He weaved his way through stacks of office supplies and ancient, mothballed equipment until we were in the far corner, barely within reach of the low light afforded by the heavy glass skylights that funnelled thin sunshine down from the pavement above.
He dropped to his haunches in front of an empty wooden pallet, grabbed it, lifted it up and propped it in place with a length of scrap wood clearly left there for the purpose. Beneath there was a manhole cover.
‘Oh joy,’ I said, fearing for the future happiness of my rather nice suit.
‘Don’t panic, it’s not a sewer. Grab those flashlights.’ Engel pointed to a pair of torches on a nearby shelf and lifted the manhole cover.
I descended first. Engel hovered at the opening, knocking the makeshift prop out of the way so that the pallet fell down on top of the manhole cover as he manoeuvred it back into place.
I descended the rest of the metal ladder, turning on my torch once my feet hit the ground.
‘The U-Bahn?’ I asked. In the distance an underground train rattled along a nearby tunnel making my question redundant.
‘Service tunnel,’ Engel agreed, leading me along the tunnel. ‘It’s away from prying eyes, has private access to the rest of the city… all of the city in fact, though we try not to make a habit of it.’
Various parts of Berlin’s underground networks crossed the border. After the Wall had been built, an uneasy compromise had been in place. Some lines had been closed altogether but some West Berlin routes that strayed into Eastern territory remained open, the Eastern stations closed to travellers and manned by barricades and security guards.
‘If we make a habit of using the tunnels as a crossing route,’ Engel continued, ‘we increase our chances of getting caught and the last we thing we want to do is draw attention to a useful route.’
This was also strangely English, I thought. We have a good thing so we’d better not use it in case they take it away from us.
We walked for maybe ten minutes, distantly surrounded by the coming and going of Berlin’s commuters. Eventually, Engel stopped next to a locked grating in the wall, pulled a large set of keys from his pocket and opened it. Beyond, what appeared to be a rack of dusty fuses and cabling revealed itself to be nothing of the sort as Engel twisted one of the fuses, a latch no less, that allowed the whole to swing back revealing a dark corridor beyond.
‘Someone’s been watching a lot of Bond movies,’ I said.
‘You’re just jealous because your office is boring.’
‘Actually,’ I lied, ‘my office is lovely. And you don’t have to walk through half an hour of tunnels to get to it.’
Engel smiled and gestured for me to lead the way.
The short corridor turned a corner and I found myself faced with a pair of double doors. I swung them open and was suddenly bathed in the sound of KC and the Sunshine Band. The office was tiny, three desks surrounded by the sort of distressed metal grating low-budget sci-fi shows favour when attempting to build the future. One of the desks was occupied by a transistor radio and a young woman who looked at me over a pair of spectacles with quite astonishingly red frames. ‘Herr Shining?’
‘You make me sound like a beauty product.’
She turned down the radio slightly and stared at me in confusion, the polite look on her face souring with every passing second.
‘An awful joke,’ I explained, ‘that only really works in English, sorry. Yes, I’m August Shining.’
‘I’m sure it was very funny,’ she said, proving it really wasn’t. She handed me a key. ‘For the outside door,’ she explained. It dangled from a heavy wooden fob of the sort commonly used by hotels. Embossed in gilt was the number forty-two.
‘My age,’ I noted.
She didn’t reply. Possibly she was still recovering from my brilliant joke.
‘If you manage to lose it,’ said Engel, ‘nobody should look at it twice. There’s also a tracker in the fob.’
‘So you always know where to find me?’
‘That’s one of the benefits,’ he admitted.
‘I presume Robie wasn’t carrying one?’ It seemed slightly insulting to ask.
‘He was, but it was tracked to a Neukölln bar, abandoned next to a half-drunk glass of American beer and a lit cigarette.’
‘Which rather suggests he was interrupted.’
‘Or saw something that made him run,’ Engel suggested.
I nodded. ‘I’ll want to visit the bar,’ I told him.
‘Easy enough,’ he said.
‘Without the presence of our Eastern friends,’ I clarified.
‘Also easy enough,’ he assured me.
I hoped that would be true.
Berlin had a number of American-themed bars, enterprising Germans swallowing their pride in the name of cashing in on the Yank soldiers stationed in their city. I suppose Budweiser does at least sound vaguely German. Here in ‘The Rodeo’, one certainly got the impression they liked the beer – signs for it were slapped over the walls. I suppose they had to break up the tatty saddles and steer horns with something. On the jukebox, The Eagles were taking it to the limit one more time, I mentally raised a glass to their consistent endurance.
‘I hate this place,’ muttered Engel. ‘It makes me want to defect.’
‘Have a nice glass of Jack Daniels and feel better,’ I suggested.
We took our place at the bar next to a group of enthusiastic members of the US air force. They were approaching the stage of the evening when each drink had to be accompanied by a boisterous game, preferably with some form of bet involved. It was half past seven, God bless American enthusiasm.
The barman wore a stars and stripes shirt as if it were burning him, fixing us with a stare that suggested it was all our fault.
‘What can I get you gentlemen?’ he asked in English.
I ordered us a couple of draught beers – in German, as if pathetically trying to curry favour. It didn’t make the barman love us but at least he poured them without spitting in them.
We took our beers to a small table in the corner and muscled up the enthusiasm to make a few enquiries.
‘So,’ I said to Engel, ‘fill me in on the last movements of Lucas Robie.’
‘He was preparing to cross back over,’ said Engel, by which he meant that Robie was planning to return to East Berlin, where, by all accounts, he spent much of his time. ‘Usual business, plus,’ he added almost as an afterthought, ‘he seemed to think that there was something interesting going on involving a Russian soldier.’
I chose not to think naughty thoughts. ‘What sort of interesting?’
‘Man by the name of Anosov, rising star, young lieutenant, predicted captaincy within the year.’
‘Good for him.’
‘He went crazy, climbed naked onto the wall and began machine-gunning passers-by.’
‘Bad for him.’
‘By all accounts, it took half an army to take him down. His body was little more than tatters under gunfire but he fought on. Nobody could believe it. He seemed superhuman. I dare say it was exaggerated, you know what people are like.’
‘I do.’
‘There was no history of mental illness, no sign of anything that might have contributed to a breakdown. He went from loyal son of Mother Russia to shocking embarrassment within the space of a day.’
‘And Robie thought he knew why?’
Engel shrugged. ‘He wasn’t very forthcoming but he seemed to think there was something more to it than just a madman and a gun. Lucas liked to chase the unusual stuff sometimes. In all honesty I think he found the day-to-day stuff boring, so when something more interesting came along he jumped on it. I doubt it would have come to anything, it was just a way of him relieving the boredom.’
I could imagine that was true. Lucas’s ‘day-to-day stuff’ would have been the co-ordination of information from the network, arranging meetings and payments and then funnelling back the goods to Battle. For someone like Lucas, especially given the charmed life he led, that would have been child’s play, despite the need to spend a good deal of time on the ‘wrong’ side of the wall with all the dangers that could bring. He must have felt wasted dealing with the poor results of Battle’s network, eager to move on to more exciting opportunities. If he’d believed the actions of Anosov might lead to something exciting, he’d have been all over it.
‘Tell me precisely what he said about it.’
‘As I say, he wasn’t very forthcoming. I don’t think he wanted to discuss it until he had something concrete to pass on.’
‘All the more reason to know the little he did say.’
‘I think I asked him what was so interesting about a crazy guy. People go crazy sometimes, you know? He made a comment along the lines of “Who says he was crazy?”’
I nodded, encouraging Engel to continue.
‘So I said, “The guy strips off and kills a bunch of people, he obviously isn’t in his right mind.” I definitely phrased the last bit like that because he laughed and said, “If he wasn’t in his right mind, what was?”’ Engel shrugged, ‘I had no idea what he meant and told him so. He just shrugged and changed the subject.’
‘What was?’ I wondered aloud.
By the bar, a group of American soldiers were arguing good-humouredly about a game of cards they’d recently played. One of the soldiers was bemoaning the fact that he was owed money by someone else in the camp. The others were egging him on with his string of threats as to what he planned doing to the man if he didn’t pay up.
Engel stared at the men and grumpily tried to hide behind his drink. ‘People that threaten and never do,’ he said, ‘hot air and empty promises.’
‘That’s espionage all over,’ I told him. ‘I wonder if they’re regulars? Another drink?’
Engel, whose beer was barely touched, made to decline but I was already on my way to the bar, placing myself right next to the Americans.
‘Two more,’ I told the barman, this time speaking English.
I turned slightly towards the Americans hoping one of them would take the opportunity to talk to me. A large, red-cheeked man with teeth so large he could bring down a bison on an open plain, offered me a terrifying smile.
‘Now, either you’ve turned your back on that lousy English beer you guys drink or you’re new in town. Which is it, feller?’
‘Bit of both,’ I said shaking the man’s hand. ‘Dennis Theakston.’
‘I’m Jerry Franks.’ He pointed to each of his colleagues in turn. ‘This is Lester Reynolds, Tom Hurwitz and Billy Shepherd.’ Each shook my hand in turn, big, assertive shakes to let me know they were both happy to meet me and capable of beating me in a wrestling match should the occasion arise. I love Americans. Unlike some of my countrymen, I don’t see openness and enthusiasm as qualities to frown upon.
‘I’m over here on business,’ I said. ‘My company imports wine and I have to sign the paperwork and shout at the packaging people. It keeps my boss happy.’
‘Who’s sat on his ass back at home, I bet?’ asked Reynolds, scratching at a moustache you could have comfortably stored a family of thrushes in.
‘You’ve got it,’ I agreed, and they all laughed at my fictional boss’s expense.
‘You drink in here often?’ I asked.
‘Most nights,’ Franks admitted. ‘It’s close to the base and they play decent tunes. There used to be a pool table too but some fool tore the hell out of the baize so it’s out of action.’
‘Shame,’ I said. ‘I’d have taken one of you on if the price was right.’
‘A betting guy, huh?’ asked Hurwitz, the man who had recently been explaining to the others what anatomical acts of violence he was willing to visit on the man who owed him money.
‘I like a flutter,’ I agreed and laughed again, pretty much to see if they would all join in, which, of course they did. Rapport is an easy thing to build if you keep your ears open and your pint glass filled. ‘In fact I was hoping to meet a friend of mine here tonight.’ I described Robie. ‘He owes me twenty deutsche marks from a little horse race we had a bet on.’ I turned away to collect my drinks from the disgusted-looking barman, letting the Americans think about the outstanding debt for a moment.
‘I think I remember the guy you’re talking about,’ said Hurwitz. ‘English feller, only seen him in here a couple of times.’
‘The guy that ran off with Grauber?’ asked Shepherd.
Hurwitz nodded, clearly put out to have his story hijacked. ‘That’s why I remember him. Anyone Grauber set his sights on…’
‘Grauber’s always in here,’ said Franks, leaning in to me. ‘Local guy, slimy as hell, drinks too much. Always causing trouble.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hurwitz, wrestling the conversation back, ‘he sat down at your guy’s table and we were all laughing because we know what Grauber’s like. Then, all of a sudden, your man jumps to his feet and the two of them run out of here like they think the place is on fire.’
‘Haven’t seen Grauber since,’ said Reynolds.
‘I’ll drink to that!’ said Franks, going on to do so.
‘I don’t suppose you know where Grauber lives?’ I asked. I was pushing my luck but they seemed onside enough to risk it.
‘Got a place over in Kreuzberg, hasn’t he?’ Franks asked.
Shepherd nodded. ‘Bunch of us went over there once, he said he had…’ He fell quiet, suddenly realising he’d said too much.
Hurwitz wasn’t going to spare his blushes. He put his fingers to his lips and mimed sucking the final dregs of a joint. The rest of them laughed, Shepherd just looked a bit, well, sheepish.
‘Course, turned out he was full of shit,’ he said, clearly wishing he hadn’t brought the subject up.
‘You remember the address?’ I asked. ‘I’d happily give him a couple of my owed deutsche marks if he knows where I can collect the rest. Nothing worse than a guy who won’t pay up.’
‘Tell me about it,’ agreed Hurwitz, who proceeded to not let me do so, repeating instead some of the card game conversation I’d eavesdropped earlier. ‘Tell the man,’ he said to Shepherd, having worked himself up into a righteous frenzy on the subject of debt collection.
Shepherd did so and, not wanting to seem suspicious, I called Engel over – introducing him as a trainee from my local office, which was more or less the truth – and we celebrated our new cross-Atlantic friendship with a couple more rounds of drinks.
Of all the areas of West Berlin wounded by war and separation, Kreuzberg bled the most. Hemmed in on three sides by the Wall, it had become a cheap residential area, filled with immigrants, artists and punk rockers. As will always be the case, while some looked down their noses at the area, others rejoiced in its diversity. In the last few years, music had brought a cultural validity to some of its concrete corners, Bowie and Iggy Pop giving their regal thumbs-up to the new wave of sounds bubbling up from the clubs and bars. Nothing breeds interesting culture more than decay.