Date: Tue, 19 May 2020 07:34:19 +0100 From: Vincent Appleyard Subject: The Geisenberg Conspiracy Chapter 8 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 8 London, England and Adorf, East Germany "It's no go, I'm afraid, old chap!" said Gough-Hardy breezily, coming to the point without any preamble. Corden took a few seconds to consider this. "What do you mean 'no go'?" he said, immediately alarmed but uncertain as to where, precisely, this was leading. They were back in the Whitehall office, sitting across the coffee table. Gough-Hardy made a jerky kind of gesture, tugging at his shirt cuffs, one after another. "I mean 'no...go'!" he said with an exaggerated drawl. "The Chief's decided. He was highly pleased, naturally -- those documents on that microdot were highly relevant. If we use them right, it'll play very well. Very well indeed! I'll be recommending you for a commendation." "Damn that!" Corden really was quite angry. "What about Berg?" "What about him? I'm afraid he is very much mistaken if he thinks we're going to choose him over Becker." Corden felt himself redden slightly. "You mean we're just going to let Becker go ahead and destroy him? 'Cause that's what'll happen! I think Berg's right; if we go with Becker, we'll be backing the wrong horse. That whole business with the soldier Becker murdered - it'll do for him in the end. Berg's right -- he's a busted flush!" "The Chief disagrees. Actually, we're going to hedge our bets. Why choose between them when we can put money on both?" Corden glared at the man across the desk and felt instantly sullen like a thwarted schoolboy having to submit to his Housemaster's diktat. "We let Becker know we have these pictures. Don't need to let him know how, he can work it out for himself. I gather he's not exactly stupid. Don't suppose we'd want to get him on board if he was, would we now?" Gough-Hardy smiled, chummily. "We give him his own, personal set of prints to mull over then let him know the deal. For good measure, we'll also mention ever so discreetly that we know all about the murder rap -- slight exaggeration, of course but he's not to know that, is he? Bottom line is - he drops the nonsense with Berg or else we drop him in it. The neat trick is that we also go back to Berg and let him know that if he doesn't co-operate as well, he'll have his whole 'let's blackmail Herr Becker' conspiracy, including his shocking collusion with an enemy intelligence service - namely ourselves - splashed all over the papers, if you get my drift. We've got them both by the goolies, old son. Thanks to you!" Corden looked strangely forlorn. "And that's where you come back into the picture. The Chief wants you to give Berg the bad news personally. You give his goolies a good squeeze from us. I understand, he's quite fond of you. Or as close to fond as the Stasi ever get! Between you and me, it's probably time to...," But Corden had already risen and turned, rudely, to leave. He slammed the office door shut behind him, angry and frustrated, before Gough-Hardy could even finish his sentence. As he strode, aimless and bullish, through the streets leading away from Whitehall, Corden felt his mind sink into a familiar pattern of helpless reminiscence. He was always like this to some extent after a meeting with his London handler but on this occasion his absorption in images from his past, already cinematic in their vividness, was intensified still further by his fury at the sheer greediness and short-sightedness that informed London's decision-making around Berg. So overtaken was he with these interior thoughts and imaginings that he quite unthinkingly barged into a couple of people as they passed, even on the wide pavement of Birdcage Walk and barely paused even for a muttered apology as he shouldered his way onwards. It was only after he had reached Tothill Street and had caught sight of Westminster Abbey that he slowed down and calmed somewhat, a sudden, ancient feeling of reverence intruding upon and to some extent bringing order to, the jumbled series of images that whirled around his head. There was something about Gough-Hardy, his smooth, familiar manner, his sense of ease and entitlement which still could not disguise an underlying shabbiness, a final sleaziness, that always reminded Corden of a certain Brother Vernon from his youth. Corden had been quite devout as a child, had even considered the priesthood at one time but what he had seen and experienced on a number of religious retreats amongst the lay brothers had put an end to that. Put an end to God and Church and devotion and replaced them with a kind of spiky, wary watchfulness, an inability, ultimately, to engage and a preference for the chilly distance of the neutral, uncommitted gaze, the instinctive cover of a natural observer. His mind lurched momentarily in memory of a wry schoolboy limerick that some childhood companion had written on a toilet-block wall. For some reason, he had never forgotten it and could see it now as clear as when it first had inspired nervous giggles in him and his fellow 3rd formers: 'I met Brother Vernon today And his hands began quickly to stray I felt such a shock when he fondled my cock That it stood up and I ran away.' It still made him smile. He recalled the rumour that the author had been beaten by Brother Vernon until he bled, having been fingered, as it were, by some God-loving, snivelling little creep of a snitch in the year above. From time to time, other images intruded themselves and the pull of these grew ever stronger the more he tried to resist them. The photographs of Becker and the boy, Markus. That youthful face, open, wild, unleashed. He thought it was probably the boy's first time and wished it could have been other, that the circumstances could have been different. How much more satisfying for the lad had he not been inveigled into some seedy, sordid plot. He still blamed Berg for that. He had looked at the photographs again before handing them over to Gough-Hardy and they had, by the third or fourth viewing, lost for him their graininess, their oddness in terms of frame and focus and were now clear and vivid in his mind, which drew him back to them, back to the look of ecstatic disbelief that seemed to light-up the boy's face as his hardened cock was taken by the soft, wet embrace of Becker's mouth and after that, his evident surprise at the enormity of the rigid penis dancing up towards his own. The more destabilising sequence, to Corden's mind, was when the images of Markus merged with those of Karl. He thought of Karl's erection from beside the pond, imagining it reaching up and touching the eighteen-year-old and filling him as Corden's finger circled slowly round Karl's arse until he touched his anus and the picture blurred, the camera tilted, jolted out of frame and the film was ruined. As he slowed his pace and wandered down Victoria Street, he gradually became alive again to his surroundings. The streets of London had grown strange to him of late. The sight of youths with longish hair who lounged on corners around Piccadilly or on park benches, looking like they might be ready now to take over the world, disturbed his natural sense of order. They seemed a generation whose values were inimical to his own, let alone those of his parents. He thought of himself as slightly adrift in this world, at the mercy of small tides, subject now to minor currents, now becalmed. He would soon be washed-up, he supposed and the thought neither surprised nor concerned him overmuch. He fantasised briefly about being a farmer like Rudi, of being connected, rooted to the land somehow but it all seemed rather unlikely and his thoughts gradually dwindled as he walked. However, by the time he reached Victoria tube station, he had recovered somewhat and his brain had begun the long process of working out his approach to the job in hand - how he would present himself to Berg and deliver the new message, squeeze his goolies and wait to see what reaction he got. He thought again of Rudi and then Anna but dismissed those thoughts. His connection to them was now compromised. His cover had evidently been blown months before and he had only a grim sense of resignation when he considered what a fool he'd been, how Berg had been watching him all the time, monitoring his every move, just waiting for the right moment to pounce. Finally, he decided on his course and began making plans, working out the arrangements in his head. Within a week he was back in East Germany, driving once more towards Adorf. ................................................. He had Rudi set it up. He'd wondered if that would work, contacting him again. But Rudi had greeted him like an old friend; he'd been expecting Corden's call, he said. Berg was in Berlin but had agreed to travel down and meet again with Corden. He had an office space in Adorf they could use on August-Bebel-Strasse. It turned out to be the one attractive-looking building in an otherwise dispiriting row of dreary, post-war concrete blocks. There was a greyness everywhere despite the prettiness of the town's older spaces and the faces Corden passed, walking the short distance from where he'd parked his car, all seemed to bear a subtle, grim reflection of this. Always a careful, measured ruefulness about their looks told of the privations imposed by the centralised economy and of the small, daily humiliations that came about from having to submit to petty, bureaucratic rules that they, the People, were everywhere constrained by. Corden respected these folk enormously and he marvelled at the ingenuity with which they privately rebelled in little things which, however minor, came to symbolise the possibility of freedom itself. The crazy humour and the almost surreal flights of fancy that they let into their otherwise drab lives kept their dreams intact amidst the greyness. There was always a vigour about them, a directness and a sly, appraising confidence that he warmed to very much. A small and wrinkled man, a concierge he supposed, opened the door before he'd even knocked and ushered him inside. The man said nothing but gasped and wheezed through a flimsy, hand-rolled cigarette, which Corden could see was of the poorest quality. He looked the visitor up and down, evidently unimpressed and nodded once to indicate that Corden should proceed upstairs. Berg was waiting for him. This time there were no amenities to speak of; no Schumann on a gramophone, no Parisian coffee, no pleasantries. The office space was small and void of even the basics. There was a telephone attached to the wall and a fire extinguisher propping open a fire exit door, contrary to all regulations. But that was all, save for a few tatty chairs, not even a desk. There were four large cardboard boxes, over-filled with files, that sat on the floor, spilling out their contents onto a stained piece of carpet. There was the faint smell of cat's piss but no cat either that Corden could discern. Berg looked tightly-wound, distraught, slightly out of control even and Corden had the sense instantly that his whole mission was already a non-starter. "What are they thinking?" Berg demanded, hotly. Corden considered this. He hadn't even opened his mouth and yet the message he had been sent to deliver had clearly preceded his arrival. "I did warn you," he said, eventually. "London can be a shifty little bunch of shits when they want to be." "My source in Becker's office called last night. Becker had a visitor. One of London's agents, I presume. Not only has he now seen the photos, he knows I was behind them! He knows! Your London's man could not have been discreet. Or maybe he'd been told to drop my name...to set me up! Do you realise the damage you have done?" He punched himself in the palm of his hand to emphasise his point and made a violent straightening motion around his tie. "He can't know. Not for sure," said Corden, thoughtfully. "He's only guessing. Piecing it together. He can't know. London won't have told him that. He'll be waiting for you to make your move and then he'll know one way or another." "You are an idiot. Idiot!" exclaimed Berg. There followed a silence, during which both men seemed to ponder the likelihood or not of this proposal. "He can't know," insisted Corden. "He'll have to find a way of finding out. You've still got time." Berg had seemed to recover somewhat from his outburst. He was evidently thinking hard, a black scowl of concentration darkening his face. "Do you think he'll come after you?" Corden asked, quietly. Berg shook his head. "No, I'm too important for that. He won't come for me yet...not directly, anyway. He'll likely...," He had been talking with a precise, clipped and analytical rationality but stopped mid-sentence and Corden could have sworn he went a deathly white. "Oh my God! Markus!" he exclaimed. "He will go for Markus first and get it out of him." Both men looked at each other for a moment, in alarm. "Can you warn him?" asked Corden, evenly. Berg paused for a second before striding to the telephone on the wall. He quickly dialled a number and waited with evident impatience for his call to be answered. Then he spoke rapidly and concisely. "I need the telephone number for Berthold Rihm in Am Beckelberg, off Lesingstrasse...no, I'll wait." There was a tension-filled three minutes before Berg's man came back on the line. Berg replaced the receiver gently, picked it up again and immediately dialled the number he'd been given. He waited, his features inscrutable, for Herr Rihm to pick up. Suddenly he was speaking again, explaining that he needed to talk to Markus. He then went quiet, all colour once more draining from his face and after listening carefully for a moment longer, said abruptly: "Herr Rihm, I have to go." He replaced the receiver in its cradle and turned towards Corden with a haunted look. "It's Markus. He's disappeared. His father was expecting him back hours ago. He doesn't know where he could be...," Berg's speech trailed off, uselessly. "You think...Becker?" asked Corden, tentatively. Berg nodded, deep in thought. "It would be exactly his style to kidnap a boy. That is precisely what I would expect from him." Corden wondered at Berg, his sudden bouts of morality; a man whose own style was to involve teenage boys in compromising sexual encounters for the purposes of furthering his career. "They could be anywhere!" he declared, at last. "Is there anywhere he would have taken him? For questioning?" Berg seemed far away, pensive and agitated in turns. "Nowhere official!" he said with conviction. "So where then? We need to find them, fast. So where do we begin? Can you get your people on it?" "No. It cannot be made public. It must be us alone. You and I, Herr Erlich." "So where do we..?" Berg had suddenly spun around, his eyes flashing. "There is one place. Here in Adorf. A place Becker uses when he needs somewhere...private. Secret. He thinks I don't know about it but...," Again, Berg's voice fell away to a mere whisper. "You think that's where he could have taken Mar..the boy?" "I know he has. I'm sure of it. Come on, it's not far from here. I'll get someone to bring a car round." "No," said Corden. "I'm parked two streets away. It'll be quicker and my car's more discreet. He won't recognise it, if it comes to that." "You're right! Come on!" said Berg, pushing past Corden in his eagerness to get started on the chase. *************************************** Markus wiped the smear of blood from the corner of his mouth and waited, as if paralysed or in a trance, for Becker to hit him again. He reckoned it was shock. This must be what shock feels like he thought, mildly. He steeled himself for the blow, cringing visibly. He wasn't a coward by any means, neither physically nor morally. It was simply a question of dynamics. Becker was the senior, the stronger, the more powerful and wilful; the more determined, the nastier, the superior. He was, moreover, the one with a small signet ring on the third finger of his right hand, that drew blood even with a relatively soft punch, such as the one he had just delivered. "You little bastard! You little shit!" Becker's face was close to Markus now as he lifted him up against the wall with his left hand, measuring the short distance between them with his right. "I trusted you! I gave myself to you! You said you wanted me, you lying fuck!" His face was contorted and ugly, as was that of Markus, although for a different reason. "And all along you were setting me up for a fall, you little piece of shit!" He punched again but this time pulled it at the last second, more interested in the spasm of fear the anticipation of the hurt produced in Markus, the barely-understood relief when the hurt didn't land. "I know who was behind it all, don't think I don't!" He pressed the lad against the wall, almost in a choke hold. Markus gulped, his eyes bulging, his senses reeling not even so much from the pain but from the helplessness, the lack of any answer to the man. What could he say? The pictures Becker showed to him were shocking, vile. His first reaction was that he might vomit; at the thought his parents might see them, that Becker would blackmail him with their disclosure, their publication. The fact that the man could hardly do so without incriminating himself was lost to Markus in the shocking turmoil of his kidnap, interrogation, beating and now, his final collapse. He was, after all, guilty. He should have known that Berg was up to something. Indeed, he had surely known all along, at some level. In his secret heart, he'd known a camera would be clicking somewhere, making him a party to a crime; a disgrace, an infamy. It was mainly Berg's fault, he realised. But he could not escape some blame for his own involvement, such had been his blind loyalty to the man. And now he was to get what he deserved, an adult beating; a proper, adult punishment for his sins. He glanced away and his eyes locked onto Robert's face. The boy looked beyond terrified. He gazed a moment, observing little details for the very first time; the way the lashes curved on Robert's eyes, the way the colour of his cheeks, dampened now with tears, changed almost imperceptibly when he breathed-in hard. He wondered, stupidly, if he had ever really known the boy at all. Before. Before his own conspicuous fall from grace. "Listen, Rihm," growled Becker. "All I need is for you to say the name. Nothing more. Believe me, I know who set me up. I already know it. Just confirm the name for me and all this ends. I'll let you go. Both of you. You'll be home before your mother's got your supper on." Markus looked away from Robert and back to Becker. He still felt a loyalty towards Berg but most of all, wanted to protect Robert, to take whatever was coming upon himself. He swallowed hard and spoke in a tone of simple dignity and defiance. "No," he said, understanding exactly what his refusal would bring down on him; welcoming it, almost. Waiting for the blows, he turned again to Robert and smiled, weakly. Becker gripped Markus tight again but this time, noticing the strange intent directed onto Robert's face, his own took on an awful, sneering grin. "Oh, I get it!" he whispered into the lad's ear and roughly threw the boy aside. He turned and quickly grabbed Robert by the scruff of his neck and hauled him up from the floor where he had sunk. He pinioned him roughly up against the wall, both hands round the 14-year-old's throat, his thumbs digging in, pressurising the boy's windpipe. The look of agonised and terrified alarm that Robert's face assumed, all colour draining from his cheeks, was like a final, uncomprehending plea. His body shook in involuntary spasm, completely uncontrolled now by a mind and spirit ushered with such violence to where they could no longer function in the boy's defence, in his survival even. "Leave him alone!" screamed Markus, a sudden, dry rage possessing him momentarily until a kind of emptiness took hold, a dryness in his soul as if a desert wind had quite engulfed him, emptying him of all volition. So when he moved suddenly towards Becker, it was not as if he moved or acted in and of himself, enraged but rather he sprang up, fiery and spontaneous, without thought or motive, the movement and the action of an empty desert wind which was, itself, invincible. He locked his hands round Becker's face and pushing with his nails into his eyes, he forced a scream and made the man release his grip on Robert's throat. It was at this very moment that Berg kicked the door in, hard and Corden, rushing past Markus, brought down Becker with a single chopping motion to his neck. He went down on one knee then staggered to the floor, supporting himself as best he could. He groaned and looked up with an expression of glazed, hate-filled surprise. "Come on!" said Corden, somehow grabbing both the boys and pulling them away. Robert tumbled clumsily, his balance gone, his senses still suspended, unrestored and reeling crazily. "Come on!" he repeated more urgently to Berg, who stood there looking intently at his rival on the floor. "You go," he said quite calmly. "Go, now!" "I'll get them back to their parents," said Corden. "No. Not just yet!" said Berg. "I need to talk to them first. Go to Rudi's. Anna can look after them tonight. Go!" Corden ushered the boys out to where his car was waiting. As he opened the back door to let them in, they heard, unmistakeably, a single pistol shot. Corden looked back towards the house. He understood immediately that this was Berg's solution to the problem of Hans Becker; that he had murdered him, in fact. He also knew he'd get away with it. He had the resources to ensure the matter was covered up; the local police would never look too deeply into it, the paperwork would be delayed or lost, the whole investigation stalled and finally, abandoned. He wondered briefly if this had always been Berg's preferred outcome and remembered, grimly, the man's comment back at the Geisenberg camp: "With any luck, they will have Becker shot," he'd said. Well, now it was done and luck, Corden reflected, had damn all to do with it. As he drove West, towards the farm, Corden kept snatching glances at the boys, their reflection in the interior mirror. They were huddled close together, pale and shaking, as if they could not comprehend what had just taken place, the nature of their involvement in the day's drama. Markus seemed to be thinking hard, puzzling something out which only he, himself, could calculate; the odds, perhaps, on being kidnapped for a second time that day.