Charlie M

‘You must have dinner with Gretel and me, tomorrow, when it’s all over.’

‘Gretel?’

‘The girl I’m going to marry. I’ve already telephoned, telling her something could be happening.’

Charlie concentrated on the beer before him.

‘Was that wise?’ he queried. ‘The call has to go through a manned exchange to the West.’

‘No one would have learned anything from the conversation,’ assured Bayer. ‘But Gretel knows.’

Charlie looked at his watch, wanting to end the encounter. Perhaps he was getting too old, he thought.

‘You’ve got three hours,’ he warned. ‘And you’ll need time to enter the visa stamp.’

The other man was having difficulty in speaking, Charlie saw.

‘You’re a marvellous man,’ Bayer struggled, at last, reaching over the table again.

Charlie shrugged his hand off, irritably.

‘Just don’t panic. Remember, everything is properly documented.’

From the lounge, Charlie watched the student collect the hired car and move off unsteadily into the traffic stream. He stayed, staring into the beer, thoughts fluttering through his mind like the clues in a paper-chase, scattered pieces creating nothing but a jagged line. Reluctantly he rose, paying the bill.

He had waited for an hour in that familiar Leipzigerstrasse doorway when he recognised the number of the approaching Volkswagen. Bayer was driving with confidence, more used to the vehicle. He passed the Briton, unseen in the shadows, slowing at the border approach to edge dutifully into the yellow smear of light.

The sudden glare of the spotlight, instantly joined by others that had obviously been specially positioned, was the first indication, and later Charlie reflected that it had been a mistake, throwing the switch so soon. A professional would have managed to reverse, to make a run for it. The man?uvre wouldn’t have achieved anything, of course, because immediately State Police vehicles and even armoured cars swarmed from the roads and alleys behind, blocking any retreat. For a few seconds, the Volkswagen actually continued forward, then jerked to a stop, like an insect suddenly impaled under a microscope.

‘Stay there,’ said Charlie, opening his private conversation. ‘They’ll shoot if you move.’

The driver’s door thrust open, bouncing on its hinges, and Bayer darted out, crouching, trying to shield his face from the light.

‘Halt!’

The command echoed over the checkpoint from several amplifiers. On the fringe of the illumination, Charlie could detect a frieze of white faces as the Americans formed to watch from their side of the border. Would Snare and Harrison be there? he wondered.

Bayer began to run, without direction, plunging towards the mines before realising the error and twisting back to the roadway.

‘Blinded,’ Charlie told himself.

‘Halt!’

Louder this time, with more amplifiers turned on.

‘Stop, you bloody fool,’ intoned Charlie.

Bayer was running back towards East Berlin now, towards the road-blocks he couldn’t see, head thrown back, eyes bulging.

In the report to Cuthbertson two weeks later, Charlie wrote that those first shots were premature, like the lights, but by then the hysteria would have been gripping everyone. Given the lead, there was firing from all sides, even from the armoured vehicles towards which the student was fleeing. Bayer was thrown up by the crossfire, his feet snatched from the ground and then he collapsed, flopping and shapeless, like a rag-doll from which the stuffing had escaped.

The Volkswagen was sprayed in the shooting, too, and a bullet must have entered the petrol tank, which exploded in a red and yellow eruption. Debris fell on to the body, setting some of the clothing alight.

It took Charlie ten minutes to reach Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse and the train arrived almost immediately.

I’d have liked to see the Reichstag in Hitler’s day, thought Charlie, as the train carried him to safety past the silhouette. By the time he’d reached Berlin it had been 1956 and most of the landmarks were skeletons of brick and girders. Gunther’s father had been a tank commander in a Panzer division, he remembered the student telling him: he carried a yellowed, fading picture in his wallet and was fond of producing it. Poor Gunther.

The crossing formalities were brief and within thirty minutes he was disembarking at Bahnhof Zoo, selecting the main station because the crush of people would have confused any East German sent in immediate pursuit when they discovered their mistake.

He bathed leisurely at the Kempinski, even waiting while his second suit was pressed, enjoying the thought of the confrontation that was to come.

Snare and Harrison were already in the bar, both slightly drunk as he had anticipated they would be. Snare saw him first, stopping with his hand outstretched towards his glass.

‘Oh my God,’ he managed, badly.

Harrison tried, but couldn’t locate the words, standing with his head shaking refusal.

‘You’re dead,’ insisted Snare, finally. ‘We saw it happen.’

And stayed quite unmoved, guessed Charlie. They really had tried to set him up.

‘Brandy,’ he ordered, ignoring the two men. He made a measure between finger and thumb, indicating the large size to the barman.

Snare and Harrison really weren’t good operatives, decided Charlie. No matter what the circumstances, they shouldn’t have permitted such reaction.

‘So you’re having a wake for me,’ he suggested, sarcastically, nodding towards the drinks. He raised his own glass. ‘To my continued good health.’

Both grabbed for their glasses, joining in the toast. Like hopefuls in a school play, thought Charlie, watching the performance.

They were losing their surprise now, recognising the stupidity of their response and embarrassed by it.

‘Charles,’ said Snare. This is fantastic! Absolutely fantastic!’

‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ goaded Charlie. ‘Booked a table for the celebration?’

‘But we thought you’d been killed,’ said Harrison, speaking at last. He was a heavy, ponderous man, with a face that flushed easily beneath a disordered scrub of red hair and with thick, butcher’s fingers. A genetic throw- back, Charlie guessed, to a dalliance with a tradeswoman by one of his beknighted ancestors.

‘Better fix it then, hadn’t you?’ replied Charlie.

‘Of course,’ agreed Harrison, flustered more than Snare by the reappearance. He gestured to the barman to inform the restaurant.

‘How did you do it, Charles?’ asked Snare. He was fully recovered now, Charlie saw. They’d have already informed London of his death, Charlie knew. That had been the main reason for delaying his entry into the bar, to enable them to make every mistake. Cuthbertson would have told the Minister: the two would get a terrible bollicking.

Charlie waited until they had been ushered into the rebooked table and had ordered before replying.

‘A bit of luck,’ he said, purposely deepening his accent. He paused, then made the decision.

‘… There was this mate …’

‘… who …?’ broke off Harrison, stupidly.

Charlie considered the interruption for several minutes, robbed of the annoyance he had hoped to cause the other two men.

‘His name was Bayer,’ he said, seriously. ‘Gunther Bayer.’

The waiter began serving the oysters, breaking the conversation again. Charlie gazed out of the restaurant window at the necklace of lights around the city. Somewhere out there, he thought, was a girl called Gretel. She wouldn’t know yet, he realised. She’d still be preparing her own celebration meal.

‘Tabasco?’ enquired the waiter.

‘No,’ answered Charlie, smiling. ‘Just lemon.’