by Lee Jackson
Veniamin had blocked many of his childhood memories, but the most horrific of them intruded uninvited. He recalled near-starvation during the famine engineered in Ukraine by Joseph Stalin. He relived visions of a fine red mist spraying out from his parents’ heads as troops executed them with shots to their skulls.
He remembered running, running, running. Bullets split the air. His lungs heaved. He reached a fast-flowing river, jumped in, and floated in the current.
Nine years old then, his survival instinct was already well developed. The executioners did not pursue him, he guessed, because shadows stretched long in the approaching dusk. Spotting him would be difficult, and a skeletal boy would die anyway.
His memory of the following days was murky. He recalled crawling from the river in darkness, long, aimless treks at night, skirting farms with barking dogs, and sleeping during the day. Always came the terror of being discovered.
One early morning, a local policeman spotted him, half-dead, huddled in a woodshed. The officer left him in a displaced persons camp, one of hundreds spread across postwar Europe.
Thousands of refugees populated each camp. They had first sought sanctuary from the Nazis and then from Stalin’s Communists as the tides of war turned. Being a disarmed population, they had no means of defending themselves against either tormentor.
For months, Veniamin lived in the misery-ridden camps, transferring from one to another for reasons he was too young to comprehend. At some point, a kindly woman smuggled him out of his last camp. She took him to a warm place and fed him hot soup. He slept on a real mattress that night, under thick blankets.
The next morning, another woman ferried him south to yet another set of strangers. This sequence repeated numerous times, always furtively. He traveled many hours over bumpy roads, stuffed into dark spaces in battered vehicles spewing suffocating fumes.
After several weeks, Veniamin found himself in an orphanage in France. This was to be his home until either he was adopted, or he reached adulthood.
Years later, Veniamin searched for the kind lady who had smuggled him from the first camp. He had learned with horror that the entire refugee population had been herded a thousand miles northeast to the forced labor gulags of Siberia.
Catholic nuns ran the orphanage. Although strict, they were kind. They labored to provide each child with an excellent education. However, no one adopted Veniamin.
He studied diligently, blocking out his dark memories, and he graduated at the top of his class. As a result, he went straight into university on scholarships. His professors recognized his keen mind and promoted his academic career.
The North Atlantic Treaty Organization formed in 1948 to provide a nuclear shield against the Soviet threat to the United States and its European allies. By 1960, when Veniamin completed his doctorate, countries that had been allies during World War II had split into competing factions. He had no recollection of the treaty’s start, but he remembered vividly the day after his graduation. An officer of the French nuclear defense forces visited him. “President de Gaulle believes that France should have its own nuclear arms,” the officer told him. “You’re one of the brightest nuclear engineers to graduate recently. We want you in the program, to help design France’s weaponry.”
Two days before reaching Helmstedt–Marienborn, Veniamin had left the house he had inhabited since joining the French nuclear program, thirty years earlier. He spent the day at his countryside barn-home.
A man had visited Veniamin that day. He had come unannounced, but Veniamin had expected him. He was the black-market arms merchant delivering Yermolov’s plutonium. He had delivered the deadly packet along with other materials Veniamin would need, and he left without ceremony.
Having built the bomb last year and an identical one for the new plan, Veniamin had needed only a few hours to construct the remaining two. He had worked late into the night.
The next morning, as he had prepared to leave, he stepped into his shop to retrieve the suitcases. Before he left, his eyes had rested on his sawdust-sprinkled table saw, a power sander and other tools, and finally his half-dozen wood projects—a rocking horse, a child’s playhouse, a bookcase. He inhaled the comforting scent of cut wood. Then he turned off the light and carried the suitcases to his car.
He had spent the day driving the Autobahn to the Helmstedt–Marienborn border crossing. On the best of days, traversing to the eastern side of the checkpoint with its bureaucrats and authoritarian police inspectors was an ordeal. Running the gauntlet with three nuclear bombs in the trunk of his car terrified Veniamin. He felt lightheaded.
The complex comprised the gateway to the ribbon of highway known as the “corridor” that traversed East Germany to Berlin. Established under the Four-Power Treaty, it allowed ground passage for French, British, and US troops and materiel needed to administer their respective sectors.
Civilian traffic also used the corridor, the most tightly controlled highway in the world, to travel to and from Berlin. They drove it under rigid surveillance of both East German police and Soviet soldiers.
For Veniamin, the corridor represented another petrifying obstacle. He had voiced his concern to Yermolov.
“Keep to your right as you enter the Marienborn side,” his cousin had replied. “An escort will meet you there. Give me the license number of your car.”
“Can’t I make delivery to your escort?”
Yermolov’s response was direct, his tone menacing. “No. I need you here.”
26
Veniamin took a deep breath and maneuvered his car into one of the two lanes of traffic flowing under the aluminum canopy at the border crossing. Night had fallen.
The lanes moved slowly but steadily as British soldiers checked the credentials of drivers ahead of him. Finally, a British soldier stood outside his window. Veniamin’s heart beat furiously. He presented his passport.
“Sir, have you driven the corridor before?” the sentry asked. Veniamin told him he had not.
“Then listen carefully to this briefing. We’re required to give it to all Westerners traveling the corridor. You must stay on the Autobahn all the way to Checkpoint Bravo in Berlin. Do not exit anywhere, and don’t speed. If you do either of those things, you are likely to encounter members of either the East German police or the Soviet Army. If that happens, your treatment will be unpleasant.
“As a civilian, you don’t have the protections afforded to Allied military members. If you’re stopped, don’t agree to anything. Insist on seeing a government representative and make no statements. Do you understand everything I’ve said?”
Almost overcome with anxiety, Veniamin could only nod. The soldier waved him through.
Ahead of him, other cars moved forward, their short briefings with border guards completed. Veniamin pressed his accelerator. As he approached the other end of Helmstedt, the line of cars in front of him spread into several lanes.
Veniamin’s heart pounded. Sweat poured down his face. East German guards equipped with automatic rifles scowled at him, their weapons pointed in the direction of traffic.
As Yermolov had instructed, Veniamin tried to get to the right. He was one lane over, so he signaled and started to maneuver. The horn of the car behind him blared. Guards swiveled their eyes his way. One pointed at Veniamin. His every nerve froze.
Before leaving his village, he had asked about transiting the crossing. “You enter another world,” his friend had said. “A strange, dark one. After getting through the Helmstedt side of the checkpoint, you cross a white line. You’re in East Germany. A seventy-five-foot watchtower is right there—and three guards with AK-47s pointed at you.
“You come to a concrete platform under bright lights with more armed guards and enormous thirty-five-ton red and white cement blocks. Don’t crash them. Those roadblocks catapult across the lanes in three seconds. They will squash you like a bug.
“You get to the border control a half mile farther on. It has many lanes with even more lights. Th
ey’ll take your passport and put it on a conveyor belt, and you’re a nobody, nameless and homeless. No defenses. No rights.
“Finally, you make it through. You think you can breathe easy, but two miles farther on there’s another checkpoint, complete with lights and those thirty-five-ton blocks and more guards with AK-47s. It’s like they’re giving you a final warning.
“Then you drive two or three hours and arrive at the checkpoint in Drewitz. You go through there to get into Berlin. It’s like the ones you went through at Helmstedt–Marienborn, and you do it all over again.
“Only a fool would volunteer to live in a Communist country.”
With his friend’s vivid descriptions whirling in his head, Veniamin stared at the soldier signaling him to stay in his lane. He maneuvered back.
The cars crawled along for what seemed an interminable time. Veniamin passed the first set of bright lights and arrived at the second. It was as his friend had described, and so was his feeling of helplessness.
A border guard signaled him into an inspection station. When he parked, an immigration control officer took his passport. “Open the trunk,” he ordered.
Legs shaking, Veniamin got out and went to the rear of the car. Taking a breath to steady his nerves, he put the key into the slot on the trunk.
Another officer arrived and hovered over his shoulder. He wore plain clothes. Veniamin guessed he was Stasi. When the lid to the trunk flipped open, the officer stepped forward and stared at the three suitcases. “Open that one,” he ordered, pointing at the middle suitcase.
Veniamin felt his stomach turn. His temples pounded. He steadied his hands and reached down to unclasp the latches. First one, then the other. Clothes covered the metal plate above the bomb.
A feeling of surreality engulfed Veniamin. The officer reached into the luggage. He groped around. An indecipherable look crossed his face. He pulled back the clothes and stared at the metal plate. Whirling, he fixed his eyes on Veniamin.
“Take him,” he barked. Immediately, the immigration control officer signaled to two guards, who came running. They grabbed Veniamin’s arms.
The Stasi officer lifted the case out of the trunk and turned to the immigration control officer. “Impound the car and bring the other two bags.” He turned to the guards holding Veniamin. “Take him to the interrogation room below.”
Veniamin’s mind went numb. He staggered between the guards. Other travelers watched, and then averted their eyes.
The guards dragged him into the building. The Stasi officer led the way down some stairs into a tunnel. They entered a room. Two chairs faced each other across a table. Otherwise, the room was bare.
The Stasi officer set the suitcase on the table. The immigration control officer placed the remaining two next to it.
Veniamin slumped into one of the chairs. The Stasi officer stood over him, hands on hips, glaring.
Veniamin’s mind reeled. He breathed in short, quick gasps. His heart felt like it would pound out of his chest. He dropped his head onto the table. What will happen to my family?
27
Veniamin lifted his head from the table. It felt heavy. He had dozed. He wondered how long. The windowless room was painted a dreary yellow. Aside from his own chair and one across the table, there were no other furnishings. He was alone. The three suitcases had been moved, set in a neat row against the wall near the door.
His nerves felt paralyzed. The last time he had felt such fear was when he had raced away while bullets whizzed by, pursued by men who had just executed his parents. That seemed to have happened centuries ago. This time, he saw no escape.
The authorities would want to know who the customer was for the bombs. All he could tell them was they were for his cousin, a former Soviet general, but he was not even sure that Borya Yermolov was his real name.
The door opened, and the Stasi official stepped through, alone. Veniamin braced for the worst. The officer crossed to the chair on the opposite side of the table and sat down. For a time, he studied Veniamin soundlessly. Then he jerked a thumb at the suitcases against the wall. “We both know what those are, so let’s not play games.” He spoke in English. “I know you understand me. Don’t pretend you don’t. I want to know now: will the bombs work?”
Veniamin sucked in his breath. “They work.” His voice sounded distant to him, like it belonged to someone else.
“How do you arm them?”
“There’s a remote-control device in each suitcase. Before the bombs are placed, the frequencies between each unit and its corresponding remote are set. Then they are detonated from a safe distance.”
“Do they have a fail-safe against tampering?” The man’s accent sounded different than most Germans when speaking English. His tone was more guttural, with hard-sounding h’s and r’s, more like a Russian accent. He regarded Veniamin thoughtfully.
Veniamin nodded. “The switches aren’t activated, but the operator could set the internal mechanisms to prevent tampering.”
“Show me how to set the fail-safe and the remotes.”
His face a mask of fear, all Veniamin could say was, “Here? Now?”
In response, the Stasi man retrieved one of the suitcases, laid it on the desk, and opened it.
Veniamin’s eyes widened. “I—I can show you,” he stuttered, “but you wouldn’t want to set that now. If you did, you couldn’t open it back up without exploding it.”
“What about the remote-control frequencies?”
“They have to come from a list of frequencies that you know for sure are not being used. Otherwise, someone else might set it off inadvertently at the wrong time. I don’t have that list. My cousin was to give it to me in Berlin.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Your cousin?” He regarded the device warily. “Who is your cousin?”
Veniamin watched him nervously. “Borya Yermolov,” he blurted. He stood and leaned across the table. “Please don’t rummage around in there.” Sweat ran down the sides of his face.
“I know your cousin,” the man said. “My name is Klaus. He sent me to get you. Before we go, I want to know if the bombs work. Show me how to set the fail-safe, how the frequencies are entered, and how to test to the system.” He rotated the open suitcase to face Veniamin. “Show me.”
Veniamin stared into it and swallowed. With shaking hands, he pointed out to Klaus the etched outline on the metal sheet in the bottom half of the suitcase. “This shows the orientation of the bomb, so you know where things are.”
He lifted the metal sheet. Inside, a cylindrical tube was secured from the lower left corner of the case to the top right. Veniamin gazed at it, thinking fleetingly how innocent it looked.
He indicated the tube. “Everything happens inside here to cause the explosion. At the bottom end is a triggering device. It starts the reaction in the plutonium at the top end…” He started into an explanation, but Klaus waved him off.
“Just show me how to set it up.”
Veniamin trembled as he pulled the remote control from a side pocket. Then, he pointed to a timer and a console for entering data. “If you want, you have the option of using a timer instead of the remote control.”
He showed Klaus the switch to set the anti-tampering safeguard and how to enter the frequencies in both the remote and the receiver on the bomb. “You can test the individual components by pressing a button on each one. If the diode lights up green, it’s working. Notice that the battery has one too.
“To test the whole system, push this button.” He pointed to one that was larger than the others. “When that one is green, your bomb is active. Then you push the fail-safe switch, set the metal sheet back in place, and close the lid.”
Klaus studied the components. “How much damage will the bomb do?”
Veniamin heard a new note of anxiety in Klaus’ tone. “It’ll take out a square mile,” he replied. “Total destruction, and of course, there’s much wider fallout.”
Klaus saw that Veniamin had set the fai
l-safe switch, and that the overall system diode shone green. “Is it active now?” he asked, alarmed. His face had gone deathly pale.
“What? Oh, how silly of me.” Veniamin moved the fail-safe switch to off and pushed the various component buttons until all the diodes were dark. “Don’t worry. Until the timer is set, or the frequencies are entered into the remote, there’s no way to detonate the device.”
He glanced back up to see Klaus’ fearful eyes. “If you arm it and close the lid without turning off the fail-safe, you’ve got a problem.” He laughed lightly, feeling gratified at Klaus’ discomfiture. “In that case, unless you intend a suicide bombing, you’d best drop it in a deep ocean. A very deep ocean.”
Klaus scowled. “Let’s go.”
28
Yermolov grabbed the phone as soon as Baumann handed it to him. He recognized Klaus’ voice.
“I’ve got Veniamin. And his suitcases.” Klaus stayed on the line only long enough to relay that they were returning to Berlin.
After hanging up, Yermolov leaned back in the chair behind Baumann’s desk. The Stasi director sat on the other side, looking diminished. He glanced at Yermolov but said nothing.
“Klaus has Veniamin,” Yermolov said, his eyes half-closed, “and the bombs.” He felt a sensation that was rare for him: exultation. Plans are coming together. He momentarily envisioned a future with himself sitting in the office of the General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party at the Kremlin, in Moscow. I came so close last year.
Those plans had been thorough, laid out well in advance, closely guarded, and precisely coordinated. They would have succeeded but for Atcho.
He felt no antipathy toward his nemesis—he was incapable of such emotion—he just held a deep understanding that Atcho was a constant threat to his survival. Where is he now?
Yermolov pulled himself out of what he recognized as a slide into muddled thinking. Stay focused. The current plan had been pulled together out of thin air, starting with no support. Only the physical threat he represented to Baumann, and the promise of installing him as dictator over East Germany, held it together. Even that might have been insufficient but for the imminent danger to East Berlin’s existence. Otherwise, he would already have had me put in chains and delivered to the KGB.
