Spy Line. Len Deighton

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СКАЧАТЬ Bernard,’ said Gerda Koby. ‘It’s such a long time since we last saw you.’

      If Gerda thought that might be enough to change the subject she was very much mistaken. Lange said, ‘Frank Harrington sent agents in, and brought them out, by the U-Bahn system. I’m not sure how he worked it: they say he dug some kind of little connecting tunnel from one track to the next so he could get out in Stadtmitte where the West trains pass under the East Sector. That was very clever of Frank,’ said Lange, who was not renowned for his praise of anything the Department did.

      ‘Yes, Frank is clever,’ I said. He looked at me and nodded. He seemed to know that Frank had deposited me into the East by means of that very tunnel.

      ‘Trouble came when the gooks got wind of it. They staked it out and dumped a pineapple down the manhole just as two of Frank’s people were getting ready to climb out of it. The dispatching officer was blown off his feet … and he was two hundred yards along the tunnel! Frank wasn’t around: he was apple-polishing in London at the time, telling everyone about the coming knighthood that he never got.’

      I wasn’t going to talk about Frank Harrington; not to Lange I wasn’t. ‘So the diplomatic cars are the only way,’ I said.

      ‘For a time that was true,’ said Lange with a wintry smile. ‘I could tell you of African diplomats who put a lot of money into their pockets at ten thousand dollars a trip with an escapee in the trunk. But a couple of years ago they stopped a big black Mercedes with diplomatic plates at Checkpoint Charlie and fumigated it on account of what was described as “an outbreak of cattle disease”. Whatever they used to fumigate that car put paid to a 32-year-old crane operator from Rostock who was locked in the trunk. They say his relatives in Toronto, Canada, had paid for the escape.’

      ‘The guards opened the trunk of a diplomatic car?’ asked Werner.

      ‘No. They didn’t have to,’ said Lange grimly. ‘Maybe that poison gas was only intended to give some young escaper a bad headache but when the trunk was opened on this side, the fellow inside was dead. Hear about that, Bernard?’ he asked me.

      ‘Not the way you tell it,’ I admitted.

      ‘Well that’s what happened. I saw the car. There were ventilation holes drilled into the trunk from underneath to save an escaper from suffocating. The guards must have known that, and known where the vents were.’

      ‘What happened?’ asked Werner.

      ‘The quick-thinking African diplomat turned around and took the corpse back to East Berlin and into his embassy. The corpse became an African national by means of pre-dated papers. Death in an embassy: death certificate signed by an African medico so no inquiries by the East German police. Quiet funeral. Buried in a cemetery in Marzahn. But here’s the big boffola: not knowing the full story, some jerk working for the Foreign Affairs Committee of the Volkskammer thinks a gesture of sympathy is required. So – on behalf of the government and people of the DDR – they send an enormous wreath in which the words “peace, trust and friendship” are made from miniature roses. It was only on the grave for a day or two then it was discreetly removed by someone from the Stasi.’ Lange laughed loudly. ‘Cheer up, Bernie,’ he said and laughed some more.

      ‘I thought you’d have good news for me, Lange. I thought things had eased up.’

      ‘And don’t imagine going through Hungary or Czechoslovakia is any easier. It’s tight everywhere. When you read how many people have been killed crossing the Wall you should add on the hundreds that have quietly bled to death somewhere out of sight on the other side.’

      ‘That’s good tea, Gerda,’ I said. I never knew whether to call her Mrs Lange or Gerda. She was one of those old-fashioned Germans who prefer all the formalities: on the other hand she was married to Lange.

      ‘Bringing someone out, Bernie?’ said Lange. ‘Someone rich, I hope. Someone who can pay.’

      ‘Werner’s brother-in-law in Cottbus,’ I said. ‘No money, no nothing.’

      Werner, who knew nothing of any brother-in-law in Cottbus, looked rattled but he recovered immediately and backed me up gamely. ‘I’ve promised,’ said Werner and sat back and smiled unconvincingly.

      Lange looked from one of us to the other. ‘Can he get to East Berlin?’

      ‘He’ll be here with his son,’ Werner improvised. ‘For the Free German Youth festival in summer.’

      Lange nodded. Werner was a far better liar than I ever imagined. I wondered if it was a skill that he’d developed while married to the shrewish Zena. ‘You haven’t got a lot of time then,’ said Lange.

      ‘There must be a way,’ said Werner. He looked at his watch and got to his feet. He wanted to leave before I got him more deeply involved in this fairy tale.

      ‘Let me think about it,’ said Lange as he got Werner’s coat and hat. ‘You didn’t have an overcoat, Bernie?’

      ‘No,’ I said.

      ‘Aren’t you cold, Bernard?’ said Gerda.

      ‘No, never,’ I said.

      ‘Leave him alone,’ said Lange. He opened the door for us but before it was open wide enough for us to leave he said, ‘Where’s the other half of that banknote, Bernard?’

      I gave it to him.

      Lange put it in his pocket and said, ‘Half a banknote is no good to anybody. Right, Bernie?’

      ‘That’s right, Lange,’ I said. ‘I knew you’d quickly tumble to that.’

      ‘There’s a lot of things I quickly tumble to,’ he said ominously.

      ‘Oh, what else?’ I said as we went out.

      ‘Like there not being a Freie Deutsche Jugend festival in Berlin this summer.’

      ‘Maybe Werner got it wrong,’ I said. ‘Maybe it was the Gesellschaft für Sport und Technik that have their Festival in East Berlin this summer.’

      ‘Yeah,’ said Lange, calling after us in that hoarse voice of his, ‘and maybe it’s the CIA having a gumshoe festival in West Berlin this summer.’

      ‘Berlin is wonderful in the summer,’ I said. ‘Just about everyone comes here.’

      I heard Lange close the door with a loud bang and slam the bolts back into place with a display of surplus energy that is often the sign of bad temper.

      As we were going downstairs Werner said, ‘Is it your wife Fiona? Are you going to try to get her out?’

      I didn’t answer. The time switch plopped and we continued downstairs in darkness.

      Vexed at my failure to answer him, Werner said somewhat petulantly, ‘That was my hundred marks you gave Lange.’

      ‘Well,’ I explained, ‘it’s your brother-in-law isn’t it?’

       4

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