A Young Man's Game Page 3
Alec went back to the Gant store and, with regret, left the trenchcoat on the rack and chose a sleek-looking, navy, mid-length, jacket, which, he thought, would be perfect for wintry Berlin. It was this coat that he had just taken off. He folded it into a bundle, lifted his legs up and stretched them out along the bench. Leaning his body against the veneered partition, he put the coat bundle between his head and the train window. That’s better, he thought, as the tension left his legs; do I think I could get away with taking my shoes off too? The night’s stress had taken its toll, and in the hot carriage, Alec’s eyes closed. He blinked them open again but couldn’t prevent the heavy eyelids from closing a final time.
Alec felt a gentle shaking of his shoulder, and he bolted upright, his legs knocking into the ticket inspector as he swung them off the bench.
‘Es tut uns leid.’ Sorry, said Alec.
‘Fahrkarte bitte?’ The inspector asked for the ticket.
Alec fumbled his wallet out of his coat pocket and retrieved the Monatskarte, monthly pass and produced it for the inspector.
‘Danke.’ Thank you, said the inspector as he looked the ticket over. He handed it back to Alec satisfied and moved on.
Alec shook his head awake and looked around. He saw that the carriage had gained some occupants while he was out, he gave them a quick once over and didn’t think any were a threat. The train pulled into the station and Alec looked out the window for the name. He didn’t recognise the wall tiles, a random mix of shades of blue and cream. Ernst-Reuter-Platz? Alec thought, I’ve slept passed my stop and a further eight stations? He quickly stood up and gathered his coat; he checked to ensure he hadn’t left anything behind and walked to the doors. When the train stopped he opened the doors and walked the length of the platform as he headed for the exit to cross to the eastbound platform to head back to Mohrenstraße. He was cursing under his breath; he had tripled his journey. Arthur is going to go nuts. He reached the platform as the train pulled into the station and quickly boarded the first carriage, next to the driver’s cabin. He decided to stand by the doors, his coat draped over one of his forearms, rather than risk falling asleep again and ending back at Vinetastraße, where he started. He noticed he had some spittle on his chin, drooling in my sleep too; Alec Leamas has nothing on me. He smiled at the thought as he rubbed it away. The doors closed, and the train continued its journey.
The train slowed as it entered Bülowstraße station, the station was overground, and instead of the usual tiled walls it had a church-like appearance: high-vaulted ceiling and glass windows, Alec unconsciously scanned the people waiting on the platform, his eyes continually flickering as they focused on each person for barely a second. His mind screamed at him as the train halted. The waiter and the driver are there, in the middle of the platform, waiting.
4
Alec took a second or two to put his coat on as he looked in the direction of the pair. The carriages thankfully obscured them; he hoped they hadn’t recognised him as he passed them, with any luck they were looking at those sitting down as there were still four stops before he was due to get off at Mohrenstraße. How did they find me again?
Alec could hear the hydraulic hiss as the doors of the train carriages opened. He waited a beat or three and peeked his head out of the door looking towards the centre of the platform for the men. It was clear. They must have boarded. He stepped down onto the platform and stayed near his carriage. The stairwell leading down to street level was in front of him. Wait, Alec. He heard the door closing signal behind and knew the doors would be shutting soon. A few passengers were heading towards the stairwell; they must have been from the middle or the other end of the train. The doors closed, and the train began to move off. Alec quickly covered the ten foot to the stairwell and descended, head bowed to conceal his identity. He put his hands in his coat pockets to protect them from the cold air coming up the stairwell from the street. He felt his phone, and the troublesome voice in his head started up again. They must have been following me either by car or train. How would they know I had missed my stop and was heading back to the embassy? He thought for a second. They were tracking my phone signal! That damn phone reception on the train and the network on the U-bahn. In Central London it is a dead zone on the tube; only allowing a signal as you head away from the tunnels to the overground stations. Either they or a controller was guiding them, maybe even before I reached the bar to meet Jaromir. How could I have forgotten that? They must have gone to the middle carriage of the train intending to split up and go through each car. You can’t keep relying on luck, you old bastard. Get your head in the game or you’ll lose it. Now let’s get rid of that phone.
Alec reached the bottom of the stairwell and stepped out of the station, looking for a waste bin to dump the phone. Swaying towards the stairwell were a couple of young girls chatting happily among themselves, clearly inebriated, their voices louder than they thought, the pitch higher, more strident. Just before they passed him, the one closest to him stumbled as her heel caught between the decorative paving stones. Her stumble brought her friend down with her. Instinctively Alec reached out to catch them and accidentally knocked the first girl’s clutch bag from her hands, it fell to the floor popping the clasp and scattering the bag's contents. Alec held up his hands in apology. He crouched to pick up the bag and retrieve the strewn items, as he was doing this he decided this would be an ideal way to get rid of the phone. He slipped it in the bag, redid the clasp, and pushed himself to his feet. He helped the girls to their feet saying sorry and passed the first girl her bag.
‘Watch where you are going next time!’ She said, in German. ‘Come on let’s get away from granddad.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Alec replied, also in German.
The girls stomped up the stairs in disgust. Alec thought of the men chasing him spending their time tracking down a pair of drunken girls. I hope they’re going to Ruhleben, the station at the end of the U2 line; just past the Olympiastadion. The girls’ condition, stirred something in Alec, Man, I could use a drink, he was missing his usual routine, he could feel it gnawing away at him, he checked his watch, just past eleven thirty. I’d be in my armchair with a glass of schnapps about now; I’ve just opened a bottle of Schladerer Zwetschgenwasser, which was very satisfying last night and I’m mid-way through that Nick Harkaway book, and it’s getting really good. He pictured his tatty armchair: an old-fashioned upright wingback, with its nicotine stained, paisley pattern, from when he used to smoke. The familiar faded tobacco smell, comforting without giving Alec the same craving and nausea he gets when he smells fresh cigarette smoke. He missed smoking, like an old friend, it would have made tonight go quicker if I'd had a pack. Measuring the distance between places by the number of cigarettes I’d smoke. The walk from the embassy to the bar, three hours? Probably eight or nine cigarettes. He coughed at the memory. I need a drink, and I need to move away from the station. He searched his memory for nearby bars that: a) would be open and b) he liked to drink in. One advantage of being in Berlin all these years was that Alec had tried almost every bar within a three-mile radius of his apartment. There are several bars on Potsdamer Straße open late, that’s just around the corner from here, but they’re a bit too loud and popular. I know, Lebensstern or Life Star is a little further away, but it’s worth it, cosy, relaxed and, most importantly, quiet. Yes, that’s where I’ll go.
With a destination in mind, Alec walked with a purpose down Bülowstraße, past the three massive Commerzbank buildings opposite the U2 rail track and turned on to Potsdamer Straße, where three more Commerzbank buildings were, each a different style and size. When he passed the third one he looked to cross the road, looking left for vehicles coming up behind him, crossed the two lanes to the middle of the road and waited for a gap in traffic to cut across to the other side. It didn’t take long and soon enough he was walking on the left-hand pavement heading up to the Landwehr canal, which he had walked along many times on a peaceful Sunday afternoon, strolling from hi
s apartment in Neuenburger Straße to the canal and then following it until it met the River Spree in what had once been East Berlin. For a moment he thought about heading to his apartment and locking himself away, like the title of the book he was reading The Gone-Away World. Sara had bought the book for him three Christmases ago and constantly nagged him to read it. It was miles away from the typical Russian literature he normally read, and he had kept putting it off and off, but nevertheless, he was enjoying it. No, can’t return to the apartment yet, it’s a good hour away, and they’d be looking for me there. Also, I really, really want that drink.
He reached the junction of Potsdamer Straße and Kurfürstenstraße, the garish blue and pink LSD – Love Sex Dreams – two-storey sex shop dominating the corner and turned left onto Kurfürstenstraße and started walking to the bar. It was only five minutes or so down this road. Every ten or twenty metres down Kurfürstenstraße there were street prostitutes, standing in the road and on the pavement touting for business. Alec was approached quite a few times by different women; he judged them from their accents to be mainly Romanian or Bulgarian, with the occasional Pole and Turk thrown in. They must be freezing, he thought to himself, out on this night, dressed in little skirts and dresses, knee-high boots, and coats. God, how old are you? You sound like your grandmother, even ten years ago this place was a great source of information for you, the stuff men tell these girls to impress them, it never changes, that frail male ego. I wonder how that stag party got on? Alec smiled, remembering the only bright spot in his night.
He declined all the girls’ offers with a gentle smile and a shake of his head and continued to the Life Star bar. He crossed the road as he got closer. Unfortunately, it appeared to the dark-haired woman standing on that side of the road, leaning against a parked car and displaying an impressive cleavage, that he crossed over to speak to her. He got a mouthful of abuse for the misunderstanding, but he apologised. It seems to be the night for me apologising, he thought and walked off, the Bulgarian curse words following him. He came to the bar, with the lighted Einstein awnings above the windows. It was a detached building, three storeys, with an iron fence in front. He entered through the gate to the left of the building and went through the front door. He knew he had to walk through the Café Einstein restaurant to get to the bar.
The smells of the food made his stomach grumble, I’ll get some food from the bar, and once inside the Life Star bar he headed for the comfortable, brown, suede-leather armchairs and waited for the waitress to serve him. He looked around the curved room, cabinets on all walls filled with all manner of spirits and liqueurs, soft up-lights from the top of the cabinets, brightened the dark red walls to the lofty ceilings; the portrait of Henny Porten, Germany’s first major film star from way back in the silent film era, and he knew he had made the right decision. The waitress came over, a pretty twenty-something woman, slim with dark hair and he ordered a plum schnapps, ‘No, make it two,’ he said, ‘and a bowl of fries… bitte.’
Calm had descended upon him, and while he waited for the drinks and food, he removed his coat and laid it over the arm of the chair next to him. He closed his eyes contently and relaxed; he didn’t sleep this time, just let the tension release itself from his body. He had been taught yoga and meditation back in the 80s on a team building weekend and occasionally used the techniques to relax his mind and body, enabling him to think clearer. This was definitely one of those times a clear mind was needed. The waitress brought over his drinks ‘Danke.’
‘Your pommes frites will be a couple of minutes,’ the waitress said and walked back to the bar.
Alec lifted one of the drinks; the glass was dainty in his hands, tall with a mug-like handle low towards the bottom. He lifted the glass, thought of Jaromir and toasted in Russian, quoting from the traditional Russian Orthodox Requiem Mass, ‘With thy saints, O Christ, give peace to the soul of thy servant.’ Alec downed the drink, feeling the hard burn at the back of his throat and down into his empty stomach, tears came to his eyes, not just from the drink. He coughed and wiped his eyes, I’m sorry old friend. The second drink was imbibed only a fraction slower. The waitress brought over the fries, she looked at Alec, and a frown crossed her face.
‘Are you ok?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I lost a friend today, and I am just drinking to his memory.’
‘Das tut mir leid.’ I’m sorry to hear that, she said.
‘Vielen dank.’ Thank you very much, Alec said, his words matched the smile on his face, given in gratitude at this stranger’s concern.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
Alec declined, feeling the alcohol already taking affect. You can have too much of a good thing and now is not the occasion. The waitress removed the empty glasses and walked away. Alec popped a couple of fries in his mouth. What to do from here? He thought. For someone to have been at the bar, as a waiter, they must have been known in advance that Alec and Polyakov would be meeting there. The meeting was only arranged this morning, and the only person Alec had told was Newbury. I put it in the Contact Log too, Alec remembered. Alec thought about Newbury, I’ve known him since I joined MI6, he joined the year ahead of me. He was my mentor in the first couple of years and helped me out of more than a few sticky situations; especially that incident in East Berlin where the Russian GRU officer opened fire on me and Stefanie, my informant, a secretary in the East German State Security Service, in that café, I returned fire and hit him and managed to return back to the West before I was picked up.
He shivered at the memory of Stefanie’s last moments: it was early evening, late summer, the trees outside were in full bloom, they were flirting over coffee, each hoping the other would step over the unspoken line and announce their feelings. He knew she was in love with him; he had done everything to make her so. He had broken into her flat, and examined her journal, noting her particular tastes and desires, her dreams and her fears. He played up each aspect, becoming her dream partner. While doing so, he had let his guard down and become emotionally attached to her in return. In quiet, alone, moments he admitted to himself that it was love he felt. The tension between them was obvious; passers-by could see it in their eyes. Alec needed her to remain where she was, in her job, on her side of the border, at least for a short while longer. It was important, he told himself, putting his country’s wants before his own.
He had promised to facilitate her escape to the West and had hoped when she was there they would marry. A GRU officer, sitting on the other side of the café opposite their table, Alec never found out his name, must have recognised her from the Stasi headquarters on Ruschestraße, near Frankfurter Allee. Stefanie was easily recognisable to most men. She was taller than most East German women, five feet ten in the sensible and functional, black inch-high heels of her profession. Long, slim, nylon clad legs displayed in a knee-length grey skirt and white starched blouse. Her face was oval, with high cheekbones, a permanent blush to the cheeks, a wide smile never far from her lips, even in melancholy East Berlin. Her hair was blonde with a hint of strawberry. Her eyes were grey, almost silver in some lights, wide with long lashes. Alec always remembered her eyes the most, haunting his waking nights and shattering his dreams. The officer must have overheard Stefanie mention her boss’s name, Markus Wolf, head of the Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung, the foreign intelligence section of the Stasi, to Alec, as he passed their table to get to his own. Once he sat down and saw her, his immediate reaction was that she was a traitor and he had pulled out his gun and shot across the café. The impact sent Stefanie to the floor. Alec stood up and looked for the threat. The officer fired again, his hands shaking so much he missed and shot out the café window behind Alec. Alec reached for the gun he had hidden in his waistband underneath his trenchcoat. The officer’s third shot hit the ceiling; dropping chunks of plaster to the floor, Alec, by now had his gun out and shot the officer in the chest, who slumped back down into his seat, his gun dropping from his hand to the floor with a thump.
Alec turned back to Stefanie and saw the large entrance wound, just above the heart, my heart, her life fading fast. Alec looked into her eyes as the light departed. He closed her eyes with his fingertips, kissed her softly on the lips, and murmured ‘I love you.’
He left her in the café; his trenchcoat draped over her face and body and ran to the border. In the warm summer’s evening, the lack of a coat wasn’t noticed, Alec had reversed his suit jacket to hide her bloodstains and faked a nonchalant air as the border guards checked his papers and he was admitted across. Alec went straight to Newbury, explained what had happened. Newbury managed things to ensure Alec’s involvement was never brought to light.
There is no way Arthur is mixed up in this, Alec thought, he has been in my corner since day one, I was his best man at his marriage to Julia and his two, now grown up, sons’ godfather. I helped him through his subsequent divorce, hell; he even stayed in my apartment for three years while he sorted himself out. So, if it wasn’t Arthur, who could it have been? It could be anyone at the embassy with access to the log, or access to someone who has access to the log. Not knowing who at the embassy it could be, makes it dangerous to return there. He thought for a minute, absentmindedly eating the fries. I need a new phone and, if possible, a gun. My usual channels will have been compromised. He thought on. I wonder if Makary Kalinowski is still around.
Kalinowski was a Polish black-market dealer, Alec had known him for about twenty years, he specialised in providing under the table products. Alec had used him occasionally when he was in the field. How will I find him? His number was in my phone, and I don’t have that anymore. Is Brigette still working? She’ll know. I haven’t seen her or Kalinowski for over ten years now. He reached into the bowl and was surprised to find it was empty. When he'd last seen Brigette, she'd been working around the Nollendorfplatz area, near the Nollendorfplatz U-bahn station. That’s only a couple of minutes away if I cut through Karl-Heinrich-Ulrichs-Straße instead of going back on myself.