Date: Fri, 15 May 2020 10:55:45 +0100 From: Vincent Appleyard Subject: The Geisenberg Conspiracy Chapter 7 The Geisenberg Conspiracy by Vincent Appleyard A story set in East Germany in 1965 Please help keep the wonderful Nifty Archive going by donating to: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Chapter 7 "These," said Corden decisively, indicating the photos of Karl and Johann. "Are these the only prints?" "Yes. I keep them in my safe." "And the negatives?" "Here in my safe." "Get them." Weill complied meekly and retrieved a small envelope from his safe. He handed it over and Corden checked the contents. "This is all of them? You're sure?" "Of course. Of course, I'm sure. Do you want the negatives from the other sets?" "Prints and negatives," said Corden. "I want them all." Once he had them all bundled inside his coat, he looked at Weill for a long time, considering. Weill grew visibly nervous. "I could cause you a lot of trouble with these, you know. Your business. You, personally. A word in the right ear, an official ear. There are some highly dedicated police officers in this town who would be very interested in these. If I choose to share these photographs with them, they'll be knocking on your door within the hour." "Please," cried Lothar. "It's really not like that!" Corden let that go. "Give me something to make me like you," he said. "What? What do you mean? What kind of something?" Lothar's face had a stupid, almost desperate look. "Information," said Corden. "Give me something I can use against Becker. Give me something I can use to help Berg." .................................................. Back in the studio, the photo shoot had wrapped up. Max, the cameraman, was dismantling the small lighting rig, having carefully stored away his expensive camera in its shiny, hard case. Paul was sitting on a small bed in the corner, a regular prop for filming on. He was reading a comic, one of the Junge Welt publications he still enjoyed, more for the cartoons than for the obvious pieces of Communist propaganda which his fast-developing mind was already able to identify, to separate out and ignore, concentrating instead on the genuinely attractive and amusing, sometimes educational content into which it was stealthily and so artlessly inserted. His fellow model, Stefan - he of the brilliant white outfit and brilliant white running shoe -- was changing laboriously into his regular clothes. He was, aside from his occasional work for Lothar Weill, an under-employed actor who made a precarious living as a member of various tiny theatre groups which only managed to survive due to the State sponsorship they received, since box office returns alone would never be sufficient to see any of them through a season. He had stripped now and stood naked, looking at himself in a long mirror fixed to the wall near the bed. After a minute of preening self-scrutiny he turned and went to stand in front of Paul, watching the boy intently as if to rouse him. "Hey, Pauli!" he said, cheerful and casual now that work was done. "What d'you think?" Paul didn't look up from his comic. "Think of what?" he murmured, eventually. "What...do...you...think?" re-iterated Stefan slowly, emphasising each syllable. Paul raised his head towards the young man, rather disdainful and unimpressed. The fact that the man was a full ten years older than him was of no matter, no concern to Paul. Stefan stood, his pose slightly crooked, his hands on his hips. He wanted Paul to look at him, to acknowledge him, to be, if not afraid of him exactly, then wary of him; respectful and wary. "How about it?" he said, his voice conveying a sudden sense of insinuation, of urgency even. "You fancy another go? See if we can't finish off what we began last week?" This time Paul put the comic aside and smiled at the man but said nothing. Max had finished up and had come behind Stefan, noiselessly and now slapped him hard on the arse, making a terrific, loud cracking sound. Stefan smiled, turning into Max and taking him in a mock-wresting hold. The two men grappled playfully for a moment before breaking off just as suddenly as they had begun. "You trying to seduce our little friend again?" asked Max, all twinkling innocence. "What me?" asked Stefan, grinning. "Fuck you!" said Paul to both of them, but in a way that was not wholly dismissive. Max sat down on the bed. He'd taken Stefan's wrist in the pretend fighting move and took it now again, holding on to it rather sweetly, as if it provided some comfort or a focus around which he could gather his thoughts. "You're a cool one, alright." He looked intently at Paul as he spoke. "Mr Cool and unflappable. Young Herr Paul, the great mystery. The young socialist pioneer...," At this point he snatched the comic-book and threw it back down, mockingly, onto the bed. "Who still believes in a God that's going to punish him and thinks he'll go to Hell if he jerks off more than twice a day! But who actually likes the guilt because he gets off on it. It makes him hard as hell...literally!" At this poor witticism, he turned his face up to Stefan and grinned. "Look at him, he's bulging already!" Paul shifted, slightly uncomfortable in his little white underpants, hardly concealing his growing bulge. Max looked at the lad with affection and smiled. His words were only partly mocking. He genuinely found the boy a puzzle; his self-possession and assurance mixed so strangely with his deep, deep sense of guilt and sense too of his own responsibility for all that happened to him. There was a cool, unfathomable nurturing of his own darker instincts that seemed to keep him wrapped always in conscious ambiguity; an awareness that he seemed to have of how his spirit, free and light in other ways, was also bound and weighted by a knowledge of its ultimate subjugation; a dualism in his soul that split him painfully at times but also thrilled him to his core and kept him always vigilant. And all in the cause of...of what exactly? Max shook his head fondly, unable, as ever, to work this one out. "Go on, then," muttered Paul. "If you like...," Stefan had started massaging Max around his shoulders and now he began to pull at the man's shirt, unbuttoning it sufficiently to raise it over his head and off his back. Max was still watching Paul intently, a question in his eyes. "He'll never know," he said, gently. "He never need know. Lothar. If that's what's bothering you." Paul looked at both men as if considering this. "It doesn't bother me!" he said in a quite neutral voice, not sure himself what to believe. "Mr Cool!" said Stefan, imitating the English words that Max had used, a kind of fake Americanism. Paul tutted and shook his head at this but didn't say anything in reply. He leaned back on the bed, causing the comic-book to fall to the floor and raised his knees so he could pull his underpants right down. He kicked them off across the room somewhere and lay back staring at the ceiling, clasping his knees, exposing himself and waiting for the men to start. Max looked down at him as he undressed whilst Stefan went and knelt beside Paul on the bed. He had worked on shoots with Paul a few times now and appreciated the lad and liked him. He reached out and stroked the boy's belly, feeling its softness, its fullness, pressing down to feel the hardness beneath, the wall of muscle, the hint of something taut and impregnable; resistant, at any rate. "Don't be like that," he said, all the cynicism and the taunting tone now gone from his voice. He stroked Paul like a pet, as if he were some tamed exotic creature cornered, all its wildness now constrained, its instincts neutered, having long been introduced to ways of domesticity. "Enjoy yourself! I know you can. I've seen you!" This was said in genuine encouragement, a little smile flickering around his face as he spoke softly and rather earnestly to the lad. Max was naked now and he hovered above the pair. He touched Stefan's head briefly and rubbed his hair in much the way that Stefan rubbed at Paul. "Are we going to tie him up?" asked Max, as casually as if he'd asked the time. Paul was about to say something but Max had turned away and was already digging around in the bottom of a chest of drawers across the room. It flashed across Paul's mind, the stealthy way Max moved, his lightness and precision. He was somehow assured in this, rejoicing in the grace of the man although such nerveless confidence alarmed him too. Max returned to the bed with lengths of thin rope and Stefan held Paul down as his wrists were bound together tightly, followed by his ankles. Max then raised the victim's tied legs up and as Stefan supported the lad from behind, manoeuvred Paul's joined arms over his feet to rest behind his knees. Paul lay there, trussed up, feeling suddenly a hot wave pass through his body that was almost spiritual in its intensity, knowing he was at their mercy now and subject to their will and ownership. Stefan laughed, almost in derision but also with camaraderie, at Paul's instantly-stiffened cock. "You've got your hopes up, then!" he said, pointing out to Max the pointing member. "Cheeky sod!" said Max, laughing. Then more seriously, more considered, speaking closer in Paul's ear. "Not this time, young man!" he said, almost sternly as if in admonishment. His eyes were locked greedily on Paul's. "Suck my cock!" the boy demanded, squirming on the bed as Max knelt near his head and started playing with his hair and touching him about the face. Stefan knelt at the other end of the short bed and stroked Paul's upraised buttocks with one hand whilst grasping himself with the other, quickly getting hard. He leant in and placed a single kiss, loud and resonant on Paul's erection and withdrew. "And such a lovely cock too!" he said, mocking his comrade as before. He pulled at himself some more before bending low and nuzzling his face into Paul's exposed backside, landing his mouth about the anus and licking at it, making a great show and play for Paul's amusement and for Max as well. Gradually, he let his tongue explore and enter, swiftly touching, darting in and quickly out again, tasting him. "Ah, yes!" he exclaimed, making an actorly drama of it with a flourish of the hand. "The taste of 14-year-old virgin boy! Nothing like it!" Max, at the other end, smiled widely, amused and excited. He too was fully stiffened now and he knelt right by the boy's head, letting his cock-end tease the lad's chin and cheeks, his twitching lips. "Tongue out!" he ordered and the boy obeyed, turning his head slightly and sticking out his tongue so that it caught the penis batting at him, lapping at it, licking with it's very tip. Stefan resumed his probing of Paul's bumhole with his tongue, wetting the lad, teasing him, moving close to make full contact with his face, then sliding away again so that his mouth was inches away from the opening and only the very tip of Stefan's tongue could irritate the rim. The young boy started properly to moan at this, a new and startling experience. And as Paul's taste, his essence - musty, keen and acrid all at once - became familiar to the tongue, the tongue in turn, aroused, probed deeper, finally breeching some still tight and muscled barrier and slipping through to where it filled and fully gorged. Paul writhed and squirmed, holding himself in against the soft, delicious excavation, trembling now and leaking even without any pressure on his cock. And Max, responding to the tongue that urged him on, changed his position and carefully straddled the boy across his chest, feeling the very tip of Paul's wet penis brush his arse. Paul understood and took the fully-stiffened cock Max offered him into his mouth and held it there, imagining what sin of his could cause him to be bound so and so abused and relishing it joyfully. This went on for many minutes more until first Max then Stefan took up position, standing either side of Paul, still doubled-up on his back, his wrists bound firmly, held behind his knees. They pulled at themselves, inches from the boy's distorted face, catching each other's eye and grinning grimly, concentrating now. Their full release was almost simultaneous and four or five thick ropes of spunk coiled out and splattered young Paul's cheeks, his mouth, his eyes and nose, as if lassoing him and claiming him; making of his capture, one wet, sticky, loving enterprise. They all maintained positions, tense and panting, for some moments more before Max laughed and then they all laughed, shaking off the drama of their climaxes. "Good boy!" said Stefan, rather patronisingly, helping Paul to slip, quite easily, his ropes. After he had washed himself in the little corner sink he found his underpants and put them on. "Better get dressed," said Max. "Where are your clothes?" "They're still in Lothar's room," said Paul. "Well watch out. That man might still be hanging round." "Yeah, who the hell was he anyway?" asked Stefan, dressing himself. "God knows," said Max dismissively. "Some punter. Just a client, I guess." "Hey, Paul," cried Stefan. "Next time, we'll film it, yeah?" Seeing that this suggestion elicited nothing by way of response, Stefan walked over to Paul and planted a quick, friendly kiss upon his head, saying as he turned away: "You taste real good, kid!" ................................................................ Lothar Weill floundered. He made small movements with his hands as if trying to pluck something elusive from the air. He wanted now to help Corden but didn't know what would satisfy the man, what information he could give to make the man back off and leave. "Becker's a real bastard," he said, finally. "Something concrete. I know he's a bastard. Just remember I'm a bigger bastard than he is and I have your photos as evidence. Come on. Something I can use. Not some old woman's gossip." Weill was staring at the floor. Slowly, he raised his head and spoke with a kind of injured dignity. "You are not a very nice man are you? But I will humour you. You promise not to go to the police?" "Tell me!" Corden had suddenly raised his voice and its echo seemed to fill the tiny room. Weill had flinched and lowered his head again. "Becker is rumoured to have killed a boy. A couple of years back. A young man he was...involved with. He was infatuated but the boy wanted to go with someone his own age. He didn't want a fat old bastard like Becker as a lover. I don't know what happened; it was just a rumour. They had an argument...it got nasty. Becker killed him. Accidentally, I assume." "When was this?" "Like I said. A couple of years back. I was just a kid myself." "So what happened? I mean what happened after this all came out." Weill looked at Corden almost with pity. "That's the point. It never came out. The body was never found. No charges were ever brought. It's all just what I've heard. Rumours, you know? No-one really knows. The boy was a soldier. In his first year of military conscription...," "One more year than you've ever done!" Corden exclaimed, violently. He immediately regretted his outburst since Weill seemed to take it to heart and clammed up suddenly, turning away and biting his lip. "OK, so that's Becker. What about Berg? Give me something on him." There was a quiet now, almost desperate. "That's the thing. It was Berg who tried to find out the truth. He was the boy's immediate superior, also he was a young hotshot army lawyer and I mean a really promising lawyer even then, even so young. That is what got the Stasi interested in him in the first place -- his reputation as the best young law student of his generation. Anyway, he tried to get an investigation moving but it was all covered up by High Command. He didn't get anywhere. All he got was the eternal enmity of Hans Becker. You see? That is what is really behind Becker's attempts to bring Berg down. He has never forgiven him for not falling into line and going along with the cover up. Berg really tried, you know. Really tried to find out the truth. To get some justice for that poor little prick that Becker killed. It's why he's such a hero to some of us. Like I said, he's a great man. So be careful. If you end up damaging Berg, you will be bringing down a good man. More than you know." "So Becker got away with it. That's the hard truth. No?" Weill seemed to take this declaration by Corden as a challenge. He roused himself visibly, standing up straight and pushing his shoulders back as if at attention. A strange look passed across his face; part bewilderment, part pride. He spoke with seeming pleasure at the reminiscence that had overcome him. "Berg confided in me once. Just the one time. I mean properly confided in me. He knew me well enough by then that he could trust me. This was...oh...a year ago, I suppose." He paused, teasing out the moment. Corden watched his face flush with a misty kind of conviction, drawing out the drama until Corden prompted him, which he supposed was what Weill had hoped he would do. "And?" He had asked, savagely. Still Weill paused but this time Corden had the feeling that he was merely trying to find the right words and so he let him take his time. "He told me...Berg told me...that, ultimately, Becker was finished. No matter that he seemed to have got away with it. This was despite what we all thought...everyone who had heard the rumour was scandalised, after all. But Berg saw beyond that. He was the only one who truly thought it through and had the political instincts to understand the real situation. And he confided in me!" At this point Weill smiled widely, with a somewhat abstract, distant smile. "He told me that in time, Becker would lose all his support. Because of that...because of the killing, the murder. He has his own power-base of course but they are the older officers, the ones who made the cover-up, you understand? The younger generation...Berg's generation...mine. We were the ones scandalised and distraught. We thought that Becker had triumphed. But Berg told me otherwise. He told me Becker had written his own death warrant and that somewhere along the line there would be a reckoning and justice would be done for that poor soldier. He might be in a big position now, ordering us all about. But things are not going to go well for Herr Becker. This I believe. This is what Berg confided to me and I believe it is so because I choose to believe Herr Berg and to follow him." Weill came to a sudden, almost embarrassed stop and coughed quietly. Corden tried to remain calm. Possibly, this was the precise piece of information he required, the thing that would justify his visit and provide him with some intelligence of real value to take back to London. Something that would surely sway them finally in favour of Berg. "What would you say," Corden asked carefully, "if I had political influence within the Stasi. What would you say if I was to put my support behind Becker? Back him for the top job, maybe?" "I would say you knew nothing. I would say you were a fool. I would say you would be brought down along with Hans Becker! His days are numbered and so are the days of anyone backing him. That is what Berg believes. That is what we believe too. If you had any sense, you would believe it as well and plan accordingly." Corden stared hard at the floor, thinking. He remembered what Berg had told him about London backing the wrong horse, how sure he had seemed of his own eventual triumph in his power struggle with Becker despite the older man clearly having the upper hand. Finally, he reached his hand out towards Weill. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for being candid with me." Weill took his hand with some trepidation. "We have an understanding, Herr Walter? Yes? About the photos, I mean? You will not go to the police?" Corden held the handshake a moment longer. "Don't you bet on it," he whispered. Weill looked shaken for a moment but he seemed to sense a softening in Corden after all. "I really don't know whether to trust you or not," he admitted rather off-handedly. "I mean, I really don't know who you are, Herr Walter. I don't know what you want. I don't know if what I have told you is of any value...if it's what you wanted to hear or not. I simply don't know, which I suspect is what you intended all along. But it is the truth and you must do with it what you must. For my part, I am ready to justify myself in all my dealings we have touched upon -- those photos included." It was a fine speech, delivered with a casual formality and slight puzzlement which communicated the uncertain position Weill felt himself to have been manoeuvred into. "I'll bear that in mind," said Corden as he turned to leave. "Just in case we ever meet again. And keep all this to yourself, by the way; everything we've discussed. Not even Berg should get to hear of it. Especially not Berg. You seem like someone who can keep a secret." "I know how to keep my mouth shut. I've had a lot of practice...one way or another." Corden nodded briefly and was gone, disappearing into the slow, anonymous rain of Freiberger Strasse. Driving back to Nuremberg, he thought about the day's events, the highlights of his gentle interrogation of Lothar Weill; the sight of Paul performing for the camera, the casual, nude exposure of the Wagner boys, the new evidence around Becker's dispute with Berg. He decided that he liked Weill and he believed him; believed his outrage at the soldier's murder and his faith in Berg's assessment of Becker's prospects, believed him especially because Weill had no idea that his story was exactly what Corden needed to hear and had only been given up under pressure, reluctantly. He knew that Weill had little understanding of the true import of what he had revealed and this made his testimony all the more valuable. Before he reached the autobahn, Corden pulled over into a side road and took the photos and negatives from his coat pocket and checking the surrounding area carefully, he burned them all with a lighter, letting the images curl and twist in his fingers before finally disintegrating over a shallow ditch. He also took the opportunity to burn any documents that identified him as Max Walter. When he was satisfied, he got back in his car, retrieved his Gunther Erlich ID from where it had been hidden and drove on, feeling slightly more at ease now he knew that all evidence of the photo-sessions had been destroyed. He smiled vaguely at the thought that Lothar Weill had seriously been concerned that he might go to the police with them. Let him worry, he thought; he deserved a few sleepless night's if that was all it cost him and maybe he would think twice in the future about involving the likes of the Wagner boys, the others, in his affairs. Corden thought again about Paul. He believed Weill about that as well; that he cared for the boy and was respectful of his welfare. And, after all, the lad himself seemed to know his own mind well enough. With that thought, Corden drove on into the rain which grew harsher now and made the journey back difficult and unpleasant. At about the same moment that Corden had flicked on his lighter and watched the first of the negatives flare into fiery life and burn over a roadside ditch, Lothar Weill was sat alone with Paul in his private basement quarters. He'd give the boy a lift home soon, would make sure he got back safely. But now he looked at him in frankly loving admiration. The studio had emptied and the business areas of the premises were all locked up for the night. Paul had yet to change back into his everyday clothes and sat next to Lothar on the sofa, clad only in his underpants, although he had put on a pair of grey school socks. His thoughts were circling darkly round the sex he'd had with Max and Stefan, torturing himself with guilt and worried Lothar would find out. He sensed that Weill was troubled too. He seemed tense and distant as if recovering from a shock, the nature of which young Paul could not imagine. He wondered briefly if their troubles were connected but could not think how. Lothar, who was a very sensitive young man, was alert to Paul's diminished mood. He turned eventually and forced a weak, reassuring smile and was pleased when Paul smiled back, relief in his face that the troubles of the adult world had not excluded him entirely from the attention of his beloved mentor. Weill had, indeed, concluded that his interview with Herr Walter, unnerving as it had been at the time, represented an end-point of sorts, a clarification of his own thoughts and feelings around the whole Becker-Berg dispute, the intrigues he had allowed himself to be drawn into. Now Walter had been and gone, Weill felt a sense of renewal. So long as the supposed 'tax inspector' didn't run straight to the police, a new start would be possible he thought and despite his lingering uncertainties he began to feel a new optimism tugging at him vaguely amidst his fears. "I'm very pleased with you, you know?" said Weill, a warmer smile in his voice. "In fact, you did so well today, you deserve a present. Whatever you want, within reason. What can I give you?" Paul grinned shyly at the praise and at the promised gift more so and leaned into Lothar, whispering his wish-list in his ear. It was a short list; just one request. Lothar laughed out loud and ruffled the boy's hair. "I thought as much!" he said, delighted at the boy's nerve, his audacity. "You really are something special!" He paused a moment to allow a change of heart. "You sure?" he asked but Paul only nodded eagerly, gurgling with anticipation. "Alright, rather you than me!" said Lothar, reaching behind him and producing a large bedroom slipper with a classic tartan design and thick rubber sole. Paul had already pulled his undies to his knees and holding his cock in one hand to keep it from getting squashed, he positioned himself expertly across Lothar's knees. The spanking started right away, hard blows all, right on the tenderest part of Paul's bare bottom. The lad squirmed and yelped and eventually was calling Lothar's name and begging him, half-heartedly to stop, performing to the end. But Weill knew better; he understood the strange, consuming pleasure brought about by Paul's feeling of helplessness and so, ignoring protestations to the contrary, he carried on tanning the boy's arse, going somewhat beyond what the boy himself had bargained for. By the time that Lothar let him up, young Paul was sore and beaten and shamed, his plump, bare backside thoroughly reddened. He stood between Lothar's knees, rubbing himself furiously, his little cock dancing up and down. When Lothar widened his legs to make a gap, Paul threw himself gratefully at the man who'd beaten him and clasped him tight. He buried his head in Lothar's chest and sobbed real tears. Lothar held him, nuzzling his face then began kissing his puffy cheeks, almost as red as his arse. "Who's my brave boy?" he whispered gently. "Who's my big, brave boy?" As Paul collapsed, flushed and grateful, quite re-energised by the spanking, Lothar kissed him passionately; kissed his tears and kissed his mouth and kissed again until there were no longer tears to kiss away.