years Schmidtke was at the heart of East Germany’s infiltration of West German politics, banking and business. He knew it all. I’m amazed he wasn’t killed in prison, actually. There were plenty of people who would have appreciated him more if he were in the grave. But he had very powerful allies. And still has. After two years of interrogation, the Germans let him go, under their surveillance, into a quiet, paid retirement in a village called Tegernsee in southern Germany.’
Finn rolls over on the sofa and puts his hands on my knees and seems to study them as they stroke my skin.
‘Tegernsee,’ he says, lost in the movement of his hand. ‘It’s a charming little place on a lake, you’d love it, Rabbit. And it’s very convenient for the Swiss border. The town has a number of interesting residents, in fact, as well as Schmidtke.’
Finn’s hand moves around the inside of my knee.
I take it and move it away. ‘Go on.’
Finn pauses and sighs and drinks from the brandy glass until it’s empty. Nana hobbles to the sideboard and brings the bottle over to refill it. Finn thanks her by blowing a kiss. He’s half sitting up. It’s as if he’s pretending to be drunk. And then he lies back again, sliding his hand across my stomach, and continues.
‘The German intelligence service, the BND, put a watch on Schmidtke’s apartment in Tegernsee from a field across the river at the back. It was a good spot with a clear view. In winter, that is, when they set it up. In the spring, however, a wall of leaves sprang up from the trees that grew up on the riverbank, and all their beautiful Zeiss lenses were met with this thick green wall that cut off Schmidtke’s apartment completely. Famed German intelligence. Vorsprung durch kockup.’
‘But the British, they…you’d already got something out of him, hadn’t you?’ I say. ‘You knew the secrets the Germans wanted to find?’
‘He told us only a little of what he told the Germans,’ Finn corrects me. ‘It was plenty, believe me, and they knew we knew. We waited for them to act on it, but they didn’t. It was too costly for them, of course. Schmidtke was starting to unravel thirty years of KGB successes in West Germany right up to the highest level, so they put the lid on everything he told them and eventually they didn’t want to hear any more.’
‘Did the British tell the Germans everything Schmidtke told them?’ I ask.
‘We share all our intelligence,’ Finn replies straight-faced.
I laugh. ‘But not in this case.’
‘No. Not in this case,’ Finn says and smiles. ‘Or not as far as I know.’
He finally unrolls himself from the sofa and throws the two remaining logs from the basket on to the fire. He begins to put on a coat and hat, and the white felt boots Nana had brought back for him from a tourist trip she’d made to Nizhny Novgorod. Then hepicks up the log basket. He looks at me and I get up from the rug to get dressed for the cold too.
We walk into the forest far away from where we keep the logs at the back of the dacha. It’s pitch dark, the first hour of the New Year, the new century, the new millennium. The snow is falling weakly inside the wood, like the last of the seed dribbling from the bottom of a packet, but when we emerge into the clearings beside the pond, it is robust, the big flakes driving down unimpeded with an apparent urgency to bury everything deeply and for ever.
Finn chats nervously. He tells me about a Vietnamese refugee he and some friends had sponsored when they were at university. The boy had arrived at a military airbase in Scotland in mid-winter and three days after he’d arrived he’d woken up to see the landscape white with snow. He’d called Finn in a panic, believing there’d been a nuclear attack.
‘Perception is sometimes a traitor,’ Finn says to me after he’s finished this story. ‘And sometimes it’s the truth. How do you distinguish when it’s one or the other?’
‘Instinct
Finn rolls over on the sofa and puts his hands on my knees and seems to study them as they stroke my skin.
‘Tegernsee,’ he says, lost in the movement of his hand. ‘It’s a charming little place on a lake, you’d love it, Rabbit. And it’s very convenient for the Swiss border. The town has a number of interesting residents, in fact, as well as Schmidtke.’
Finn’s hand moves around the inside of my knee.
I take it and move it away. ‘Go on.’
Finn pauses and sighs and drinks from the brandy glass until it’s empty. Nana hobbles to the sideboard and brings the bottle over to refill it. Finn thanks her by blowing a kiss. He’s half sitting up. It’s as if he’s pretending to be drunk. And then he lies back again, sliding his hand across my stomach, and continues.
‘The German intelligence service, the BND, put a watch on Schmidtke’s apartment in Tegernsee from a field across the river at the back. It was a good spot with a clear view. In winter, that is, when they set it up. In the spring, however, a wall of leaves sprang up from the trees that grew up on the riverbank, and all their beautiful Zeiss lenses were met with this thick green wall that cut off Schmidtke’s apartment completely. Famed German intelligence. Vorsprung durch kockup.’
‘But the British, they…you’d already got something out of him, hadn’t you?’ I say. ‘You knew the secrets the Germans wanted to find?’
‘He told us only a little of what he told the Germans,’ Finn corrects me. ‘It was plenty, believe me, and they knew we knew. We waited for them to act on it, but they didn’t. It was too costly for them, of course. Schmidtke was starting to unravel thirty years of KGB successes in West Germany right up to the highest level, so they put the lid on everything he told them and eventually they didn’t want to hear any more.’
‘Did the British tell the Germans everything Schmidtke told them?’ I ask.
‘We share all our intelligence,’ Finn replies straight-faced.
I laugh. ‘But not in this case.’
‘No. Not in this case,’ Finn says and smiles. ‘Or not as far as I know.’
He finally unrolls himself from the sofa and throws the two remaining logs from the basket on to the fire. He begins to put on a coat and hat, and the white felt boots Nana had brought back for him from a tourist trip she’d made to Nizhny Novgorod. Then hepicks up the log basket. He looks at me and I get up from the rug to get dressed for the cold too.
We walk into the forest far away from where we keep the logs at the back of the dacha. It’s pitch dark, the first hour of the New Year, the new century, the new millennium. The snow is falling weakly inside the wood, like the last of the seed dribbling from the bottom of a packet, but when we emerge into the clearings beside the pond, it is robust, the big flakes driving down unimpeded with an apparent urgency to bury everything deeply and for ever.
Finn chats nervously. He tells me about a Vietnamese refugee he and some friends had sponsored when they were at university. The boy had arrived at a military airbase in Scotland in mid-winter and three days after he’d arrived he’d woken up to see the landscape white with snow. He’d called Finn in a panic, believing there’d been a nuclear attack.
‘Perception is sometimes a traitor,’ Finn says to me after he’s finished this story. ‘And sometimes it’s the truth. How do you distinguish when it’s one or the other?’
‘Instinct
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