1989, page 25
‘I was with Allie in Manchester when the call came through. It got me out of weeding the vegetable patch.’
‘Good job. I hope you won’t be putting in for a casual shift.’ They all smiled politely. ‘You pulled it together well, Burns. But I expected no less. Now, where’s my copy from Berlin?’
Allie took the folded sheets from her bag and pushed them across his desk. But before he could read them, his PA bustled in. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Ace, but this has been hand-delivered for you. The man who brought it was apparently very insistent that it was urgent and personal.’ She proffered a slightly crumpled envelope.
Lockhart took it with a sigh. ‘Another crank. Convinced he’s got the story of the century.’ Casually, he slit the envelope open and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Three Polaroid photographs slipped out and landed face down on the desk. He grabbed them, barely glancing at the images. Then he froze, his face flushing dark red. In silence, he studied them closely one by one. He appeared to have stopped breathing. Then he slammed them face down on the desk and squeezed his eyes tight shut. He took a deep shuddering breath.
‘Are you all right?’ Allie asked, wondering if he was having some sort of stroke.
His eyes snapped open. ‘Do I fucking seem all right?’ He snatched the sheet of paper and as he read, the flood of colour receded from his face. He looked like a bad caricature of himself, the lines and creases vivid, the bags under his eyes suddenly the most colour in his ashen face. ‘Oh. My. God.’ The words were almost inaudible.
‘What’s wrong?’ Rona leaned towards him. ‘What’s happened, Ace?’
He swallowed hard. ‘Genny,’ he croaked.
‘Your daughter?’ What on earth was going on with the dashing arrogant princess Allie had left in Berlin only a few days ago?
He said nothing, but pushed the Polaroids towards them. Rona picked them up, holding them so Allie could see. The first was a close-up of Tagesspiegel, clearly showing Friday’s date. The second was a full-length shot of a woman stripped to her underwear, tightly bound to a chair. The newspaper was propped on her lap. Even though she was gagged with a scarf, she was identifiable as Genevieve Lockhart. A stab of shock hit Allie in the chest. The final photograph was a head shot, Genevieve’s eyes tearful and pleading. Now they could see the gag was a silk scarf with a delicate pattern of leaves and stems. For once, Allie had no words.
‘Ace,’ Rona said. ‘This is terrible. What does the letter say?’
He passed it across. Allie could see he was still in shock; in normal circumstances, she thought he’s probably have told them to fuck off. She read the note over Rona’s shoulder. She could see exactly why it had provoked that state in Lockhart.
The Red Army Faction is not dead, it was only sleeping. How much is your daughter worth, Mr Lockhart? We think half a million pounds deposited in our Swiss bank account. You have three days to get the money together. Otherwise you will never see your daughter alive again. You can see from the photographs that this is not a hoax. Do not involve the police. If you do, we will know, believe me. Any involvement with the authorities will end this negotiation at once. We will call you on your private number on your private island where you cannot be overheard on Wednesday at precisely noon to discuss arrangements for the handover. You would be very foolish to think you can outplay us, Mr Lockhart. The life of your only child is at stake.
42
Allie and Rona exchanged shocked looks. No wonder Lockhart looked thunderstruck. ‘What am I to do?’ he groaned.
‘You must have people who can help,’ Rona said. ‘You managed to get Allie out of an East German jail, Ace.’
‘But you’ll have to be careful. They say no police,’ Allie cut in.
He buried his head in his hands. Rona looked at Allie, who shrugged helplessly. They waited in silence. Finally, he raised his head, eyes damp with tears. ‘You can help,’ he said, stabbing a finger towards Allie.
‘How? What can I do?’ Allie tried not to show the panic she felt.
‘You were in Berlin with Genevieve last week, and that’s a West Berlin newspaper in those pics. You must know something about what she was doing, who she was seeing.’ It came out like an accusation.
‘We didn’t have that kind of conversation.’
‘You met her driver, you can talk to him. He will understand you are to be trusted.’
‘You’re clutching at straws, Ace,’ Rona said, keeping her voice calm.
‘Straws are all I have. Burns, you’re always shouting about what a great investigative journalist you are. You complain I took that away from you. Well, now I’m giving it back to you.’
‘This is not what I do,’ Allie said.
‘It is now. Rona, are you going to sit there and let her weasel out of this? If anyone can find Genny, it’s Burns. She knows how to work undercover. And it’s payback time,’ he said savagely. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you’d be in an East German jail, Burns. You owe me.’
An uncomfortable silence. At last, Allie spoke. ‘I really don’t think I’m the right fit for this.’
‘Nobody would take you for a polis,’ Rona said, unhelpfully.
‘Exactly.’ Lockhart stood up and walked round his desk, clumsy and awkward as they’d never seen him. He leaned over Allie, fists resting on the arms of her chair, his face inches from hers. She could see every hair in his perfectly groomed eyebrows, every imperfection in his skin; she could smell the acrid cigar breath. ‘You owe me. If it was your woman in those pictures, you’d already be halfway to the airport.’
He was right. That still didn’t make her the right person for the task. But it was clear they weren’t going to get out of here till she agreed. ‘I’ll try.’ Even as she spoke, Allie thought she sounded ridiculous. But Lockhart’s eyes lit up and some colour came back to his cheeks.
Galvanised at the prospect of action, he pushed himself upright and away from her. ‘My car is outside. Burns, take it to the airport. My plane is there. Fly to Frankfurt. We will arrange an onward flight to Berlin. Our driver, Dieter, the man who drove you back from the East? He’ll meet you at the airport. He always drives Genny when she’s there. He’ll know where she was going, who she was meeting. Find her, Burns. Find her.’ He flapped his hands at her as if he were shooing geese.
Allie shrugged, as if to say, ‘It’s your funeral’ and stood up. As she turned for the door, Rona got to her feet. ‘Not you, Rona. You stay here. I need you here,’ he insisted.
Allie wasn’t sure what he needed Rona for, but she suspected it was some sort of insurance policy to keep her on track. They exchanged a look, Rona giving her a quick nod to indicate her acceptance of the terms. ‘Good luck, my love,’ she said, her words covering the worry in her eyes.
Lockhart was shouting orders at his PA as Allie left the room. And at once, Allie was caught up in the most absurd mission of her career. Lockhart’s Rolls-Royce pulled up at the front steps as she emerged, his driver hurrying out to open the door for her. The luxurious interior was more like a living room than a car, with a glass-fronted cocktail cabinet facing her. She sank back in the seat and wondered how on earth she was going to manage this. At least she’d obeyed the number one rule of news journalism – never leave home without your passport and your press card.
Allie disembarked from the last flight of the day into Berlin to find a broad-shouldered man holding a card with her name in block capitals. Dressed in a black suit over a black polo-neck sweater, his hair a salt-and-pepper crew cut, he reminded her of Maximilian Schell in The Assisi Underground, which she found slightly unsettling.
‘I am Dieter, Frau Burns,’ he said. ‘We were not introduced before. Welcome back to Berlin.’
Disconcerted by her elevation in German eyes from ‘Fraulein’ to ‘Frau’, she said, ‘If I’m to call you Dieter, you must call me Allie. We’re both working for Herr Lockhart, after all.’
He frowned momentarily, then nodded with a smile. ‘Do you have luggage?’
‘No, I didn’t have time for that.’
Impassive, he said. ‘Allie, I am instructed to answer all your questions and provide what you ask for. But first I must take you to your hotel. Herr Lockhart has spoken to them and said that you will be taking over Fraulein Lockhart’s suite. It is as she left it on Friday, so perhaps you will find some useful information there?’
‘That’s helpful.’ She followed him out of the terminal as he walked briskly to the car. She almost had to trot to keep up with him. ‘What was Genevieve doing in West Berlin before she disappeared?’
‘I don’t know all she was doing because she only called on me when she needed a driver. She was spending time with political radicals. Environment campaigners, socialists, people who object to nuclear power. She said it did not look good if she arrived in a Mercedes with a driver.’ He stopped by that very car, sleek and gleaming under the airport lights, and opened the back door.
‘Can I sit up front with you? I’d feel more comfortable with that.’
Dieter clearly didn’t like the idea but she reckoned he’d worked for the Lockharts long enough not to argue. He opened the passenger door for her and shut it with a soft click once she was aboard. Once they’d cleared the airport, Allie said, ‘What kind of mood was Genevieve in after she brought me back from the East? Was she happy? Tense? Worried?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I would say she seemed excited. She was looking forward to seeing her friends that evening.’
‘Do you know what friends?’
He shook his head. ‘She did not tell me who she was seeing. Like you, Allie, I am just an employee, not someone to confide in.’
‘Do you know who any of her friends were?’
He flashed a quick look at her as they drew up at a traffic light. ‘There is a car phone in the back. Sometimes she used it. I heard her say the name “Fredi”.’
‘Was that a boyfriend, do you think?’
He grinned. ‘To anyone in Berlin who is interested in politics, Fredi is not a boy. Fredi is Frederika Schroeder. She is the charismatic leader of the Green movement here in Berlin. Not the official Green Party, but the radicals who think the party is too safe, too slow. Maybe Genevieve was spending time with her.’ A chuckle. ‘Or maybe you’re right, she has a boyfriend called Fredi. Also, she spoke to someone called Berndt. Short calls, arrangements to meet.’
It was a start, Allie thought. There might be more clues in Genevieve’s room. She hoped that would produce more leads to ask Dieter about. But it was too late to follow anything up tonight. They drew up in front of an imposing hotel entrance and she said, ‘Come and have breakfast with me tomorrow. Eight o’clock, yes?’
‘I’ll see you then,’ he agreed.
‘Oh, and Dieter? Do you have access to a different car?’
‘A different car?’
‘This is too conspicuous for what I have in mind.’
A faint smile. ‘My wife has a Volkswagen Polo. Nobody would give it a second glance here in Berlin. I will bring it tomorrow.’
Satisfied, Allie strode into the hotel lobby, feeling decidedly underdressed. She didn’t care. She had a job to do and Ace Lockhart was holding his own hostage to make sure she’d do it.
By the time she met Dieter for breakfast, Allie had wrung what little information was to be gleaned from what Genevieve Lockhart had left in her hotel room. Given that there was no passport, diary, wallet or handbag to be seen, she thought it was safe to assume that she hadn’t been taken from her room without her consent. Wherever she’d been kidnapped, it hadn’t been here.
It was hard to know whether any of her clothes were missing. The wardrobe held a couple of dresses, two pairs of trousers and a pair of jeans, a smart blazer and half a dozen blouses, all with labels Allie recognised (thanks to Rona) as being well outside her own price bracket. The chest of drawers contained an assortment of expensive lingerie; it didn’t look as if comfort had been the primary consideration. Allie had been half considering borrowing a clean pair of pants, but after checking out Genevieve’s choices, she’d opted for the traditional on-the-road reporter’s solution of rinsing out her own underwear with shower gel, and draping it to dry over the radiator. Though in this bathroom, she had the even more efficient option of a heated towel rail.
What paperwork was in the room related to the business of Pythagoras Press and meant next to nothing to Allie. Frustratingly, there was nothing about any other interests she was there to pursue.
She’d ended her day with a call to Rona, who saved her the bother of asking Lockhart exactly what his daughter was supposed to be doing in Berlin. ‘She’s on a mission,’ Rona explained. ‘Lockhart thinks Gorbachev is losing his grip on the empire. He thinks some of the republics are going to break away from Russia and the Soviet Union will collapse. Pythagoras is his cash cow and a lot of its profit comes from its dealings with Soviet scientists and their work so he’s trying to establish links with the dissident groups he thinks could end up running the show once the dust settles. And that’s what Genny’s been doing for the past few months.’
‘That all makes sense,’ Allie said. ‘But it doesn’t explain what she’s doing in West Berlin.’
‘Lockhart says the key to East Berlin is the dissident groups that have strong links with the radicals in West Berlin. Because the East is so riddled with Stasi informants, it’s easier for Genny to build those bridges in the West.’
‘And a lot nicer than being based in the East, from what little I saw,’ Allie said drily. ‘Thanks for that. It feels very weird staying in her suite, surrounded by all her stuff.’
‘I bet. Has she got lovely clothes?’
Allie laughed. ‘You’re so superficial. I don’t know about lovely, but they’ve got some serious labels. She’d give you a run for your money.’
‘Maybe, but I bet she doesn’t get discount like I do. I’m sorry we missed our second night at One Devonshire Gardens, by the way.’
‘Me too. I’d much rather be there with you. Stay close to Lockhart and keep me posted.’
‘That’s a bit of a problem. He’s going off first thing tomorrow on the chopper to Ranaig. He’s cancelled all his meetings and he’s going to hole up there to get himself set up for the ransom arrangements.’
Allie sighed. ‘I’ll just have to do my best at this end, then.’
‘Take care, not chances, my love.’
Later, as Allie fought to find sleep in the wide bed with its crisp clean sheets, Rona’s words echoed in her head. There was, she thought, as much chance of fulfilling them as there was of finding Genevieve Lockhart before the ticking clock ran out.
43
Dieter was waiting for Allie when she walked into the breakfast room. He’d dressed down to match the car; pressed jeans and a black polo shirt. They found a quiet table and worked their way through coffee, rolls and an assortment of cheese and charcuterie. ‘I want to take a look at Frederika Schroeder. Do you know where she lives?’
‘No, but I know where the office of her organisation is. We can watch the building and I can point her out to you. Then we can follow her and see where she leads us.’
It wasn’t much of a plan but there was no better place to start. Their destination was a few minutes away but there was nowhere on the street to park with a view of the storefront the radical Greens occupied. Dieter circled the block a couple of times but had no luck. There was, however, a corner café with an angled line of sight to the office door so they took up a post there. ‘As soon as there is a parking space, I’ll move the car,’ Dieter said.
Allie was on her second cup of ferociously strong coffee when Dieter stiffened like a pointer who sees a game bird fall. ‘That’s her,’ he said. ‘The blonde in the black leather coat.’ Her back was to them, but when she turned into the building, her profile was clear and he was in no doubt. ‘That’s Fredi,’ he said firmly. Allie’s shoulders relaxed a little; now she knew her target.
A spot opened up for the car half an hour later and they moved from the café to slouch in the Polo. It was a long wait. Fredi emerged shortly after noon and set off on foot down the street. Allie jumped out and followed, thankful that there were other people around. As they’d agreed, Dieter took up a position behind Allie. Fredi walked on, apparently unsuspicious, and turned into a bookshop. Allie slowed to a halt and studied the window of the bakery next door. Dieter leaned against a wall and read his newspaper.
Fredi emerged a few minutes later with a book-sized brown paper bag and their little procession carried on. Across a square, round the corner and into a busy bar. Dieter pulled a cap low over his eyes and together they walked in. Fredi had joined a man at the bar, greeting him with a kiss on both cheeks. He caught the barmaid’s eye and they soon had glasses of beer in front of them. Allie and Dieter found a table with a good view and she itemised the man in her mind while he ordered a couple of beers from the waitress. Early thirties, at a guess. Medium height, shaggy brown hair, good-looking in an open-faced way, blue eyes set wide apart. Jeans, work boots and a workman’s jacket, none of which looked as if they’d ever done a day’s manual labour. There was a canvas shopping bag at his feet, a loaf of bread and a cabbage poking out of the top. Fredi took a hardback book out of the bag and waggled it in front of the man. They were close enough for Allie to recognise, to her surprise, the cover of Len Deighton’s Spy Hook.
The man took the book and tucked it into his shopping bag. Allie nudged Dieter. ‘That’s an English book she just gave to that bloke. Maybe he’s Berndt? When they leave, you follow Fredi and I’ll follow him. It might be a wild coincidence, but maybe it’s for Genevieve? To keep her from getting bored and difficult?’
He shrugged. ‘If you say so. Do you have a pen?’ Allie handed one over. He scribbled a number on a beer mat. ‘This is my number. My wife will be home. Call her and tell her where you are, and if I have a message for you, I will leave it with her. Talk slowly. She can understand English but not if you speak fast.’
