Vortex- Berlin

by Lee Jackson

  “Is this plan going to work?” Nina asked. Gone was the blithe attitude of a young East Berliner seeking a cigarette. Instead, she was a dead-serious professional contemplating a dangerous mission. She was about the same height and build as Sofia, but she had blonde hair cut in short curls framing a light-skinned face with hazel eyes.

  Sofia sighed. She worried about Atcho, where he might be, and what torture he might be suffering. She also fretted over how to get her relatives out of East Berlin. She had planned to collect them from their house, bring them with her to the hall where Wolfgang would read the press release, and then have her undercover team encircle them along with Wolfgang’s family. Then, they would walk together into West Berlin with the crowds.

  She saw now that she had underestimated the resistance of hard-liners. They knew who she was. They suspected her mission. They intended to thwart her because that could frustrate bringing the Wall down.

  Any approach she made to her relatives could endanger their lives. She would have to find another way to rescue them, but she had no more resources at her disposal.

  “If I didn’t think the plan would work,” she replied to Nina, “I’d call it off. I’ve got to get back to the west side. Make sure that the rest of the team knows to plan for contingencies as intently as the mission. If the Wall doesn’t come down, we want everyone out alive and safe.”

  Nina nodded soberly. A staff car took Sofia back to the Mövenpick on the west side. There, she found Detective Berger looking for her. He was visibly angry. “Tell me about this Tony Collins. The reporter.” He uttered the word with disdain.

  “What’s he done?” Sofia asked, startled.

  “He identified your husband as a kidnap victim before we made a statement. He had the news published to the world before we had our press briefing. How did he know those things? Did you tell him?”

  “I haven’t seen him. After I left you, I went to the embassy. You can check.”

  “I did already. You were logged through Checkpoint Charlie at nine seventeen. Two minutes later, Collins logged through. He stayed only twenty-one minutes, and then came back to the west side. What did you talk about?”

  “I didn’t see him,” she repeated, annoyed. She recalled that Jeff had described a man in the café who looked like Collins. “Do you think that if we were going to talk about something, we’d go into the East to do it?” Her eyes smoldered. “Why are you wasting time chasing Collins instead of finding my husband? Maybe when you find Collins, you should take lessons from him.”

  The detective was clearly chagrined. “My worry is that he might make things more difficult.”

  “You announced that Atcho had been kidnapped, so where’s the harm?”

  Berger hesitated. “There isn’t any, really. That’s what we normally do. Get as many people alert to finding him as possible.”

  “Then I don’t see how Collins hurt anything. Where is he now?”

  Berger looked sheepish. “He checked out of his hotel a little while ago and took a flight to Terceira.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s an island in the Azores. He must have had another incident to cover.”

  Sofia thought that over. Leaving a story he pursued was unlike Collins, but maybe he had another priority. “Do you have any leads?”

  Berger shook his head. “Only the van we found the other night. The Stasi would never sanction an operation like the one this morning. Those two guys must have had inside help. That’s the only way they could have avoided security. We still don’t know how they left the building.”

  “Have you checked the cellars? Seems like people are always finding new tunnel entrances the Nazis left behind.”

  “My men are checking, but so far nothing.”

  “What do you need from me now?”

  Berger sighed in frustration. “The sketches we took from your descriptions don’t resemble any known Stasi officers. You said the kidnappers were brothers, but they’re new to us. That’s worrisome. They might be independent players. The trouble is, why haven’t they asked for ransom? What could be their motive?”

  The questions were obviously rhetorical. Berger stared at Sofia, seemingly hopeful that she might produce answers. She could tell him nothing. “Do you have anything for me now?” she asked.

  Berger shook his head. “You’re free to go.”

  Sofia tried to rest that afternoon, but her thoughts returned to Atcho. She recognized that she was emotionally tied to her mission, a prescription for disaster. Her plan to extricate her relatives with Wolfgang’s family had become impossible. It was unsanctioned anyway.

  With all the factors weighing in, good judgment indicated that she should withdraw from the mission. Let other professionals proceed.

  On the other hand, unless the Wall came down on its own, if she did not stay with it, Wolfgang might balk. The chance to end the East German government, with its cruel Stasi and its machinery of oppression, might evaporate. Her dream of seeing her family living freely could be extinguished for several more decades.

  She dozed fitfully and woke up while night still darkened the city. A rare sense of helplessness seized her. A shower didn’t help, and neither did watching TV. Her mind churned over how to untie the Gordian knot that engulfed her. As dawn crept across the sky, she curled up on the sofa in the living room, exhausted, and finally slept.

  14

  While Sofia had met with Wolfgang, Collins had carried on a long discussion with Jakes. “I can’t be in the Azores long,” Collins said. “Get a local to meet me at the airport—someone who can get me around and translate. I need to visit the family of that fisherman, Gonçalo Alvarenga.”

  “What do you expect to find?” Jakes asked. “I haven’t approved the trip yet.”

  “I don’t know. There’s too much coincidence. A native fisherman is lost at sea in the same vicinity that a US helicopter carrying Yermolov goes down. No bodies turn up. Then someone tries to kidnap Atcho in Berlin. Who has a beef with him here? The Stasi is implicated. The Soviets control that sector. My gut tells me either holdovers of Yermolov’s organization are after Atcho, or it’s Yermolov himself.”

  Jakes was silent a moment. “That’s a leap. Why would they do it?”

  “I don’t know, but someone came after him twice in barely over a day. The second time, whoever it was came to his room in a highly secured location. Someone wanted him badly. I can’t think of another explanation that accounts for that.”

  “So, again, what do you expect to find?”

  Collins sighed. “Look, if Yermolov survived, he had to get from that string of islands to Europe. Someone had to have seen him.” Another thought struck him. “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Give me a minute to collect my thoughts.” He reached into the dim recesses of his memory. “You recall that during the coup attempt, Yermolov acquired a briefcase-sized nuclear bomb?”

  “Yes, and US intelligence couldn’t track down its origin.”

  “They couldn’t, but I did.”

  “You what?

  “I tracked down the origin. Well, at least partway. I spoke with the bomb builder. I interviewed him.”

  “You what? And you didn’t report it?” Jakes’ voice revealed rare exasperation.

  “The main stories surrounding the conspiracy had already been published,” Collins replied. “When I learned his identity, he was a source.”

  “Still…”

  “Hear me out. After the coup story broke, I spent months tracking down and getting to know the members of the Rasputin group in Paris. Do you remember that I took a long vacation at the beginning of this year?”

  Jakes grunted his response.

  “I tried to find out where the bomb came from,” Collins continued, “and where they got the nuclear material. It turns out the bomb maker was one of their members, a retired nuclear engineer. The group is harmless. The engineer is a guy who saw his parents executed in the Ukraine as a boy. He escape
d to France and lived quietly.”

  “They’re a harmless group that financed and assisted a nearly successful coup against the Soviets.” Jakes’ tone revealed his anger. “They gave the ringleader a nuclear bomb. What were you thinking?”

  Collins’ ire rose. “They thought they were striking a blow against the power that destroyed their countries, killed their families, and drove them from their homes. They lived quiet lives, and none of them were ever involved in crime.”

  “Until they gave Yermolov a nuclear bomb. So, where did the fissionable material come from?”

  “They wouldn’t say,” Collins said, chastened. “There’s one more piece I should tell you. The engineer is a distant cousin of Yermolov’s. They even resemble each other.”

  Jakes groaned. “Good lord. Can this get any more convoluted?”

  “Reality is that way.” Collins heard Jakes exhale as another urgent thought struck him. “I have to chase this down, Jakes. Think about the implications. If our instincts are right, Yermolov is alive, he could be in Berlin, and his cousin the bomb maker could be just a stone’s throw away in France.”

  “You think Yermolov’s after another bomb?”

  “Maybe. He got one before. Atcho stopped him.”

  Jakes thought that over. “OK, but why would he go after Atcho now?”

  “I don’t know. Revenge maybe, or to get him out of the way. Maybe just because he’s in Berlin. Think of what’s going on there now.” He reminded Jakes that public pressure to bring down the Wall was huge, that a backlash from hard-liners was bound to happen, and Yermolov would gravitate to them. “They’d welcome him. I don’t think the reason why he’s after Atcho matters. I told you what I saw Sofia doing in East Berlin. She’s up to something. Maybe Yermolov caught wind of it. Don’t forget that she was the person who disabled his bomb last year.”

  Agitation crept into Jakes’ voice. “All right. See what you can find out in the Azores. Keep me informed. Fully informed.”

  Collins watched the ground rise to meet the descending airliner through the perpetual haze that hung over the Azores archipelago. The flight terminated at Lajes Field on Terceira, the largest of the chain of “magical islands.” This was where the huge Antonov An-225 Mriya had landed and delivered Borya Yermolov into the hands of the US military nearly a year ago.

  Collins observed the air traffic, taking note of the directions of approaches and departures. Then his guide found him. Fifteen minutes later, they entered Vila Nova, a scenic village along the coast where the Alvarenga family lived.

  The interview with Gonçalo Alvarenga’s widow had been arranged. Thank you, Jakes. Collins anticipated that it would be a sad affair. He was right. The widow clearly still grieved. She was matronly, and the house was neat, but a quick look around revealed that it needed work. She explained through the guide that her eighteen-year-old son had taken on her husband’s responsibilities, but with school and continuing the family’s fishing occupation, he had little time to keep up with repairs.

  Not comprehending how Gonçalo could have been lost at sea, she provided no new information. “He was so experienced, so careful and deliberate. He knew how to spot storms and move out of their way. But,” she shrugged, “such is life. And death.”

  The son, João, a polite young man, sat close by. He said little beyond greetings until Collins prepared to leave. Then he asked, in good English, if the newsman would come see his boat. “I want to speak with you alone.”

  Surprised and not knowing what to expect, Collins left the guide behind. João led him downhill through the picturesque rough-hewn streets, the bright and pastel colors of the houses set against waves crashing on rocks and a deep blue ocean.

  The young fisherman startled him. “Why are you interested in this story?”

  “I’m a reporter. I follow stories.”

  “My mother told you I’m a student. A good one. I will go to university.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Collins replied sincerely. “I wish you all the best.”

  “The point is, I stay informed. I know who you are. I read your stories. I know you wouldn’t be here if there were not a bigger story.”

  The reporter peered at João. While he wasn’t a household name, Collins had an international following. He was surprised to learn that it included a student on this small island in the North Atlantic Ocean. “What do you want to tell me?”

  João lowered his head. “I don’t want to upset my mother.” He looked around for other listeners. “You’ll see when I show you my boat.” He turned to face Collins. “My father was murdered.”

  The young man’s lips quivered as he fought to control his emotions. He looked away. “His boat was found on the east side of the island, south of the airport. That’s miles from here. There was no reason for him to be over there, and he would never have been that far off course. I tried to tell authorities, but they only patronized me.”

  Collins studied João’s face. “Let’s see your boat.”

  The dinghy was beautiful. Painted bright yellow with green trimming, it was tended to with pride. “My father always took care of his things,” João said. “He was a careful man. A good man.”

  “I’m sure he was,” Collins said softly. “What did you want to show me?”

  João went forward of the cabin and brought back a long pole with a crook. “Look at this. I saved it. I bought another one to use for fishing.” Just below the curve were several dark patches caked into dents and scrapes on the pole. “That’s blood.”

  While sympathetic, Collins remained professionally skeptical. “You’re a fisherman. Don’t you see a lot of blood?”

  “We use fishing nets,” João retorted. “We don’t see a lot of blood, and never enough to cake like that, and not on a pole that always goes into the water. But there’s more.” He went into the wheelhouse and returned carrying a bundle. “This is one of my father’s blankets. It also has blood on it. Look at the stain.”

  He sat down and spread the blanket over his legs. The stain fit as though blood had soaked along his left leg. “Then, there’s this.”

  He stood and lifted two more objects he had brought from the cabin. “This is a military uniform.” He pointed out two holes in the trousers surrounded by dark stains, and two pieces of insignia on the jacket. “It belonged to a Soviet Army officer. I found it in the cabin.”

  15

  Borya Yermolov paced in his apartment. He had placed a call to Cousin Veniamin, but the engineer had been out. While Yermolov awaited his cousin’s return call, he mulled over his conversation with Klaus earlier in the day. Those two were valuable to me. Ranulf’s incompetence blew a hole in that situation. And we’re running out of time.

  Pressures that bore on Yermolov were new to him. For most of his career, organizations had supported him. He had controlled resources. During nearly three decades of his double life as the spy Paul Clary, he had had subordinates to do his bidding in both the US Air Force and the Soviet KGB. Even during the coup attempt, he had commanded military, intelligence, and logistics assets, placed at his disposal by disgruntled Soviet officials opposed to Gorbachev’s policies.

  Now, he had only his wits, knowledge, and force of personality to induce his wishes to be converted to action. His position was tenuous, and possible only because of the upheavals taking place in Eastern Europe. The odds of success were infinitesimal. His face broke into a roguish grin. He liked a challenge.

  His mind reached back to his capture. He had no idea how he had escaped the sinking helicopter or what had happened to the crew or other passengers. His first clear memory was of the fisherman staring down at him, at his Soviet uniform, and his bloody leg with a hole through the trousers. His action against Gonçalo had been instinctive, to survive.

  The storm had been beneficent. It had tossed for hours, rocking the boat unmercifully. He had found a dry crawl space in the bow with a thin mattress and blankets. Taking off his soaked Soviet uniform, he had tossed it into a corner of the
cabin.

  For three days, he had rested, becoming aware that in the distance, airplanes ascended and descended at regular intervals. An airport.

  Early on the fourth day, he had set the boat adrift. Then he had set out limping toward the distant air traffic. His leg was stiff and ached dully, but he had averted infection, and profuse bleeding was no longer an issue. Nevertheless, he had stayed close to the coast and avoided roads.

  For the next few days, he had approached isolated farmhouses, invading those whose inhabitants were absent. In some he had eaten; in others, he had taken money or pieces of clothing or cleaned himself up. From each, he had taken what he needed in amounts small enough to attribute to the owners’ lapses of memory. Otherwise, he had taken care to leave the homes as he had found them.

  After several days, he had had sufficient cash and looked presentable enough to mix in public. He had learned that he was on Terceira. He had also heard about a fisherman who went missing after a recent storm, and whose boat had been found listing in the waves to the southeast of Lajes. No foul play was mentioned.

  In the guise of a retired US Air Force general, Yermolov had ingratiated himself to pilots and crew in the private aviation part of the airfield. He had plied them with drinks and swapped war stories.

  Ten days after the helicopter crash, he had hopped a flight in a small plane to a remote airport outside of Lisbon. On arrival, he had feigned weakness attributable to his injured leg, followed an immigration official to an infirmary, rendered him unconscious, and escaped into Portugal. He had placed a call to his cousin, Veniamin. Within another day, he had arrived at Veniamin’s house in a village north of Paris.

  While waiting for Veniamin’s call, Yermolov thought through a dilemma. Fortunately, his contacts in the black market were strong. His source still had access to weapons-grade plutonium and the other materials Veniamin needed to build the bombs. Yermolov arranged payment and delivery through sympathizers in Moscow. However, his cousin had become increasingly difficult. When Yermolov first brought up building a new bomb, Veniamin balked.