“Ten years. All kaput.”
“That’s about right.” The neo-Nazis, however, were mostly young. This place was more tortured and haunted than it appeared on the surface.
Brodie didn’t feel like talking politics or history, but the driver did and said, “Stasi Hauptquartier in Lichtenberg. Museum now.”
Brodie assumed it was a museum displaying the horrors of the Stasi—not their successes against the West or their own people. Well, in any case, that might be worth a visit.
The driver seemed to have exhausted his English, and Brodie sat back and watched the cityscape pass by.
This seemed to be a residential quarter of the city, dominated by huge, soulless, and decrepit apartment blocks, obviously built postwar by the Communist government, to replace what the Red Army had destroyed as they advanced into Berlin. A few of the older buildings had survived—traditional structures built on a more human scale than the monster monoliths that had risen from the rubble. Now and then there was an empty, weed-covered lot where a prewar building must have stood. As for commercial activity—stores, shops, restaurants—those were obviously not part of the Commie plan for the housing blocks. But it was only a matter of time before the Berlin real estate developers got interested in this wasteland. It usually starts with a Starbucks.
The taxi driver stopped in front of a grungy-looking slab-concrete, twelve-story apartment building that sat along the wide, windswept boulevard.
The driver seemed hesitant to abandon his American passenger here and asked, “This? Okay?”
“This is it. How much do you owe me for taking me here?”
The driver didn’t get the joke, and pointed to his meter.
Brodie paid the fare and gave the driver a three-euro tip, which was three euros more than a Berliner would have given him.
The driver thanked him, hesitated, then said, “Have a good visit.”
“Danke.” Before Brodie got out, he asked the driver, “Is Richter a common name in Germany?”
“Richter? Yes. I hear this name.” He asked, “This is your friend?”
“Yes. Heide Richter.” He confided, “Her husband is out of town.”
“Ah!” Which explained this American’s trip to the outer borough of nowhere. The driver said something in German and laughed at what he’d said.
Brodie didn’t need a translation and exited the taxi. He walked toward the entrance to the apartment building.
According to the white pages, this was the residence of the only Stefan Richter listed in Berlin. As per the taxi driver, Richter was not an uncommon name, and Brodie had seen a dozen more in the white pages. But only one Stefan Richter. Though like anywhere else, it wouldn’t be too hard to keep your name unlisted for privacy reasons. So there could be another Stefan Richter.
On the other hand, the driver had given him the demographics of this neighborhood, and Stefan Richter seemed to fit the profile. Plus, the old Stasi headquarters was nearby, a short and convenient commute to work back in the GDR days when this shithole building must have been considered luxury housing. Right. Don’t overanalyze it.
Brodie walked into the small outer foyer and scanned the directory, which had more than a hundred listings. Stefan Richter lived in Apartment 8F.
Brodie moved to the lobby door and reached for the handle in the belief that nothing built by the Commies worked. But the electronic lock worked, and the handle held fast.Shit.
Well, he could wait for someone to come in or go out and open the lobby door for him, but that could be a while in a place like this where half the residents were probably pensioners, and probably dead. And the other half were young squatters, whacked out on whatever was the magic of the moment.
He looked at the call box, and buzzed 8F. After a moment a man’s voice came over the speaker. “Hallo?”
Brodie asked, “Ist das Herr Richter?”
“Wer sind Sie?” The man sounded elderly, and not very friendly, like the kind of guy who used to develop bioweapons for the Stasi. Well, maybe that was a stretch.
“Eine Lieferung,” said Brodie, which according to the Internet was the German word for “delivery.” He was suddenly back in Virginia, storming Private Hinckley’s house in search of stolen meat loaf or whatever. Well, no matter what happened, Scott Brodie was never going back to that crap again.
Herr Richter did not reply, and then it sounded like he hung up.
Brodie started pressing call buttons, and someone who was too trusting or too lonely—or who was maybe expecting a lieferung—buzzed him in.
He entered a dim and dingy lobby that smelled of disinfectant. In front of him was a security desk that was unoccupied and, judging by the lack of a phone, computer, or even a chair, had probably been that way for thirty years.
There were only two elevators, one of which had a sign taped to the door that saidACHTUNG!followed by something in German that probably said “This one will kill you.”
