“You were there?”
“Yes. But I was more interested in the four defendants and what they might have to say about another murder that I was investigating. But I saw him, yes. Who knew it would be the only occasion on which Hitler would have to answer for his crimes before a court of law? He arrived in court wearing a blue suit and for several minutes played the good, law-abiding citizen. But gradually, as the questioning continued, he began to contradict himself and then to lose his temper. The SA, he claimed, was forbidden to commit or to provoke any violence. Many of his answers even provoked laughter in the spectators’ gallery. And finally, after giving evidence for almost four hours, Hitler lost all composure and started to rant at the lawyer questioning him. Who happened to be a Jew.
“Now, under German law, the oath is given after testimony, not before. And when Hitler swore to the truth of his evidence—that he was pursuing legal, democratic methods to gain political power—there were very few who believed him. I know I didn’t. It was plain to anyone who was there that Hitler was absolutely complicit in SA violence, and I suppose you could say that this was the minute when I realized for sure that I could never be a Nazi and follow an obvious liar like Hitler.”
“So what did you mean when you said that this was where the story began?”
“Mielke’s story. Or rather, my Mielke story. If I hadn’t been to the Central Criminal Court that day, I might not have thought it worth going to Tegel Prison a couple of weeks later to question one of the four SA defendants. And if I hadn’t gone to Tegel that day, I might never have seen some SA men piling out of a bar in Charlottenburg and followed them. In which case, I’d never have seen Erich Mielke or saved his life. That’s what I mean.”
“Given everything that happened afterward,” said Hamer, “we’d all have been a lot better off if you’d just let him get killed.”
“But that would mean I’d never have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Agent Hamer,” I said.
“Less of the ‘Agent,’ Gunther,” said Scheuer. “From now on, we’re all of us just gentlemen, okay?”
“Does that include Herr Hamer?”
“Keep riding me, Gunther, you arrogant German bastard,” said Hamer, “and see where it gets you. I almost hope Erich Mielke doesn’t come. Just to bring you down a size or two. Not to mention the pleasure of seeing you come up short on twenty-five thousand bucks.”
“He’ll come,” I said.
“How do you really know that?” said Hamer.
“Because he loves his father, of course. I wouldn’t expect you to understand something like that, Hamer. You’d have to know who your father is to love him.”
“Hamer,” said Scheuer. “I’m ordering you not to answer that. And Gunther? That’s enough.” He pointed at the road ahead. “Where now?”
“Left on Quitzowstrasse, and then right onto Putlitzstrasse.”
We drove west with the Ringbahn on our right, keeping pace with the little red and yellow train that clattered toward Putlitzstrasse Station, moving along the green verge and overgrown track like two snooker balls. The redbrick station with its tall arched window and tower was more medieval abbey than rail terminus.
Dusk was fast approaching, and under the weak, greenish gaze of the praying mantis streetlamps of the Föhrer Brücke, we drove into Wedding. With its textile works, breweries, and massive electronics factories, Wedding had been the industrial heart of Berlin and a communist stronghold. Back in 1930, forty-three percent of Wedding voters, many of them soon to be made unemployed by the Great Depression, had voted for the KPD. Once it had been one of the most overcrowded bezirks in Berlin; now, with long winter nights fast approaching and no sign of the economic revival that had come to the American sector, Wedding looked almost deserted, as if all had been taken away to the ships of the conquerors. In truth, Berlin had always gone to bed early, especially in winter, but never in the late afternoon.
Scheuer hammered the steering wheel with excitement as he turned us onto Trift Strasse. “I can’t believe we’re really gonna get this guy,” he said. “We’re gonna get Mielke.”
“Fuck, yeah,” said Frei, and whooped loudly.
The three of them sounded like a basketball team trying to rouse themselves for an important game.
“If only you knew, Gunther,” said Scheuer, “what this guy is capable of. He likes to torture people himself. Did you know that?”
I shook my head.
“Les Bauer,” continued Scheuer. “A party member since 1932, he was arrested in 1950 and Mielke beat him like a dog. The Russians sentenced Bauer to death, and the only reason he’s still alive is because Stalin is dead. And Kurt Muller, head of the KPD in Lower Saxony. The Stasi lured him to East Berlin for a party meeting and then accused him of being a Trotskyite. Mielke tortured him, too. Poor Muller has spent the last four years in solitary confinement in the Stasi’s own prison at Halle. The Red Ox, they call it. And you don’t want to know what Mielke’s done to the CIA agents they’ve caught. Mielke’s a real Gestapo type. They say he has a bust of Felix Dzerzhinsky in his office. You know—the first Bolshevik secret police chief? Believe me, this guy Mielke makes your friend Heydrich look like an amateur. If we get Mielke, we can cripple the whole Stasi.”
I’d heard it—or something like it—before and I hardly cared. This was their war, not mine. Probably the Stasi thought the CIA “fascists” were just as bad.
As we neared the end of Trift Strasse, I told Scheuer to turn right onto Müller Strasse.
“That’s Wedding Platz just ahead,” I said.
Approaching the apartment building on the corner of Schulzendorfer Strasse, Hamer, kneeling behind us, said, “What a dump. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to swap a cottage in Schönwalde to live here.”
Scheuer, who had been to the apartment himself, said, “Really, it’s not so bad inside.”
“Well, I don’t get it.”
I shrugged. “That’s because you’re not a Berliner, Hamer. Erich Mielke’s father has lived in and around this area all his life. It’s in the bone. Like the allegiance to a tribe or a gang. For an old Berlin communist like Stellmacher, this is the center of German communism. Not police headquarters in East Berlin. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he has some old friends who live in these very streets. That’s a big thing for Berliners. Community. I don’t expect you get that much where you come from. You have to trust your neighbors in order to be neighborly.”
Scheuer stopped the van and turned in his seat. A few meters away, the ambulance containing our security came to a halt.
“All right, listen up,” said Scheuer. “This is a stakeout. And we could be here for a while until Erich junior shows up. No one mentions the Company. Once again, there’s to be no Company names and no Company language. And nobody uses profanity. From now on, we’re members of an American Bible school. And the first thing we take out of this van is a box of Bibles. Okay. Let’s go and get this bastard.”
But as we entered the building and trooped up the stone stairs, I almost hoped that Erich Mielke wouldn’t come at all and that everything might stay the same as before. My heart was beating loudly now. Was it just the effort of climbing two flights of stairs with a box of Bibles in my arms, or something else? In my imagination I already saw the scene that lay ahead of us and felt a twinge of regret. I told myself that if only I’d remained in Cuba I would never have landed in the hands of the CIA and all of this might have been avoided. That even now I might have been reading a book in my apartment on Malecón, or enjoying the pleasures that were to be had in Omara’s body at the Casa Marina. Was Mr. Greene still there, juggling breasts? Sometimes we just don’t know when we’re well off. And for the first time in a long time I wondered about poor Melba Marrero, the little chica rebel who’d shot the sailor on my boat. Was she in an American prison? For her sake, I hoped so. Or was she back in Havana and at the mercy of the corrupt local police, as she had feared? In which case, she might very likely be dead.