Chapter Four.
The following evening, Jessica sat in a dimly-lit corner of the post-war re-built Café Kranzler, a State-sanctioned establishment on Unter den Linden that was favoured by mid-level Party functionaries for its strong coffee and reliable lack of eavesdroppers. The air was thick with the smell of damp wool and ersatz tobacco. She had chosen her seat with care... back to the wall, a clear view of both the entrance and the kitchen doors; the small round table between her, and any potential threat. She stirred her coffee, the spoon making no sound against the delicate porcelain, and watched the door. She had arranged to meet a dissident Stasi officer, who had made contact, suggesting he be extracted to the West in exchange for lists of Stasi informants in his possession.
Lieutenant Schmidt arrived precisely on time, his uniform crisp, his demeanour a study in controlled tension. He did not remove his coat, merely sat opposite her, his hands resting on the table. The pleasantries were brief, brittle.
“You took a risk, asking to meet,”
Jessica said, her German soft, inviting confidence.
“We live in a world of risks, Fräulein,”
Schmidt replied, his eyes scanning the room before settling on her.
“I read your translated notes on the British sculptor’s speech last week. The phrasing you used for ‘artistic freedom’ was… interesting. Deliberate.”
Jessica kept her expression neutral, a faint, curious smile on her lips.
“It is a translator’s job to find the most accurate equivalent.”
“Sometimes accuracy requires a subtle shift in meaning,”
he countered, leaning forward slightly.
“A shift that suggests… understanding.”
The dance had begun in earnest. For an hour, they spoke in a careful, allusive language. Schmidt spoke not of politics, but of poetry; specifically, the works of Wolf Biermann, the dissident singer-songwriter whose citizenship had been revoked. He spoke of the stifling nature of “Kulturpolitik”, the dead hand of the State on every brushstroke and stanza. He spoke of his uncle, a painter who now worked in a factory; his canvases gathering dust. His words were a tapestry of discontent, woven with threads of intellectual frustration and personal loss. Jessica listened, her mind separating the signal from the noise. This was not a crude offer of betrayal for money. This was something more complex, more dangerous; ideological corrosion. Schmidt was a true believer who felt the State had betrayed its own ideals. He was a crack in the monolith, not from the outside, but from within.
“The Wall is not just concrete and wire,”
Schmidt said finally, his voice barely a murmur.
“It is a mindset. They are planning to make that mindset permanent. New protocols, new systems. A final solution to the ‘problem’ of the West.”
He let the phrase hang, his eyes searching hers for comprehension.
“Such plans would be of great interest to those who study architecture,”
Jessica said carefully, using the pre-arranged code for military and security structures.
He gave a single, sharp nod.
“The blueprints are kept in the secure archive of the Ministry for State Security, Normannenstrasse. Level Sub-Three. They are under the direct purview of Oberst Mertel. He is a… meticulous man… Paranoid. He trusts no one, not even his own shadow.”
The information was both a gift, and a trap. The Stasi headquarters at Normannenstrasse was the labyrinth’s heart, the most heavily guarded building in East Berlin. Access to Sub-Three was a fantasy for any outsider.
“Why tell me this?”
Jessica asked, the question itself a test.
Schmidt’s composure faltered for a second, a glimpse of the weary, disillusioned man beneath the uniform.
“Because someone must bear witness. And you… you are a ghost. They do not see you. Use that.”
He left first, melting into the twilight crowd on the street. Jessica finished her cold coffee, her thoughts racing. Schmidt was a potential asset of incalculable value, but he was also a potential provocation. This could be an elaborate Stasi sting, a test of her cover. Mertel’s paranoia was legendary; leaking false information to entrap a suspected spy would be standard procedure. Her next move required verification. She had a low-level contact, a janitor named Hofbauer who worked the night shift at the Ministry of Culture and whose brother worked in the Stasi’s motor pool. Two days later, via a dead drop in a public lavatory near Alexanderplatz, she received a terse, coded message from Hofbauer confirming increased security activity around Normannenstrasse, and rumours of a “special project” under Mertel’s command. It was circumstantial, but it aligned. The mission parameters had just shifted dramatically. This was no longer passive intelligence gathering. To verify Schmidt’s claim and obtain the blueprints, she would have to penetrate the lion’s den. The plan that formed in her mind over the next week was audacious, relying on psychology, timing, and a deep understanding of the system’s flaws. It exploited the Stasi’s greatest weakness: its obsessive, bureaucratic need for order.
Using her cultural exchange credentials, she secured an appointment to discuss “linguistic nuances in security documentation” with a mid-level Stasi archivist; a real meeting, logged and approved. The day before; she called Hofbauer’s brother, using a pre-arranged story about a misplaced British diplomatic licence plate needing urgent verification from motor pool records. A small, plausible favour that would get the man into the Normannenstrasse complex on the same afternoon as her appointment.
The Normannenstrasse complex was bounded on four sides. Frankfurter Allee to the south, Rusch Strasse to the west; Magdalenen Strasse to the east and and Normannenstrasse to the north... the location of the main entrance. On the day, Jessica entered the fortress. The air was cold, smelling of disinfectant and stale fear. Her papers were scrutinised, her briefcase searched. She was escorted by by a sour-faced Oberfähnrich who conducted them along, wood-panelled, impersonal corridors, lined with anonymous office doors, to the archivist’s office. Behind these doors, almost anything could be happening: interrogations, imprisonment; examinations, education, or simply, administration. Inlaid into the dark laminate, corridor floor at regular intervals were pale wood strips proclaiming in bright red, capital letters; the same, repetitious, chilling slogan:
"DER FEIND IST, WER ANDERS DENKT."
("THE ENEMY IS WHOEVER THINKS DIFFERENTLY.")
This played a suitably paranoid counterpoint to prominent notices, also at regular intervals along the wall, which proclaimed:
"Staatssicherheit, Garant der SED-Diktatur."
"State security, Guarantor of the SED Dictatorship"
where "SED" stood for Socialist Union Party.
The Oberfähnrich knocked on the door at the end of the corridor, and opened it; motioning that they should enter. The meeting with the archivist was dull… a masterpiece of bureaucratic tedium she conducted with earnest precision.
Jessica's opportunity came as she was being led out. In the stark, green-lined corridor, she feigned a sudden, sharp cough, doubling over. As the guard stepped forward, more annoyed than concerned, she stumbled against him, her hand brushing his belt. The keyring she had palmed from Hofbauer’s brother... a simple ring holding a master key for the service elevators and a pass for the sub-levels, procured for just thirty seconds, was transferred to her own coat pocket in the confusion.
“Entschuldigung…”
she gasped, her eyes watering.
“... Der Staub in den Archive” …”The dust in the archives…”
Mollified by her apparent distress, the guard hurried her out. But outside the main doors, Jessica claimed she had left her scarf. Flustered, the guard waved her back inside to the front desk, unwilling to escort her again. It was the window she needed. Moving with the purpose of someone who belonged, she bypassed the front desk, slipped down a service stairwell, and used the key. The service elevator descended with a groan. Sub-Three was a different world: colder, quieter, lit by humming fluorescent tubes. The corridor was empty, the only sound the distant thrum of a generator. According to Schmidt’s description, Mertel’s secure archive was the third door on the left, protected by a simple four-digit mechanical lock - a piece of vintage technology Mertel trusted over newer, more hackable electronic systems.
Jessica’s fingers were steady as she worked, her ear pressed to the cold metal. The lock was well-made, but she had trained for this. Thirty seconds later, with a soft, satisfying click, the door swung open. The room was small, dominated by a large plan chest. The top drawer was labelled “PROJEKT ENDSTUFUNG” - “Project Final Stage”. Inside were the blueprints: detailed, chilling schematics for a new generation of the Berlin Wall, incorporating seismic sensors, automated firing turrets, and a vast, cleared “death strip” twice the width of the current one. She worked quickly, using a miniature camera concealed in a button of her blouse. The click of the shutter was deafening in the silence. She was halfway through the stack when she heard the echo of boots in the corridor. Two pairs, approaching with purpose. Her blood ran cold. There was no other exit. The window of her absence had been narrower than she thought. She slid the plans back into the drawer, closed it silently, and melted into the deepest shadow in the corner of the room, behind a tall metal cabinet, just as the door opened. Two men entered. One was Oberst Mertel, a gaunt man with eyes like chips of flint. The other was Lieutenant Schmidt.
“You are certain the bait was taken?”
Mertel’s voice was a dry rasp.
“She is meeting her handler tonight at the Brandenburg Gate memorial, at twenty-three-hundred-hours,”
Schmidt replied, his voice devoid of all the poetic discontent she had heard in the café. It was flat, efficient, loyal.
“We will have the entire network.”
Jessica stopped breathing. The sting was real. Schmidt had not been the crack; he was the hammer, designed to shatter her. The personal details, the disillusionment - all a meticulously-crafted performance. Her mind, her steel trap, had been fed flawless lies. The men lingered only a moment, checking the lock before leaving. The door clicked shut, locking her in Panic was a luxury she could not afford. She was trapped in the heart of the Stasi, scheduled to lead them to her handler. She looked around the airtight room. The ventilation duct was too small. The ceiling tiles were solid. Her eyes fell on the plan chest, and on the blueprints for the new, improved Wall. A plan formed, a desperate gamble born of cold fury.
Using her lock picks again, she carefully disabled the lock mechanism on the door from the inside, rendering it permanently unlocked. Then, she waited, counting the minutes until the shift change, when the corridor would briefly be active with passing personnel. When she heard the footsteps, she burst from the room, her face a mask of frantic, official panic. She nearly collided with two junior officers.
“Schnell!”
she hissed, channelling every ounce of authority she could muster.
“There’s been a security breach in Sub-Four! Mertel’s orders... seal the elevator and stairwell! I must report to the Oberst immediately!”
The men, confused but reacting to the tone of command and the mention of Mertel, sprang into action, running down the corridor. Jessica moved in the opposite direction, not towards the exit, but deeper into the administrative wing. She found an empty office, its occupant gone for the day, and used the telephone. She dialled the number for the British Consulate’s public line.
“Cultural Attaché’s office,”
a bored voice answered.
“This is Jessica,”
she said, her voice calm, using a pre-arranged abort code.
“The exhibition on Gothic architecture has been cancelled. Permanently. The gallery is compromised.”
She hung up before the operator could respond. Her handler would understand. The network would go dark. She then walked, openly and slowly, out of the Stasi headquarters, nodding curtly at the guards at the front desk. The sheer audacity of it worked; no one stopped a woman leaving with such apparent entitlement.
That night, at twenty-three-hundred hours, Oberst Mertel and a squad of Stasi snatch men watched the Brandenburg Gate memorial from the shadows. No one came. Their ghost had vanished. Jessica was already across the border, via a risky, but clean route arranged for emergencies; the microfilm with the partial blueprints - and the profound, costly lesson about the depths of Stasi deception - securely in MI6’s possession. The Wall, for now, remained. But in the Consulate in West Berlin, debriefing her stunned superiors, Jessica knew something they did not. She had seen the blueprints for its future. And she had looked into the eyes of the man who had built a trap from the fabric of truth and lies. The Cold War was a chessboard of infinite complexity, and she had just learned that the most dangerous pieces were not the Kings or the Rooks, but the pawns who knew how to tell a perfect story. The game was far from over.
As a result of her information, a high-level meeting between the interested agencies… MI6, the CIA, and Der Bundesnachrichtendienst… The West German Federal Intelligence Service convened at the British Cosulate, decided that Jessica and Dieter should return to the Stasi headquarters at Normannenstrasse to acquire the actual blueprints for the enhancement of the Wall in order that counter-plans could be initiated. They would, to all intents and purposes, masquarade as high-level KGB investigators out of Karlhorst, tasked by Moscow to thoroughly vet the proposed additions and modifications. The head of The West German Federal Intelligence Service; an unassuming man that she would come to know as "Elster"... “Magpie,” handed Jessica a buff envelope. He gave her a thin smile.
“The envelope contains your identity documents. You are, Colonel Nadia Tolenkanovna, KGB. Karlshorst. The other document names your partner as Major Sevastian Levkova; also of Karlshorst. All it needs is his photograph and this…”
He handed her a rubber stamp. She stared at him, and then at the rubber stamp.
He repeated the same thin smile.
“Yes, it's real. Just don't use it too often.”
His tone became serious;
“We need to get you over to the Stasi headquarters in Normannenstrasse. This, in itself is something of a challenge. They don't like the KGB visiting them. There is no way to know how they might react if they know who you actually are; so I shall inform them that you are two of our " illegal rezidents" based in West Berlin and under direct control of Karlshorst. That should placate them sufficiently for them to allow you to research any files that have so far, not been accessible to you.”
Dieter turned the green Wartburg out into Tretskowallee and drove north through Friedrichsfelde to Frankfurter Allee; heading west, back towards Berlin-Lichtenberg. As he drove, he glanced at Jessica in the front passenger seat beside him.
“When we reach the Stasi complex; As a lower-ranking officer, they shall expect me to do the talking. Just produce the passes we supplied and act dismissively towards them. That way, they will automatically assume that we are both KGB. It would be even better if you would speak German with a Soviet accent.”
Jessica nodded.
“That's not a problem. Would a standard Moscow accent be OK?”
Dieter grinned.
“It most certainly would! It would make them think you were out of the Lubyanka, and they'd probably crap themselves!”
Jessica smiled.
"Kak eto zvuchit?”... ‘How does this sound?”
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He grinned.
“Perfect! Just the correct cold feeling to it. OK, here we are.”
He turned into Ruschestrasse, and drove along the street dominated by towering "Plattenbau" buildings... the German expression for a structure constructed of large, prefabricated concrete slabs; that ran the entire length of the right-hand side of Ruschestrasse They were huge and ugly; fourteen storeys of dismal grey concrete panels; with each panel pierced through with a plain,double-paned window. Dieter nodded.
“And this is just the one side. The complex covers the entire square bounded by Frankfurter Allee, Ruschestrasse; Normannenstrasse, and Magdalenenstrasse. Building One, where Level Sub-Three is located, is at the centre of the complex.”
At the end of the main block which didn't actually stretch the full length of Ruschestrasse, but was continued as a four-storey annex constructed in the same grim concrete panels, Dieter turned into an access road that led through a short tunnel under the annex, and stopped at the red and white pole barrier. A mean-looking guard wearing a grey-green uniform stepped forward and snapped his fingers officiously.
"Identifikation bitte"…'Identification, please”
He glanced at their identification cards, then peered into the interior of the car, and snapped contemptuously,
"Was machst du hier? Dies ist ein eingeschränkter Komplex."... 'What are you doing here? This is a restricted complex.”
Dieter looked him up and down.
“We are here to meet Oberst Mertel head of Level Sub-Three.”
The guard glanced at Callaghan in the back seat, and then fixed his insolent gaze on Jessica.
"Und wer könntest du sein?"...'And who might you be?”
She gave him an icy stare and replied in gutter German, with an ominous Russian accent...
"Wer ich bin, geht dich nichts an, Soldat."… “Who I am, is none of your business, soldier.”
He stared at her as though he couldn't believe what he had just heard. His face reddened and he snapped.
"Du kannst so nicht mit mir reden"... “You can't talk to me like that...”
Jessica interrupted his blustering rant in mid-flow. Changing from German to Russian, with a portentous, icy tone; and her cold blue eyes boring into him, she spoke quietly...
"Dlya menya eto vse odinakovo. Mne plevat', chto ty dumayesh'."... “It's all the same to me. I don't give a shit what you think.”
The guard started. This woman had to be important and influential to dare to speak to any member of the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, in that tone of voice... and in Russian. He couldn't understand exactly what she had said... his grasp of Russian wasn't that good; but he certainly got the gist of it. The tone said to him that if he continued with this particular line of enquiry; at best, he would find himself on permanent cleaning out of the interrogation cells duty; and at worst; would end up freezing his nuts off with the Coastal Border Command up on the Barents Sea coast. Stepping smartly back; he raised the barrier and waved Dieter's Wartburg through into the central courtyard of the complex.
Dieter pulled into a parking space at the southern end of the central courtyard and switched off the engine. He turned in his seat and spoke quietly.
“When we get up to Oberst Mertel's office, they will also expect me do the talking.”
He glanced around the courtyard. There were a few cars parked up there; mainly Ladas and the ominous black Mercedes-Benz; but there were also several plain, off-white box vans. Pointing to the one with an incongruous sign painted on its side, which declared: "Frisches Obst und Gemüse"... "Fresh Fruits and vegetables"; his voice became circumspect.
“They are the new Barkas Stasi-Gefangentransporter.... prisoner transport vans, which are mainly used to move prisoners between here and the Hohenschönhausen Remand Prison... but they also to snatch suspects off the streets. They are disguised as bread or grocery delivery vans and hold up to six suspects or convicted prisoners in individual prisoner isolation cages that have no windows or light. It's part of the Stasi system of disorientation which makes the subsequent interrogations more effective. The prisoners don't even know what they are charged with; are kept in darkness, and have no clue where they are going; because the Stasi drive them around the streets of Berlin for five or six hours to completely disorientate them before they actually arrive at the prison.”
Leaving the car, they walked across central Courtyard Five towards the Frankfurter Allee end of the complex; passing between the HVA... Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung... General Intelligence Administration Block Fifteen annex and the six-storey Building Seven... where the Stasi Department V, responsible for the internal surveillance of East Berlin citizens was based. Walking purposefully into Courtyard Six, which was surrounded on three sides by the massive, grey cement, asbestos and prefabricated concrete Building One which incorporated three, adjoining, fourteen-storey blocks on the western corner of the complex, facing out onto Frankfurter Alee and Ruschestrasse; they were met by another sour-faced Oberfähnrich who conducted them along, wood-panelled, impersonal corridors, lined with anonymous office doors. The Oberfähnrich knocked on the door at the end of the corridor, and opened it; motioning that they should enter. The room was panelled in similar wood to the corridors. Behind a large light wood desk sat Oberst Mertel, a gaunt man with cold eyes. Dieter stood before him.
“May I introduce myself. I am Major Sevastian Levkova of the Second Chief Directorate; attached to the Rezidentura, Karlshorst. This is Colonel Nadia Tolenkanovna of the same directorate. We are instructed by the Central Committee in Moscow to acquire copies of the blueprints for the proposed enhancement of the defences to the Wall.”
Merte visibly paled. Were the First Secretary of the Socialist Unity Party of Germany, Erich Honecker's proposed transition from the crude, initial concrete block barrier to a more sophisticated, "improved" version, in accordance with Moscow's concepts? Had Honecker overstepped the mark by authorising the "Schiessbefehl"...the "order to fire" along the inner German border, which authorised guards to shoot anyone attempting to cross? Failing to comply with these two KGB investigators request could easily result in his catastrophic fall from grace in the eyes of Moscow. He gave a wan smile and looked at Jessica.
“I shall have copies of the documents made immediately and transferred into your keeping, Comrade Colonel Tolenkanovna.”
Jessica nodded.
“Thank you, Oberst Mertel Your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated”
Mertel attempted an open charming smile.
“You are most welcome Comrade Colonel. I am only too pleased to be of assistance to you. It was a great pleasure to meet you.”
Jessica returned his smile… which was not repeated in her eyes.
Returning to the car, with the copied documents, Dieter glanced at Jessica.
“Hurensohn!”... “Son of a bitch! We actually pulled this one off!”
Jessica smiled.
“True; but don't forget the First Commandment of Spookcraft... "Thou Shalt Not Get Caught"… and we really don't need to give the slightest intimation to these Stasi bastards that we are anything other than a pair of hard-nosed, intransigent investigators from Karlshorst Central. Our best course of action now, is to behave with complete arrogance towards them, and follow the Consulate lead. We sit tight and wait for them to contact us.”
Dieter nodded.
“Yeah, that sounds good to me. How does a Russian Major act towards these Commie Krauts?”
Jessica smiled again.
“The same way you deal with all these assholes… the cold, disdainful stare, and the "I really can't be bothered to carry on a conversation with a piece of shit like you" tone of voice. You have to remember; all the foot soldiers of these totalitarian règimes… especially the East Germans; are a nation of natural slaves. They've always responded to the crack of the whip and the threat of the jackboot; to the shrill blast of the whistle, and the hectoring shouts of their superiors. Treat them like a dog turd you've just stepped in on the sidewalk, and it will never cross their minds that you are anything other than what they imagine you to be.”
The following week, Jessica had arranged to meet Dieter Lange in the Haus Cumberland much-vaunted café-restaurant ‘Grosz’, named after Berlin artist George Grosz. As they took coffee, she explained that she had been contacted by one of her contacts who had some important information to pass on. Dieter had slid into the chair opposite her, nodding to the waiter who promptly brought two black coffees. He folded his hands on the table.
“You sounded urgent on the phone…”
he said quietly.
“… What’s going on?”
Jessica’s eyes flicked to the door again before she leaned forward.
“One of my contacts across the Wall has something big… something that could tip the balance in our favour.”
She tapped the surface of her cup, careful not to draw attention.
“But we can’t talk here. Too many ears.”
He nodded, studying her profile. Dieter was used to running intelligence operations, but Jessica’s nervous energy carried its own gravity.
“When do we move?”
“Now,”
she replied, rising. She tucked a slim leather folder beneath her coat. Outside, a nondescript Mercedes saloon idled at the curb - the Berlin office’s car fitted with East German plates. Dieter guided Jessica around the traffic, and they slipped inside. Dieter started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. They headed east, weaving through streets still bearing the scars of war. Within minutes they reached the Brandenburger Tor. At the checkpoint, a pair of East German guards raised eyebrows but waved them through with perfunctory curiosity. Beyond the gate, Unter den Linden stretched out like a silent boulevard through another world.
Having cleared the checkpoint, beyond the Brandenburger Tor, East Berlin was another world. The vast boulevard of the Unter den Linden, still elegant, with young, re-planted Linden trees was largely deserted with wide, open spaces where the once-sumptuous buildings of Parisier Platz had stood. The Adlon had gone; great tracts of weeded wasteland had been left where substantially damaged buildings had been razed to the ground. The huge Soviet Embassy stood broodingly on one side of the wide thoroughfare. Farther along Unter den Linden, the destruction the war had brought was still visible. Buildings stood derelict, next to empty spaces where others had been destroyed. Posters everywhere proclaimed, "Baue das sozialistische Vaterland"… "Build the Socialist Fatherland." Even out here; in what was once Berlin's most beautiful Boulevard, the dead hand of the Soviet zone was creating a dour transformation into an ugly, grey, concrete corpse of a once proud city. The intersecting streets of towering, two-tone, foggy grey concrete slabs stretched out along the wide boulevard of grey tarmac, almost empty; save for a few pedestrians, a scattering of cars and military vehicles; and the inevitable Volkspolizei, and uniformed Soviet soldiers. Occasionally, they passed a civilian who seemed to take more than a passing interest in the Mercedes-Benz. They were almost certainly Stasi… Ministry for State Security officers. As they approached Marx-Engels Platz… the large, vacant space at the eastern end of Unter den Linden, where the old Imperial Palace had once stood; the decaying ruins of which had been demolished by the Communist authorities in the early fifties… Dieter glanced at Jessica.
“OK; so tell me. What the heck are we doing out here?... and where are we heading?”
Jessica was silent for a moment.
“Just take the bridge to the right of the Cathedral. We're heading up through Alexanderplatz to a place in Prenzlauer Berg. I'm meeting a contact there. He sent me a message that he has uncovered something that could be very significant to our government.”
Dieter raised an eyebrow.
“So, when were you planning to tell me this?”
Jessica smiled.
“Dieter what you don't know can't be beaten out of you. I've done this before… and the Stasi aren't all that different to the Nazi Gestapo by all accounts. They've taken the Gestapo's methods of extracting confessions from Enemies of the State to new levels of sophistication. Torture is not just physical, but psychological as well.'
Dieter snorted.
'Bullshit! I'm no rookie spook, y'know. I can pay my way!'
Jessica looked at him
'I know you can. I want you as a back-up I can rely on… not a dead hero or one who's been beaten to a pulp by these Commie bastards. You have to remember that East Germany really does deserve its reputation as being West Germany's evil twin.'
Dieter said nothing and drove across the bridge into Karl Leibknecht Strasse which Jessica remembered as being named Kaiser Wilhelm Strasse. She glanced at him.
“Take the next right into Spandauer Strasse, and turn left at the Rotes Rathaus.”
The Rotes Rathaus… the Red Town Hall; a distinct landmark in Berlin, appeared to be pristine. It had been heavily damaged by Allied bombing in World War II and rebuilt to the original plans in the early fifties. Many buildings along Rathausstrasse had survived; but many had been rebuilt. The Stadtbahn viaduct… the railway bridge leading out of Alexanderplatz Bahnhof had been repaired; but the front of the Alexanderplatz Bahnhof itself was still a gaping void, although the station had been partially re-roofed and appeared to be fully operational. Jessica indicated that Dieter should turn the Mercedes-Benz into the station car park. As he did so; the unobtrusive DKW saloon that had followed them from Marx-Engels Platz accelerated past, belching thick blue smoke from its straining two-stroke engine, while the two men inside turned their heads and gave the smart Mercedes-Benz cold stares in the best "Knallharte" tradition… the tough, almost violent quality that post-war Germany rewarded with admiring glances. As the DKW disappeared under the bridge into Alexanderplatz, Dieter glanced at Jessica.
“GDR spooks?”
She nodded.
“They were probably Stasi; just keeping an eye on these two "Wealthy West Germans."
She pointed to a shabby Wartburg sedan parked at the far end of the station car park and told Dieter to park up next to it. This was their ride into the Prenzlauer Berg district. Her contact had said this old wreck would invite far less curiosity than their Mercedes-Benz. He was obviously of an excessively optimistic nature. The Wartburg was painted in a garishly obvious, bilious lime-green colour between the patches of rust, and its presence was almost impossible to ignore. Stepping out of the Mercedes-Benz, they hurried into the station, as though they were about to catch a train. The plan was that this would raise no suspicion from anyone who might be watching.They waited for ten minutes on the draughty platform, then made their way quietly back out into the car park. The air was filled with the smell of burning brown coal; the odour of Communist totalitarianism. Perhaps it was just their imagination; but it was difficult to feel safe or comfortable in East Berlin. There was something threatening, menacing about the place; somehow enhanced by the pervasive, sulphurous odour of brown coal smoke in the air… the cheap, peculiar, sandy lignite used to heat most buildings in the Eastern Sector. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them as they reached the decrepit Wartburg. Dieter moved towards the driver's side, but Jessica caught his arm.
“Let me drive. I know the way; and a woman driving might make us look less suspicious.”
Dieter nodded, and opened the driver's door for her. She reached up and felt under the sun visor. Her fingers touched a bunch of keys. As Dieter climbed into the front passenger seat, she slipped the ignition key into the lock, turned the key, and the asthmatic three-cylinder, two-stroke engine burst into clattering life, belching out a huge cloud of blue smoke from the exhaust pipe which drifted lazily across the car park. Apprehensively, Dieter glanced around. Nobody seemed to be taking the slightest notice, as Jessica shoved the column gear stick into reverse and pulled out of the parking bay. Banging the column gearshift into first gear, she drove out into Rathausstrasse, and turned left towards Alexanderplatz trailing a pretty cloud of blue smoke in time-honoured, two-stroke fashion.
Once beyond the Stadtbahn viaduct, Alexanderplatz opened out before them. It bore no resemblance to the "Alex" photographs that Jessica had studied. The only recognisable pre-war structures were the Behrens-designed, eight-storey Alexanderhaus, and Berolinahaus flanking the entrance to the otherwise windswept wasteland. The whole of pre-war Alex had gone… the Herti department store on the corner of Alexanderstrasse, the brooding Polizeipräsidium opposite, on Dircksenstrasse; all gone. Even the spire of Georgenkirch, which had withstood the Allied bombing and the Soviet onslaught of Berlin, had been demolished. She swung the Wartburg around the oval traffic island in the middle of Alexanderplatz and accelerated away up Memhard Strasse into Münzstrasse. The damage out here was lessening. Prenzlauer Berg had not been as badly affected by the bombing and fighting in the Second World War as other parts of the city. The Soviets had fought their way into Berlin along Frankfurter Allee, which the Communists had renamed Stalin Allee some two kilometres to the east. Many of the old Scheunenviertel "Mietskasernen"…the turn-of-the-century "Rental barracks" had been torn down.
Many had been bombed out; and in their place, the ugly, grey, Stalinist "Zuckerbackerstil"… "Wedding cake style," low-cost, prefabricated concrete slab apartment blocks were being constructed. On the surviving Mietskaserne, the stucco façade ornamentation had been removed and replaced with the same flat, plaster exteriors as their post-war concrete neighbours. The jumbled wings and some entire internal buildings had been demolished to dispel the permanent gloom of the narrow courtyards. This had exposed blank firewalls which had abutted onto adjoining properties; and seventy-foot-high rough brick walls stretching up to a hundred feet long, along the property lines were common in this area. Everything was the same, smoke-stained, dingy grey-brown colour above the narrow, stained, grey pavements.
It made Jessica's skin crawl driving down the streets of East Berlin The drab sameness, the ugly council apartments where the workers lived… all reminders of daily life under Communist rule. It was supposed to be their workers' paradise, but in truth, it was a grey, unbeautiful excuse for a city where the echoing ghosts of the monstrous Third Reich still lingered in the shadows of uninspiring, drab stucco blocks of apartments, alongside ancient neglected, smoke-stained churches. The contrast between this place; and the colourful, vibrant West Berlin was stark.
Jessica turned the Wartburg into Alte Schönhauser Strasse, and then turned left into Mulackstrasse and right into the short, narrow Rücker Strasse lined with original surviving Mietskasernen. She stopped a little way inside the street and glanced at Dieter.
“OK. This is it. Let's go, but let me do the talking.”
Dieter nodded. The dank smell of crumbling bricks mingling with the unmistakable aroma of cat piss wafted into the car as he opened the door and stepped out onto the grimy, narrow, pavement flagstones; shadowed by tenement buildings, five, and six-storeys-high, closing in on the narrow, deep cobblestone street like two granite cliffs, linked only by dingy lines of washing stretching high above their heads. Cautiously, they approached what looked like a deserted Mietskaserne across the street. It was a desolate area, even by East Berlin standards. The shell of a house stood precariously on the corner of the block, rising out of the debris of its own wreckage. It was as though the bombs had fallen yesterday, not twenty-five years earlier. An old iron gate led into a dim passageway that gave access to the first courtyard. The whole place looked as though it had been deserted since the end of the war; the windows were broken; the brickwork was crumbling, and it didn’t look like there was much left of the roof.
Beyond the gate stretched the first courtyard, a rectangle of cracked cement framed by the broken façades of the Mietskaserne. The walls, half-collapsed, were pocked with shrapnel scars from a war that had ended twenty-five years ago but still lived on in the crumbling mortar. Windows stared like blind eyes, some still covered with hastily nailed boards, others open to a void of darkness. Jessica moved first, her boots echoing off the stone as she crossed the courtyard. She stopped at a rusted fire escape that clung to the side of the eastern building, its iron rungs warped and covered in a film of grime. She placed a palm on the cold metal, feeling the faint tremor of the building’s old heart, and began climbing.
“He's here… ”
she whispered, turning back to Dieter.
“… The Stasi used this place as a dead drop during the ‘67 purge. We’ only three floors up, but the entrance is sealed behind the old kitchen wall.”
She stopped, as if the wind had taken her words. A muffled purr rose from somewhere nearby, the sound of a cat brushing against a crumbling wall. The animal, a lean black thing with a scar across its nose, darted into the shadows, disappearing behind a broken stairwell.
“The cat knows better than we do,”
Dieter muttered, stepping closer to the wall. He pressed his hand against a patch of brick that was slightly newer, the mortar a darker hue. He tapped it lightly, listening for hollow sounds. A low thud echoed back, the brick gave way, and a narrow opening appeared—a hole just big enough for a person to squeeze through. Dust swirled in a lazy vortex, catching the thin shaft of late-afternoon light that managed to pierce the courtyard’s gloom.
“After you,”
Jessica said, gesturing; though the irony of her tone was lost in the dust. Dieter hesitated only a heartbeat before slipping his body through the gap. He emerged on the other side into a dim hallway that smelled of mildew and flea powder. The walls were lined with faded propaganda posters - a faded portrait of Erich Honecker, a slogan about the “Unity of the working class”, all curling at the edges as if the paper had long since given up fighting the damp.
A short flight of worn steps led to a massive weather-beaten hardwood door. Dieter gave it a push and it moved, but not much. He put his shoulder to it and it opened a fraction more… enough for them to slip inside. Even with the door ajar, it was almost pitch black, and they could feel that the floor was covered with debris… probably pieces of plaster from the ceiling and walls, some broken roof tiles, and God knows what else. Glass crunched under their feet as they took a few steps into the inky-black interior. The whole place was goddamned eerie… anyone could be waiting in the shadows. He drew his SIG P210 semi-automatic pistol and chambered a round. Jessica glanced at him.
“You won't need that, Herr Lange.”
A voice answered from the black void in front of them.
“Listen to the Lady. You are perfectly safe, and I am unarmed.”
A figure approached from the darkness, with his hands held out from his sides… palms forward. He spoke with a pronounced Russian accent.
“It's so nice to see you again, Nadia… or should I say, Jessica?”
Dieter glanced at her and slowly lowered his pistol. The man came closer. She gasped in complete surprise.
It was Hofbauer... her low-level janitor contact at Stasi headquarters in Normannenstrasse.
He grinned, a conspiratorial grin.
“You really stirred them up on your last visit. They're destroying all manner of incriminating documents in the belief that the KGB are sniffing around. I was told to burn them all, but I saved this one in case it interested you It was mixed up by mistake with the other documents”.
He lifted it carefully, and handed it to her. A single sheet of yellowed paper. It was a map of East Berlin, hand-drawn, with a network of lines and symbols that traced a series of underground tunnels, safe houses, and… a red X.