Len Deighton - Berlin Game

'This evening.'

'When would you want to travel?' This development changed everything. If Brahms Four could help identify such a well-placed Soviet agent, London would want him there to give evidence.

'You know what women are like, Bernd. My wife would probably need a few days to think about it.'

'Tomorrow. Ill take you back with me. But let me make this clear. Unless you produce irrefutable evidence that enables me to identify the person who is supplying this material, the deal is off.'

'I'll bring you four handwritten pages of data. Would that satisfy you?'

'Handwriting? Then it's certainly not genuine. No agent would be that stupid.'

'Is that what you think, Bernd? Sometimes – when it's late, and one is tired – it becomes very difficult to take all the necessary precautions. Blame the KGB controller in the London Embassy who forwarded the original instead of making a copy. Or blame the clerks here in Berlin who have left the document in the file, Bernd. I feel sorry for the agent. I know exactly how he felt.'

'Handwritten? And no one here remarked on it?'

'Lots of our papers are handwritten. We are not quite so automated as you are in the West. It's a distinctive hand – very neat with curly loops.'

'From London?' Fiona's writing. But could it all be a plant?

'We are only a bank. Our security precautions are not very elaborate. It was a very interesting and most secret report about proposed Bank of England support for sterling. I recognized what it was only because I was looking for such things.'

'By tonight, you say?'

'I know where the report is.'

'Your wife must understand that she can't take anything with her except what she can wear and put in her pockets.'

'We have talked about it many times, Bernd.'

'No friends or relatives, no small dogs or parrots or albums of family photos.'

'She understands,' he said.

'It doesn't get easier,' I said. 'Don't frighten her, but make sure your wife understands that she's risking her life.'

'She will not be frightened, Bernd.'

'Very well.'

'I will see you at nine o'clock, my friend. Can you find the Pioneer House at Wühlheide near Köpenick? It's a twenty-five-minute ride on the S-Bahn from here. Room G-341. I'll have the papers.'

'I'll find it.'

He stood up and, with both hands on his hips, tilted his head back and sighed like a man awakening from a long sleep. 'At last the decision is made,' he said. 'Can you think what that means to me, Bernd?'

'I'll need to phone my wife in London,' I said. 'She gets anxious if I don't keep in contact. Can I direct-dial on a secure phone?'

'Use this one. I call the West several times every day. Dial nine and then the number,' he said. 'There is no monitoring of calls, but it will be logged. Be discreet, Bernd.'

'We have a prearranged code,' I explained. 'Just domestic chat. I'll mention the handwritten paper. She'll understand what's happened.'

The Pioneer Park is a lavish example of the priority that East Germany gives to sport and leisure. Two square miles of parkland are landscaped into a complex of sports stadiums, running tracks, football and athletic fields, baths, swimming pools, and even.a course for trotting races. I found the main building, and inside its gleaming interior I picked my way past well-equipped gyms and huge indoor pools that came complete with everything from diving instructors to rows of buzzing hair-dryers.

I found G-34I on the third floor and looked through the glass panel before entering. It was a small rehearsal room, beautifully panelled in contrasting wood, and occupied by four elderly men playing Schubert's 'Death and the Maiden' quartet, Dr Munte was sitting at a grand piano but he was not playing. His head was cocked and his eyes closed as he listened to the performance. Suddenly he got up and said, 'No, gentlemen, no. There is no grace there.' He saw me looking through the door but gave no sign of recognition. 'Perhaps we've had too much Schubert tonight. Let's see how well you remember the Haydn Seventy-seven C Major.' He beckoned me into the room and greeted me with a bow and formal handshake while the players sorted out the parts for the quartet.

This is only our third attempt,' he said apologetically. One of the men dropped his music on the floor and had to go on his knees to gather the sheets together again.

'It's a difficult work,' I said.

Munte started them playing, using a delicate movement of both hands; then after watching them with a proprietorial satisfaction, he took me to a room beyond. This second room was larger, its walls lined with neat steel lockers for musical instruments and wooden lockers for clothes.

'You missed "The Trout",' he said. 'I play the piano part for that.'

'Did you get the document?'

He bent his head, still listening to the music coming from the next room. 'The first violin is not up to it any more,' he admitted sadly.

'He's having heat treatment for his finger joints, but I fear it's not helping him a great deal.'

'The document,' I said impatiently. 'Did you bring it?'

'No,' he said. 'I didn't.'

'Why not?'

Before he could answer, the door from one of the other adjoining rehearsal rooms swung open. A plump man came in dragging a small child and a cello, one in each hand. 'Now here's Dr Munte,' said the fat man to his son. 'Ask him how long you need every day.' He turned to us and said, 'Getting the little devil to practise would try the patience of a saint. All he thinks about is American jazz. Talk to him, Dr Munte. Tell him he's got to practise. Tell him he must play real music, German music.'

'If the interest is lacking, the child will never love music, Herr Spengler. Perhaps you should let him do what he wants.'

'Yes, that's the modern way, isn't it,' said the fat man, not bothering to hide his annoyance at Munte's lack of support. 'Well, I don't believe in the modern way. This is not California…'He looked at my appearance and seemed to guess that I was not an East Berliner. But, having decided that I was not a foreigner, he continued: 'We are Germans, aren't we? This is not California – yet . And may the Lord protect us from the sort of things that go on over there in the West. If I say my son is going to practise the cello, he'll do it. Do you hear that, Lothar? You'll practise every night for an hour before you go out to play football with your friends.'

'Yes, Väterchen,' said the boy with affection. He held his father's hand tightly until the man unclasped it in order to get keys from his pocket. The boy seemed reassured by his father's dictum.

The fat man put the cello into a locker and closed the door. Then he locked it with a padlock. 'You're not strong enough for football,' he said loudly as they went out. The little boy grabbed his father's hand again.

'We Germans find reassurance in tyranny,' said Munte sadly. 'That's always been our downfall.'

'The document.'

'The file containing the document you want is now with the clerk to the head of the bank's Economic Committee.'

'Why?' Was the Berlin KGB office already in action?

'It's a big file, Bernd. There could be many perfectly ordinary reasons for his taking it away.'

'Can you get it back from him tomorrow?'

'The normal way is to ask the records office, and wait while they find out where it is. Eventually such files turn up on the desk.'

'You're not suggesting that we wait while the slow wheels of Communist bureaucracy turn for us?'

'I'm not suggesting anything,' said Munte sharply. He obviously identified himself with the slow wheels of bureaucracy and was offended.

'Go to wherever it is tomorrow. Remove this damned handwritten document and bring it to me.'

'How will I explain such an action? The files – even the most ordinary ones – are signed in and out. What would the head of the Economic Committee say if his clerk tells him that I've taken the file – or even come into the office to look at it?'