The Last Temptation (42 page)

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He turned his attention to the laptop. She didn’t even have it password protected, he noted contemptuously. He opened up her comms program, his heart sinking as he saw a couple of hundred e-mails in the in-box. He opened a few at random and found nothing of any significance. They seemed mostly to be from friends or business contacts, generally concerning arrangements for meetings or the exchange of gossip. Ideally, he could use a few hours alone with it to go through everything in more detail, but that wasn’t going to happen.

Next, Krasic opened her word processing software. There was a folder of letters^ many of which seemed to be concerned with the lease of a former US airbase in East Anglia and applications for its change of use to light industrial units and residential accommodation for the workforce. Other letters dealt with property sales and purchases, none of which meant anything to him. He opened another folder called ‘project EA1 His heart leapt when he saw among the file list one labelled ‘Radecki’. Eagerly, he opened it.

Tadeusz Radecki. 38. Polish background, based in Berlin. Supplied migrant workers to Colin Osborne. According to J, Radecki has extensive business interests with Charlie and Horse. Key player in central Germany, with substantial export element. Also deals in live product. Apparently started out dealing in hardware in the Balkans. Owns a chain of video stores. Said to be scrupulous in delivery but takes no shit. Second in command, according to CO, ‘ruthless mad bastard Serb’ Darko Krasic, muscle who lets TR keep his hands clean. TR lives in expensive apartment in Charlottenburg. Is driven around in a big black Merc. Likes to travel, mostly to European cities. Interests: opera, hunting, eating out, making money, photography.

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Has a box at the Staatsoper, goes there alone. Best chance to make initial contact away from possible interference from the Serb?

She’d done her homework, though she hadn’t left many clues as to where her information came from. He didn’t like it that an outsider could know even this much about them. And now she wanted to probe further into their business. He didn’t like it one little bit. Not from someone this smart.

He closed the word processing software and tried to open the accounts program. This time, he came up against the brick wall of a demand for a password. He didn’t blame her; he’d have done the same in her shoes. It showed she understood what was really dangerous and what wasn’t.

Krasic glanced at his watch. He’d been inside for thirty five minutes. He’d better close down the laptop now. He wasn’t going to learn anything more from it, and it wouldn’t do for Jackson to come back and find it still warm from use.

He turned his attention to the bedroom. Clothes hung in the wardrobe; an Armani business suit; a couple of evening dresses with designer names he’d never heard of; a couple of pairs of Armani jeans; a pair of Paul Costello trousers; half a dozen tops with more designer labels. Three pairs of shoes were sprawled on the floor - Bally, Fly and Manolo Blahnik, he noticed. They all looked fairly new; he could still easily read the manufacturers’ names inside them. Another Imelda Marcos, he thought negligently.

Finally, the drawers. Her underwear was nothing special. She obviously preferred to spend on what could be seen and stick to the chain stores for what went unnoticed. It was an interesting insight into the way her mind worked, but it didn’t take him any further in his attempts to find out if she really

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was who she claimed to be. Irritated by the fruitlessness of his search, he slammed the drawer shut and headed for the bathroom. He had just opened the cabinet above the washbasin when his mobile rang.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me, Rado. She’s leaving now. Looks like she’s heading back to the apartment.’

‘Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.’ Krasic stuffed his phone back into his pocket and closed the cabinet. Time to get out.

Luckily, he didn’t have to fiddle about with his picks, for the door locked automatically when it was closed. He didn’t want to risk the lift, so he headed for the fire stairs at the end of the corridor. Within two minutes he was back outside, ducking into a bar on the other side of the street. He was halfway down a glass of pilsner when he saw her walk into the apartment building. Rado was a comfortable thirty yards or so behind her. Krasic glared through the window at Caroline Jackson’s retreating back. Even though he hadn’t found any reason not to, he still didn’t trust her.

Emil Wolf looked as if he spent most of his life in dusty archives, Tony thought as he sat opposite him in the small cafe in Prenzlauer Berg. Thin as a whip, his untidy steel grey hair hung over a forehead the colour of parchment. His brown eyes behind oblong glasses were pink-rimmed, his cheeks pale. His mouth was a grim little line, his lips almost invisible until he opened his mouth to speak.

‘I appreciate you giving me some of your time,’ Tony said.

Wolf’s mouth turned down at one corner. ‘Petra can be very persuasive. Did she tell you I used to be married to her sister?’

Tony shook his head. ‘No.’

Wolf shrugged. ‘Petra thinks this still means we’re family.

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So I have to jump to her orders. So, how can I help you, Dr Hill?’

‘I don’t know how much Petra has told you?’

‘I understand it is a confidential matter relating to a serious crime. And that you think it possible that the perpetrator or someone in his family has suffered abuse at the hands of the | psychiatric profession?’

‘That’s right.’

Tm presuming because you are talking to me and this is my area of expertise that you think this may have happened at the hands of the Stasi?’

‘It crossed my mind, yes.’

Wolf lit a cigarette and frowned. ‘In the West, people tend to lump the Stasi in with the Soviet Union when it comes to the abuse of psychiatry for political purposes. But really, the dynamic was very different in Germany. The Stasi had huge resources at their disposal, and they used them to build an unparalleled network of informers. It’s been estimated that one in fifty of the population was directly connected to the Stasi in this way.

‘They relied on what they called the “decomposition” of people. Decomposition meant making people feel they had no power to act. They were paralysed as citizens because they were convinced that everything was controlled. One of my colleagues has called this “the relentless application of a quiet coercion leading to compliance.”

‘Stasi oppression was subtle; people were persuaded that a throwaway remark in a bar could ruin any chances of career advancement. Children were taught that any adolescent rebellion could deny them a university place. Cooperation, on the other hand, was the route to a better life. So you had the twin methods of bribery and blackmail.

‘The Stasi controllers targeted people they thought had a

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predisposition to collaborate then motivated them into believing they were doing something worthwhile. When you live in a culture where you have been conditioned to believe you have no power, it’s very seductive to be offered the chance to do something active. And, of course, because they believed they were doing the right thing, it’s very difficult to confront or punish them afterwards. The aftermath of the fall of communism has poisoned many people’s lives, because the opening up of their files has forced them to acknowledge how much they were betrayed by wives, husbands, children, parents, friends and teachers.

‘So you see, there was seldom any need for the state to abuse psychiatry. The population was cowed into submission already.’

Tony looked sceptical. ‘But there was still dissidence. People were imprisoned and tortured. I’ve read that some activists were incarcerated in psychiatric units for short periods of time to prevent them taking part in planned actions against the state. It’s disingenuous to say that there was no abuse of the medical system, surely?’

Wolf nodded. ‘Oh, you’re right. There were cases, but they were relatively rare. And most of them have been documented since. Some thirty psychiatrists have been discredited because they allowed themselves to be used for this purpose, but they were a small minority. And their names are known. If your criminal had an axe to grind from the Stasi years, he wouldn’t have to look too hard to find people to blame. Really, in the great scheme of things, their crimes were insignificant. You see, the Stasi had a unique way of dealing with dissidents. They sold them to the West.’ § ‘What?’

‘That’s right. Every year, the Federal Republic bought the freedom of East German citizens who were imprisoned for

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expressing views or taking action against the state. I’m not just talking about high-profile people like writers and artists. I’m talking about people from all levels of life. So there was no real need to exploit the possibilities of subverting the psychiatric profession/ ;

This wasn’t what Tony had expected to hear from a West German historian. ‘You’re certainly undermining my prejudices here,’ he said wryly.

‘You don’t have to take my word for it. There have been studies done both by academics and government institutes. They all say the same thing. A few isolated incidences of people having their spirit broken by psychological torture, but very little abuse of the process. If you want details of documented cases, I have a colleague who could probably supply them. Also, you should bear in mind that the medical profession in general was resistant to the controlling efforts of the Stasi. They had a very low percentage of internal informers, they did all they could to maintain the right of patient confidentiality, and the state really didn’t trust them to be reliable administrators of government policy.’

Tony couldn’t help feeling disappointed at Wolf’s words. He’d been convinced he’d been right in his supposition. But it looked as if he’d been mistaken. Since the guilty practitioners from the old Communist regime had been publicly identified, if the killer believed his troubles had originated under the Stasi regime, those individuals would have been the obvious targets, not academics from the West.

‘You look depressed, Dr Hill. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to tell you what you wanted to hear. But if you’re looking for serious and widespread abuse of psychiatry and psychology in this country, you’re going to have to go back to the Nazi era.’

‘That all seems very remote now,’ Tony said.

Wolf stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Not necessarily. Don’t

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forget, they destroyed many children’s lives with their eugenics policies. Some of those children survived. They would only be in their seventies now. That’s still well within living memory. It’s certainly possible they will have told their stories to their children and grandchildren. And, of course, the people responsible for what was done to them are long dead, so they’re not available as targets.’

Tony perked up as the implications of what Wolf was saying sank in. ‘Are there records from that period of admissions to psychiatric units?’

Wolf nodded. ‘The Nazis were obsessive record keepers. It’s one of the more depressing things about them, I’ve always thought. They had to find a justification for what they were doing that went beyond the service of Hitler’s desire to create a master race, so they convinced themselves that they were carrying out proper scientific research. There are records of admissions, records of deaths, and records of a lot of the experiments they conducted.’

Tony felt a quickening of his pulse. ‘So where are these records held?’

‘There is a castle on the Rhine - Schloss Hochenstein. They called it the Institute of Developmental Psychology. The reality was that it was a euthanasia factory that also conducted radical psychological experiments. After the war, it became the record centre for the euthanasia programme. It has also been turned into a tourist attraction, though they don’t mention that particular element of the castle’s history,’ Wolf said, an ironic twist to his mouth. ‘Our reconciliation with our past only goes so far. We really don’t Like to admit that we stood by and let our own children be slaughtered.’

‘No, I can see how that might be a bit hard for the national psyche to cope with,’ Tony said. ‘So, is it possible for me to gain access to these records?’

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Wolf smiled, his thin lips spreading over yellowed teeth. ‘Normally, it would take time to obtain the necessary permissions. But I’m sure Petra can cut through all the red tape for you. She’s very good at getting her own way.’

Tony pulled a face. ‘So I’ve discovered.’ He pushed his half drunk coffee away from him. ‘You’ve been a great help, Dr Wolf.’

The other man gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Any excuse to get away from campus for an hour.’

‘I know the feeling,’ Tony said, realizing as he spoke that he had already mentally left that life far behind him. ‘I’ll tell Petra she owes you a drink.’

Wolf snorted with laughter. ‘I won’t hold my breath. Good luck at the schloss.’ ^”

Luck was exactly what Tony felt he had on his side. The tide was slowly turning, allowing him to replace vague notions with real possibilities. It wasn’t a moment too soon. Given the escalation into overt sexuality that was evident in the Koln case, they needed to stop this killer before he lost even more of his self-control. Tony could easily imagine him turning into a spree killer, cutting a swathe through a university campus with a machine gun before turning his gun on himself. It was time to put a stop to it. He could feel his blood rising in anticipation. I’m coming for you, Geronimo, he thought as he walked out of the cafe” into the clean spring day.

Carol tossed her gym bag through the bedroom door and walked on into the living room. Her nostrils twitched. She could swear she was picking up the faintest aroma of cigars. Either the occupant of the apartment below was puffing his way through an entire humidor of Havanas, or someone had been in here. She smiled. She’d expected them to search