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I was stunned but managed to say, ‘What have you got to do with all this?’
He took a piece of paper from his wallet and passed it over. ‘There’s a crude map for you and a bar called Heini’s. If things go wrong, go there and tell the barman that your accommodation is unsatisfactory and you must move at once. Use English.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘That someone will come for you. Of course, if everything works, you come back on the tour bus, but that would imply a perfect world.’
I said, ‘You’re part of this. Me, Wilson. My uncle’s not here, yet you are. What the hell goes on?’
I suddenly thought of my desk at the office in Leeds, the Astoria ballroom on a Friday night, girls in cotton frocks. What was I doing here?
‘You’re a fly in the web, just like me in the Gestapo. You got pulled in. All so casual, but no way back.’ He finished his schnapps and moved to the door. ‘I’m on your side, boy, remember that.’ He closed the door and was gone.
The tour bus took us through Checkpoint Charlie, everything nice and easy. There were tourists from all over the world on board. On the other side, the border police inspected us. In my case, my tourist visas and Irish passport. No problems at all.
Later, at lunch at a very old-fashioned hotel, the guides stressed that if anyone got lost on any of the tours, they should make for the hotel, where the coach would leave at five.
In my case, the instructions in the brown envelope told me to be at my destination at four. I hung in there for two boring hours and dropped out at three-thirty, catching a taxi at just the right moment.
The East Germans had a funny rule at the time. The Christian church was allowed, but you couldn’t be a member of the Communist Party and go to church – it would obviously damage your job prospects. The result was that the congregations were rather small.
The Church of the Holy Name had obviously seen better days. It was cold, it was damp, it was shabby. There was even a shortage of candles. There were three old women sitting waiting at the confessional box, a man in a brown raincoat praying in a pew close by. I obeyed my instructions and waited. Finally, my turn came and I entered the confessional box.
There was a movement on the other side of the grille. I said, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ and I said it in English.
‘In what way, my son?’
I replied as the instructions in the envelope had told me. ‘I am here only as God’s messenger.’
‘Then do God’s work.’
An envelope was pushed under the grille. There was silence, the light switched off on the other side. I picked up the envelope and left.
I don’t know how long it took me to realize that the man in the brown raincoat was following me. The afternoon was darkening fast, rain starting to fall and I looked desperately for a taxi with no success. I started to walk fast, moving from street to street, aiming for the River Spree, trying to remember the city from the old days, but at every corner, looking back, there he was.
Turning into one unexpected alley, I ran like hell and suddenly saw the river. I turned along past a line of decaying warehouses and ducked into an entrance. He ran past a few moments later. I waited – silence, only the heavy rain – then stepped out, moving to the edge of the wharf.
‘Halt! Stay exactly where you are.’
He came round the corner, a Walther PPK in his left hand, and approached.
I said, in English, sounding outraged, ‘I say, what on earth is this?’
He came close. ‘Don’t try that stuff with me. We both know you’ve been up to no good. I’ve been watching that old bastard at the church for weeks.’
He made his one mistake then, coming close enough to slap my face. I grabbed his right wrist, knocked the left arm to one side and caught that wrist as well. He discharged the pistol once and we came together as we lurched to the edge of the wharf. I turned the Walther against him. It discharged again and he cried out, still clutching his weapon, and went over the edge into the river. I turned and ran as if the hounds of hell were at my heels. When I reached the hotel, the coach had departed.
I found Heini’s bar an hour later. It was really dark by then. The bar, as was to be expected so early in the evening, was empty. The barman was old and villainous, with iron-grey hair and a scar bisecting his left cheek up to an empty eye socket. I ordered a cognac.
‘Look,’ I said in English. ‘My accommodation is unsatisfactory and I must move at once.’
It seemed wildly crazy, but to my surprise, he nodded and replied in English. ‘Okay, sit by the window. We’ve got a lamb stew tonight. I’ll bring you some. When it’s time to go, I’ll let you know.’
I had the stew, a couple more drinks, then he suddenly appeared to take the plates. There were half a dozen other customers by then.
‘Cross the street to the wharf where the cranes are beside the river. Black Volkswagen limousine. No charge, just go.’
I did as I was told, crossed the road through the rain and found the Volkswagen. In a strange way, it was no surprise to find Konrad Strasser at the wheel.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
I climbed in. ‘What’s this, special treatment?’
‘Decided to come myself. What was your score on the border? Two Russians? Well, you’re now an Ace. A Stasi agent went into the Spree tonight.’
Stasis were members of the East German State Security Police.
I said, ‘He didn’t give me a choice.’
‘I don’t imagine he would.’
We drove through a maze of streets. I said, ‘Coming yourself, was that in the plan?’
‘Not really.’
‘Risky, I’d have thought.’
‘Yes, well, you are family in a way. Look, the whole thing’s been family. You, the border, your uncle, me, the old Gestapo hand. Sometimes we still have choices. I did tonight and came for you. Anyway, we’re returning through a backstreet border post. I know the sergeant. Just lie back and go to sleep.’ He passed me a half-bottle. ‘Cognac. Pour it over yourself.’
The rain was torrential as, minutes later, we drove through an area where every house had been demolished, creating a no-man’s-land protected from the West by barbed-wire fences. Of course, the Berlin Wall had not been built in those days. There was a red and white barricade, two Vopos in old Wehrmacht raincoats, rifles slung. I lay back in the seat and closed my eyes.
Konrad braked to a halt and one of the men, a sergeant, came forward. ‘In and out, Konrad,’ he said. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘My cousin from Ireland.’ Konrad offered my Irish passport. ‘Pissed out of his mind.’ The aroma of good cognac proved it. ‘I’ve got those American cigarettes you wanted. Marlboros. I could only manage a thousand, I’m afraid.’
The sergeant said, ‘My God!’, thrust my passport back and took the five cartons Konrad offered. ‘Come again.’
The bar lifted and we drove forward into the bright lights of West Berlin.
In my uncle’s flat, Konrad helped himself to whisky and held out a hand. ‘Give me the envelope.’
I did as I was told. ‘What is it?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
I started to get indignant but then decided he was right.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. You told me I was a bagman for the SAS. I was given the job by a Major Wilson, but by a strange coincidence, you’re involved. Why is that?’
‘It’s no coincidence – grow up! Everything fits like a jigsaw. Let me fill you in on the facts of life. Twenty-one SAS is comprised of weekend soldiers, everything from lawyers to cab drivers and most things in between. A hell of a range of languages. Twenty-two Regiment, the regulars, spends its time shooting Chinese in Malaya and Arabs in the Oman and things like that. People in Twenty-one are odd-job men like you. You were coming to Berlin, it was noted. You were useful.’
‘And expendable?’
‘Exactly, and a coincidence that I was lurking in the family background.’
‘You probably saved my life.’
‘Oh, you managed.’ He laughed. ‘You’ll be back at that favourite ballroom of yours in a few days, picking up girls, and none of them will know what a desperate fellow you are.’
‘So that’s it,’ I said. ‘I just go back?’
‘That’s about the size of it. Wilson will be quite pleased.’ He finished his Scotch. ‘But do me a favour. Don’t come back to Berlin. They’ll be waiting for you next time.’
He moved to the door and opened it. I said, ‘Will there be a next time?’
‘As I said, Twenty-one uses people for special situations where they fit in. Who knows?’ For a moment he looked serious. ‘They turned you down, but that was from the flashy bit. The uniform, the beret, the badge that says: Who Dares Wins.’
‘But they won’t let me go?’
‘I’m afraid not. Take care,’ and he went out.
He was accurate enough. I went through a totally sterile period, then numerous jobs, college, university, marriage, a successful teaching career and an equally successful writing career. It was only when the Irish Troubles in Ulster really got seriously going in the early seventies that I heard from Wilson again after I’d written a successful novel about the situation. He was by then a full colonel, ostensibly in the Royal Engineers when I met him in uniform, although I doubted it.
We sat in the bar of an exclusive hotel outside Leeds and he toasted my success in champagne. ‘You’ve done very well, old chap. Great book and so authentic.’
‘I’m glad you liked it.’
‘Not like these things written by television reporters and the like. Very superficial, whereas you – well, you really understand the Irish, but then you would. I mean, an Orange Prod, but with Catholic connections. Very useful that.’
I was aware of a sense of déjà vu, Berlin all over again.
I said carefully, ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing too much. You’re doing an appearance in Dublin next week, book signings, television?’
‘So?’
‘It would be very useful if you would meet one or two people for us.’
I said, ‘Nearly twenty years ago, I met someone for you in Berlin and nearly got my head blown off.’
‘Another side to that. As I recall, it was the other chap who took the flak.’ He smiled. ‘Interesting that. It never gave you a problem, just like the Russians.’
‘They’d have done worse to me,’ I said. ‘They shouldn’t have joined.’ I took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘What am I supposed to do, repeat the performance, only in the Liffey this time instead of the Spree?’
‘Not at all. No rough stuff. Intermediary, that’s you, old chap. Just speak to a few people, that’s all.’
I thought about it, aware of a certain sense of excitement. ‘You’ve forgotten that I did my ten years in the Army Reserve and that ended some time ago.’
‘Of course it did, but you did sign the Official Secrets Act when you joined Twenty-one.’
‘Which threw me out.’
‘Yes, well, as I said to you a long time ago, it’s more complicated than that.’
‘You mean, once in, never out?’ I stubbed out my cigarette. ‘Konrad said that to me in Berlin. How is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him for some time.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Very active. So, I can take it you’ll co-operate?’
‘I don’t seem to have much choice, do I?’
He emptied his champagne glass. ‘No need to worry. Easy one, this.’
No rough stuff? Easy one, this? Five trips for the bastard, bombs, shooting, glass on the streets, too many bad Saturday nights in Belfast until that eventful day when men with guns in their pockets escorted me to the airport with the suggestion that I not come back. I didn’t, not for years, and interestingly enough, I didn’t hear again from Wilson, although in a manner of speaking, I did, through the obituary page in the Daily Telegraph, his photo staring out at me, only he was a brigadier, not a colonel and his name wasn’t Wilson.
Dawn came over the Cornish coast with a lot of mist, as I stood on the little balcony of the bedroom at the Hanged Man. A long night remembering. My wife still slept as I dressed quietly and went downstairs to the lounge bar. She’d been right, of course. The German connection was what I needed on this one and that meant Konrad Strasser. I hadn’t spoken to him for a few years. My uncle’s death, and my German aunt’s, had tended to sever the connection, but I had his number on what I called my essential card in my wallet. Damp but usable. I got it out and just then the kitchen door opened and Zec Acland looked in.
‘Up early.’
‘And you.’
‘Don’t sleep much at my age. Just made a pot of tea.’
‘I’ll be in shortly. I’d like to make a phone call. Hamburg. Don’t worry, I’ll put it on the bill.’
‘Hamburg. That’s interesting. Early there too.’
‘Another older man. He probably doesn’t sleep much either.’
Acland returned to the kitchen, I sat on a stool at the bar, found my card and dialled the number. As I remembered, Konrad had been born in 1920, which made him seventy-seven. His wife was dead, I knew that. A daughter in Australia.
The phone was picked up and a harsh voice said in German, ‘Now who in the hell is that?’
I said in English, ‘Your Irish cousin. How’s Hamburg this morning?’
He lived at Blankenese on the Elbe. ‘Fog on the river, a couple of boats moving out.’ He laughed, still calling me boy as he always had. ‘Good to hear from you, boy. No more of that damned Irish nonsense, I hope.’
‘No way. I’m an older guy, now, remember.’
‘Yes, I do and I also remember that when you first met your present wife and told me she was twenty-five years younger, I gave you a year.’
‘And that was fifteen years ago.’
‘So, even an old Gestapo hand can’t be right all the time.’
He broke into a terrible fit of coughing. I waited for him to stop, then said, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course. Blood and iron, that’s us Germans. Is your wife still Wonder Woman? Formula One, diving, flying planes?’
