The Helsinki Pact (42 page)

Again there was silence broken
again by a heavy sigh.

"There's someone people call der
Schlächter, the Butcher." said Roehrberg. "He does this and that
for cover but he does other, well, specialist work as well,
specialist contract work. He's discreet and efficient." He sighed
again. "I don't like this but, OK, I'll call him. There's a safe
phone outside."

Again there was the sound of a
chair being scraped, this time followed by the kneipe's outside
door slamming shut. In a few minutes Roehrberg was back.

"7.30." he said. "He comes to my
house first and gets the letter and we finalise some details. I'll
ring Gerd, say we've worked out a plan, that I'll send a friend
over to explain how he can help and that I'll follow. But I can't
go to see him. I can't. Not Gerd."

The chair scraped back. "Fuck
you, Spitze." he said fiercely, and strode rapidly out, slamming
the door hard.

Putin took off the headphones and
looked at his watch. He picked up the desk telephone and dialled a
number.

"Herr Roehrberg, please. Major
Putin."

"Roehrberg!"

"Rudi. It's Volodya. Look,
something has come up and we need to talk about it. Spitze needs to
be there too. It's about der Schlächter. And Henkel." He listened
as the handset squawked.

"I think you do, Rudi." he went
on. "I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. I know about
your talk with Spitze. We all know about what happened to Henkel
later on Sunday. You see, I've got a copy of some interesting
recordings and although I could get these to Berlin it would be
better for both of us to hear my proposal."

He listened again for a short
while.

"Yes, exactly. And of course I
know about the money and the mill and all the other stuff that's
going on. I just want my fair share of it, that's all, and maybe a
bit extra to remember Henkel by. I'm sure you'll want to be
generous when you hear what I have to say. Shall we say Egon's
again in what, twenty minutes? Excellent! See you both at five,
then. Oh, and Rudi. Remember I said a
copy
of interesting
recordings - the original's quite safe. Quite safe and quite
inaccessible to you, believe me."

Chapter 35

Wednesday January 17
1990, afternoon, evening and night

“IF Georg won’t help us then
we’ll do it ourselves! We can't risk asking around. We have to
break in and just search the place."

Bettina had returned to the
farmhouse after her meeting with Georg, alternating between
disappointment and fury with what she saw as his weakness in not
being prepared to help. This wasn’t the Georg she remembered, the
friend she’d idolised as a child for the way he stood up for the
rights which were being trampled on, the fearless journalist whose
clandestine writings had enraged the authorities by pointing up
their many faults. 'Truth to power!' That's what he'd said then was
the only course a concerned and committed citizen could honestly
take. Look at him now!

They lay on the bed and Thomas
had tried to calm her but over an hour later she was still
despondent and crossly upset at what she called Georg’s
betrayal.

“OK!” agreed Thomas. “I’m with
you on that, but how do we do it? Do you think our master keys will
work or will they have special locks there? What if people are
working late? How do we find where the forged document is anyway?
We don’t even know the date and it could be anywhere, according to
what Georg told you.”

For another hour they picked over
the difficulties and how to overcome them. Bettina had learned from
Georg that the cleaners came in at seven in the morning and that
there was usually someone working late although rarely beyond about
ten thirty in the evening. For safety they decided to break in
shortly after midnight giving them, they hoped, about six hours to
search. It wasn’t much but it was all they could risk. They’d have
to make do and hope to strike lucky.

By now it was late afternoon and
winter dark and for a while they lay on the bed dozing lightly,
newly comfortable in each other’s presence and watching the moon
rise over the countryside beyond the window. At six they rose,
washed the sleepiness out of their eyes and went downstairs to eat
with Frau Dornbusch and her family.

“Maybe our own last supper!”
Thomas said, then winced as Bettina kicked him under the table.
They smiled at each other and when the meal was finished went out
for a short walk before returning to their room.

“Let’s get our sleep in first –
we’ll be pretty tired by the morning if it all works
out.”

Again they lay on the bed, fully
dressed, entwined, and dozed fitfully until startled awake by the
alarm. It was approaching midnight and time to set off. Grabbing
the rucksack Thomas headed quietly downstairs followed by Bettina,
each remembering to step over the third step from the top which
creaked when anyone stood on it. They walked in silence to the car
which they’d parked a little distance from the
farmhouse.

The archives building on
Lothringerallee was a long rectangle of solid stone on four floors
which dominated the street. The façade was imposing and loured
ominously in the moonlight, the wide steps leading up to the solid
front doors throwing deep shadows. Rough-cut blocks of limestone
jutted out from the façade, separated by gaps looking just wide
enough to take a toe hold. Thomas and Bettina circled the building,
trying to identify the best way to enter. On the second floor, on
the corner with Ziegelstrasse, each side had a window opening on to
a small balcony, which looked promising. Across the road there was
a long wall with the Elias cemetery behind it.

“If anything goes wrong and we
can’t get back to the car, we’ll hide over there, behind the wall.”
Bettina said quietly, pointing.

They continued walking round the
building, turning at the next corner into a narrow side street,
Schulgutstrasse, and then along the full length of Geyerstrasse
before turning back into Lothringerallee. On two of the building's
corners there were small towers, built higher than elsewhere and
presumably providing exits from the interior to the flat roof.
Although they’d walked slowly, searching the structure carefully,
it had still taken them a good ten minutes to circle the archives
building.

“God, it’s huge!” Thomas said.
“We’d easier find a virgin in a brothel as find the document here.
And look, there’s still some lights on – not good.”

Rather than go boldly up the main
steps they continued round to the secondary entrance on
Ziegelstrasse where the risk of being observed was much less.
Although the late night streets were deserted and the building had
now become dark Thomas’s heart was hammering and he could feel the
adrenaline surging, giving his body a strange, jittery warmth. He
pulled out the set of master keys from the rucksack and began
trying them in sequence. After a few fruitless attempts one slid
into the lock and half turned but then stuck, unable to engage with
the wards to open the lock. He moved it carefully backwards and
forwards by fractions of a millimetre, willing his fingers to
understand by extension the intimate nuzzling of the framework of
the key seeking passage.

The key rotated a fraction
further but as he concentrated they heard ragged footsteps
approaching along Lothringerallee, getting louder and then drifting
into Ziegelstrasse itself. They embraced, Bettina burying her head
in his shoulder and Thomas turning to face the building, a courting
couple finding privacy in the shadows.

“Thash the way, mate! You give it
‘er good’n’proper.” the drunken voice encouraged as a hand waved
vaguely in their direction and the erratic footsteps zig-zagged
away. Their silent laughter broke the tension.

“Just wanted to make sure he’d
really gone.” said Thomas as they eventually disengaged reluctantly
and he tried once more to open the door. None of the other keys
worked and although they again circled the building carefully it
became obvious that the locks were all of the same type and that
the master set of keys was of no help.

“What now?”

“We could try with another set of
keys now that we know which type enters the lock.” Bettina
suggested. “But that’s going to mean another day and night lost and
Dieter wants us back as soon as possible.”

“Let me try something. Look,
these lower windows are barred but the upper ones aren't. I used to
do mountain climbing and free-climbing with my dad. I'm sure I
could get to that window there on the second floor, on the corner
by the balcony. It's only about, what, six metres I guess, maybe
seven.”

“I don’t think that’s a good
…”

"Just help me up this first bit.
Lace your hands in front of you and I can use that as a first step
and then get to that first ledge."

Swinging smoothly on from
Bettina's cupped hands and lightly stepping on her shoulder Thomas
grasped one of the blocks of stone above his head and stood on the
top of the decorative facing running round the foot of the
building. He placed a toe in the narrow gap between two higher
stone blocks then pulled himself up, rested for a moment, then
stretched up and grasped the next block to haul himself further.
He’d reached the first floor window, about half way to the balcony,
when there was the sound of a car in the distance and in a moment
he saw a pair of headlights turn into Ziegelstrasse and come
towards them. Bettina walked briskly down the street in the
direction the car was travelling and he flattened himself against
the building, immobile, barely breathing, hoping that the driver
would be concentrating on the road or might be distracted by the
sight of Bettina ahead of him. The car continued past without
stopping and without changing its speed and as it disappeared round
the corner at the end of Ziegelstrasse he hauled himself up another
block.

But by now he was beginning to
tire and his arms hurt. He was more out of condition than he'd
thought. He hauled himself up by another block and was now almost
in reach of the balcony, just to one side and a little recessed
from it. The edges of the blocks sloped slightly to the outside,
however, and although that hadn’t mattered much before his fingers
were now starting to lose their feeling in the cold and he was
beginning to despair of retaining his grip for the time he still
needed.

He stuck his toes into the gap as
deeply as he could wriggle them, relaxed his arms for a moment, and
then turned for the final push to the balcony. He could feel the
weight of his body dragging him downwards and he wondered briefly
how much it would hurt if he fell. He might well kill himself, he
realised. He stretched for the edge of the balcony and although he
just touched it with his fingertips it was too far for him to get a
good grip on either the parapet or the protective railing above it.
He was hit with a sudden bout of panic, the fear of losing his grip
and falling almost paralysing him and he stood there for what
seemed an age, unable to move up or down and with his arms growing
increasingly tired. He willed himself consciously to relax and hang
there till he felt calmer.

He breathed deeply and slowly,
willing strength back into his arms and fingers, then carefully
edged sideways as close as he could to the balcony, hampered by
damage to the block which limited where he could grip, and prepared
to make a last desperate attempt to grip the parapet above him and
to his right. Matters were complicated both by the wide decorative
cladding at each floor level and by the wide and sturdy square
stone pillars, topped with an acorn finial, which closed off each
end of the balcony and which were too big to grasp
securely.

There were footsteps coming along
Geyerstrasse and the fear of being seen acted as a catalyst.
Summoning all his strength he exploded upwards, lunging at the edge
of the balcony, scrabbling with his fingers and managing to grab
one of the thinner vertical stone railings in from the square
pillar at the end. Praying that it wouldn't break with the extra
force and so dump him on to the pavement he used all the strength
of his tired limbs to haul himself up, forcing one foot to waist
level and placing it on the decorative cladding separating the
floors. At first, precariously balanced and with huge tension in
his arms and back, unable to get leverage, it seemed as if he could
move no further. Then, slowly, again summoning all his remaining
strength he straightened his bent leg and forced himself further
upwards just enough to grasp the top rail of the balcony with his
free hand, bring up the other to join it and pull himself over,
tumbling on to the balcony and lying there exhausted, his face
pressed to the stone floor as the footsteps passed underneath him
on the pavement, stopping briefly but then continuing as if
reassured.

In a few moments he roused
himself to his knees then stood up, looked over and hissed to
Bettina: "Sorry! I was whacked after that, maybe even passed out
for a moment. Everything's fine now, though. I'm going to try the
window."

He rooted around in his rucksack
and took out a thin metal ruler which he slid into the gap between
the frame of the casement and its surround. He worked it upwards
till it pressed against a catch then tapped it from below with
another tool he’d brought, the small hammer with the muffled face.
With a few light taps the catch sprung up, freeing the window, and
he stepped over the sill and into the room beyond.