty much everything about Phoenix. You just ask me
what you want to know."

They looked at each other. "Tell
me what it does, then. And what's your part in it? Who are the
people behind it?"

"Ah, yes, Phoenix. What do you
know about it already?" asked Treufel slyly. "I can tell you a lot.
You've come to the right place."

Thomas waited, set his jaw and
then broke the silence. "Are you part of Phoenix? What do you have
to do with it?"

"Well, it's not like I actually
do anything yet." said Treufel carefully "But me and Fritz, we're
ready just as soon as we're needed. They're relyin' on us, see. And
that's going to be very soon. It's about loans, see, making loans
to people that needs 'em. People here in this street and in other
streets round the corner. Fritz keeps a book about who needs money
and then later we'll go and give it to 'em, see."

"And who's behind it?"

"Oh, they're big. Very big. Yes,
they're very big, see. We've not actually met 'em yet but that's
going to be very soon."

Thomas stared at him.

Treufel tapped the side of his
nose and leaned forward. "It's a man called Brains is behind it."
He looked around the room carefully as if expecting Brains himself
suddenly to appear and silence him for saying too much. He lowered
his voice. "Yes, he's behind it, see. Worked it all out how we
Ossies would need money once we joined wi' you lot and so that's
why they're making all these free loans, see."

"Have you met him?"

For a moment it seemed as if
Treufel would claim that distinction but then he shook his head
slightly and sat back in the chair. "Not yet." he said "Not yet.
But me and Fritz we'll do that soon enough. They're relyin' on us,
see. Nobody ever really sees Brains. Nobody. Works high up in the
Finance Ministry he does, has the ear of the Chancellor he does,
and so he's got to be careful, see. Once everything's fixed then
the Chancellor will explain the plans publicly, see, and we start
helping the Ossies with these loans and this Brains can come clean
about how he got it all started. But Fritz and me, we're an
important part of the whole thing, here in Dresden anyway. They're
relyin' on us, see."

He fingered the note in his
pocket then leaned forward again. "There's more I could say but,
well, it's secret and I've been trained to forget." He coughed and
hugged himself. "Maybe another note, a bigger one, would help my
memory."

Thomas rose, bit back the words
that came to mind, exhaled abruptly, and said "Thank you Mr
Treufel. You've been most helpful." He walked rapidly to the door,
let himself out, started to close it and then left it swinging,
mounted his bike and pedalled off at speed before realising he was
riding out of town and turned back towards the centre. In a short
while he came to more shops and pulled up beside another public
telephone. This time his first call was successful, another
informer ready to talk if there was cash to help him remember
things. The address wasn't far and ten minutes later Thomas was in
the Neustadt, on the corner of Obergraben and
Königstrasse.

He rang the doorbell and after a
moment heard a bolt being drawn back and the door grinding slowly
open to reveal a young man only slightly older than Thomas. Looking
at his unkempt reddish hair and square glasses, the effect finished
with sandals, a pair of faded jeans and a torn red tee shirt,
Thomas was reminded of some left wing intellectuals he’d met in
West Berlin. He had always imagined that informers would look
inconspicuous, something like human moles whereas Alfred Gertner
was exactly the opposite, someone immediately conspicuous in a
crowd of hundreds.

Alfred took Thomas to the living
room and indicated the sofa while he pulled up a chair for himself.
The apartment was very small but decorated with considerable taste
and style. It was pleasantly warm and a marked contrast to
Treufel's.

“So, you’re interested in knowing
more about Phoenix Securities. Before we start, just a quick
warning. I am an informer, but I don’t provide access to the
sources. So don’t ask me names or phone numbers. You understand, I
need to protect myself. If someone found out I’m squealing, I
wouldn’t have a bright future ahead.” Alfred spoke in a
high-pitched voice which grated on Thomas’ ears.