Herr Lehmann grabbed an English-language pamphlet from under his desk and slid it to Brodie. “Call the number on this.”
Brodie looked at the pamphlet, which was labeled in large red letters:STASI RECORDS ARCHIVE, along with a subheading:State Security: An Introduction. He asked, “Do you have a gift shop?”
“What?”
Brodie opened his cred case—badge and photo ID—and held it close to Lehmann’s face. “Scott Brodie, U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Division. I am working with the Bundeskriminalamt, investigating the murder of my colleague Harry Vance. I’m sure you’ve seen that on the news.”
Lehmann eyed the badge and ID, then slid his eyes back to Brodie, as if to ensure the photo was a match. He nodded.
“We have reason to believe that the deceased visited here in the days before his death. Were you working the desk last week?”
“I am here every weekday.”
Brodie took out his phone, pulled up Harry Vance’s military file photo, and showed it to Lehmann. “Has this man visited the archives?”
Lehmann looked at the photo for a moment, then picked up a phone on his desk, punched a couple of buttons, and had a brief conversation in German. He hung up and said to Brodie, “Passport.”
Brodie pulled his passport from his sports jacket and placed it on the desk. Lehmann looked it over and entered some information on his computer, then jotted something down on a small white card. He returned the passport along with the card. “This is your visitor pass. Keep it with you. Wait over there.” He gestured to the sitting area on the other side of the lobby.
“What am I waiting for?”
“Someone to help you.”
“How long will it be?”
Lehmann looked at him as though that was a stupidly arrogant question. “Visitors often must make appointments months in advance.”
“I am not a visitor. I am a criminal investigator.”
“And this is why someone is coming down to see you without an appointment.”
This guy could use a good schnapps or two. Brodie again held up the photo of Vance on his phone. “Have you seen this man, Herr Lehmann?”
Lehmann stared at Brodie. “I am not authorized to share the visitor logs with anyone, no matter their credentials.”
“Thanks for your help.”
Brodie walked across the room to the waiting area and sat on a boxy faux-leather armchair. He looked over at Lehmann, who was now busying himself—or pretending to busy himself—with something on his computer.
This man knew whether Harry Vance had been here. Was his refusal to answer the question evidence in the affirmative? Not necessarily. This was a German bureaucrat running security for the Stasi Archives. Only a Grade A tight-ass would want or get that gig.
Brodie observed his surroundings. In addition to a few armchairs there was a rack stuffed with pamphlets in a variety of languages, and at the far end of the room was a black door with a sign in German along with an Englishtranslation:ARCHIVE READING ROOM. NO ACCESS WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION. NO TALKING. NO PHONES OR RECORDING EQUIPMENT.The door handle had a fob-activated security plate.
The only other detail of note was the wall opposite him, which was wallpapered with what appeared to be a life-sized photograph of the archives’ stacks—rows and rows of metal shelving lined with brown and yellow file folders stuffed with papers. It was a strange and vaguely ominous design choice.
In fact, this whole place was projecting a distinctly Germanic combo of mundane and sinister. The touristy pamphlets and the uptight bureaucrat on the one hand, and on the other the locked reading room, the creepy wallpaper, and the seven floors of Stasi files above—a monument to the most intrusive surveillance state in human history. This place was like a DMV with secrets. Or a lending library from Hell.
He waited about twenty minutes, during which time an older man in a suit came in and pressed a keycard to the turnstiles before proceeding to the elevator, and an attractive woman in her fifties paid a visit to the fascist functionary at the security desk, then took a seat in the waiting area. Brodie wondered what she was there for. Maybe an academic conducting research. Or a former citizen of the GDR, who’d come to read her own file to discover if her nosy neighbor from thirty-five years ago had been a government rat.
“Mr. Brodie.”
Brodie stood and turned toward the voice.
A woman in her mid-sixties stood with her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She wore a dark-blue suit and chunky black shoes. Her paper-white complexion was framed by shoulder-length dark-brown hair, and her small inquisitive eyes stared at him from behind oversize tortoiseshell glasses.
She said in a thick German accent, “I am Frau Ziegler, the chief archivist. You had an inquiry about our visitation logs.”
Brodie flashed his badge again, committing his second crime of the morning by impersonating a law enforcement officer. “I am assisting your government in investigating the murder of my colleague, U.S. Army CID Special Agent Harry Vance. We have reason to believe he visited your archives in the days before his death.”
