Little Grey Mice Page 7

  ‘What’s outstanding?’ demanded Cherny. Because it was convenient the soldier had journeyed to the KGB headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square from a Chiefs of Staff briefing and he’d chosen a civilian suit. He seemed uncomfortable in it, frequently shrugging the jacket around his shoulders.

  ‘Reimann is getting all his instructions tomorrow. The wife within days,’ said Sorokin. He was a stoop-shouldered man on the point of going to fat, through middle age. He balanced his increasing baldness with a tightly clipped beard which unfortunately gave him a resemblance to the last Tsar, Nicholas.

  ‘When will they get to Bonn?’ said Cherny, impatiently.

  ‘Within a week.’

  ‘I want results, quickly.’

  ‘We want results,’ Sorokin corrected.

  Chapter Six

  It was a large building, pre-revolutionary again, just off the main Arbat Ulitza. There was an identity check at the door by officers wearing undesignated uniforms Reimann could not recognize. Inside, the impression was of scurrying but extremely quiet activity: people passed each other in corridors without appearing to exchange any greetings – even to look at each other – and a rubberized coating on the floor minimized the sound of their footsteps. The office into which Reimann was escorted was as sterile as its outside surroundings: it was not a room in which a person permanently worked but a place set aside for this day, and tomorrow someone quite different would be using it. There was just a desk, which was quite empty apart from a telephone, and two chairs, the one behind the desk bigger and slightly more imposing than the other, although both were covered in matching buttoned leather. The telephone was so positioned on the desk that it would have been difficult for anyone in the larger chair to reach out to answer it. To one side was a film projector directed towards an already erected screen: the screen was the sort that collapsed after use around a fan of extension arms to fit neatly into a case, temporary like everything else.

  At the moment Reimann entered from the outer corridor a side-door opened to admit another man. He was very fat, white-haired and with an oddly cultivated moustache, also white, against a pink face making his complexion look like an ice-cream concoction. He rocked from side to side as he walked, as if his legs were automatic, operated by motors. He reminded Reimann of one of the constantly chuckling dwarf figures accompanying the Christmas parades along West Berlin’s K-damm. He was smoking an American cigarette, a Camel.

  ‘Time for us to meet,’ announced Nikolai Turev. ‘I am to be your Control.’

  Reimann thought the other man seemed vaguely unhappy at not having been in the room ahead of him. Closer, he was conscious of the smell of stale cigarette smoke.

  ‘Sit,’ ordered Turev, doing so himself.

  Behind the imposing desk the man looked even more like a Christmas dwarf. Reimann sought something to say but then decided against speaking at all. This man was his Control, a Russian and very much his superior. So he had to defer, constantly letting the man lead.

  ‘You have done well, in training,’ declared Turev. ‘You have been selected for a particular and vitally important assignment.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bonn.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her name is Elke Meyer. She is the personal assistant to Günther Werle, the Permanent Secretary to the West German Cabinet. Get her and you get the key to every secret that passes through every ministry and every Cabinet meeting.’

  Reimann felt a physical lurch, in his stomach, almost making him breathless. A considerable period of his training had obviously been devoted to political awareness, concentrating upon the momentous changes of the preceding year in Eastern and Southern Europe. An insistence at those lecturers had been that Bonn and West Germany were the fulcrum upon which all future developments in Europe were balanced. To gain the access indicated by the Russian would provide unbelievable intelligence! If he succeeded, he would achieve an incredible coup. The correction was quick in coming. There could be no question, no if. When he succeeded he would achieve an incredible coup. Cautiously, Reimann said: ‘It’s over a year since all the changes occurred, throughout the Bloc.’

  Turev lighted another cigarette from the preceding stub, head slightly bent in his curiosity at the point the other man intended to make. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why hasn’t she been targeted before, if she’s vulnerable?’

  Turev smiled, pleased at the question. ‘She has been,’ he admitted. ‘We flew two ravens past her: both under cover of trade delegations, on official visits. She’s so closed-off she didn’t appear aware of the attempts. But they weren’t specially chosen, as you’ve been.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Wait,’ ordered Turev. He reached to his left beneath the desk for the controls to operate the set-up projector, then bent to his right, to trigger some other unseen mechanism: at once, to the faintest whirr of machinery, the heavy drapes behind the man closed on electrical runners to put the room in darkness. The projector lights popped on, providing the minimum of illumination.

  Reimann was anticipating a video movie, but initially it wasn’t. ‘Elke Meyer!’ Turev introduced the first of the still pictures on to the screen.

  Illogically Reimann had secretly imagined the woman to be seduced would be ugly or old or maybe actually suffer some physical disability or deformity. Elke Meyer didn’t display any of those disadvantages. The first portrait showed a pleasantly featured woman (soft skinned, he guessed, so she’d have to be careful of burning in strong summer sun) with medium-length, well coiffured blonde hair. She had been half turned when the hidden camera caught her, showing the smallest of bumps on the bridge of her nose, which accentuated rather than detracted from her strongly featured face. The mole just visible above the left eye didn’t detract, either. The formal suit was severe and figure-concealing but there definitely was a figure. Full busted, in fact, which was fortunate because Reimann liked big tits. The projector clicked, to a fuller-length photograph this time. Reasonable legs, too, judged Reimann before the other man took up the commentary.

  ‘… she’s thirty-eight years old, a spinster. She has a child, though. Name’s Ursula. The girl is autistic: lives in a special institution close to Marienfels …’

  The photograph now showed Elke walking with difficulty through the flower market with Poppi in her arms.

  ‘… Who’s the father of the child?’ Reimann interrupted. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘We’re not complete on that,’ Turev concealed. With continuing but necessary honesty, the Russian went on: ‘We’re speculating here. And this is why you’ve been selected. It happened long before she obtained the position she now holds, before she became a target. The birth certificate doesn’t list any father’s name. The date of Ursula’s birth is 10 June 1976, which would make Elke Meyer twenty-four …’ The projector button clicked rapidly, jumping two more shots of Elke by herself, in separate Bonn streets but most likely taken on the same day, because she was wearing the same dress and jacket. The image stopped at a grainy, faded photograph of a much younger Elke with a man of matching age. They were laughing with their arms around each other’s shoulders: Elke wore a party hat, which didn’t suit her.

  Turev smiled at the expression on Reimann’s face. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘A reasonable likeness,’ Reimann conceded.

  ‘It’s a very good likeness,’ insisted the Russian. ‘We did a computer prediction of how he might have aged, then ran physiognomy profiles, through computers again, on twenty possible candidates. You emerged the most likely.’

  Reimann shook his head, doubtfully. ‘I don’t see the logic. Why should she be attracted towards someone who looks like the man who made her pregnant and presumably dumped her! She’d hate him, surely?’

  ‘Him,’ accepted Turev. ‘Not necessarily someone who looks like him. The psychological reasoning is that it might just open a chink in the armour.’

  ‘Might,’ isolated Reimann. ‘I still don’t think it’s valid.’ It might o
ffer him an escape, he concluded. If he was ignored, just as the other attempts had failed, he had a ready-made excuse.

  ‘I concede the weakness,’ said Turev. ‘So do others involved. Your orders are to make the attempt: there’s no question of it being argued against.’

  ‘I’d like the objection registered.’

  ‘It will be,’ promised Turev. Briskly he went back to the projection, pumping the move-on button to show two more similar shots. ‘We got these from a Bonn photographer. It was a New Year’s party … the new year of 1975 …’ The button clicked again. ‘And these came from the wedding of Elke Meyer’s sister, whose name is Ida …’ The screen was initially filled with a photograph Reimann could not properly understand, until he realized it was a greatly enlarged frame taken from a massed wedding shot. Elke was shown, self-conscious in a full-skirted bridesmaid’s dress, with a floral headdress matching her small bouquet. At her shoulder once more was the man in the New Year’s Eve pictures. ‘… And here and here and here again …’ recited Turev, moving through the assembly. The Russian coughed, thick-throated, then resumed: ‘The records of the photographer at the New Year’s party show the photographs were paid for by someone named Dietlef Becker. The cameraman at the wedding took a note of the names, left to right, as they do for these sort of functions. The person shown next to Elke …’ The button was pressed again, to bring up another picture, the clearest yet of the man. ‘… is identified as Dietlef Becker …’ Turev smiled, a conjuror producing his best trick. ‘Close enough to be your double!’

  ‘Any trace?’

  Turev shook his head. ‘Certainly there’s no one of that name anywhere around now, which might have been expected if he were a family friend. We don’t have anything to suggest that he’s Ursula’s father, either …’

  ‘Why’s the kid in a home?’

  ‘We haven’t been able to discover the stated reason, in Ursula’s case,’ further admitted Turev. ‘Our doctors say autistic children sometimes become unmanageable, as they grow up. We can only surmise that’s the reason: you’ll have to find that out for yourself.’

  ‘Is there much contact?’

  ‘Very regular,’ said the Russian, at once. The projector clicked on again: Elke was shown on the approach road to the institution, in a layby beside a car, and the immediate following frame showed her with a tall, well built girl, in what was clearly the institution grounds. They were walking hand in hand. Around them were other groups of people and patients but they were indistinct because the long-range lens had been concentrated upon Elke. ‘She visits every Sunday,’ Turev continued.

  ‘An illegitimate child could be a pressure point,’ said Reimann.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Turev at once. ‘Definitely something to consider. It’s given us a very positive character indicator already.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Reimann.

  ‘The regularity of the visits,’ said Turev. ‘Every Sunday, always at the same time. Always sets out early …’ The photograph of Elke at the layby, near her car, flashed on the screen again. ‘Always has to stop here, because she arrives ahead of time. She’s a woman of strict habit, everything according to a routine.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Reimann, more to himself than to his Control, thinking back to one of the many psychological lectures. ‘There are several ways to manipulate people who need routine. What about Werle?’

  Turev smiled, and Reimann thought Christmas dwarfs shouldn’t have nicotine-browned teeth. The Russian clicked rapidly through the slides, throwing up the image of the Cabinet Secretary, and said dramatically: ‘The goldmine! Nothing has happened in the West German government in the last two decades – but most importantly in the last immediate year – that this man doesn’t know about: he has every secret there is. To get him will be to get everything!’

  Reimann studied the photograph of the neat, clerk-like man and said, in anticipation: ‘So our profile upon him is extensive?’

  Turev nodded: ‘Forty-five years old. Professional civil servant. Promoted at an incredibly young age, which shows his ability. Wife’s name is Sybille. She appears to have made ill-health a hobby after the birth of their son, Frederick …’

  ‘… Men with difficult wives … wives feigning illness … often look elsewhere,’ cut in Reimann.

  ‘Our first hope!’ said Turev. ‘We actually expected it. But not this one. Pampers the woman, dotes on the boy, never strays. He plays chess and listens to classical music. We’ve infiltrated women into his chess club: tried to put them alongside at concerts. There’s absolutely no response. Just as there was no response from Elke Meyer to what we’ve tried before.’

  ‘Could Werle be homosexual?’ suggested Reimann.

  ‘An obvious thought,’ agreed Turev. ‘We’ve tried that, too. Again, no response.’

  ‘You’re sure there’s nothing with Elke? She’d be the person closest to him, apart from his wife.’

  ‘Elke Meyer has been under surveillance for just over six months,’ disclosed Turev, patiently. ‘If there were an affair we would have detected it by now: have compromising photographs, hotel registrations or maybe apartment rentals. Nothing!’

  ‘They don’t appear to be very exciting people,’ said Reimann, in an aside.

  ‘No one has made a noise in Bonn since Beethoven,’ sneered Turev.

  ‘What else about Elke Meyer?’

  ‘Both parents are dead,’ said Turev. ‘Father was a schoolmaster, excused service in the early days of the war, but conscripted into the Wehrmacht in time to be drafted to the Russian front by 1942. Went through most of the siege of Stalingrad. Was frostbitten – lost two toes – and his medical records refer several times to disturbance caused by shell-shock. He wasn’t able to resume teaching, after the war. Lived on a pension and some money his wife inherited and managed to keep intact. He died in 1955, the year after Elke was born …’ The Russian moved through his projector cassette, seeking a new slide. On to the screen came another enlargement from Ida’s wedding, of a stout, feather-hatted woman. ‘… The mother,’ Turev identified. ‘She died in 1977. Details of the will are on file, of course: the inheritance was divided equally between the two daughters, about 45,000 Deutschmarks each.’

  ‘What about the father?’ persisted Reimann, determined to learn everything. ‘Was he a member of the Nazi party?’

  ‘No. We searched the archives.’

  ‘What about Elke, now?’

  ‘No details of any political allegiance. We’ve checked every political party membership list.’

  ‘What’s known about the sister, Ida?’

  ‘The married name is Kissel …’ The Russian gestured towards the screen, which still held the wedding picture of the mother. ‘That was in March 1976. Husband is personnel manager for Federal communications. There are two children, a boy and a girl. They live in Bad Godesberg. The precise street address is Stümpchesweg.’

  ‘Does she work?’

  Turev shook his head. ‘Before her marriage Ida was a beautician. No record of her having worked since 1976. They’re very close. Elke goes to Bad Godesberg most weekends. There are lunches, nearly every week. It would seem the sister is Elke’s only friend.’

  ‘What hobbies does Elke have?’

  ‘None that we’ve discovered. She has an account at a bookshop near the cathedral. Reads a lot of review-recommended stuff. Classics, too: Goethe, obviously. Grass, Boll, Krolow. Some of the choices are in the original English, so she obviously reads and speaks that language too.’

  ‘What about money?’

  ‘The gross income is a hundred and five thousand Deutschmarks a year. She pays eight hundred a month for her apartment. She has a car, a two-year-old Volkswagen she cherishes. We can’t find any hire purchase details, so we’re assuming she bought it outright.’

  ‘Credit cards?’

  ‘We’ve accessed every company. None.’

  Reimann nodded towards the screen, although it did not hold a picture of Elke Meyer. ‘She see
med to dress reasonably well?’

  ‘She does,’ agreed Turev. ‘The surveillance reports are that she is always immaculate but that her wardrobe does not appear excessive.’

  ‘What about payments to the home, for the child?’

  ‘It’s greatly subsidized, through her government health insurance: her contribution is eight thousand marks.’

  ‘Have we accessed her bank records?’

  Turev shook his head. ‘We’ve tried but we haven’t penetrated the computer yet: we’re still trying, of course. But there’s not the slightest indication of any financial pressures.’

  ‘There shouldn’t be, on those figures,’ said Reimann. ‘Holidays?’

  ‘She took three weeks’ leave, during the time we’ve been watching her. She didn’t leave Bonn.’

  ‘Any religion?’

  Another cigarette went into the holder. ‘A greatly lapsed Catholic, it seems: hardly any church attendance. Once, in fact, since we’ve had her under surveillance.’

  ‘Habits?’

  ‘On Saturday mornings she goes into Bonn: looks at certain shops, takes coffee in a particular cafe. Then Bad Godesberg to the sister.’

  ‘The lonely, vulnerable spinster,’ mused Reimann. It would be easy.

  ‘When you start work we’ll naturally withdraw the surveillance teams,’ Turev promised. ‘But we’ll continue trying to break into the bank computer.’

  ‘I’d like to know more about Dietlef Becker, too.’

  ‘That will also continue,’ Turev undertook.

  The two men remained looking at each other for several moments, each appearing to expect the other to speak. Feeling it was required of him, Reimann said: ‘There is a complete dossier? All the files and reports and photographs?’

  Turev nodded. ‘It must be memorized completely, here in Moscow. It would be dangerous to consider taking it to Bonn.’

  ‘What is my cover to be?’

  ‘A journalist,’ Turev disclosed. ‘I would have welcomed something else because it’s too well used as an intelligence cover. But it will enable you to make trips out of Bonn if they’re required. It also creates an overseas source of income we can adjust always to your needs beyond the immediate scrutiny of the West German revenue authorities.’