Vortex- Berlin

by Lee Jackson

  VORTEX: BERLIN

  Lee Jackson

  Other Thrillers by Lee Jackson

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  In Honor of my Great Friend

  &

  Brother-in-Arms

  Jim Skopek

  We Had One Hell’uv a Ride!

  Corinne and Krista are Proud of You

  Well Done. Be Thou At Peace.

  Contents

  Major Characters Of Vortex: Berlin

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  THANK YOU!

  FAHRENHEIT KUWAIT

  Other Thrillers by Lee Jackson

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Major Characters Of Vortex: Berlin

  Atcho:Protagonist

  Antagonist: The Russian

  Sofia Stahl: Atcho’s wife

  Burly:Retired CIA officer

  Tony Collins:Investigative Reporter

  Ivan:Ex-Soviet KGB officer

  Rafael:Atcho’s Friend

  Major Joe Horton:US Army Intel Officer

  Wolfgang Sacher:East German Politburo

  Johann Baumann:Director of the Stasi

  Veniamin Krivkov:Nuclear Engineer

  Klaus aka Sahab Kadyrov:KGB Deserter

  Ranulf:Stasi officer

  Prologue

  August 13, 1961 – Berlin.

  A car with US diplomatic license plates pulled to the side of the street across from a home in a residential neighborhood. A father and two small girls emerged. The girls smiled at each other and hugged, then one started across the street under the watchful eye of the father. The other girl held his hand.

  They heard the roar of an engine and glanced down the street. A military vehicle traveling in the opposite direction slowed and parked on the other side. An East German soldier emerged, carrying a paint can.

  The first girl crossed the street safely and skipped to the front door of the house. She turned and waved. “Bye, Cousin. Bye, Uncle. See you soon.” Her eyes shifted to the soldier. Her uncle followed her gaze.

  The soldier walked to the middle of the street and crouched, fumbling with the paint can. He pried open the lid, produced a brush from his pocket, and dipped it.

  Sounds of trucks from both directions broke the peaceful quiet of the neighborhood. The vehicles stopped at intervals, and East German soldiers climbed out. They spread themselves along a line in the middle of the street.

  Standing next to her father, the other girl took in the activity but quickly dismissed it and waved back. “Bye. See you soon.”

  The man felt a pit form in his stomach. He stood in the American Sector of Berlin. The soldiers stood in the Soviet Sector—and so did his little niece, who watched the unfolding scene with innocent fascination.

  The soldier lifted the brush out of the can. The paint was white. He reached down and swiped it across the rough surface, indelibly marking the boundary that separated East from West on the streets of Berlin. Germany was now a divided country, and Berlin a divided city.

  December 1988 – In the Atlantic, Over the Horizon from the Coast of the Azores.

  Gonçalo, a fisherman, glanced from his net to the sky. His kindly eyes squinted in the shimmer of sun on rippling water. A roar out of the northwest descended to the waves and bounded toward him, increasing in intensity. He knew what it was: a military cargo jet bound for Lajes Air Base on the main island. He cupped his hands over his brow and searched in the direction of the roar. Soon he saw it, enlarging as it approached on a flight path that would go directly over his head. As he made out the detail, he gaped in wonder at the enormous aircraft, pulled through the air by six jet engines and held in steady flight by giant twin stabilizers.

  Gonçalo recognized the markings of a Soviet aircraft. He never paid much attention to world affairs but was sufficiently informed to know of the bitter East–West rivalry between the US and the Soviet Union. He found it curious that both superpowers used the landing facilities at Lajes.

  The jet thundered overhead, and Gonçalo watched until it disappeared beyond the horizon. Today, he was alone on the sea. He looked about in all directions, but not another ship, fishing vessel, or object of any sort that he could see floated on the deep blue waters. When the smell of the jet’s exhaust was blown away by the breeze, he adjusted his nets and settled back to take in the sounds and fresh air of the vast Atlantic Ocean. He felt at peace here. His eyes closed and he snoozed.

  An hour later, a peculiar vibration strumming the wispy clouds awakened him, but he could not immediately place it. He thought he had heard a rhythmic whirring, a sound he knew belonged to the US Navy helicopters that frequently crossed the skies. Sometimes he was close enough to their mother ships that he could watch liftoff or landing, and he marveled at the enormous size of the vessels and the engineering genius that made flight possible for a machine as ungainly as a helicopter.

  He heard whirring again and tried to spot the aircraft, but as he searched, the sound halted momentarily, like a cough. When it resumed, it was choppy, sputtering. Then he saw the it. A plume of black smoke marked its location against the blue sky, trailing after what appeared to be a mechanical beast in distress.

  The main rotor flopped about out of control, striking the boom. The body gyrated chaotically. Even from his position a half mile away, Gonçalo knew it to be, without a doubt, one of the big US Marine helicopters. As he watched in alarm, its forward motion altered sharply, and it plunged toward the sea. Its descent accelerated as its nose dropped. It rose again, as if in a desperate attempt to save itself, and then it smacked the water.

  A column of sparkling droplets sprayed into the air. When the water cleared, all Gonçalo could see was the tail of the chopper. It jutted from the water at an angle, its rear rotor still spinning. Then the boom rotated perpendicular to the horizon, and the helicopter slid into its watery grave. Calm descended once again on the ocean.

  Horrified, Gonçalo could only stare. Then, as if rousing himself from a dream, he stumbled in the rocking boat to the tiny cabin at its center and fumbled with the ignition. He glanced over his shoulder to keep a bearing on where the aircraft had gone down. The motor kicked in. He angled the boat toward the crash.

  He knew when he had reached the site because small bits of debris floated in an expanding circle among the waves, but he saw no sign o
f human life. Circling about the center of the flotsam in a tightening spiral so as not to miss anything, he was sure that rescue teams would soon descend from the sky. For survivors, seconds counted.

  He spotted a globular piece of flotsam on the surface and guided the boat toward it. As he approached, the object rotated in the water, exposing a man’s face, mouth open, gasping for air. Gonçalo pushed the throttle for greater speed, and then cut it as he coaxed his boat alongside the man. He reversed the engine slightly to stop forward movement, and then doused it. Snatching a pole with a crook at one end, he leaned over the vessel’s side.

  The man seemed oblivious to the boat’s presence at first. Then as awareness dawned, he clutched at the side.

  “Easy, easy. I’ll get you out,” Gonçalo called in Portuguese. “Grab the rod.”

  The man’s arms came out of the water together. He flailed at the pole without securing a firm grasp.

  “Don’t worry,” the fisherman called. “I’ll do the work.” He maneuvered the crook of the pole behind the man’s back and under one arm and pulled gently. When the floundering man was within reach, Gonçalo leaned down and grabbed a shoulder. He struggled to draw the man closer to the boat, and then grasped him under his arms and pulled until he had his upper body over the side. With great effort, he pulled the man’s torso over, and finally his legs. The unlikely guest tumbled to the floor of the boat, barely conscious.

  The fisherman rushed to his cabin. He rummaged for a blanket and then hurried back out to the deck and covered the stranger.

  The western horizon had grown dark with a brewing storm. They were too far out to sea to be caught alone in a squall, and he still had heard no sounds of an approaching search-and-rescue party.

  He noticed a scarlet stain growing through the blanket on the man’s left thigh. Pulling back the cover, he saw a round hole in the trousers. Blood seeped out. He tried to inspect the wound, but his ward stirred and cried out in pain.

  Gonçalo pulled the blanket completely off and looked over the man’s frame. He drew back in alarm at what he saw.

  1

  November 3, 1989 – West Berlin, Federal Republic of Germany – Late Evening.

  Atcho whirled and struck. He acted on instinct. He had no idea why he had been attacked. He knew only that two assailants had come at him from an alley on Budapest Strasse, near the bombed-out hulk and spire of Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church in West Berlin. It served as a reminder of the horrors of a world at war. In the center of this brightly lit part of the city, few places offered darkness. The attackers had positioned their ambush well.

  With no warning, they had come from the recesses of a construction site, seemingly intent on pushing Atcho back into those deep shadows. Two men had already grasped his arms. As he struggled against them, a third came from his rear. He heard the screech of tires in the direction he was being pushed. A van appeared ahead of him.

  He dropped his head, slumped his shoulders, planted his feet, and shoved backward. He felt his arms sliding free. Then he spun around and saw the man from behind start to raise a pistol.

  Atcho kicked hard. The man’s groin took the full impact of the stiff toe of Atcho’s leather shoe. The thug yelped in pain. His gun clattered to the concrete.

  Atcho spun again. The two men who had held his shoulders had no time to stop their forward momentum.

  Ahead of them, the van accelerated. Atcho heard the ascending whine of its engine above the street noise. Its lights flicked on as it sped straight toward them.

  Two men crouched on the edge of the open sliding door, ready to grab Atcho and force him inside. He shoved hard against the attacker nearest to the front of the van and tripped him into its path.

  Tortured brakes screamed to a halt over the th-thump of the van running over the man’s body. Atcho whirled on his third assailant. This man was big and ponderous and had not yet grasped what had happened. He stared at the van.

  The two male passengers inside had been thrown out. They sprawled on the ground, stunned.

  Atcho hurled himself at the third man’s knees. He heard a crack of bone and a cry of pain as his weight connected, forcing the brute's knees to buckle in the wrong direction.

  Atcho rolled to the side and came to his feet. The dropped pistol lay a few feet away, its surface glinting in the half-light. He scooped it up.

  The two gunmen by the van shook their heads, blinking, still stunned from the impact. They raised themselves onto their elbows, groggy, glaring at Atcho. Both were lean and fit and carried H&K MP5 submachine guns strapped across their chests. They trained their weapons on him.

  Atcho ran for the nearest cover—a stack of bricks—the pistol still in his hand. His chest heaved. He dove behind the bricks. The ballistic thwt of bullets breaking air sounded inches from his face. He glanced around for better protection. Finding none, he looked across the street. Pedestrians had vacated the sidewalk.

  Then, from three blocks away, the peculiar high-pitched waxing and waning of a Federal Republic of Germany police car sounded, its ascending timbre signaling that it was speeding Atcho’s way. He crept to the opposite end of the bricks where shadows were deepest and peered around them.

  The man who had gone under the van was now a bloody corpse lying just behind the back wheels. The thug Atcho had kicked still held his groin while he staggered toward the vehicle. The big, slow ruffian rolled on the ground holding both knees.

  The two gunmen by the van heard the sirens too and jumped to their feet. Without warning, they turned their weapons on their two live companions and opened fire. The staggering man dropped to the ground.

  Atcho pulled back, stupefied. He heard one of the gunmen yell orders to the driver. The engine revved up.

  Atcho peered around the bricks again. With tires squealing and the smell of burnt rubber, the van sped back into shadows. The heavyset man clutched his wounds. He twitched uncontrollably as blood poured onto the ground. Then he was still. The third assailant did not move.

  Atcho glared into the muzzles of an array of police automatic weapons aimed at him, the red dots from their lasers dancing on his chest. The acrid smell of gun smoke hung in the air. A spotlight blinded him. Brilliant strobes pulsed white and blue from the roofs of green and white patrol cars. He held his arms high over his head. In his right hand, he still held the pistol. He lowered it to the ground. Slowly.

  Immediately, two burly Polizei forced his arms behind him and cuffed him. One patted him down and took his wallet and passport. Minutes later, he watched from the back seat of a police car as West Berlin night scenes flashed by. Sirens blared.

  On arrival at the station, he tolerated being fingerprinted, photographed, and booked. Then he sat alone in an interrogation room.

  2

  Sofia Stahl basked in the big bathtub in her suite at the Mövenpick Hotel, one of the great historic establishments in Berlin, not far from the Brandenburg Gate and the Berlin Wall. She knew Atcho was not comfortable with the luxury of their suite, but they had paid the difference between the cost of the room and the government allowance for themselves and their security detail.

  In her view, Atcho deserved everything good that could come his way. He had been tortured in Cuba’s prisons. Then the Soviets had coerced him to become an unwilling sleeper agent inside the US.

  An image formed in her mind of Atcho’s muscular physique and finely sculpted face. She had kidded him on his way out the door that the silver in his hair was overtaking the dark brown. She smiled.

  Tony Collins, an investigative news reporter for the Washington Herald, had once described Atcho as akin to Gary Cooper’s character in High Noon, a man who “carried the weight of the world on his shoulders but could unleash holy hell at any moment.”

  Momentarily, she thought about her mission and tensed. If Atcho really knew…

  Twelve years younger than he, Sofia was ostensibly an analyst with the US State Department. Her elegant looks, with a softly sculpted face and dark hair over brilliant
green eyes and an easy smile, belied the lethality of her toned figure. Strangers found her warm and friendly. Friends saw her that way too, and also knew her to be loyal and competent. Enemies of the US who encountered her learned to beware.

  The phone rang. Sofia reached for the extension on a table beside the tub.

  “Is this Ms. Xiquez?” A man spoke, his voice low, ominous. He enunciated slowly, deliberately, with a heavy German accent. When Sofia hesitated, he repeated, “Is this Ms. Xiquez?”

  “This is Mrs. Sofia Stahl-Xiquez. Who’s calling?”

  “Listen carefully, Ms. Stahl. You’re an official of the US State Department. You’re here to watch the Wall come down. Am I right?”

  Sofia stepped out of the tub and reached for her towel. “Who are you?”

  “Shut up and listen.”

  Sofia sucked in her breath at the brutality of the voice. She pulled the towel around her.

  “We have your husband,” the speaker continued, and then paused. “Are you ready to listen?”

  Sofia cleared her mind and focused on the moment. “How did you get this call through screening? You’re playing with fire. The idea that you have Atcho—"