The Other Side of Silence

“Then let me refresh your memory, Herr Gunther. We checked your name with our friends in the CIA. And I think that you are the same Bernhard Gunther who was part of an elaborate Stasi operation to snatch three of their agents from the French zone of Berlin in nineteen fifty-four. Those three American agents believed they had employed you to help them kidnap Erich Mielke in return for an American passport and the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars. Instead, you betrayed them to Mielke. Two of them are still in an East German prison. Did you know that?”

I shook my head. “You’re mistaken. My name is Walter Wolf. I’m the concierge at the Grand Hotel. And I haven’t the first idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never met anyone who was working for the CIA. And once again I don’t know anyone by the name of Mielke.”

“It’s quite an elaborate operation you’ve mounted here in France, isn’t it? A lot of time and effort and money have gone into this little scheme.”

“I haven’t seen any of it. The money, I mean. You’ve seen the flat where I live. You can check my bank accounts. I have very little money. I spend what I earn at the Grand Hotel. I’m certainly not on the East German payroll.”

“We have someone who says different. A witness.”

“Then that person is mistaken or a liar.”

“Since you’ve mentioned bank accounts,” said the monk, handing me one of the papers on his desk. “This is a copy of a letter from you to the manager of a bank in Monaco, the Credit Foncier, dated February nineteen fifty-six. It states that Harold Hebel is to be a joint signatory on this bank account with you. It seems that there is more than twenty thousand francs in this account, Herr Gunther. The money appears to have been paid into this account by the Schonefeld Export Company of Bonn, in West Germany. We believe this company to be one owned by the Stasi.”

“I’ve never even heard of this bank until now.”

“Was this money meant to cover your expenses?”

“Look, I didn’t write the bank any letter. That isn’t my signature. And I’ve certainly never heard of the Schonefeld Export Company of Bonn.”

“But you do know Harold Hebel, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. If you’ve spoken with Somerset Maugham you’ll already know that. He’ll confirm what I already told him: that Harold Hebel is a professional blackmailer from before the war. He’s the man who’s been blackmailing Maugham. And now, it seems, the British secret service. And I’ve been helping Mr. Maugham at his request. Ask him.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s had a mild stroke.”

“Look, I didn’t ask to be involved in this. Until he asked for my help I was minding my own business at the Grand Hotel. And now if you don’t mind I’d like to go back to the hotel and resume my duties.”

“Harold Hebel. Real name, Harold Heinz Hennig, formerly of the Gestapo and now working for the Communist HVA, too.”

“That certainly wouldn’t surprise me. I guess it was them who supplied him with that tape. And before them, the KGB. Is Hennig your witness?” I shook my head. “The man’s a liar. I wouldn’t trust a word he says.”

“But you and he were working together here on the Riviera. From the very beginning.”

I sucked my cigarette and blew some smoke at the chandelier in the hope I might deter a large spider that was now abseiling down a length of gossamer toward my head.

“No. I hate him. I’d kill him before ever working with him. He and I have a long history of enmity.”

“Whose operation was this? Mielke’s? Or your namesake’s?”

“My namesake’s? I don’t know who you mean.”

“Major General Markus Wolf.”

“I’ve never heard of him, either. All these generals I’m supposed to know. The next thing you’ll be telling me is that I’m a general, too.”

“Our information is that Markus Wolf is head of the East German HVA and reports directly to Mielke.”

I glanced up at the spider again, which had been only momentarily deterred.

“How well do you know Comrade General Mielke?”

“I already told you. I’ve never heard of him, either.”

“Come now, Herr Gunther. Elisabeth Dehler-the woman who was living as your wife here in the South of France until quite recently-she knows Erich Mielke very well, doesn’t she? From way back. And what’s more, she also works for the HVA.”

“Elisabeth?” I smiled. “I doubt that very much.”

“Most assuredly she does work for them. And she’s now safely back in Berlin.”

“That much I do know.” I shrugged. There was nothing I could have said about that other than the fact that it was true. Elisabeth did know Erich Mielke. They were old friends from before the war, when Mielke was just a young KPD thug with a gun, but I hardly wanted to admit as much to my English interrogator. Certainly not until I knew of what I was being accused. “Look, she left me, a while ago. Couldn’t stand the heat. Couldn’t come to grips with the language. She missed Germany more than she figured she’d miss me, I guess. What she’s done since she got back home-I really have no idea. She hasn’t written to me in a while.”

“Let’s talk some more about the operation, shall we?”