A Patriot in Berlin by Piers Paul Read
Kessler frowned. ‘Did they know each other before?’
‘Apparently not. It was an office romance or perhaps a payoff for saving her from the Turks.’
‘They never met before they came to Berlin? We’re sure of that?’
‘According to Breitenbach, no one knew Serotkin. He was just sent here by the Russians. The American initially took a dislike to him. They avoided one another for the first six months.’
‘Slow fuse.’
‘Or calculation.’
Kessler was seated at his desk, tapping the point of his pencil on his open notebook. Dorn, leaning against the desk itself, took his second currywurst out of its bag. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘We’ve got to find the Yank,’ said Dorn with his mouth full. ‘She’s our only lead.’
‘But even if we find her,’ said Kessler, ‘what evidence have we got against her? The exhibition was her idea? So what? It was a good idea. Even the Federal government thought so. She suggested OZF, but she was in no position to insist on it, and she certainly wasn’t responsible for checking it out. The thieves planned this thing in such detail it’s unlikely that they would build a warehouse on the assumption that the ministry would take up her idea.’
‘Sure.’ Dorn took another mouthful of sausage and roll.
‘We’ve got to get the FBI to go deeper into her background.’
‘Then the Yanks will cotton on.’
‘There must be someone who can do it off the record.’
‘Not before midnight tonight.’
Dorn put the last piece of currywurst into his mouth and licked the ketchup off his fingers. ‘Got a tissue, chief?’
Kessler looked in the second drawer of his desk. The box of tissues was empty. ‘No. Use some scrap.’
Dorn picked up a piece of paper lying next to the in-tray on Kessler’s desk. ‘This OK?’
‘What is it?’
Dorn squinted down at a row of names and numbers. ‘A list.’
‘What list?’
‘Burton, Lauch, Grauber … It’s the names used by Ivan the Terrible.’
‘Put it back in the basket. Use this.’ Kessler tore the top sheet out of his spiral notebook and handed it to Dorn. But Dorn did not take it. He was staring at the list. Then he put it on the desk in front of Kessler. ‘Look at this, chief. The last name. It’s the same as the Russian on the Excursus committee, Andrei Serotkin.’
Kessler snatched the list. ‘Shit,’ he said. Then: ‘Where’s Gerasimov?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Call Grohmann … no, call Gerasimov’s hotel. And get a picture of Serotkin from the Excursus people or the visa office.’
Inspector Hasenclever looked through the door. ‘The boss says you’re to get back to Tegel. They’ve found the American.’
‘Where?’
‘Trussed up in the boot of her car parked in a sidestreet near the warehouse.’
‘Dead or alive?’
‘Alive, but unconscious. They’re bringing her round now.’
TWENTY
On their way from the Gothaerstrasse to Tegel, Kessler and Dorn picked up Nikolai Gerasimov from the Trebizond Hotel. Seated in the back of the car next to Dorn, he was told about the theft of the paintings.
‘Ah,’ said Gerasimov. ‘That was what all the fuss was about this morning.’
‘Do you think that Ivan the Terrible is the art historian, Serotkin?’
‘Have you a photograph?’
Kessler showed Gerasimov the picture of a bearded man that had been faxed from the personnel department of the New German Foundation.’
‘Possibly. Yes. I should say so. Orlov with a beard.’
‘Orlov? Who is Orlov?’
Gerasimov looked confused. ‘Because of the seriousness of the situation, I feel you should know that the real name of Ivan the Terrible is Andrei Orlov. He was responsible for the theft of the icons and the murder of the Maslyukovs, and although now a major criminal, he was at one time a member of a certain security agency of the former Soviet Union …’
‘The KGB?’
‘In a word, yes. The KGB. Of course, he was dismissed.’
‘When?’
‘Some time ago.’
‘Because he was a thief?’
‘More or less.’
‘But he still has the training and the contacts?’ asked Dorn.
‘Certainly,’ said Gerasimov. ‘He was one of our best men.’
‘If we had known this sooner,’ said Kessler, ‘the robbery might not have taken place.’
‘It is only now,’ said Gerasimov, ‘that we have learned of what names he was using on his false documents. If you had listened to me this morning –’
‘Does he know that you know?’ Kessler interrupted.
‘Possibly not.’
‘But possibly yes?’
‘You have to understand, Inspector, that things in my country are somewhat confused at the present time.’
‘I understand that. But does that mean that this man Orlov may be getting some back-up from the present security service of the Russian Federation?’
‘Officially, no. Quite the contrary.’
‘But unofficially?’
‘Unofficially, of course. There are a number of people – a large number of people – in my country who are unhappy with the reforms. Unhappy, also, to have no power, no privileges and no currency.’
‘Would he would have links with agents here in Germany?’
‘Yes.’
‘With former Stasi officers?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
The method, the discipline – suddenly an understanding of what had happened began to take shape in Kessler’s mind. ‘Is it possible,’ he said to Gerasimov, ‘that someone in the Ministry of Culture in Moscow intercepted the request of the Excursus committee and sent Orlov posing as Serotkin to Berlin?’
‘Quite possible, yes. It is also possible that no request was ever received in Moscow.’
‘Can you look into that tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’
‘If there was no request to Moscow,’ said Dorn, ‘that would point a finger at the provincial ministry here in Berlin.’
‘Yes,’ said Kessler.
‘What about Dr McDermott?’ said Dorn.
Kessler turned to Gerasimov. ‘Would this man Orlov be capable of seducing a woman to involve her in his scheme?’
‘Of course. That would have formed part of his training.’
‘He would be that cold-blooded?’
‘Come on, chief,’ said Dorn. ‘Stubbing out cigarettes on a woman – that’s cold-blooded. Fucking a good-looking Yank – that’s a piece of cake.’
Rolf Becker, a detective constable, had brought a styrofoam cup of coffee for Francesca McDermott; sitting in an armchair in the office, she held it between her hands. Her blonde hair was dishevelled, her white shirt grubby, her green skirt creased. Encircling her wrists and ankles were stripes of blue bruises and broken flesh.
Kessler went up to her. ‘Dr McDermott?’
She looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘I am Inspector Kessler of the Berlin criminal police.’
She showed no interest.
Kessler drew up a chair and sat facing her. ‘I am sorry for what has happened. We have sent for a doctor.’
‘I don’t need a doctor.’
‘Do you feel able to answer some questions?’
She looked up. ‘What has happened?’
‘The works of art have been stolen.’
She shook her head. ‘I hoped it had been a dream but …’ She looked down at her wrists.
‘There has been a demand for a ransom of one hundred million dollars. If it is not paid, they may be destroyed.’
A look of alarm came into her eyes. ‘Will it be paid?’
‘I don’t know. It is not for me to decide. My job is to find the paintings.’
She nodded.
‘Do you know whe
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Do you know who has taken them?
She stared ahead into the middle distance. ‘No.’
‘Can you tell me what happened last night?’
She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.
‘Why did you come to the warehouse?’
‘I was afraid …’
‘Of what?’
‘I don’t know … that something would happen to the works of art.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Paul had said …’ Her voice petered out.
‘What?’
‘He told me that he thought Stefi had worked for the Stasi.’
‘Stefan Diederich? The minister?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is Paul?’
‘Paul Meissner. He was married to Sophie Diederich … before. He said that Stefi and Günter …’ She waved her hand as if she had not the energy to go on.
‘So you came here to the warehouse?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you find?’
‘No one. Nothing. The gate was open. The paintings had gone.’
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
‘I was going to …’
‘What stopped you?’
‘A man.’
‘Serotkin?’
She looked away to avoid his eyes. ‘Another man. He took me and tied me to that chair.’ She pointed but did not look.
‘Who was this man?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was he a German?’
She shook her head. ‘No. An Arab or a Turk.’
‘And then?’
‘He stood there watching me, smoking, and then …’ Her face fell into her hands. She started sobbing.
Kessler rose to comfort her. As he put his hand on her shoulder, he noticed a red spot on her neck. ‘Did you feel a pain in your neck?’
‘Yes. He had a syringe. I thought I was going to die.’
Dark tobacco. Untipped cigarettes. And, as on Vera Maslyukov, the mark of a needle. ‘Yes,’ said Kessler. ‘What is odd is that you are alive.’
‘Was I poisoned?’
‘I don’t think so. A strong sedative, that was all.’ He beckoned to Dorn. ‘Where is the doctor?’
‘I don’t need a doctor,’ said Francesca again.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’m fine.’
Kessler started towards the telephone, then turned back to Francesca McDermott. ‘Are you sure that you had never seen the man before?’
This time, she looked straight into his eyes. ‘Quite sure.’
Kessler called Kommissar Rohrbeck from the warehouse director’s office, ‘It’s Serotkin and possibly Diederich too.’
‘The minister?’
‘Some sort of scam by former Stasi and rogue KGB.’
‘Can we prove it?’
‘Not yet. But it’s all falling into place.’
‘We’ve put a call out for Serotkin.’
‘We’ll never find him. Our only hope is Diederich.’
‘Very well. Put it to him. See what he says. But if you put a foot wrong, we may both lose our jobs.’
Kessler called the Prussian Ministry of Culture and was told that the minister had gone home. He turned to Francesca McDermott.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘OK.’
‘If you feel up to it, I’d like you to accompany us to the Diederichs.’
She hesitated. ‘Very well.’
Dorn sat in the front next to the driver, Kessler in the back between Gerasimov and Francesca McDermott. The car pushed through the traffic, its lights flashing, its siren loud.
Kessler turned to Francesca. ‘What can you tell me about Andrei Serotkin?’
‘He was my colleague on the Excursus committee.’
‘Did you know him before?’
‘No.’
‘You met him only when you came to Berlin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who introduced you?’
‘I was told by Herr Diederich that he would be working on the exhibition. I met him when he came to the office.’
‘I believe you lived in the same building?’
‘Yes. We were both found flats by the Ministry of Culture.’
‘Would you describe Dr Serotkin as a friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything more?’
‘Yes. We were lovers.’
‘Would it surprise you, Dr McDermott,’ asked Kessler, ‘to learn that Andrei Serotkin is not the professor’s real name?’
She thought for a moment, then answered: ‘No, it would not surprise me.’
‘Why not?’
‘There was always something mysterious about him.’
‘Part of his attraction, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’
Kessler reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and took out a photograph.
Francesca glanced at Kessler, and in a tone of casual curiosity asked: ‘If he was not called Andrei Serotkin, what is his real name?’
‘Orlov,’ said Gerasimov. ‘Andrei Anatolyevich Orlov.’
‘So he was always Andrei.’
‘Yes, but that may be the only thing that Orlov and Serotkin had in common. He was not an art historian …’
‘I guessed as much,’ said Francesca.
‘He was a criminal …’
She turned away.
‘Known by the Russian police as Ivan the Terrible.’
‘Why that name?’
Kessler handed her the black and white photograph. It was of the corpse of Vera Maslyukov. ‘In 1991, a Russian couple, dealers in icons, were murdered here in Berlin. The husband, Grigori Maslyukov, was shot dead. The wife, Vera, was tortured by being burned with cigarettes before she was killed by an injection of potassium cyanide into her neck. We have good reason to believe that this was done by Orlov, alias Andrei Serotkin.’
Francesca’s face, already pale, turned white. ‘That’s impossible,’ she whispered.
‘I am afraid that there is now little doubt.’
Francesca was silent.
‘Dr McDermott,’ said Kessler. ‘Before we go any further, there is one important question I must ask you, a question which perhaps only you can answer. You knew this Andrei Orlov. You knew him better than anyone else here in Berlin. From what you know of him, do you think it possible that, if the ransom is not paid, he will actually destroy the works of art of the Excursus exhibition?’
Francesca did not hesitate. ‘Yes, yes he will.’
‘And if the ransom is paid, will he return them?’
For a moment she did not reply. She was thinking, concentrating, remembering. Then she said: ‘Yes. Yes, I think he will.’
‘You are less certain?’
‘No, I am certain.’
Kessler leaned forward to speak to Dorn. ‘Radio the Kommissar. Tell them of Dr McDermott’s answer.’ He then turned back to Francesca. ‘You are so sure, I presume, because he informed you of his intention?’
‘Yes … That is to say, no, but he said things which, looking back, now make it clear.’
‘That he meant to steal the paintings?’
‘Or destroy them.’
‘And you were to help him do this?’
‘Help him? No.’
‘It was your expert knowledge that enabled Serotkin to assemble such valuable works of art; your reputation that reassured lenders in the United States, and where they led others followed. You recommended the fine art warehouse at Tegel owned by the fraudulent company, OZF, and you were present in the warehouse at the time they were stolen.’
Francesca nodded. ‘I can see how it looks, but I never thought … I never realized …’
‘That they were being assembled simply to be stolen?’
‘How could I know that?’
‘But we have been told, Frau Doktor, that you are the one who first suggested a major exhibition
‘Me? No. I was asked to help organize it. That was all.’
‘Then who first suggested it?’
‘So far as I know, it was Stefan Diederich. The Excursus exhibition was his idea.’
The two detectives who had been tailing Stefan Diederich were waiting in their car on the Wedekindstrasse opposite the entrance to the Diederichs’ flat. They reported that the children had left with an older woman that afternoon, and that the minister had only just returned.
Kessler, Dorn, Gerasimov and Francesca McDermott walked up the two flights of stairs and rang the bell at the Diederichs’ door. It was opened by Stefan Diederich. He looked mildly surprised, almost annoyed, to find visitors at that hour in his home. ‘Ah, Inspector! You have found Dr McDermott. Did she tell you that you would find the stolen paintings on the walls of my flat?’ He beckoned them in and led them down the corridor to the living room. ‘I am afraid that at this rate you are hardly going to save the state one hundred million dollars.’
Sophie Diederich got up from the sofa as they entered. Her face was wet and red from tears. Seeing Francesca, she crossed the room and, sobbing, fell into her arms. ‘Stefi has just told me. The paintings have gone.’
‘We have made more progress than you might suppose,’ said Kessler to Stefan Diederich.
‘You have found the paintings?’
‘No. But we have found the thief.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Serotkin.’
‘Serotkin? The Russian?’ He laughed. ‘Surely not.’
‘His real name is Orlov. We believe he was responsible for the Maslyukov murders.’
Diederich frowned. ‘I remember. Murder, I believe, and torture …’
‘We have been after him for some time,’ said Gerasimov.
Diederich turned. ‘And who are you?’
‘Gerasimov. Moscow militia.’
‘Another Russian! I might have known. Well, you must forgive me, Herr Gerasimov, if what I say appears implicitly to denigrate your nation, but from my own long experience of Russians it seems unlikely that a Russian could single-handedly accomplish a crime which’ – Stefan Diederich looked at his watch – ‘in a few hours’ time will earn a place in The Guinness Book of Records.’
‘We know he had accomplices,’ said Kessler.
‘Good. Who were they?’