by Lee Jackson
On Oily’s list, Wolfgang had been marked merely as a person to watch, not one to arrest or execute. Still, the fact that the squad had missed scheduled reports rankled him. He sent another man to check on the situation.
While Baumann worked at his desk, Yermolov stood by the window studying the swelling crowds. He had estimated that he had at least another day or two to prepare before events precipitated an opening in the Wall. Now, he was not so sure.
From his vantage point seven floors up, he watched the throngs stream by. Only days ago, they had spread loosely along the street, passing in quiet, tentative groups, glancing warily at the officers posted along their routes. Now, their numbers had enlarged such that the crowd was endless. It took up the entire length and breadth of the street, and the people were boisterous, openly contemptuous of authority. Officers on other main avenues through East Berlin reported similarly growing crowds.
Yermolov turned on the television. The screen showed the inside of the hall where the Communist Party spokesman, Wolfgang Sacher, held daily court.
He watched Wolfgang with contempt. Just a few days ago, the crowds had listened in scornful silence as he told them of the great achievements of the Communist state. Today, they booed him. Wolfgang took the derision with good-natured smiles.
His briefings had become nightly affairs, lapped up by the Western press. Sometimes he lectured, apparently for no other reason than that he could. Other times, he took questions and used his responses as opportunities for further dull exposition.
Yermolov turned down the volume and his thoughts returned to what Baumann had told him. As the last hard-liner from the Honecker regime, Baumann had been isolated from many senior meetings. As such, highest level information was increasingly withheld from him.
Nevertheless, the director had picked up a rumor that the government was considering loosening travel restrictions. As Baumann understood the proposal, the intent was to install a policy that let East Germans travel back and forth more easily while putting a check on emigration. The politburo hoped that by satisfying some of the people’s demands, discontent would be curbed, protests would die away, and East Germany could get about its normal business.
Yermolov had scoffed at the notion. Better to kill those ideas. Give the people a little, and they want a lot. “Any idea when the government plans to announce the changes in travel policy?”
Baumann breathed deeply. “They’re not certain they’ll do it, but it could be as early as tomorrow, November tenth.”
“Well, then,” Yermolov replied tersely. “We’ll be ready.”
33
The fifth Flag Tour sedan rumbled through Checkpoint Charlie. The guardhouse was lit up against the darkness. From his seat in the back-passenger side, Atcho glanced out the window to his right. His eyes locked on the Checkpoint Charlie Museum. He had visited it in the days prior to the first attempt to kidnap him and had studied in amazement the dizzying array of souvenirs and photos of people and the devices they had used in desperate escapes from East Berlin.
One photo showed an East German soldier jumping over barbed wire stretched across a sidewalk. His rifle was still on his back as he vaulted, and pedestrians in the background watched in shock. He was the first escapee, having taken his desperate opportunity two days after the first barbed wire was laid down. His action had precipitated the order in East Germany to shoot to kill those attempting escape.
On display was a mini-Austin used in a getaway. A live person had been sewn inside the front passenger seat and was driven through the checkpoint, there to be released. The escape succeeded.
Another display was a sports car with the windshield removed. The driver had raced under the barrier arms in a daring rescue of his fiancée. That successful attempt had precipitated the large concrete barriers set at odd angles on the eastern side of the checkpoint to channel traffic.
Atcho could scarcely believe the numbers. Over five thousand people had risked death to escape to the West. One hundred and forty had paid the ultimate penalty, and that was just along the Wall in Berlin. Countless others had lost their lives in other places along the East–West border. He shook his head now, recalling his own desperate struggle and that of his beloved Cuba. Maybe it ends for East Berlin tonight.
The sedan pulled through the East German side of the crossing. “I’ve never seen so many people on the streets at night, and this is November,” Horton said from the front. He tapped his watch. “November ninth, to be exact. See, I got this watch that tells me the date.” He laughed again. As he did, he looked out the back window. “We didn’t get away clean,” he said. “We got company.” He turned to his driver. “Chad, be careful weaving through all these people, but as soon as you see an empty side street, lose these guys.”
He turned back to Atcho. “That’s Stasi following us. They drive those underpowered Wartburgs. Outrunning them is usually easy, but these crowds will slow us down.”
Atcho barely paid attention. He looked out at the large numbers of people, all seemingly bound for the same location. “All these people going to Alexanderplatz,” he muttered. “We’ll soon see if they’re serious.”
“If they’re not serious, they’re going to an awful lot of trouble,” Horton rejoined. “Some have started heading to the Brandenburg Gate.”
Chad suddenly turned onto a narrow street. It was heavily populated, but the center of it was largely empty. He accelerated a bit. They traveled a distance with the Stasi Wartburg hugging close behind. The farther they went on the street, the thinner the crowds became.
Watching out the window, Atcho was again struck again by the stark differences between West and East Berlin. While West Berlin’s houses and apartment buildings were neat and orderly and generally exhibited prosperity, East Berlin’s were crumbling structures, crowded together and dimly lit. They bespoke human suffering.
Suddenly, Chad mashed the accelerator. They had come to a section that was thinly populated. Ahead of them was a stretch of straight road.
Horton turned, grinning. “I know where Chad’s headed. This road will curve about a mile up. We should be able to outrun that Wartburg’s headlights. When we get around the curve, we’ll take a quick right. They’ll anticipate that and radio ahead. With any luck, we’ll get to the first turnoff before their buddies, so they won’t know if we took the turn or not. Once we make that right, there are a lot more turns we can make.”
He became serious. “One thing we got to worry about is their big cargo trucks. They like to sit and watch for us, and if they see us, they try to ram us. They killed a couple of Frenchmen that way. You know, members of the French army doing the same thing we do.”
Atcho shook his head. There was nothing to see out the windows at this point, no crowds, no buildings, just the dark of night. The road was poorly paved and maintained, so the ride was rough. The sedan bumped along, and the lights of the Wartburg became pinpoints left far behind.
Chad found the road he was looking for and turned so sharply that Atcho was thrown to the other side of the car. Horton seemed not to have noticed. “We’re going to circle south and see if we can find the place where you were—incarcerated?” He chuckled. “Big words again.
“If you see anything that looks familiar, holler at me, sir. We did a map recon, and there ain’t but a couple of places it could be. This side of the wall, within a mile of the Mövenpick? Still in ruins? Most of those places have at least been bulldozed.”
“Got it, Major. Would you do me a favor and stop calling me sir?”
Horton chuckled. “I’ll do my best, sir, if that’s what ya really want. Old habits don’t break easy.”
The car rolled into a built-up area. It headed south until it came within sight of the Wall and the back end of the crowds headed toward Alexanderplatz.
“I got a hunch I know the place where you were held,” Horton called back. Minutes later, he directed Chad to turn down a narrow street. It looked like it dead-ended after a short distance, but then an
alley took off to the right. “I think the East Berlin government forgot this area,” Horton said. “It’s not very big, and it’s hidden by the buildup around it. But there’s some ruins back here—a good-sized building that looks like it could have been the headquarters of some bureaucracy way back when.”
The car pulled around another corner. There, through the windshield, Atcho saw the building. “That’s it.”
“Are you certain, sir? You know things can look different at night.”
“It is night, Major Horton. That’s it. And look—it’s vacant.”
Horton directed the driver to halt near the front doors. Atcho started to get out and Horton swiveled in his seat. He grinned at Atcho. “Strictly speaking, sir,” he chuckled in his disarming way, “this ain’t really legal, you bein’ here. In East Berlin. I know it, the generals know it, and you ain’t really here, ya know what I’m saying?” He laughed and tossed his head back. “Then again, I was never in Cambodia. The point is, General Marsh took me aside, and he told me, ‘You make sure our noses stay clean.’ He told me, ‘Don’t forget, Atcho’s a wanted man inside East Berlin.’
“So, you stay put. I’ll go in and check things out. Chad’ll stay here with you.” He shifted his attention to the driver. “You keep your eyes peeled, and you let me know ASAP if anything’s happening.”
Atcho sat back, annoyed but also amused. He could not help thinking about the lighthearted manner in which Horton approached his mission juxtaposed against the enormity of events that could transpire within a few hours. Or what failure could mean.
He watched Horton climb the four low stairs and try the main door. It opened, and after a quick look around, he entered.
Atcho stirred impatiently. Two minutes later, he got out of the vehicle and went inside the building.
Horton was just coming out of the room across the foyer where Atcho had been imprisoned. His eyes narrowed when he saw Atcho. For the first time, his tone was stern. “Sir, I told you—”
“Never mind what you told me,” Atcho retorted. “You never went to Cambodia, and I never got out of the car.”
Horton leaned slightly forward, eyes steely and unblinking. Then the corners of his eyelids creased, and he grinned. “Fair enough.” He looked around. “Nobody’s been in here since you escaped.” He made the assertion without qualification. “We ain’t gonna find nothin’ here. They vamoosed.” He crossed to the dust-covered desk in the foyer and picked up the phone. “Line’s dead.” He looked at Atcho expectantly. “So, what’s next, Cap’n?”
Before Atcho could reply, Horton pointed through the door of the small room where Atcho had been held. Clearly visible was the table against the inside wall, the chair still sitting on top of it, and the cot wedged against the opposite wall below the broken window. “That’s some contraption you built there. Did you really escape on that thing?” He opened his eyes wide and dropped his jaw in mock wonder. “Well, go-o-olly!”
Atcho laughed involuntarily. “Go with the plan, Major. You know the next stop.”
Horton peered at him. “You sure that’s what you want to do, sir?”
Atcho grunted. “How do you get away with so much BS?”
“It’s a talent, sir,” Horton responded, his face deadpan. “Don’t knock it. It’s the only one I got. Now tell me again. Are you sure that’s what you’re gonna do?”
Atcho fixed his gaze on him. “I don’t see any other way.”
Suddenly Horton stared toward the main entrance. He crossed to the door and stood listening. Atcho followed. From the narrow alley, they heard the rumble of a large truck coming their way.
“Let’s go,” Horton yelled, “unless you want to get mashed flatter’n a pancake.” They ran to the car and dove in, slamming the doors behind them. Chad had already repositioned the sedan facing the direction they had come.
A large Soviet Army cargo truck burst from the alley and barreled straight toward them. The courtyard had little room to maneuver.
Chad gunned his engine. The sedan’s tires spun, throwing up clouds of dust, and the car lurched toward the truck. The vehicles accelerated toward each other. At the last second, Chad jerked the wheel to the right and the car flew past the truck. Metal scraped metal with a shrieking sound amid a shower of sparks as the sedan’s trunk nicked the rear of the other vehicle.
The truck braked hard, coming to a sliding halt just in front of the building’s entrance. Its driver ground the gears into reverse and the truck began backing toward them, picking up speed as it came.
The car was at too sharp an angle to steer into the alley, so Chad stomped on the accelerator, sped past it, then mashed on the brakes and spun the car in the opposite direction.
The truck closed the distance. Chad slammed the accelerator again and cleared the alley’s entrance by inches.
With a resounding crash, the back end of the truck plowed into a corner building. Its engine stalled.
When Chad reached the far end of the alley, he slowed enough to make a sharp left turn, and then roared down the empty street.
Horton, who had been crouched down in the front seat, raised his head. “Tell me again where you want to go, sir.” His eyes and mouth crinkled into his unique grin.
“How did they know where we were?” Atcho asked. He had been flung sprawling across the back seat and pulled himself to a sitting position. Streams of perspiration ran from his forehead.
“The Stasi makes sure everyone in East Germany knows how to spot our cars and call in reports. All those informants keep them in the loop. Let’s hope that truck’s the only one that got the word before we got out of there.” Horton turned to get his bearings, and then swung around again to face Atcho. “Are you still bound and determined to go to Stasi headquarters? As you just saw, they’ll more than likely know when you arrive.”
Atcho nodded without saying a word.
Horton rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “All right, sir. It’s your neck.”
Oily heard back from the man he had sent to check on his team at Wolfgang Sacher’s house. All four members had been drugged, bound, gagged, and hidden. One reported being attacked. The only conclusion Oily could reach was that, whatever Ranulf’s intentions and those of his superiors, they had been found out. Someone had discovered them and had taken counteractions.
He placed an agitated call to Ranulf. No response. Oily dropped the receiver and radioed each team. “We’ve got interference.”
Burly met Collins in the foyer of the Berlin Brigade headquarters building. “Thanks for coming. I’m glad you made it through the corridor safely.”
Collins raised his eyebrows. “That was no picnic. I won’t do it again. I got back to Berlin early this morning.”
“We need you at Wolfgang Sacher’s press briefing. It’s already started.”
“I’m on my way now. If it’s like his other briefings, I won’t miss much.”
“You’re taking a camera crew?”
“That’s the plan, per your request. Jakes contracted one of the best local freelancers. Doing video reports is new to me. I spent the day practicing.”
Burly’s brow furrowed. “You’ll do fine. Get to the hall quickly. When the briefing terminates, go straight to Checkpoint Charlie. Report everything you see as it happens. Make your first report as soon as you hear anything significant. One other thing.” He reached over and placed a meaty paw on Collins’ shoulder. “Make sure your cameraman has lots of strong batteries and a powerful broadcast capability.”
Collins studied him. “Maybe I should just go straight to the checkpoint now.”
“No. You’ll want to be in the press briefing. Believe me.” He reached into his pocket. “Take this.” He handed Burly a two-way radio. “Don’t change the frequency. It connects directly to me. Use extreme discretion, but I need to know what’s going on at ground level in real time. It’s a secure channel. Do you understand?”
Collins almost gaped but checked himself. He looked at the radio. It was easy to
operate. He nodded without speaking.
“I need it back when this is all over. And you and I never had this conversation.”
Collins exhaled slowly. “Got it.”
Forty-five minutes later, having navigated Checkpoint Charlie and the streets choked with pedestrians headed toward the Brandenburg Gate and Alexanderplatz, Collins and his cameraman entered the auditorium. Wolfgang was already into his good-natured defense of all things socialist. As on prior nights, he said nothing of international import, yet the air was electric with expectancy.
Collins recalled that, sixteen months earlier, Bruce Springsteen had entertained a huge audience at a concert in East Berlin. He had sung “Badlands.” East Germans had reveled in the notion that “The Boss” had written the lyrics for and about them. The rock star had delivered a short speech calling for the Wall to be torn down, and then sang “Chimes of Freedom.” The concert had been a sensation. Millions in East Germany who could not attend had watched it on blurry black-and-white television screens.
Analysts credited the concert with providing the spark that led to East German citizens’ demands for liberty. However, Collins wondered if one detail had been overlooked: of three hundred thousand attendees, only half had paid for a ticket. The rest had pushed through the barriers, forcing their way into the open-air concert. Did they learn a lesson that night? Will they apply it here soon?
He kept an eye on Wolfgang. At one point, the spokesman looked toward the entrance, and, for a second, he appeared unnerved. The look vanished as quickly as it appeared. Collins would have dismissed the observation but for the unusual urgency of his conversation with Burly. Something will happen tonight. He saw Wolfgang glance again at the entrance.
Apparently not seeing what he looked for, Wolfgang shuffled through some documents. He found a single sheet of paper and leaned back to scan it.
