The Helsinki Pact (9 page)

“In total we expect to finance
something of the order of fifty billion Deutsche Marks.” Herren
continued. “We will break up the financing into a series of smaller
elements, placed through different instruments and having different
maturities. We would like our group here to draw up a munster, a
complete set of documentation which will then be adapted for each
issue. We will present the credit initially through a Euroloan for
fifteen billion DM, wholly underwritten by Deutsche Bank, and we
would expect to close this first deal by the end of
October."

The oldest person in the room was
clearly von Hesswald and although he looked frail, his white hair
shining brightly in the cone of light from one of the halogen
lamps, Stephan saw that his eyes were attentive and
alert.

“Dr Herren, forgive me, but I
have a question on the structure of the transactions. I’m not sure
whether this is a question for you or rather for the Finance
Minister. I believe a difficulty in presenting this opportunity to
investors will derive from the fact that the Soviet Union is
essentially a self-contained economic system. There is very limited
financial interface with the West and therefore the USSR has in
turn very limited access to foreign currency and very few reserves
so denominated. This will make it difficult for them to repay a
loan denominated in a hard currency – unless, perhaps, we have
title to some suitably valuable and accessible asset, their oil or
gas reserves, for example. Are you thinking of securing privileged
access to some valuable assets, or are we looking at a very strong
guarantee from the West German government? I believe these can be
the only alternatives if we want to get the deal placed
successfully.”

Herren and Weigel glanced at each
other. The Finance Minister looked around the room for some seconds
before answering. Stephan thought he detected uneasiness and a hint
of tension behind the conversational tone in which Weigel replied.
“No, there will be no form of privileged access to Soviet assets.
At the request of the lead manager, Deutsche Bank, the German
government will provide investors with a pass-through
guarantee.”

Von Hesswald nodded his head
slowly in assent. “Then I guess that potential problem is
solved.”

Stephan looked at Herren and then
at Weigel, trying to make sense of what had just been said. A
pass-through guarantee was the strongest form of loan guarantee
possible and meant that investors would have immediate and total
recourse to the guarantor in the event of any failure. For all
practical purposes it was as if the loan liability were being
issued by the German government itself. No wonder no Soviet Union
officials were at the meeting – their presence was completely
irrelevant.

Chapter 6

Friday September 15
1989

THOMAS slowly drifted into
consciousness from some deep pit, struggling painfully out so that
he increasingly came to regret leaving his former stupor. A fierce,
throbbing pain towards the back of his head grew and pulsated as
his senses returned. His forehead ached and as he gingerly explored
he found a large bump and what he took to be dried blood just above
his right eye. His nose felt tender and swollen and he could
breathe only through his mouth which was now dry and rancid, his
lips cracked.

He was in darkness, lying on what
seemed to be a concrete floor, his left leg twisted under him and
his right at an odd and uncomfortable angle. The air felt damp,
stagnant and heavy. There was a sour, musty smell overlaid with a
sharp, ammonia tang which brought back to him the lavatories with
its old splashed cement floor in a run-down pub he’d sometimes
visited in Frankfurt when Olga was absent. His ears buzzed with the
oppressive silence. He screamed in frustration but all he could
manage was a moaning croak and when the meagre echoes had died the
silence was worse.

He tried to stand up but his
right knee gave way with a stab of pain and he lay on the stone
while he recovered. The skhin below his knee felt raw and tender
and the leg of his jeans was stiff and crusted with something. His
right shoulder down to the middle of his chest felt bruised and
painful. Half hopping on his left knee and his arms, dragging his
right leg behind him and shuddering when that knee took inadvertent
weight, he explored his surroundings.

There was a smooth, solid metal
door with a small rectangular flap near the base but with no sign
of any keyhole or catch. The fit with the metal frame was complete
and only by sliding a fingernail could he detect any crack. He
pushed at the flap and although it gave slightly it seemed to be
blocked, presumably capable of being opened only from
outside.

The wall was rough, apparently
made of breeze blocks, and the ceiling, which he could just brush
with his fingers when he’d hauled himself painfully upright, seemed
to be of similar construction. Above the door there was a small
grill and later on he discovered a second on the facing wall, this
one carrying a slightly cooler, faint, waft of sweeter air. On that
wall he also found a small basin with one tap, cold, and beside it
a steel lavatory pan with no seat. He splashed his face with water
and drank some from his cupped hands, wincing at the cold and at
how the water stung bits of raw flesh.

Feeling his way to the fourth
wall he swore as he banged into something angular and hard and
jarred his right leg in recoil, sending a Roman candle of pain
flashing behind his eyes. This was an iron bed frame, bolted to the
wall, covered with a thin mattress and a coarse wool blanket, a
lumpy pillow at the end. Shivering, he dragged himself under the
blanket and tried to make sense of what had happened. Where the
hell was he? And why was he there anyway?

At first he got nowhere. He’d
clearly lost consciousness, but how and when? He had a vague memory
of a car but if he’d been injured then why was he not in some
hospital? Why was he not being cared for properly? Why had he been
flung into this place, with no regard for his injuries, like some
expendable animal? He tried hard to remember what had happened but
could make little sense of the confused and disjointed memories.
There was something about someone shooting, but that made no sense.
By habit he glanced at his wrist but saw no familiar phosphorus
gleam and when he felt for his watch found nothing.

Then with a jolt of pleasure he
remembered his dinner with Bettina. He remembered their tender
parting by the bridge and for a few moments almost forgot his pain
and his surroundings as he relived the experience. Disconnected
scenes started to drift into his mind, coalescing into some sort of
order - the sullen walk to the car, his earlier argument with Mark,
the attempted escape, the men who had shouted. He remembered Mark’s
lunatic driving as they took off but then nothing, hard as he
tried. They must have crashed, he thought, and quite badly judging
by his injuries.

This must be a cell, and the
people who had challenged and pursued them must have been Vopo
agents or, worse, from the Stasi, the secret police. Had he
exchanged money with Mark? He couldn’t remember exactly but whether
he had or hadn’t didn’t really matter given the amount of currency
he’d had. That it was DM or Ost Marks was irrelevant - it would be
obvious what he and Mark been doing. There was no way he could
pretend that he was an innocent tourist. He was clearly facing a
lengthy prison sentence. Butthe one thing that still bothered him
why was he not in an ordinary police cell? Why was no one around?
And what time was it?

He got up, limped over and
started pounding weakly on the metal door but he might as well have
tried to push down the Berlin Wall on his own for all the effect it
had. He tried to shout but again there was only a harsh croak, the
effort tearing painfully at his throat. He felt immensely tired,
groped his way back and sank on the bed in despair and exhaustion,
falling deeply asleep in seconds.

Woken later by the grating noise
made by the opening cell door, Thomas struggled into consciousness
and turned on his elbow, blinking in the strong light from the
unshaded fitting in the ceiling. He saw in front of him dark brown
shoes and matching socks, a pair of dark brown trousers surmounted
by a light brown sweater covering a white shirt. The man looked
about fifty, ramrod straight with closely cropped grizzled hair,
neatly trimmed, and with penetrating blue eyes which stared hard at
Thomas for a long moment. He seemed to be waiting. Thomas felt
impelled to struggle off the bed and stand up half upright, his
left hand on the wall for support, although he dearly longed to be
left alone to sleep off his pain and his injuries.

“Mr Wundart, I expect you realise
why you are here and what you will be charged with.” The man’s deep
voice had a slight edge, but the tone was friendly. There was
almost no trace of an East German accent. “You and your colleague,
Mark Schmidt, were caught with drugs and with an excessive amount
of West German currency. You tried to escape arrest. Your companion
is dead. You may have survived but you face a substantial prison
sentence.”

Thomas stared at him. The loose
memories fitted together better and he remembered Mark’s invitation
to smuggle drugs into East Berlin. But he’d refused, surely? He’d
had nothing to do with that.

“Drugs? What drugs? What are you
talking about?”

“Your car had more than two kilos
of heroin and cocaine packed in the wheel well of the boot. We have
reliable witnesses to its discovery and we have pictures of the
cargo in place. I see you have not earlier come to our attention
for infractions and so you may be unaware of how efficient justice
is in East Berlin. You will be tried in two days’ time. Given the
clear evidence against you the trial will be swift, an hour or two
at most. We will provide you with a lawyer, of course.”

“I had nothing to do with any of
that. That wasn’t my car. Who are you? And why are you telling me
all this?”

“My name is Colonel Dieter but
you’re in no position to ask questions, Mr Wundart. You are in
serious trouble. Do not think that your West German passport will
allow you to escape the consequences of your criminal
behaviour.”

His voice took on a sharper, more
aggressive tone. “However, we don’t particularly enjoy sending
young people like you to jail. I see that you’re a student and you
appear to be well educated and from a good family. This, uh,
escapade, will certainly destroy whatever career you had in mind.
No doubt you’ve already taken risks - the question now is what are
you ready to risk in return for getting out of here?”

“I’m ready to pay a fine. I had
four thou ... ”

"Pffftt!" Dieter stared at Thomas
with contempt and shook his head slightly. “You Westerners think
that any problem can be fixed with the right amount of money! You
think anyone can be bought. Not here. In any case, the money you
smuggled has been impounded.”

He paused, letting his words sink
in, staring at Thomas. He leaned closer, and Thomas could feel his
breath on his face and picked up the faint scent of a cigar. His
voice became friendlier, avuncular. “You have your whole life ahead
of you.” Dieter said softly. “Don’t throw it away.” He seemed
saddened at the idea that anyone should make such a foolish
mistake. "Don't throw your life away." For an eerie moment Thomas
saw his father standing in front of him using just those phrases
when he’d pressed Thomas to give up the idea of becoming a
professional musician.

He stepped back, straightened,
jabbed his forefinger as he spoke. “The world is changing,
political relationships are much more fluid, they change daily. We
need to keep in the flow, keep up to date, but the most important
bits of history are never written down. And politicians are very
well versed in the arts of deceit. Therefore we believe that using
people who keep their ears and eyes open, reporters you could call
them, is the best way to gain information.”

There was silence and Thomas
thought over what Dieter had said and what he seemed to
want.

“I don’t see how I can help you.
Why would you think I’m close to any information like that? I’m
only a student, for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s our business to know a
great deal of trivial information about many different matters
which could become useful. For instance, you will remember that
your first visit to East Berlin occurred on 14 November 1988. You
crossed in the morning, just before 11am, and returned to West
Berlin almost exactly twelve hours later. You have made fifteen
visits since that first one – I’m pleased to know that you enjoy so
much visiting our city.”

“Yes.” thought Thomas. “But
that’s hardly impressive, that’s just collating standard
immigration information.” If he was careful he could get out of
this more easily than he'd feared.

Dieter smiled thinly, waiting
until Thomas had begun to relax, and continued gently. “It’s a
shame you don’t get on better with your widowed mother, though,
isn’t it? Your brother Will seems to – or maybe that’s because he
doesn’t have your independence and arrogance, do you think? But
then it was your father you were particularly close to wasn't it?
Perhaps more to the point, your father was a senior director of the
Bundesbank. He would probably have become the next Governor had he
lived. You undoubtedly have access to many very influential people
there, perhaps old friends or colleagues of your well-respected
father, people like Hans Schacht, for instance, or Joachim
Zimmerman, would you say?, people who may already know you or who
would be happy to talk to his son, people whose information could
be useful to us.”