The Waiting Time by Gerald Seymour Page B

note?’
    They were old friends, good friends, and had to be. For twelvehour shifts they shared sandwiches and body odours and a plastic piss bucket.
    ‘What Mr Fleming said — doesn’t want to wait for the tape to be transcribed. . . They’re waking him.’
    ‘You got good German?’
    ‘Good enough, and Italian and French. If my water’s right I’ve good Lebanese Arabic. . . His two minders are in...’
    ‘Arabic’s a right bastard.’
    ‘Here we go.’
    The parking meters where the van was parked were covered over — they always carried the hoods so they could stop where it was best for the reception.
    (Conversation started, Room 369, 12.11 hours.)
    KRAUSE: They come to Rostock, they come pushing their noses
    — (Indistinct) — I deal with it. I and my friends, I take what
    action...
    MINDER 1: But, Dieter, there is nothing to find, you gave your word to the Committee. . . (Indistinct.)
    The van was in front of the hotel, in a side street. On the roof was a small antenna, inconspicuous, but sufficient for quality reception from the microphone in the third-floor room.
    MINDER 2: You told us that all compromising files were cleaned. If there was evidence of crimes against human rights, a problem—
    KRAUSE: There is no evidence because there was no crime.
    MINDER 2: We have an investment in you, we have the right to your honesty. If there was a problem. .? (Indistinct.)
    The two men were in the closed rear of the van. A different team had put the microphone in position so it was not their concern whether it was in the room telephone, the bedside radio, the television zapper or behind a wall socket. They were concerned with the reception from it and immediate translation of the conversation.
    KRAUSE: There is no problem. Now, I want to shit and wash — I tell you, if anyone comes to Rostock and tries to make a problem — (indistinct) — I don’t ask your help. My friends and I remove the problem, if anyone comes to Rostock. Can I, please, shit...
    MINDER 1: We cannot accept illegality.
    KRAUSE: Do not be afraid, you will not hear of illegality, or of problems. You want to come with me and see me shit?
    (Conversation ended 12.14 hours.)
    ‘You may, Tracy, be under the misapprehension that I am some sort of policeman. Not true, couldn’t care less about prosecuting you. What I care about is that you called Hauptman Krause a murderer. Let me backtrack, Tracy. The last days of the regime and the Stasi were frantic, burning, shredding and ripping the key files. Everything was on file, you know that. The fires couldn’t handle the weight of paper they tried to destroy, the shredders failed, and they were reduced to tearing paper with their hands — what we’d call the removal of evidence. OK, the very heavy stuff went by air to Moscow, but it was left to the lowlife guilty men to do the slog for themselves, burn and shred and tear. Hauptman Krause would have reckoned to have sanitized his past. . . That’s December ‘eighty-nine. Let’s jump to March ‘ninety-seven and yesterday. Krause is the star billing now. He’s important to his new friends, and they are not, I assure you, going to chase after evidence that knocks him down. If there is evidence, if you have evidence, then we can demand that he is charged with murder, prosecuted. I can’t go digging for evidence, Tracy — that’d be a hostile act against a beloved and respected ally. I have got to be given it, have to be handed it. Tracy, what is the evidence?’
    Mrs Adelaide Barnes, Adie to her friends at bingo on Fridays and in the snug lounge of the Groom and Horses on Saturday nights, had two jobs through each working day of the week. She trudged home in the last light of the afternoon, and her feet were hurting. Buses cost money, and there wasn’t much money in cleaning. The chiropodist cost a fortune. She walked in pain at the end of each day back to Victoria Road. Her street, little terraced homes, was off Ragstone Road, almost underneath