The Warsaw Pact leaders met in a large room with flag-draped tables arranged in a rectangle. As always, aides such as Dimka and Natalya sat around the edges of the room. Honecker was the driving force, but Ceauşescu led the charge. He stood up from his seat next to Gorbachev and began to attack the reformist policies of the Hungarian government. He was a small, bent man with bushy eyebrows and wild eyes. Although he was talking to a few dozen people in a conference room, he shouted and gesticulated as if addressing thousands in a stadium. His twisted lips spat as he ranted. He made no bones about what he wanted: a repeat of 1956. He called for a Warsaw Pact invasion of Hungary to oust Miklós Németh and return the country to orthodox Communist Party rule.
Dimka looked around the room. Honecker was nodding. Czech hard man Miloš Jakeš wore an expression of approval. Bulgaria’s Todor Zhivkov clearly agreed. Only Poland’s leader, General Jaruzelski, sat unmoving and expressionless, perhaps humbled by his election defeat.
All these men were brutal tyrants, torturers and mass murderers. Stalin had not been exceptional, he had been typical of Communist leaders. Any political system that allowed such people to rule was evil, Dimka reflected. Why did it take us all so long to figure that out?
But Dimka, like most of the people in the room, was watching Gorbachev.
The rhetoric no longer mattered. It was of no consequence who was right and who was wrong. No one in the room had the power to do anything without the consent of the man with the port-wine stain on his bald head.
Dimka thought he knew what Gorbachev was going to do. But he could never be sure. Gorbachev was divided, like the empire he ruled, between conservative and reformist tendencies. No speeches were likely to change his mind. Most of the time he just looked bored.
Ceauşescu’s voice rose almost to a scream. At that moment Gorbachev caught the eye of Miklós Németh. The Russian gave the Hungarian a slight smile as Ceauşescu sputtered saliva and vituperation.
Then, to Dimka’s utter astonishment, Gorbachev winked.
Gorbachev held the smile a second longer, then looked away and resumed his bored expression.
* * *
Maria managed to avoid Jasper Murray almost until the end of President Bush’s European visit.
She had never met Jasper. She knew what he looked like: she had seen him on television, as everyone had. He was taller in real life, that was all. Over the years she had been the secret source of some of his best stories, but he did not know that. He only met George Jakes, the intermediary. They were careful. It was why they had never been found out.
She knew the whole story of Jasper’s being fired from
This Day
. The White House had put pressure on Frank Lindeman, the owner of the network. That was how a star reporter came to be exiled. Although, with the turmoil in Eastern Europe, plus Jasper’s nose for a good story, the assignment had turned out to be a hot one.
Bush and his entourage, including Maria, ended up in Paris. Maria was standing in the Champs-Elysées with the press corps on Bastille Day, 14 July, watching an interminable parade of military might, and looking forward to going home and making love to George again, when Jasper spoke to her. He pointed to a huge poster of Evie Williams advertising face cream. ‘She had a crush on me when she was fifteen years old,’ he said.
Maria looked at the picture. Evie Williams had been blacklisted by Hollywood for her politics, but she was a big star in Europe, and Maria recalled reading that her personal line of organic beauty products was making her more money than movies ever had.
‘You and I have never met,’ Jasper said. ‘But I got to know your godson, Jack Jakes, when I was living with Verena Marquand.’
Maria shook his hand warily. Talking to reporters was always dangerous. No matter what you said, the mere fact that you had had a conversation put you in a weak position, for then there could always be an argument about what you had actually said. ‘I’m glad to meet you at last,’ she said.
‘I admire you for your achievements,’ he said. ‘Your career would be remarkable for a white man. For an African-American woman, it’s astonishing.’
Maria smiled. Of course Jasper was charming – that was how he got people to talk. He was also completely untrustworthy, and would betray his mother for the sake of a story. She said neutrally: ‘How are you enjoying Europe?’
‘Right now it’s the most exciting place in the world,’ he said. ‘Lucky me.’
‘That’s great.’
‘By contrast,’ Jasper said, ‘this trip has not been a success for President Bush.’
Here it comes, Maria thought. She was in a difficult position. She had to defend the President and the policies of the State Department, even though she agreed with Jasper’s assessment. Bush had failed to take leadership of the freedom movement in Eastern Europe: he was too timid. But she said: ‘We think it’s been something of a triumph.’
‘Well, you have to say that. But, off the record, was it right for Bush to urge Jaruzelski – a Communist tyrant of the old school – to run for president in Poland?’
‘Jaruzelski may well be the best candidate to oversee gradual reform,’ Maria said, though she did not believe it.
‘Bush infuriated Lech Wałȩsa by offering a paltry aid package of a hundred million dollars, when Solidarity had asked for ten billion.’
‘President Bush believes in caution,’ Maria argued. ‘He thinks the Poles need to reform their economy first, then get aid. Otherwise the money will be wasted. The President is a conservative. You may not like that, Jasper, but the American people do. That’s why they elected him.’
Jasper smiled, acknowledging a point scored, but he pressed on. ‘In Hungary, Bush praised the Communist government for removing the fence, not the opposition who put the pressure on. He kept telling the Hungarians not to go too far, too fast! What kind of advice is that from the leader of the free world?’
Maria did not contradict Jasper. He was 100 per cent correct. She decided to deflect him. To give herself a moment to think, she watched a low-loader go by bearing a long missile with a French flag painted on its side. Then she said: ‘You’re missing a better story.’
He raised a sceptical eyebrow. That accusation was not often levelled at Jasper Murray. ‘Go on,’ he said in a tone of mild amusement.
‘I can’t talk to you on the record.’
‘Off it, then.’
She gave him a hard look. ‘So long as we’re clear on that.’
‘We are.’
‘Okay. You probably know that some of the advice the President has been getting suggests that Gorbachev is a fraud, glasnost and perestroika are Communist flummery, and the whole charade is no more than a way to trick the West into dropping its guard and disarming prematurely.’
‘Who gives him this advice?’
The answer was the CIA, the National Security Advisor, and the Secretary of Defense, but Maria was not going to run them down when talking to a journalist, even off the record, so she said: ‘Jasper, if you don’t know that already, you’re not the reporter we all think you are.’
He grinned. ‘Okay. So what’s the big story?’
‘President Bush was inclined to accept that advice – before he came on this trip. The story is that he has seen the reality on the ground here in Europe, and has altered his view accordingly. In Poland he said: “I have this heady feeling that I’m witnessing history being made on the spot.”’
‘Can I use that quote?’
‘You may. He said it to me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘The President now believes that change in the Communist world is real and permanent, and we need to give it guarded encouragement, instead of kidding ourselves that it isn’t really happening.’
Jasper gave Maria a long look that, she thought, had in it a measure of surprised respect. ‘You’re right,’ he said at last. ‘That is a better story. Back in Washington the Cold Warriors, like Dick Cheney and Brent Scowcroft, are going to be mad as hell.’
‘You said that,’ Maria said. ‘I didn’t.’
* * *
Lili, Karolin, Alice and Helmut drove from Berlin to Lake Balaton, in Hungary, in Lili’s white Trabant. As usual, it took two days. On the way Lili and Karolin sang every song they knew.
They were singing to cover their fear. Alice and Helmut were going to try to escape to the West. No one knew what would happen.
Lili and Karolin would stay behind. Both were single but, all the same, their lives were in East Germany. They hated the regime, but they wanted to oppose it, not flee from it. It was different for Alice and Helmut, who had their lives in front of them.
Lili knew only two people who had tried to leave: Rebecca, and Walli. Rebecca’s fiancé had fallen from a roof and been crippled for life. Walli had run over a border guard and killed him, a trauma that had haunted him for years. They were not happy precedents. But the situation had changed now – hadn’t it?
On the first evening at the holiday camp they came across a middle-aged man called Berthold, sitting outside his tent, holding forth to half a dozen young people drinking beer from cans. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ he said in a voice that was confidential but carrying. ‘The whole thing is a trap set by the Stasi. It’s their new way of catching subversives.’
A young man sitting on the ground, smoking a cigarette, seemed sceptical. ‘How does that work, then?’
‘As soon as you cross the border, you’re arrested by the Austrians. They hand you over to the Hungarian police, who send you back to East Germany in handcuffs. Then you go straight to the interrogation rooms in Stasi headquarters in Lichtenberg.’
A girl standing nearby said: ‘How would you know a thing like that?’
‘My cousin tried to cross the border here,’ said Berthold. ‘Last thing he said to me was: “I’ll send you a postcard from Vienna.” Now he’s in a prison camp near Dresden, working in a uranium mine. It’s the only way our government can get people to work in those mines, no one else will do it – the radiation gives you lung cancer.’
The family discussed Berthold’s theory in low voices before going to bed. Alice said scornfully: ‘Berthold is one of those men who know it all. How would he find out that his cousin is working in a uranium mine? The government doesn’t admit to using prisoners that way.’
But Helmut was worried. ‘He may be an idiot, but what if his story is true? The border could be a trap.’
Alice said: ‘Why would the Austrians send escapers back? They have no love of Communism.’
‘They may not want the trouble and expense of dealing with them. Why should the Austrians care about East Germans?’
They argued for an hour and came to no conclusion. Lili lay awake for a long time, worrying.
Next morning, in the communal dining room, Lili spotted Berthold regaling a different group of young people with his theories, a large plate of ham and cheese in front of him. Was he genuine, or a Stasi faker? She felt she had to know. He looked as if he would be there some time. On impulse, she decided to search his tent. She left the room.
Tents were not secured: holidaymakers were simply advised not to leave money or valuables behind. All the same, Berthold’s entrance was tightly laced.
Lili began to untie the strings, trying to appear relaxed, as if she had every right to do it. Her heart was like a drumbeat in her chest. She made an effort not to glance guiltily at people walking by. She was used to sneaking around – the gigs she played with Karolin were always semi-illegal – but she had never done anything quite like this. If Berthold should for some reason abandon his breakfast early and come back sooner than she expected, what would she say? ‘Oops, wrong tent, sorry!’ The tents were all alike. He might not believe her – but what would he do, go to the police?
She opened the flap and stepped inside.
Berthold was neat, for a man. His clothes were folded in a suitcase, and there was a drawstring bag full of laundry. He had a sponge bag containing a safety razor and shaving soap. His bed was made of canvas stretched across metal tubing. Beside the bed was a small pile of magazines in German. It all looked innocent.
Don’t rush, she told herself. Look carefully for clues. Who is this man and what is he doing here?
A sleeping bag was folded on top of the camp bed. When Lili picked it up she felt something heavy. She unzipped the bag and rummaged inside. She found a book of pornographic photos – and a gun.
It was a small black pistol with a short barrel. She did not know much about firearms, and she could not identify the make, but she thought it was what they called a nine-millimetre. It looked designed to be concealed.
She stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans.
She had the answer to her question. Berthold was not a know-all braggart. He was a Stasi agent, sent here to spread scare stories and discourage escapers.
Lili refolded the sleeping bag and stepped out of the tent. Berthold was not in sight. She quickly laced up the tent flap with trembling fingers. Another few seconds and she would be safe. As soon as Berthold looked for his gun, he would know that someone had been there, but if she could get away now he would never know who. Lili guessed he would not even report the theft to the Hungarian police, for they would surely disapprove of a German secret agent bringing a pistol to one of their holiday camps.
She walked briskly away.
Karolin was in Helmut and Alice’s tent, and they were talking in low voices, still arguing about whether the border crossing might be a trap. Lili interrupted the discussion. ‘Berthold is a Stasi agent,’ she said. ‘I searched his tent.’ She drew the gun from her pocket.
‘That’s a Makarov,’ said Helmut, who had served in the army. ‘A Soviet-made semi-automatic pistol, standard issue for the Stasi.’
Lili said: ‘If the border really were a trap, the Stasi would be keeping the fact secret. The way Berthold is telling everyone pretty much proves it’s not true.’
Helmut nodded. ‘That’s good enough for me. We’re going.’
They all stood up. Helmut said to Lili: ‘Would you like me to get rid of the gun?’
‘Yes, please.’ She handed it over, relieved to be rid of it.
‘I’ll find a secluded spot on the beach and throw it in the lake.’