CHAPTER SIX – DELAHAYE
The Berlin Interglobal had only been open for some three months, and already ranked as a tourist attraction: a great palace of glass and steel, with a lobby nearly as big as a football pitch that wholly dwarved its human staff and guests. Lindsay stood on the pavement, taking his bearings, and was impressed. This was the stuff of tourist features. He would write, and he would live like a king.
The girl on the reception desk was charming, almost as blonde as the BEA check-in girl, though perhaps a touch smarter in her neat dark uniform jacket and skirt, and her German accent was quite delicious. She beamed adoringly when Lindsay deprecatingly mentioned his name. ‘Oh, yes, Mr. Lindsay.’ She murmured her words as though uttering an incantation. ‘We have prepared the Kaiser Suite. Mr. Lester and Mr. Horstmeyer both want to congratulate you.’ Her smile was wholly deferential: she might be merely passing on messages, but she knew – from the trouble Horstmeyer had taken to brief her – that this Lindsay man was a very important guest indeed, deserving of nothing but the very best. She smiled again, and her whole heart beamed in her cornflower eyes. ‘I will get somebody to show you to your room, and tell them that you have arrived.’
A man in uniform deferentially ushered Lindsay to a lift and he soared aloft, to step out into a corridor reeking of opulence. He saw a small hallway ahead of him, with a table laden with fresh flowers and a straw basket of fruit, and a second man bowing and scraping. Lindsay walked on air. The second man flung open a door, and he found himself in a huge room, comfortably furnished, with a panoramic view. There were more flowers, a huge sofa, and a table with a bottle of champagne cooling on ice, a large bedroom beyond, with a bed big enough to sleep a whole army of redheads, and an impressive bathroom. But he needed to recover Roswirtha’s package at speed, with the minimum of explanation, and bash out the work he had promised, before going to the Berlin Hilton. He need to get cracking, and sharpish.
‘We have prepared a small office for you, sir.’ The man was now backing towards a half open door, and Lindsay found himself looking into a small annexe with an electric typewriter neatly set in the middle of a table, a ream of fresh paper at its side, two telephones behind it, and a collection of pencils and biros neatly arrayed in a jar.
‘We can provide you with secretarial support, sir.’ The man’s voice was unctuous, and Lindsay wondered for a moment whether he was being offered a typist or a striptease. He shook his head briskly. He needed to crack on, and crank copy out, because he counted on dining with a redhead.
‘Can we bring you anything else, sir?’ The voice was insistent: it was plain that orders had been issued for Lindsay to be accorded the finest treatment.
He shook his head dismissively. He could see that Lester had already positioned all his paperwork close to the typewriter, and he needed to get to work. He saw Roswirtha’s package neatly positioned on top, and felt his heart in his mouth. He swept it quickly into his pocket. The package had the power to deliver him to a scaffold.
‘Richard, dear boy.’ Lester stood in the doorway, with Horstmeyer and Rosser behind him. He held a big giftwrapped package, and it was plain that it was a bottle. They stared at each other for a moment, and he held his package up triumphantly. ‘I’ve brought a small celebration.’
Lindsay eyed the three men. He could feel time ticking, and he faced a deadline. He glanced at his watch. He had something like six hours to bash out nearly five thousand words. He could hack it, because much would be duplication. But he could feel his words queueing to escape from his fingertips, and he was ready for action.
‘Horstmeyer made a hell of a fuss, I called the High Commission.’ Lester began to unwrap his package. ‘The police first flatly denied taking you away, then told us they had made a mistake. Apparently they were watching the girl with you, and thought you might be something to do with her. I told them you write for The Times, and they grovelled.’ He held up a bottle of liqueur brandy, one of Cognac’s finest. ‘You probably need a drink.’
Lindsay allowed himself a quick grateful smile, and looked at his watch again pointedly. ‘Lovely, Peter.’ He wrung Horstmeyer’s hand. ‘You saved me from a fate worse than death. But I’ll have to talk to you later. I agreed to meet her at six, and I want to get all your stuff out of the way.’
Lester looked a little taken aback. ‘You’re going to do it now, dear boy?’
‘Needs must, Peter.’ Lindsay smiled again quickly, tapping his forehead. ‘I’ve got it all up here, and ready to roll.’
Lester turned to his two companions. ‘The man’s an absolute hero.’ He made pushing motions with his hands for them to retreat, and then turned back. ‘Did you find your little package?’
Lindsay nodded, already settling himself into position in front of the typewriter.
‘Was it something to do with her?’ Now the PR man’s voice held a slightly sharper edge.
Lindsay did not reply.
‘What would they have done to you if they had found it?’
Lindsay grinned. ‘They didn’t, because it was in your bag.’
Lester’s smile faded. ‘Richard, you were taking a chance.’
Lindsay shrugged. The drama had been played out, and now he must write. ‘I’m a freelance, freelances always take chances.’
‘But you’ll do us proud?’
They both beamed, because each understood the other. Lindsay flexed his fingers. ‘You did me a good turn, Peter.’ He made an experimental stab at the typewriter. ‘Now I’ve got a debt to repay. I’ll cover you with glory.’
Lindsay was already hammering hard at the typewriter keys as Lester turned to leave. He spun words into a golden hymn of praise. Berlin, the Interglobal, style, luxury, charm. A heaven for well-heeled tourists, a haven for tired businessmen. Lindsay’s words poured onto the paper, sheet after sheet of neatly double-spaced text, with barely a single correction, and he knew that he was doing brilliantly. From time to time he glanced through what he had written, just to catch up, but everything flowed smoothly, a progression of panegyric, a word picture of comfort, of places to see, of sights and sounds and adventures. He wrote, and his writing was good, and he knew that he was paying his obligations in full.
One feature, two features, three features, and three retakes. A door opened somewhere behind him, and a trolley of tasty looking open sandwiches halted at his elbow. He raised a grateful hand and powered on. Then he paused to look at his watch. Time was rolling along, and he must be thinking of his rendez-vous at the Hilton. He checked that his passport and ticket were safe in his inside jacket pocket, eyed the bottle that Lester had left on the table, side by side with the champagne, and shook his head. He needed to keep his mind clear and unfogged. He remembered the man in black, with his great silver Maltese cross, and wondered. Maybe an envelope would be waiting. He paused beside the open brandy bottle, and the temptation was too great. He was a star, deserved just a little shining. But he only took a small glass, because a man must be cautious. Then he pinned the completed features together with paperclips, slipped them into a large envelope, scribbled Lester’s name, and squared himself for the fray.
The girl in the Interglobal lobby was beaver bright. Two tough looking men had left a fat envelope for Mr. Lindsay, and she could tell that he was something very special indeed, a man who moved in the most exciting circles. She fetched it for him quickly, and stood waiting, hoping against hope that he would open it, but he merely left another envelope in exchange, and she really felt rather disappointed.
Lindsay took the fat envelope, and his heart raced within him. He had to get a cab, and get to the Hilton as fast as he could. The cab was a Mercedes, comfortable and roomy, and he sliced at the envelope with his thumbnail. It was stuffed with hundred dollar bills. He counted, and caught his breath. Freelances live by the sweat of their brows, and sometimes by the skin of their teeth, and he had pulled off a coup to make a small corner of freelance history, with four times as much still to come. He stuffed the envelope inside his jacket, with a look of secret joy on his face, because he had a dinner date in line with a beautiful redhead who had earned him a small fortune.
It was as well that he was so involved with his reward, because he did not look back. A black BMW with darkened windows followed his taxi, sometimes two, sometimes three, cars behind, cruising though the Saturday afternoon traffic like a shark. A tough man was driving, and two tough more men sat in the back, and all three looked determined.
The Berlin Hilton was quiet in the Saturday evening sun. The coffeeshop was virtually empty. A couple of teenage girls sat sipping ice cream sodas and eyed Lindsay with tentative interest, and a waitress watched him hopefully. Two men sat in a corner. Both were casually dressed, in slacks and open-necked shirts and loose summer jackets, and they had the air of waiting men. One was young, perhaps the same age as Lindsay. The other was an older man, with silver hair, and a long scar etched into the side of his face. Lindsay began to thread his way towards them between the small tables, and the younger man slipped his hand inside his jacket. Lindsay held his hands well out from his sides: this was not a time to take stupid risks. He stopped to look down at the scarred man.
‘You must be Herr Delahaye.’ He spoke in German.
Delahaye’s face was impassive. It was as though he had not heard.
‘I have a package for you. I sat with Roswirtha Schulz on the plane from London.’
Both men looked up at him. ‘You haven’t heard?’ The younger man spoke in English, with the trace of an accent.
Lindsay looked bewildered.
‘She is dead.’ The young man’s voice was hard. ‘She was killed at Dusseldorf.’
Lindsay looked down at them, his stomach a tight knot within him. He shook his head unbelievingly. He was in a dream, in a nightmare. He had trouble in finding words. ‘What happened?’
‘They were waiting for her.’ Delahaye spoke, and his English was almost perfect. He stared at Lindsay. He had blue eyes, and they were forged in steel. ‘Do you have it with you?’
Lindsay fumbled in his pocket and dropped the small green package on the table.
Delahaye too it and turned it over in his fingers slowly. ‘I am not sure it was worth dying for.’ It was though he was speaking to himself. ‘She was a brave girl. One of the best.’
Lindsay thought of his daydream of a bed, and a mane of outspread red hair.
For a moment the three men stared at the package, each with his own thoughts. Then Delahaye shrugged. He had fought many battles, and this had not been the hardest. It was a tragedy, in a world that had many tragedies, and life must move on. He looked at his companion. ‘Have they followed him?’ He spoke in German.
The younger man ttok a small radio from inside his jacket. The radio crackled into life: a small, distant voice. He listened, and smiled thinly. ‘They’re outside. Two CIA teams, and now some gangsters as well. But we can handle them.’
Lindsay was bewildered. Delahaye waved his hand at a chair, as if at last remembering the proprieties. He smiled briefly. It was a hard little smile, a business smile.
‘We have some colleagues outside the hotel.’ He glanced at the coffeeshop’s plate glass windows. ‘They watched you come in, and then saw your friends arrive.’
‘Friends?’ Lindsay’s stomach tightened again, and an icy finger of fear again traced his spine. He was a lamb amongst wolves, with no shepherd.
‘Some men took you from Tempelhof…’ Delahaye’s voice trailed away. It was an invitation.
‘They took me to a big house.’
‘And let you go?’
‘I told them I was a freelance journalist, writing for The Times.’
Delahaye’s eyes widened fractionally. The Times sometimes acted as an extension of the British Secret Service, it was a well-known thing. He took a fresh looked at this young man in his smart blue suit. He looked like a cocky young journalist, the same as any other cocky young journalist. But perhaps that was his cover. Perhaps he was smarter than that. He smiled briefly – the younger man had left them, and was moving towards the coffeeshop entrance. ‘Who was there?’
‘A man in black.’
‘With a big silver cross?’
Lindsay nodded.
‘Ah, then you are a lucky man, still to be alive.’
Delahaye’s words are a judgement. Lindsay does not mention the envelope stuffed with hundred dollar bills – it might have given a false impression.
The younger man was now a couple of metres from the entrance. He raised his hand in a signal, and Delahaye levered himself to his feet. ‘Ok, you better come with us.’ He paused. ‘I think your life will not be worth very much if you stay here.’
Lindsay was still uncertain. He had a feeling that he had jumped from a fryingpan into a fire. ‘Where are you going?’
‘East.’ Delahaye snapped the word. But then he relented and smiled. ‘We will take you somewhere safe, Mr. Englishman, and tonight we will celebrate our escape. We will eat caviar, and drink vodka.’
His face clouded momentarily, and then cleared. ‘We will mourn as well, I think, but we will not weep. Death comes very often in our business. Roswirtha was a hero. But even heroes do not live forever.’
For a moment he was distant, as though deep in thought. Then he reached inside his jacket, to take out a fat envelope and hold it out. ‘I think this is now yours.’
Lindsay stared at the envelope and touched it gingerly. ‘What is it?’
‘Roswirtha was a freelance. She worked for us, but we paid her. You have shared her work, and now she is dead. You might as well have it.’ Delahaye shrugged. His gesture closed one chapter, and opened another.
Lindsay took the envelope, and it was bulky. He hesitated. Somehow there was an indecency about stepping into a dead person’s shoes and reaping their rewards. But then he opened it, tearing at it with his thumbnail. He was a freelance, after all.
Delahaye smiled, a small hard grimace. ‘It is fifteen thousand Swiss francs. They are yours. You may still have to earn them.’
The two CIA assault teams had concealed themselves well in the empty doorways of buildings facing the Hilton, watching the hotel closely. Agency intelligence in Berlin was button-bright: Klaus Martins, senior agent in charge of the A team, and man in charge of the overall operation, knew that some reds had come over the Wall and were now holed up in the coffeeshop, and Agency reports from London suggested an imminent delivery. It was Saturday afternoon, and he and his men were well into overtime: it was good money, and the risks were small – the Hilton might be in the British sector, because the sector boundary ran down the middle of the Busdapesterstrasse. But the Brits could be counted on to turn a blind eye.
He notes the arrival of a taxi. A man in a dark blue suit got out, paid off the driver, and went into the Hilton coffeeshop, and it was a promising sign. But a BMW with darkened windows had also halted maybe forty metres to his left, and this sight made Martins twitch irritably, because he was sure that the men in it were Teutonic Order goons, and they had absolutely no part to play. He had two men with him, plus another three men in his support team, and the Agency had the situation completely under control. He signalled with his left hand to Matt Howland, his point man, pointing at the car, making a dismissive gesture. The newcomers could go home, before they made a pain of themselves. Howland shrugged, and spoke softly into his small two-way radio. Then he made a face. The radio links around the Hilton were not good, perhaps the building’s mass was blocking the airwaves. He could hear a tiny distant voice crackling at him, but it might be a million miles away, and he could not make out what it was saying.
Martins scowled, because he hated disruption, and glanced at his watch. The two teenage girls came out of the coffeeshop and stood for a moment on the pavement, and it was a signal. The man in the dark blue suit must be a contact. He held up two fingers. It was a signal for Howland to call up his support team, watching the main Hilton entrance, three more casually dressed men, hiding in two doorways maybe thirty metres away. The support team could move in through the main Hilton entrance, closing off the hotel lobby and blocking the back exit, and the reds would be neatly trapped.
Howland played with his radio, but the airwaves were silent. This was not surprising, because the three men of Martins’ B team were now both petrified and disarmed. They had been backed into their doorway by a pair of bulky men, large figures in baggy suits holding small submachineguns, neat little weapons capable of scything their legs from under them, and their hearts out of them, in quick bursts of hot steel. They had laid their guns and their radios on the ground, in response to unspoken orders, and they feared that they were counting the last moments of their lives and their marriages and their mortgages.
Meanwhile Delahaye was as cool as a cucumber. He was paying the waitress, and adding a fat tip, as though it was a Saturday afternoon no different to any other Saturday afternoon. But Lindsay shadowed him closely, with a black crow of fear perched on his shoulder. They strolled out of the coffeeshop through the hotel towards the Hilton’s main entrance, and Delahaye walked as though he did not have a care in the world - they might have been strolling across a park. But Lindsay had an uncomfortable feeling that it was a park lying along the edge of a knife.
Martins took Howland’s radio, but it remained stubbornly silent. However he was not fazed. He was an experienced CIA man and former Marine, with more than twenty years of service with the Agency and in the military, dating back to combat experience in Korea, under his belt, and he was wholly focussed. There was plainly a communications glitch, but it was a challenge as well as a hazard. Good men play hardball when tricky situations grow fuzzy. He signalled to Howland to advance, and bring Klingmann, his support man, forward. The two men crossed the street, and one might never have imagined them to be armed. They stood either side of the coffeeshop entrance, waiting for his signal.
He also glowered at the BMW, parked with its engine running, and the driver must have detected his irritation, because it moved a little way along the Budapesterstrasse, to slow and stop outside the main entrance of the hotel. Martins swore under his breath, because now the damn car was in the way. But he decided to ignore it. Dan Ackerman, CIA station chief in Berlin, could sort this problem out later.
He was still assessing the situation when he hears a sharp click, somewhere a little back of his left ear. He froze instantly. He had been around weapons for long enough in his life to recognise the sound of an Arbatsov machine pistol being cocked.
‘Bend forward, very slowly, place your gun and your walkie talkie on the floor.’ The voice spoke in heavily accented English. It was soft, very quiet and gentle.
Martins moved in half time, like a sleepwalker. He was a married man, he had two teenage children, he had volunteered for Berlin to help send them through college.
‘Good.’ The soft voice sounds satisfied. ‘Now we’ll cross the road.’
Dave Howland was not the brightest man in the world. He was tough, and brave, but maybe not very bright. He blinked as he saw Martins step forward from the building entrance where they had all been sheltering. He could see two men walking behind his chief. He did not recognise them, and something in Martins’ body language signalled bad news. It looked almost as though his chief was a captive, but this could not be true, because Martins was his boss. He glanced quickly at Klingmann for guidance, but his companion shrugged imperceptibly. Martins stepped on to the pavement, perhaps two metres from them, and Howland could see that he had a whipped looked in his eyes, the looked of a dog that wanted to bite, but had been beaten into submission.
‘We’ve been mousetrapped, boys.’ Martins spoke bitterly. He was still alive, but his promotion prospects were all dead. ‘These guys are in charge now.’ His words took in his two companions, and Howard and Klingman saw their Arbatsovs.
The two CIA men were both baffled. This was the American sector, the stars and stripes command. They both eyed Martins suspiciously. Maybe the guy had turned his coat.
A third man came up behind Martins’ companions. He had a brisk look about him, and air of command. He was carrying a large holdall. He opened it wide. ‘Come on, dump your phones and your guns in the bag, otherwise we slay this man.’
Martins looked as though he already wished himself dead. He nodded his consent. Howland and Klingmann hesitated, and then yielded grudgingly. Death in cold blood did not form part of their employment contracts.
A moment later all three CIA men trooped into the Hilton coffeeshop, marked by their three captors. A moment later the CIA B team shuffled in to join them, looking equally sorry for themselves. It was a strange scene: six Americans gathered around a table in the corner of the coffeeshop, watched by two bulky men holding machinepistols on their knees, tactfully hidden from passing curiosity. The six had the air of a collection of men waiting for something unpleasant to develop. They had all freely yielded. But there is a moment when a man surrenders to superior force, and then wonders whether he has signed his own death warrant in his yielding.
The men in the BMW watch this little drama in the Budapesterstrasse with interest. The CIA had plainly messed up, and the Americans had been hamfisted once again. One of them called up Berlin police headquarters on his radio, and he had absolutely no problem with his link: the police control centre came through loud and clear. He explained the situation briefly, it was a clipped conversation.
‘Delahaye is inside with the Englishman, so are two CIA teams. The Russkis ambushed them, very professional.’
The Berlin police control operator sniffed. The Teutonic sounded as though he thought more of his enemies than his paymasters. He transferred the link to Police Colonel Koegel, duty commander, and there was a quick flurry of activity. Koegel spoke to the senior American duty officer, who made a priority call to Washington. Plans were rapidly mapped out, and decisions taken. Berlin police headquarters mobilised every available man, and the Americans activate a special emergency taskforce. It took Koegel just ten minutes to throw a steel ring around the Hilton, with an American presence, just in case there were Russian nationals involved. Police vans blocked the Budapesterstrasse, police marksmen covered every entrance. Koegel had crossed swords with the CIA a couple of times in the past, and now he intended teaching the Amis a lesson in correct counter-terrorism action. The BMW with the darkened windows drove off. The men inside smiled at each other.