The Helsinki Pact (7 page)

“And I sometimes get to eat in
restaurants like this one which I could never afford otherwise,
even at special prices.” he added cautiously, just as Axel arrived
to welcome them. He introduced them.

“I was telling Bettina about the
tours, Axel, and how they love eating here before going on to the
opera. It’s a beautiful building and great food and, well, I
suppose … ” he ploughed on, realising that he was risking another
outburst from Bettina “ … I suppose they’re sometimes a bit
surprised at how good it all is, not what they’ve been led to
expect the East is like.”

Bettina laughed, glanced at Axel
who was opening a bottle of Elbthaler Weissburgunder which he’d
brought as a gift, and said “Ah, the decadent, ignorant West. They
think it’s all queues, food shortages, old clothes and nothing but
black bread to eat and thin beer to drink, eh Axel?”

Thomas relaxed and under the
influence of the wine became expansive, amusing Bettina with some
highlights of the tours but then finding himself telling her more
than he’d intended, almost boasting about his success and realising
at one point that the figures didn’t add up at the official
exchange rates, hurrying on so that she wouldn’t notice the slip.
Bettina drank very little, he noticed, even asking for water at one
point. She also congratulated him on the wine, commenting on his
apparent knowledge of the wine industry in Saxony and for a while
they ate in companionable silence or made small talk, sometimes
even eating from each other’s plates.

“Santé, to a decadent,
capitalistic evening! Now tell me more about yourself, Wessie. What
are your dreams, apart from becoming a millionaire, of
course?”

“I’m an economics student, as I
told you, but opera’s my real passion and I intend to become a
professional singer. I’ve had real battles with my parents over
this. Both of them said that musicians never made any money, that
music was fine as a hobby but that was all. They insisted I study
economics and be as successful as my father had been. I resisted
that for a while but in the end I thought that economics was maybe
OK as a kind of security blanket thing, something I could always
fall back on. So right now I’m trying to do both, which is
difficult, but it’s music that I really love.”

“Is your family supporting
you?”

“That would require a long
answer, but the short one is no. I make some money doing gigs, you
know like piano bar kind of stuff. From Billy Joel to Brecht.
Unfortunately the pianist I used to work with just left the city a
month ago.. My father’s dead now and my mother and I don’t really
get on that well. I guess I escaped to Berlin and I have to make my
own way.”

The more the conversation flowed
the easier it seemed and the more brilliant it appeared to become
to Thomas. They found they shared a passion for music, for Russian
literature and for more besides. Thomas was becoming obsessed with
Bettina but unsure just how she felt about him as he sensed a
wariness, a kind of ‘this far but no further’ tension in her. She
refused a brandy and as he glanced at his watch he realised that it
was nearly time to meet Mark.

“Bettina, I’m sorry, but it’s
getting kind of late and I have to go. I have to meet a friend,
just someone who sometimes helps me get the opera tickets. Excuse
me for a minute while I settle the bill at the desk.”

She got up as he
returned.

“I must ring my mother. She
sometimes gets a little worried if she knows I’m out and it’s
getting late. Is there a telephone here, do you know?” He indicated
the booth down a corridor.

Some minutes later they met near
the door, Thomas with her leather jacket draped over his arm. The
streets had been washed by a sudden shower, and the lights
reflected off the asphalt. There was a smell of damp earth as they
walked along the river bank, the Spree gliding blackly on the other
side of the low wall, and when Thomas took Bettina’s hand he found
the warmth and slight pressure returned. They linked fingers. They
crossed the Mühlendamm Bridge in silence and Bettina said softly,
almost to herself, “Perhaps I shouldn’t admit it but it’s been a
wonderful evening. Thank you.”

“For me too. I loved being with
you and I’m so sorry I have to leave early like this. But I’d like
to see you again. Will you come to the opera with me? I have an old
friend from Frankfurt and his girlfriend coming for the weekend
tomorrow and we’re all going to see Fidelio. We could go then,
perhaps.”

“That would be … , yes … , yes,
that would be good. I’d like that. I’ll meet you outside at, what,
7.15 tomorrow evening?”

Thomas reached his hand behind
her neck and gently pulled her towards him, meeting little
resistance. Nuzzling her neck he inhaled the light jasmine perfume
of her skin. She leant into his shoulder for a moment and they
stood in silence, pressing together, before she straightened and
pushed him gently away.

“No, Thomas ... I mustn't. Not
now. Let's, let's just wait until, well, for a bit. I should go.”
She looked at him, serious for a moment, started to say something
but looked down and away. “Be careful.”

She kissed him lightly and walked
quickly in the direction of the museum. Thomas watched her
disappear then hurried off for the Nikolaikirche, conscious that he
would be late.

It was drizzling slightly and the
streets were deserted. Thomas found Mark pacing in front of the
church, puffing nervously on an imported cigarette which he was
just lighting from the end of his last one. He threw the butt down
and ground it out with his shoe. Thomas walked towards him,
discreetly giving the sign that he intended exchanging 300 DM into
Ost Marks at the current black market rate of 15:1 and received
acknowledgement from Mark.

He took a pack of cigarettes from
pocket, put one to his lips and, as stranger to stranger, asked
Mark for a light. As he bowed his head to the match and inhaled he
felt the acid rising from his stomach into his throat. Mark dropped
his cigarette packet and Thomas courteously picked it up, palming
and offering instead his own one with the Deutsche Marks inside and
putting Mark’s identical package into his own pocket.

“We need to talk.” Mark
whispered. “Ten minutes. Sit on the bench behind the
church.”

Thomas walked on, glancing
carefully around, scouting the surroundings for suspicious faces or
followers. Most people seemed to be Western tourists admiring the
buildings, the quaint houses rebuilt along the original mediaeval
perimeter. There was a fog drifting in from the Spree and it felt
clammy and cold. He reached the end of the street, threw away the
cigarette in his hand, looked at a building as if admiring its
design then turned and retraced his steps.

Passing the bronze statue at the
side of the double-domed church he found a bench, partly hidden in
the shadows, where he checked the contents of his exchanged
cigarette packet and found it short, 3,000 Ost Marks against the
4,500 he was expecting. In a moment Mark sat down and Thomas turned
angrily to him. “What ... ”

“Listen, Thomas.” Mark
interrupted, his broad Sachsen accent thickening as Thomas had
noticed it did at times of stress. “You’re a smart guy. That opera
tickets and dinner deal you run is clever. But you can do a lot
better … ”

“I’ve never told you what I do.”
Thomas stood up, furious but also apprehensive. “You’ve been spying
on me! And I want the rest of my money. That packet was 1,500
short.”

“Look, this is the East. It’s a
police state. I take precautions. I have to. I need to know who I’m
dealing with. Stasi agents play at being Western tourists
exchanging currency like you do, black market currency. They
reassure you and then when the sums get big enough they report you,
have you arrested and make off with your money as well. That means
five years in jail and I just don’t like to be fucked
over.”

Thomas sat down.

“Look, Thomas, now that I know
you’re OK I’ll trust you with a new deal. We can make a lot more
money together.”

The acid returned and Thomas felt
naked and insecure. Someone had followed him closely enough to
learn all about his opera tours and he hadn’t noticed. What else
did he not know about?

“Next time, bring your car in.
I’ll show you where to hide stuff in it. Light drugs, nothing
serious. Maryjane, hash, maybe some coke. People are depressed here
and there’s a huge potential market.”

“You’re out of your mind. And if
I get caught? You’ll be clear but I’ll be thrown in jail here. No
way am I risking that!”

“It won’t happen. They’re not
concerned about what comes in, only what goes out. They won’t
search your car coming in, only when you leave but that’s to check
you’re not helping any Ossies to escape. People do it all the time,
even with heavier stuff. The KoKo supplies the upper crust and I’m
targeting the middle classes.”

“What are you talking
about?”

“Schalck-Golodkowski and his
cronies. Kommerzielle Koordinierung, KoKo. They control everything
that comes in, legal and otherwise. Anyway, that’s my problem. Get
it in here and I’ll pay you ten times your costs. We’ll both do
well out of it.”

For a moment he was tempted.
Perhaps Mark was right. Perhaps the risk was minimal and worth
taking. The opera tours were good but this would solve any
financial problems at a stroke, give him even more money for
expensive singing lessons. He could finally sign up at the
conservatory, perhaps even afford some advanced classes with
Maestro Rufini. Or he could most likely rot in an East German jail
for a decade or more.

“Sorry Mark, that’s not me. I’m
not getting into that racket. I won’t do it.”

Mark stared at him for a few
moments.

“You’re a wimp. And a fool. I
should turn you in – at least that would get me some credit. But I
thought you might say that so that’s why I changed the rate today.
If you’d agreed it would have been 15:1 but from now on it’s
10:1.

“We agreed fifteen. I could have
got fourteen from Dresdner Bank when I left West Berlin today. Now
give me the fifteen we agreed. I gave you DM300 and I want my four
and half thousand Ost Marks. Stop pissing about.”

“3,000. Take it or leave
it.”

“Forty five hundred, nothing
less. I could turn you in just as easily. Don’t think I
won’t.”

“It would really be very, very
stupid if you tried that. OK. Just this once I’ll do it at twelve
and a half. I’ve got the other seven fifty in the car over at
Melchiorplatz. But remember, ten to one is the deal for everything
now. I’m not interested at anything higher.”

He set off and Thomas followed,
still arguing. He was furious but knew that he had little choice
but to accept the reduced rate, at least for now. He had to get
over to the Ephraim Palais again to bank this latest lot of money
and it was getting late. Oh, well, he thought, he knew where he
could get better rates so he was probably well rid of
Mark.

Just as Mark opened the car door
two men jumped out of an old grey Trabant parked slightly down the
street on the opposite side and ran towards them shouting something
which Thomas couldn’t properly understand.

“Come on! Get in!” Mark glanced
over, gesticulated at Thomas and jumped into the driver's seat
starting the engine instantly.

The car took off and swung round
with a roar of the engine and a squeal of tyres, the force throwing
Thomas back in his seat and almost tumbling him out of the still
open door which swung madly before he caught and closed it. He
looked back over his shoulder. One of the men had kneeled and was
aiming a rifle towards them. Thomas ducked instinctively as he
heard the gunshots in quick succession and the car swerved
suddenly. He looked up to see Mark slumped over the wheel and as
the engine roared again and the car plunged forward it smashed into
a wall, jerking him hard against the windscreen, and he lost
consciousness.

Chapter 5

Thursday September 14
and Friday September 15 1989

STEPHAN struggled up the stairs
as fast as he could in the teeming subway crowd, fretting at those
in his way, muttering apologies on his frequent collisions, darting
into fortuitous spaces as they opened up. Bursting on to
Frankfurt’s Opernplatz he dodged past a phalanx of uniformed men,
pin stripe suited and swinging identical briefcases in unison, men
who walked briskly looking straight ahead to reassure themselves
they had important tasks in hand. He sprinted through the
Taunusanlage Park, closing on the twin towers of the Deutsche Bank.
It was already 8.30.

At the bank headquarters he
pushed the revolving door hard, stumbled into the spacious entrance
hall with its internal fountains and hanging crystal decorations,
waved at the guard who nodded in recognition, and rushed for the
mirrored wall hiding the lifts to the boardroom floors. A panel
slid open as he arrived and he squeezed into the first cage just as
its doors were closing. He greeted the others as usual but his
glasses were fogged and he had no idea who was present. He felt hot
and sticky, out of control, and cursed the subway company and its
unreliability. There again, he thought wryly, perhaps he should
have resisted taking that extra fifteen minutes in bed with
Camille.