D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

had barely moved. He cursed the Grenzpolizei and their damned painstaking efficiency. The bastards were cracking down, checking every umlaut in every passbook. No doubt this was due to his own efforts as Stasi Chief to reign in the rampant escapes to the West. He’d never understood the Communist mentality, even after all these years working for them. On the one hand, they extolled the worker’s paradise and how great it was to live in it. And yet, they were so bloody paranoid about some grandmother going to West Berlin and not coming back. So what? If anything, they should encourage the malcontents to leave, give them all amnesty and say you have a choice: stay or go. Mueller was willing to admit that more of them than not would elect to stay. Human nature always dictated that people would not want something as much if they were given it freely. They would think it tainted.

Unfortunately, the party never thought in such flexible terms. Dogma ruled and that was why the Grenzpolizei were so vigilant. It was a vicious cycle of repression and escape. If it went on long enough there would be no one left. But Mueller saw the handwriting on the wall. He could see that the days were numbered. And like the last time, in the days when he’d been SS-Gruppenführer Gerhard Müller, he intended to land on his feet.

The line began to move, and Mueller saw that the Grenzpolizei were waving several people through. The next person was hauled off, his protestations of innocence sounding like the bleating of sheep. Mueller smiled. He always found this sort of scene entertaining.

After another fifteen minutes, it was his turn. One of the guards, a pasty-faced man with the breath of a bear, thrust out his meaty paw and glared at him with witless intensity. “Papers,” he said, his voice edged with fatigue and boredom.

Mueller handed over his identification and watched the guard with a steady gaze. The man glanced down at the passbook, comparing the grainy picture with Mueller’s face. The photo had been taken some years ago, and Mueller realized it was time to update it. Too much Bratwurst had changed the lines of his face. That and time, the grand thief of all that was good.

The guard then checked “Heinrich Abelard” against a list of names on a nearby clipboard. Suddenly the man straightened up, his eyes filled with newfound respect.

Mueller leaned toward the guard. “Act normal, you fool,” he whispered.

The guard stiffened, glanced around him quickly to be sure that no one else had heard, and then began shouting. “Why can’t you get a job in your own country, you shirker! Go on and go before I turn you over to Stasi!”

Barely suppressing a smile, Mueller walked through the gate and marched across the no-man’s-land to the American side of the checkpoint. He showed the MP his papers and was waved through. He walked straight down the street until he was out of sight of the checkpoint, then turned into a small side street. The black BMW was waiting, its engine idling. He climbed into the back and the driver turned to face him. “Any trouble?” he asked.

Mueller shrugged. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

The driver laughed, put the car in gear and swung away from the curb. A moment later it was lost in the crush of the late afternoon traffic.

They were being followed.

He was sure of it. Ever since leaving the convalescent home in East Grinstead, Michael had not been able to shake the feeling that someone was watching them. It made his skin tingle, as if touched by a small charge of electricity. The maddening thing was that he couldn’t be sure what car it was. He’d caught site of a silver-gray Jaguar several times, but unlike other cars it didn’t maintain a consistent distance. It would loom in the background, sometimes easing forward, other times it would be lost in the maelstrom of traffic.

Forced to concede the possibility that he might be imagining it, he nevertheless kept swiveling his eyes to the rearview mirror every other moment. Even Erika noticed it. He gave her a lame sounding excuse about being a nervous driver, but he didn’t think she believed him. The real question was why he didn’t give voice to his suspicions. Could it be that he didn’t really trust her? That was absurd, of course, because he not only had no choice, he wanted to trust her. Perhaps that was silly, but there it was.

They reached London at 2:45 and the traffic became thickly snarled the closer their goal became. Up ahead, he saw Nelson’s Column and Trafalgar Square and knew he was only moments away. Somehow, that made the last few minutes crawl by even slower. Gritting his teeth, they drove the last quarter mile and were fortunate to find a parking space, sliding into it just as a Rolls vacated it. Switching off the motor, Michael turned to Erika. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I believe we’ve been followed.”

“I know. Silver-Gray Jag. Five cars back.”

“You knew?”

She smiled in spite of his surprised expression and the import of what he’d said. “Ja. They were clumsy.”

“Clumsy?”

“They kept trying to appear, how you say, nonchalant. But I spotted them right away.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to upset you. You seemed...nervous.”

Michael laughed. “I suppose I was. Are they gone?”

Erika leaned forward to get a better perspective in the side view mirror. She studied the reflected landscape for a few minutes, her lovely brow knitted in concentration.

“Yes, I think they are.”

Michael let out a sigh. “Good. Come