by Lee Jackson
The handle rotated down. The door swung open. A man stepped through, hands raised to his chest. “You’re in no danger from me,” he said. “We have the halls secured. The tear gas has dissipated. We’ve opened the windows and removed the canister. You’re safe.”
“And my husband?”
“We’re still learning what happened. Your security detail is in bad shape. Our team downstairs is reviewing surveillance videos.”
“Kidnappers took my husband. They said they planted a bomb in the living room.”
The duty officer raised his eyebrows. “We haven’t found one. They might have bluffed to keep you in here. We’ll intensify the search. Tell me what happened.”
Sofia told him. The officer placed a call. When he hung up, he said, “All exits are sealed. No one is being allowed to leave. The police arrived a few minutes ago. Detective Berger left a message requesting that you wait for him. He’ll be here shortly. We have a team to provide security until Mr. Brown and the others have recovered. Is that agreeable?”
Sofia had begun to pace. She stopped and stared at the officer as if only half understanding. “Sure. That’s fine.”
A few minutes later, the hotel security officer posted at the door escorted Detective Berger into the suite. The detective was as professional as he had been at the station, but his manner now had an empathetic touch. “I know you’ve told the story already,” he said. “Please tell me again. Don’t leave out any details.”
They sat on the sofa and Sofia began to speak.
“Our units have the hotel secured,” Berger said when she was finished. “Your state department and the US military headquarters are notified. They’ll have people here soon. We’ll find your husband.”
“I’m fine. But I’m furious.” She looked at Berger fiercely. “Those two have no idea who they’re holding.”
“Maybe. The trouble is, we don’t know who we’re dealing with either. If they were Stasi, they’ve gone rogue. We don’t know what they want.” He told Sofia that his officers and hotel security personnel had already done a quick sweep of the building and would do another one, more thoroughly. Guards were stationed at all exits. The hotel security director was screening the surveillance videos. “This is an early conclusion, but either the abductors are still in the hotel, or there’s another way out we don’t know about.”
Brown stumbled through the door, pale and crestfallen, his breathing labored. “I’m sorry,” he coughed. “I let you down.”
Sofia rushed to support him. “No one’s blaming you. Sit down.”
He waved her away. “Our military police will go over every square inch of this hotel.” He smiled sardonically. “The US Army still runs the American sector of West Berlin.” His expression changed, determined. “We’ll bring in the full force of the US government to get him back.”
“The kidnappers were in and out fast,” Sofia cut in. “They’re brothers. They must have scoped out our security. I don’t see how they could have done it without help from inside the hotel.”
“We’ll be questioning everyone,” Berger interjected. He took note of Sofia’s composure and her analytical mind. “Are you sure there’s nothing else?”
She looked at her watch. “I’m sure. I have things I have to do. Can I go?”
Berger searched her expression and saw only professional neutrality. “Yes, but one favor before you go.” He gestured to a woman waiting behind him. “This is our sketch artist. Give her a description of the kidnappers.”
Brown watched Berger leave, then waved the artist away. “I need to speak with Ms. Stahl.” When they were alone, he turned to Sofia. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t say.”
Despite his weak state, Brown bristled. “How am I supposed to protect you if you won’t tell me what’s going on?”
“I can’t.” Sofia softened her tone. “I have to step outside of your security for a while.”
Brown’s exasperation showed.
“Don’t worry,” she said, without emotion. “I’ll be covered by US assets the whole time. Right now, I have to help Berger’s police artist with her sketch. Then I have to go.”
10
When Collins had arrived in Berlin on the evening of the assault, he had checked into his hotel and then strolled on a sightseeing jaunt toward the iconic Kaiser Wilhelm Church ruins, a few blocks away. As he took in the flavor of Berlin’s streets, his news reporter’s instincts spiked when several police cars suddenly screamed by. He had hurried after them.
Reaching the site too late to see any arrests, he had observed the dead bodies and had been fortunate to speak with several eyewitnesses. From there, he had made his way to the police station.
Astonished to see Sofia there and to learn that Atcho had been briefly detained, he had remained at the station for several hours until he had exhausted the information the police would divulge. After his call to Jakes to lodge his probable scoop on Atcho’s arrest and release, he had gone back to his own hotel to rest.
The following day, he had felt frustrated that he could learn no more about the attack. He had spent his time gathering background information on events that precipitated building the Wall and those that might bring rapprochement between the two halves of Germany. After all, that’s the story I was sent here to cover. He had retired early that evening, fatigued from having been up for most the previous night.
Before dawn, the phone interrupted the reporter’s sleep.
“I just watched Berger’s briefing,” Jakes said. “He doesn’t mess around. He gave a full account, including that the Stasi might be involved, and that therefore German intelligence would be in the mix. And, since the shooting happened in the American Sector, US Army criminal investigators and intelligence officers would actively participate.”
“Did he identify Atcho?”
“No. He said the Polizei had detained an American as a person of interest, but the man had been cleared. Therefore, he saw no reason to release the name. But get this: Berger said that the American was the intended victim in the shooting.”
“What?” Collins was astounded. “I can think of plenty of people who might take a shot at Atcho in the US, and even in Moscow or Siberia, but here in Berlin?” He was quiet as he put his thoughts together. “All right, run with the story as we discussed. There’s no reason not to identify Atcho. I’m going to the police station. Maybe I’ll pick up more information.” He thought about what the hour must be in DC. “Jakes, what are you doing at the office this time of night? It’s just turning daylight here.”
Jakes laughed. “I’m at home. I had one of our monitors call me when the report came in. If you don’t need me for anything else right now, I’m going back to bed.”
An hour later, Collins presented himself at the front desk of the police station. He was surprised at the lack of officers in the bay. The sergeant manning the desk had stepped away, so Collins looked around. Movement caught his eye through the glass front, and as he watched, one police car after another sped by, all headed in the same direction with sirens blaring and lights flashing. The sergeant returned.
“Good morning,” Collins said pleasantly. “There’s a lot of excitement going on out there.” The sergeant glared at him, clearly bored. Collins tried another approach. “Is Detective Berger in? I’d like to speak with him.”
The sergeant scoffed. “You can try the Mövenpick Hotel, if you can get through all of that.” He gestured toward three more police cars rushing by on the street outside.
“What’s going on?” Collins presented his press credentials.
“I don’t know. The call came in a few minutes ago.” He turned his attention to other matters. “Anyway, that’s where you’ll find Detective Berger.”
Collins took a taxi to the Mövenpick, which was ringed with a throng of green and white police cars. In the foyer, he saw men in US military uniforms moving about the luxurious lobby, joined in some cases by colleagues in civilian clothes. Anxious guests scurried past them with furt
ive looks.
Being as unobtrusive as possible, Collins listened to the whisperings and low-toned conversations. He picked up that there had been an attack—an abduction maybe—a short while before his arrival. Probably while I was speaking with Jakes.
He sat near a huddle of serious-faced men, but they eyed him sullenly and moved away. Finally, he walked up to the check-in counter. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” he demanded of the clerk. “I’m supposed to check in today, but with all these police cars around, I might go somewhere else.”
The clerk assured him that he had no need to do that. “What am I supposed to think?” Collins responded. “At least tell me why the police are here so I can make an intelligent decision. Was somebody murdered?”
“Oh no, nothing like that.”
“Then what? Do I need to call the manager?”
“No sir,” the clerk said in a low tone. “A man was kidnapped this morning. That’s all I know.”
Another story? Collins went back to the foyer and sat where he could see as much as possible. After he had been there a while, Detective Berger emerged from an elevator and strode toward the main entrance. Collins rose to intercept, but Berger recognized him and waved him off. “No time, Mr. Collins. I’m busy.”
“Just one question.”
“No.” Berger continued on his way.
In frustration, Collins sat back down. A short while later, he saw Sofia come out of another elevator. Her face had “mission” written all over it—a set jaw and distant stare. She wore dark slacks and a winter jacket.
Collins called to her, but she did not hear. She hurried out the door and climbed into the back of an olive-drab-colored sedan. Collins hailed a taxi and followed.
On the other side of the Wall, Atcho and the brothers had just exited the tunnels in East Berlin.
Sofia felt rattled, an uncommon state for her. The simple recognition of her anxiety unnerved her more. She took deep breaths and forced herself to think calmly.
Her errand had been pre-planned. The ramifications of missing it were formidable. She must meet with Wolfgang in East Berlin one final time. Disruption of this part of her mission could doom the plan and put people’s lives in danger.
Maybe the Wall would come down anyway. Maybe not. Her action team was already on the Communist side of the divided city. The sedan she rode in belonged to the US Army’s Flag Tour, an elite intelligence group that had free access into East Berlin per the Four Power Agreement. Each team consisted of a senior intelligence officer and an expert driver. Both were intimately familiar with the streets of East Berlin.
The sedan crossed through Checkpoint Charlie without stopping. Almost immediately, the driver called back, “We’ve picked up a tail. It’s a Stasi car. I’ll ditch him. That might take a few minutes.”
“I don’t have time. Take me around the corner and drop me. My team is nearby to pick me up.”
“All right. I’ll get fifteen seconds ahead and make some turns. When I holler, bail out fast and get out of sight.” The driver made a quick turn, and then another. “Get ready.” He made another turn and halted next to a van. “The street’s clear. Duck in front of that delivery truck. Go.”
Sofia jerked the handle and shoved the door open. She rolled out of the car and slammed the door. The sedan speeded away. Sofia moved rapidly to the front of the van and crouched. The sedan turned at the next street. Ten seconds later, the Stasi car sped by.
Sofia waited until it had made the turn, and then stood. A big man with unkempt hair and a grizzled beard blocked her way.
“You like my van?” He spoke in German, lascivious intent gleaming from his eyes. “Maybe you’d like to see inside.”
Sofia tried to shove past him. He grabbed her wrist. She glared at him. “Don’t do this.” She spoke in German. Her voice carried a deadly undertone.
The man tightened his grip and jerked her arm. Sofia used her forward momentum, kicked high, and struck under his chin. He crumpled, unconscious.
She looked about. Seeing no one, she hurried to her rendezvous. Five minutes later, she saw Checkpoint Charlie. She paused under a tree to catch her breath.
Across the street, she saw her destination, a café. She reached into her purse for a pack of cigarettes and lit one. Then she pulled a brown knit cap from her coat pocket and pulled it over her ears, protection against Berlin’s late autumn gusts.
She crossed the street and entered the café. It was Spartan, the shelves in the bakery almost bare. She stopped at the counter to order a cup of brackish coffee. A listless attendant looked up vacantly and waved her to a table. She had barely sat down when a female voice addressed her. “Do you have a spare cigarette?”
Sofia turned to face a young woman, perhaps in her late twenties. “I’m in a hurry,” she replied.
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that I haven’t had one in a long time.”
Sofia regarded the young woman with barely concealed hostile skepticism. The woman continued to stand there with bright, hopeful eyes. “My name is Nina. I could buy you another cup of coffee.”
Sofia scowled, reached into her purse, and handed her the pack. “Keep it.”
Nina thanked her and joined a young man at another table deeper in the café. After a few minutes, Sofia called to the café attendant. “Don’t take my coffee away. I’ll be right back.”
She headed toward the coffee shop’s rear and found the restroom. Inside, she locked the door and began to undress. A minute later, she heard a soft knock on the door. She opened it a crack. Nina stood there.
Sofia opened the door enough for her to enter. Neither said a word. Immediately, Nina removed a wig from her head. Sofia put it on. Nina undressed. They exchanged clothes. Once fully dressed, Sofia checked the hall and left the restroom. Back in the café, she joined the young man at the table. Moments later, Nina re-entered and took the seat at the table previously occupied by Sofia. She wore the brown knit cap.
Several minutes passed. Nina finished the coffee and left through the front door.
The young man rose from his seat. He led Sofia out the back into a narrow cobblestone alley. “Good to see you got here safely,” he muttered. “So far.”
“Good job, Jeff,” Sofia replied. “What’s the rest of the plan for Nina?”
“A pickup team will meet her a block down from the café and take her to the embassy. You’ll meet her there later.” He pointed ahead. “A car will meet us at the end of the alley.” It arrived just as they reached the street, a boxy, lime-green Wartburg that spewed exhaust into the choked East Berlin air.
Collins watched the olive-drab sedan carrying Sofia disappear around a corner on the other side of Checkpoint Charlie. His frustration deepened. His taxi could not follow.
He mixed with pedestrians crossing into the East through the checkpoint, and presented his press credentials, passport, and permit to travel inside the Soviet Sector. I might as well pick up on local flavor. Maybe I’ll find another story.
A few minutes passed before he entered the east side. The immigration control officer studied his face and compared it to his documents several times before grunting approval for Collins to proceed.
He had been in East Berlin before. Then as now, he was struck by the obvious differences in quality of life, expressed in despair written on the faces of those he passed. Nevertheless, he felt a change in the air demonstrated by a larger number of people in the streets, many of them standing near the checkpoint and gazing into the West. They seemed less concerned than on previous visits with the intimidating glances thrown their way by border patrol officers.
Collins looked at his watch. More than ten minutes had passed since he had seen the dark sedan with Sofia navigate the checkpoint. He reached the intersection where he had seen it disappear around a corner. He turned in the same direction and ambled along, taking in the bleak feel of the city. His attention was drawn to a solitary woman standing under a tree across the thoroughfare looking along the stree
t ahead of him. She seemed familiar, and she wore clothes similar to what he had seen on Sofia.
That was Sofia. His pulse quickened.
As he watched, she lit a cigarette and drew a brown knit cap over her head. Then she crossed the street and entered a small café.
Collins held his excitement in check. He strolled down the street and looked through the café window.
Sofia sat alone. A young woman approached, apparently asking for a cigarette. I’ve never seen Sofia smoke before. He backed away from the window to a place where he could observe unobtrusively. He saw Sofia go down the hall, followed momentarily by the young woman. He used the opportunity to enter the establishment and take a seat by the door. A few minutes later, the young woman returned, and then Sofia.
Somehow, Sofia seemed different, her face more roundish. Startled that she did not recognize him as she passed him on leaving the café, Collins stared after her.
He cast his attention back to the young couple at the table. They headed out the rear door, and Collins was positive he recognized Sofia’s figure—that the girl who had gone out the front in the guise of Sofia was a diversion. He hurried to follow the couple and hung back as they walked down a cobblestone alley. Then, he saw them enter a waiting car, a lime-green Wartburg.
Collins knew of Sofia’s CIA associations. He had learned of them last year while ferreting out the story of a Soviet coup attempt. Did I just see an operation in progress?
“Most of the people in the café were our own,” Jeff said as he and Sofia rode away in the Wartburg. He rode in the front. “But a man came in just before you and Nina got back from the restroom. He wasn’t ours, but he looked like a Westerner. He was definitely alert and looking around. He noticed when you came back.”
“What did he look like?”
“I’m sure one of our guys got a picture of him, but it still has to be developed.” He described the man.
Sofia’s heart sank. “Collins.”
