‘Herr Tate?’ The old woman’s lower lip was trembling slightly, and she looked frightened. Harry wondered what she had to be concerned about.
‘That’s right,’ he replied. But before he could say anything else, the old woman turned and walked away at a surprising clip, leaving him to follow. He had no choice but to hustle after her.
The woman led him down a narrow walkway between houses and gardens, and stopped near a large block of flats. The building was old, unlike its neighbours, and made of concrete; a throwback, it seemed, to another era, and called a Plattenbau, Harry remembered. Originally for workers, most had been torn down or renovated.
The old woman beckoned him inside. A flight of bare concrete steps led upwards, and she wheezed ahead of him, then motioned him along a landing and opened a door. She ushered him inside and pointed to a clean, sparsely furnished room with a table and three hard-backed chairs. The flat smelled musty, and the light was poor, blocked by heavy net curtains. He sat down on one of the chairs.
‘You must wait,’ the old woman told him in heavily accented English. ‘He comes soon.’
‘What’s his name?’ Harry asked, but she shook her head and walked through into a small kitchen area, where she put a saucepan of water on to an ancient stove. Then she produced a small tin of coffee from a cupboard and with almost genteel care, set down a clean mug before him. Her eyes gave nothing away, although he could have sworn the trembling in the old woman’s frame might have been generated by some kind of expectation or excitement, rather than the frailty of old age.
While the water was boiling, he tried in his limited German to get some response from her, conjuring up phrases from his time in Berlin.
‘When’s he coming. . Wann kommt er?’
But she refused to play, staring instead at the saucepan as if too nervous to meet his eyes. When the water was boiled, she made the coffee, then placed sugar alongside his mug. There was no milk. After stirring the saucepan, she poured the black mix into the mug, sniffing in evident pleasure as she did so.
‘Danke.’ He stood up and walked to the window, mug in hand. The coffee was very strong, good, pure Colombian. If he was at all suspicious, he would have begun to think this was all turning into a wild goose chase. But since when did con artists drag someone across Europe, then leave the mark alone with a little old lady to ply him with expensive coffee?
The view of the houses opposite showed cracked walls and peeling window frames. There were no vehicles in the street, merely a bicycle propped against a house further down. Just above the houses rose the church spire, where his car was parked. By leaning close to the glass he could see the length of the street, and, beyond it, the roofs of the town centre.
As he watched, a car drove by. It was a dark-blue Passat with a white mark on the front wing.
Harry felt the hairs move on the back of his neck. ‘I have to go out,’ he said, putting down the mug.
The old lady looked alarmed, and he raised both palms to reassure her. He struggled for the words, hoping they were right. ‘Ich bin gleich wieder da. .’
She seemed to understand, but there was no way of knowing. He left the flat and ran down the stairs, startling a child sitting on a front step. By the time he reached the end of the street, there was no sign of the Passat. He walked back to the church, staying close to buildings, and stopped at the corner. He could see the area in front of the building, and his car. Nearby was a beer delivery truck with the driver hauling himself into the cab.
No sign of the Passat.
Harry wondered if his nerves were getting the better of him. Yet he was certain he’d recognized the car just a few minutes ago. As he turned to leave, the beer truck started up and pulled out on to the street. Behind it was the dark-blue Passat. It was empty.
Harry froze and waited. He wondered if he was being watched right now from another vantage point, and resisted the temptation to turn and scan the surrounding buildings. Moments later a large man in jeans and a leather jacket emerged from a narrow side street and walked over to the Passat. He stood for a moment, staring at Harry’s VW, all the while talking on a mobile phone.
TWENTY-FOUR
When he returned to the flat, Harry found a bear of a man sitting at the table drinking coffee. Although several years younger than the woman, he looked drawn, as if he had not slept in a long time. But he stood up readily enough and offered his hand.
‘Ulf Hefflin,’ he said, and looked awkward, as though he wasn’t sure what to say next. He shrugged and murmured to the old woman, who poured more coffee for Harry before slipping into her coat and leaving.
Hefflin studied Harry from beneath heavy eyebrows. The look was steady, and gave Harry the impression of a sharp mind, in spite of the tired exterior.
‘Did you bring money?’
Harry nodded, relieved that the man was getting to the point. The coffee was strong enough to float a brick and he was already beginning to feel the effects of the caffeine pounding through his system.
Hefflin stood and took a small cardboard box from the top of a cupboard near the kitchen sink. He took out a burgundy-coloured passport and placed it on the table with what seemed almost reverence, then took a mobile from his pocket and placed it alongside.
Harry picked up the passport and turned to the back. Barrow’s photo stared up at him.
‘Where did you get them?’ he asked quietly.
Hefflin motioned him to sit down. ‘Please. . I will tell you what I know.’ He crossed his hands on the table in front of him and looked squarely at Harry. ‘Sylvia, my sister,’ he said, nodding towards the door, ‘has cancer. She needs drugs. Drugs we do not have here. I can get them. . but not easily.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is that why you want money?’
‘Harry — I may call you Harry?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you. I am Ulf. You have heard of the Staatssicherheitsdienst, Harry?’
‘The Stasi? Yes.’
‘They employed many people. Young, old. . ordinary people, some of them. Their job was to watch others. Spies for the state, spying on foreigners, on travellers, dissidents, artists. . but mostly each other.’ He tapped the table nervously. His fingers were strong but clean and smooth, Harry noticed. Not a labourer’s hands.
‘Sylvia and Claus — her husband — both worked for the Stasi,’ Ulf continued. ‘Until the change, of course.’
Harry nodded. ‘They were disbanded. I know.’
‘Disbanded, yes. But life for them is not easy. Many became known after the Wall came down. They suffered — some disappeared. Sure, they did wrong. . they spied on their friends, even their own families. But it was the way of life here. You worked for the state. . and sometimes you found you were working for the Stasi, also.’
‘What has this to do with this passport?’
‘Sylvia worked in a weapons factory. Research and development. The safety systems were non-existent. They were exposed to chemicals.’ He sighed deeply and stared through Harry, remembering.
‘What about you?’ Harry asked.
‘Me?’ Ulf grunted. ‘I was a doctor in the army. Sometimes with the East German army, sometimes with the Russians. . we went where we were told.’ He studied Harry’s face. ‘You were military, too, I think?’
Harry nodded. ‘Yes.’ Ulf being a doctor explained his command of English and the smooth skin of his hands. ‘How much do you want for these?’ he asked, indicating the passport and mobile.