The Helsinki Pact by Alex Cugia Page A

package into his own pocket.
    “We need to talk.” Mark
whispered. “Ten minutes. Sit on the bench behind the
church.”
    Thomas walked on, glancing
carefully around, scouting the surroundings for suspicious faces or
followers. Most people seemed to be Western tourists admiring the
buildings, the quaint houses rebuilt along the original mediaeval
perimeter. There was a fog drifting in from the Spree and it felt
clammy and cold. He reached the end of the street, threw away the
cigarette in his hand, looked at a building as if admiring its
design then turned and retraced his steps.
    Passing the bronze statue at the
side of the double-domed church he found a bench, partly hidden in
the shadows, where he checked the contents of his exchanged
cigarette packet and found it short, 3,000 Ost Marks against the
4,500 he was expecting. In a moment Mark sat down and Thomas turned
angrily to him. “What ... ”
    “Listen, Thomas.” Mark
interrupted, his broad Sachsen accent thickening as Thomas had
noticed it did at times of stress. “You’re a smart guy. That opera
tickets and dinner deal you run is clever. But you can do a lot
better … ”
    “I’ve never told you what I do.”
Thomas stood up, furious but also apprehensive. “You’ve been spying
on me! And I want the rest of my money. That packet was 1,500
short.”
    “Look, this is the East. It’s a
police state. I take precautions. I have to. I need to know who I’m
dealing with. Stasi agents play at being Western tourists
exchanging currency like you do, black market currency. They
reassure you and then when the sums get big enough they report you,
have you arrested and make off with your money as well. That means
five years in jail and I just don’t like to be fucked
over.”
    Thomas sat down.
    “Look, Thomas, now that I know
you’re OK I’ll trust you with a new deal. We can make a lot more
money together.”
    The acid returned and Thomas felt
naked and insecure. Someone had followed him closely enough to
learn all about his opera tours and he hadn’t noticed. What else
did he not know about?
    “Next time, bring your car in.
I’ll show you where to hide stuff in it. Light drugs, nothing
serious. Maryjane, hash, maybe some coke. People are depressed here
and there’s a huge potential market.”
    “You’re out of your mind. And if
I get caught? You’ll be clear but I’ll be thrown in jail here. No
way am I risking that!”
    “It won’t happen. They’re not
concerned about what comes in, only what goes out. They won’t
search your car coming in, only when you leave but that’s to check
you’re not helping any Ossies to escape. People do it all the time,
even with heavier stuff. The KoKo supplies the upper crust and I’m
targeting the middle classes.”
    “What are you talking
about?”
    “Schalck-Golodkowski and his
cronies. Kommerzielle Koordinierung, KoKo. They control everything
that comes in, legal and otherwise. Anyway, that’s my problem. Get
it in here and I’ll pay you ten times your costs. We’ll both do
well out of it.”
    For a moment he was tempted.
Perhaps Mark was right. Perhaps the risk was minimal and worth
taking. The opera tours were good but this would solve any
financial problems at a stroke, give him even more money for
expensive singing lessons. He could finally sign up at the
conservatory, perhaps even afford some advanced classes with
Maestro Rufini. Or he could most likely rot in an East German jail
for a decade or more.
    “Sorry Mark, that’s not me. I’m
not getting into that racket. I won’t do it.”
    Mark stared at him for a few
moments.
    “You’re a wimp. And a fool. I
should turn you in – at least that would get me some credit. But I
thought you might say that so that’s why I changed the rate today.
If you’d agreed it would have been 15:1 but from now on it’s
10:1.
    “We agreed fifteen. I could have
got fourteen from Dresdner Bank when I left West Berlin today. Now
give me the fifteen we agreed. I