Back at police headquarters on the Gothaerstrasse, Kessler was called into conference by Kommissar Rohrbeck together with the two other inspectors, Allerding and Hasenclever. Kessler reported on what he had found at Tegel, and on his preliminary interrogation of the ministry and Excursus staff.
‘Any leads?’ asked Rohrbeck.
‘Not to speak of. From the description of the OZF people, it’s possible that some may have come from the Leipzig area. But that’s little more than a hunch.’
‘We’ve alerted the police of the different Länder,’ said Allerding, ‘as well as Interpol and the French, Swiss, Italian and Austrian police. There are several reports of vans leaving Berlin on Sunday night, but they come from all different exits to the city. None report a convoy. But we have strict instructions not to say what’s been stolen. If Bonn decide to pay, they don’t want it known in advance.’
‘But it’ll leak out,’ said Kessler.
‘It won’t matter, after the event. But no one wants to argue about it beforehand. If it’s got to be done, it’s got to be done.’
‘What about the American?’ asked Kessler.
‘We’ve searched her flat, checked airline departures and her picture’s been circulated to our men on the street. No sign of her as yet.’
‘The FBI?’
‘Bonn doesn’t want them to know what’s going on.’
‘What about the Ministry of Culture?’
‘We’ve run the names of the civil servants and the Excursus staff through the database,’ said Hasenclever, ‘and we’re keeping them all under surveillance. We’re now working on the staff of the New German Foundation. The database hasn’t told us much. The Minister, several of the civil servants, and that man Westarp, are Ossies so we don’t have their records. The young man, Breitenbach, was a student activist, and got pulled in on a number of demonstrations, but there’s no suspicion of any links with the Red Brigades, and he seems to have been quiet for the last five years. The Russian, Serotkin, was the witness in an attempted rape in the Englischergarten three months ago. He dealt with three Turks who had attacked his American colleague Dr McDermott. And that’s about it.’
‘I’ve had the Chancellor’s office on the telephone,’ said Rohrbeck. ‘It has been decided that it is pre-eminently in the national interest to get those paintings back.’
‘Then they’d better pay,’ said Kessler.
‘A hundred million dollars?’ said Allerding.
‘The indemnity will cost them more.’
‘But the precedent,’ said Hasenclever.
‘Of course,’ said Rohrbeck. ‘The Chancellor’s office is mindful of that. But against the precedent you have to balance not just the cost of the indemnity, but the dreadful damage to Germany’s reputation that would result from the destruction of a unique collection of this kind. Our relations with both Russia and the United States would be seriously affected, not to mention the nations of the other lenders. Thus, the decision has been taken to pay the ransom if this is thought to be the only way to get the paintings back. The deadline is midnight tonight.’
Back in his office, Kessler received a call from Inspector Noske, the officer in charge of the fingerprint team. As Kessler had suspected, everything was clean. ‘Incredible discipline,’ said Noske, ‘incredible. They seem to have worn gloves the whole time, or wiped everything down before they left. And methodical. The way the waybills were filed, cross-referenced … Why take so much trouble with things you’re going to nick?’
Method. Efficiency. Discipline. None of this sounded to Kessler like the work of even the most experienced thieves.
‘What about those lamps without their flex?’ he asked Noske.
‘Someone just ripped it off but we haven’t found it and there are no prints.’
‘Is there nothing else unusual?’
‘The only odd thing we’ve found,’ said Noske, ‘since they were otherwise so tidy, were some cigarette butts on the floor by one of the desks. Dark tobacco. Untipped cigarettes.’
As he replaced the telephone on its cradle, Kessler’s eye fell on his open diary and the entry: ‘10.00 Gerasimov’. A pang of remorse made him call Grohmann.
‘Grohmann?’
Silence.
‘It’s Kessler. I’m sorry.’
A further sulky silence. Then: ‘I understand. I heard about the paintings. But don’t expect me to take on this case for you. We are not the criminal police.’
‘I know. It can wait.’
‘Never again do I want to see Gerasimov.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Briefly.’
‘And?’
‘He was angry at being stood up.’
‘Understandably.’
‘He said he had made a major breakthrough. He had the names being used by this Ivan the Terrible – names and passport numbers. Apparently, he speaks five languages fluently and is a master of disguise.’
Kessler laughed. ‘He learned this while bartering for shoes in Leipzig?’
‘Or he was given the names over the phone from Moscow. I’ve left the list on your desk.’
‘What do we do with him now?’
‘That’s your affair.’
‘Send him back to Moscow …’
‘Or give him more money to spend on whores. But not BfV money. It has nothing to do with intelligence. I lent a hand and was left holding the baby. Now I’m off the case. It’s over. Schluss. Fertig. Goodbye.’
Grohmann slammed down the telephone; Kessler replaced his more gently on its receiver.
‘Grohmann?’ asked Dorn.
‘Yes.’
‘Pissed off?’
‘Yes. He’s had enough of our Russian friend.’
‘I don’t blame him.’
‘Apparently he’s come up with some names and passport numbers for Ivan the Terrible. The list’s in the in-tray.’ He nodded down to the shallow wire basket on the right-hand corner of his desk.
The telephone rang. Kessler picked it up.
Dorn leaned forward to take Gerasimov’s list out of the in-tray.
Kessler slammed down the telephone. ‘Diederich’s back. Come on.’
‘The list?’
‘It’ll wait.’
Kessler and Dorn were met by Dr Kemmelkampf at the door of the office in East Berlin where they had been earlier that day. They were shown straight into the Minister’s office. Before Kessler could open his mouth, Stefan Diederich went on the offensive.
‘So, gentlemen. This is a fine kettle of fish. I have had calls from the Chancellor’s office in Bonn every half hour asking for a progress report, and so far I have not been able to say anything. Tell me, please, what am I to say next time they call?’
Kessler, flabbergasted by this audacious greeting, stuttered and spluttered: ‘I … we … there have been … we have … investigations, naturally … but there are no real leads.’
Stefan Diederich gave a snort of exasperation. ‘You must forgive me, Sergeant …’
‘Inspector,’ said Dorn.
‘Inspector. I’m so sorry. You will forgive me if I express a certain disillusion. As you know, I was until recently a citizen of the German Democratic Republic. There were many unpleasant aspects to life in that totalitarian state, but it would have been inconceivable for a collection of some of the greatest art the world has ever produced to simply disappear overnight …’
‘Herr Minister …’ Kessler began.
‘I am sorry. I realize that you are not the one to whom I should address my complaint. You are merely a humble inspector, and you?’ He turned to Dorn.
‘Detective sergeant.’
‘Detective sergeant. Excellent. Well, neither a detective sergeant nor even an inspector can be held responsible for the abysmal failure of the Berlin police to protect a unique collection of this kind. However, you are here, as I understand it, to clear up the mess …’
‘To investigate …’
‘Yes. To investigate and, I ho
pe, to find – because if the paintings are not found, then we are all in the soup, gentlemen: all, from the Chancellor of Germany down to the humblest police inspector and detective sergeant.’
‘So far as I know,’ said Kessler, ‘the Berlin police were never asked to ensure the security of the paintings.’
‘Ah,’ said Diederich. ‘So we have to ask for our property to be protected? It is not an automatic right?’
‘Of course it is a right,’ said Kessler, ‘but in particular cases …’
‘Yes, yes. I understand. And, undoubtedly, an enquiry will discover that since the reunification of Germany, the theoretic unity but actual diversity of administrative powers in the eastern part of Germany can partly be blamed for this fiasco. The very fact that the exhibition was being organized by the government of a former province of East Germany yet had its offices in West Berlin meant that certain areas of competence fell, as it were, between two stools. Actions to be taken by one or other of the different authorities were in fact taken by none. This is an accident of history, and from a historical perspective, the hundred million dollars – if indeed, it is paid – will be added to the total cost of the reunification of our country and, as a percentage of the whole, will be seen to be very small indeed. We have, naturally, already instituted such an enquiry and if any of my officials are held to be responsible, then, of course, disciplinary procedures will be taken against them. But this will only be done in some months’ time and it is unlikely to placate, say, the Museum of Modern Art in New York or the Musée d’Art Moderne in Paris, not to mention the Tretyakov in Moscow and the Russian Museum in St Petersburg. I tell you, gentlemen, my thinking and that of the Chancellor are at one on this question. The loss or destruction of the works of art is unthinkable. Everything must be done to recover them.’
‘Certain features have started to emerge,’ said Kessler.
‘Features? Do you mean clues?’
‘Not clues, no. But clearly the robbery was planned over a long period of time.’
‘Clearly.’
‘The company, Omni Zartfracht, was bogus, set up simply to assemble the paintings.’
‘So Kemmelkampf told me. Unbelievable.’
‘It is therefore important to know who chose OZF.’
‘Not important. Essential.’
‘Essential, then.’
‘Kemmelkampf has already been through the correspondence and minutes and says that the idea came from the Excursus committee.’
‘Yes. Apparently it was suggested by Dr McDermott.’
‘Who, I understand, has disappeared.’
‘Presumably the ministry checked the company’s credentials?’
‘Here we may have been remiss,’ said Diederich. ‘Kemmelkampf left it to a subordinate, Dr Giesenfels, who now tells us that he thought Dr Westarp had taken it in hand. I have to say, Inspector, that this is my responsibility as minister and I would not want to duck it, but for various reasons that I am sure you appreciate – the Chancellor’s office and the ministry in Bonn are less conscious of local conditions here in Berlin – but for various reasons it was important to give certain posts in the ministry to people from the former DDR who were not only inexperienced when it came to mounting an international exhibition of this magnitude but who, in particular, knew little or nothing about vetting companies with headquarters in Switzerland. As I understand it, the OZF people here in Berlin were efficient and cooperative. They saw no reason to look into the Swiss parent company. I have to say, and this is not meant to be in any way a criticism of Dr McDermott, but my officials were somewhat dazzled by this handsome art historian from the United States, and so worked on the assumption that she knew what she was doing when she recommended this company, Omni Zartfracht.’
Kessler nodded. ‘What about Dr Serotkin?’
‘What about him?’
‘He has apparently gone back to Moscow.’
‘Yes. His father is ill. He hopes to return for the opening.’
‘How did be become involved in the exhibition?’
‘It was thought necessary to have a Russian to ensure Soviet cooperation. Many of the works, you understand, were in Russian galleries.’
‘Did you choose him?’
‘No. We were advised that if you ask for one man, they are certain to send another. And to be blunt, we did not really care who came, so long as he could arrange for the loan of the paintings. We made a request through the usual channels. They sent Serotkin.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘No. But I know the type, only too well. An apparatchik. He knows very little about modern art.’
‘But since the coup …’
‘At that level of bureaucracy, nothing has changed.’
‘Could we get hold of him if required?’
‘Of course. Kemmelkampf has the number of the ministry in Moscow.’
‘And he became involved after you decided to hold the exhibition?’
‘Yes.’
‘And had nothing to do with the choice of OZF?’
‘No.’
Again, Kessler paused. His notebook was open on the table in front of him but the page was blank. ‘Can you tell me when it was, precisely, that you decided to put on the exhibition?’
The minister looked embarrassed. ‘It was last summer but – this is awkward, but, you will understand, politics is politics – although I have been credited with the idea, and I have not sought to disown that credit, the very germ of the idea was not, in fact, mine.’
‘Whose was it, then?’
‘Dr Westarp will confirm this, and my wife, that the first mention of a comprehensive, all-embracing exhibition of modern Russian art came at a dinner in our flat last summer from Dr McDermott who was a friend from ten years before, and who in the meantime had made this field her speciality.’
‘She suggested Excursus?’
‘It was a brilliant idea. We jumped at it. Dr Westarp and I. It was just what was needed – politically, culturally, in every way. But things are serious now, so we must keep scrupulously to the truth, and the truth is that Dr McDermott suggested the exhibition with herself as the chief organizer. It was only for that reason, in fact, that we insisted that she be given the job. There were many Germans better qualified but, since it was her idea, it seemed only just.’
It was now past four in the afternoon and the two detectives, who had had no lunch, stopped off on their way back to police headquarters at a stall for a quick currywurst and a glass of beer.
‘It all points to the American,’ said Dorn.
Kessler chewed his sausage without answering.
‘Although …’ Dorn hesitated.
‘What?’
‘A woman? I mean, I know that these American women are a new breed, but all the same …’
‘She won’t have been on her own. She’d be working for someone else. You need big money to set up a long firm like OZF.’
‘Who’s behind her, then? The mafia?’
Kessler finished his sausage and wiped the ketchup off his fingers with a paper napkin. ‘I don’t know. She might have a boyfriend, or she may have been blackmailed. But I’m not entirely convinced it is her. I feel that we’re being nudged in that direction.’
‘Don’t you believe the minister?’
Kessler hesitated. ‘Do you?’
‘I don’t trust any politicians. They always sound false.’ Dorn finished his sausage.
‘What’s curious about Diederich,’ said Kessler, turning to go, ‘is that he’s only been a politician since the fall of the Wall.’
Dorn hesitated. ‘I’m still famished, chief. Mind if I buy another?’
‘Better bring it back to the office.’
Dorn ordered another currywurst and, while it was being prepared and put in a bag, drained his glass of beer.
At five, the three inspectors were called up to report to Kommissar Rohrbeck. ‘Time’s running out,’ said Rohrbeck.
‘Still nothing from the frontier
police, the state forces or Interpol,’ said Allerding.
‘The Swiss have come back on the OZF company,’ said Kessler. ‘Bogus names for the directors. Current account fed from a secret numbered account.’
‘Can we freeze it?’ asked Allerding.
‘It would be a waste of time,’ said Rohrbeck. ‘Raskolnikov has faxed the numbers of different accounts for the ransom to the Chancellor’s office in Bonn, and the OZF account isn’t on it.’
‘Are those accounts in Zürich?’ asked Kessler.
‘In Zürich, Luxembourg, Jersey, the Cayman Islands – all over.’
Rohrbeck turned to Hasenclever. ‘What about the American, Dr McDermott?’
‘We’ve checked up on her so far as we can,’ said Hasenclever, ‘without telling the FBI what’s going on. She’s cleaner than clean. No known criminal connections. They have her flagged only for the year she spent here in Berlin.’
‘Her background?’ asked Kessler.
‘Father a professor of some sort.’
‘No Italian family connections?’
Hasenclever shook his head. ‘Not that we know of.’
‘Why do you ask?’ asked Rohrbeck.
‘Diederich says that it was Dr McDermott who first came up with the idea of the Excursus exhibition.’
‘I thought it was him.’
‘He took the credit …’
‘But doesn’t want the blame.’
‘He says Westarp and his wife will confirm it. McDermott’s also on record as first suggesting the OZF warehouse.’
‘We found nothing incriminating in her flat,’ said Allerding.
‘What about the Russian?’ asked Kessler.
‘We’re trying to locate him,’ said Hasenclever. ‘No luck so far.’
The Kommissar waved them away. ‘I won’t keep you. Press on.’
Kessler returned to his office. Dorn was waiting by his desk. ‘Did you know that our Dr McDermott was screwing the Russian, Serotkin?’ he asked Kessler.
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘That bloke Breitenbach just called to tell me. Said he thought it might be relevant. They lived in the same block near the Englischergarten. Apparently he spent most nights in her flat.’