by Lee Jackson
“In front of me,” the camera swiveled toward the crowd, “it looks like all of East Berlin has turned out to exercise their newly recognized right to free entry into West Berlin. Two hours ago, Wolfgang Sacher of the East German politburo promised exactly that. The world wants to know how long it will take for that promise to be kept. Or, will the East German regime order its troops to shoot these people?
“A few minutes ago, this crowd was cheering. Now, they face the same machine guns used in deadly force against family members, friends, and neighbors over decades to keep them from escaping. The big question is, will that now change? I’ll keep you posted as the night progresses.”
Almost as soon as Collins signed off, his radio vibrated.
“Good report,” Burly told him. “Now look around. Find a particular man. You might recognize him. He was in the room when you came back into our quarters the other day.” He described Ivan. “As a last resort, ask Sofia to spot him. She knows him.”
“Won’t be necessary. I see him.”
Ivan had made himself plainly visible, looking very official while watching the crowd from a position near the barriers in front of the guards.
“Good,” Burly said. “Keep the cameras trained on him. History will be written permanently in the next few minutes.”
“I understand, but listen: Sofia is in a bad way. She needs emergency medical attention.”
“Do as I say, and she’ll be in an ambulance within the next fifteen minutes.”
Collins directed his cameraman per Burly’s instructions. He watched as Ivan reached into his pocket and put a radio to his ear.
As Ivan spoke with Burly, he looked across at Collins. “I see him.”
“Good. He’ll record the entire event. Get to the head honcho of the border guard there. Throw your KGB weight around. Get that border open.”
Ivan had to laugh. “I can do that. While I’m at it, should I build an ark and limit entrance to two at a time?”
Burly chuckled. “Good to see you didn’t lose your sense of humor. Just do it.”
“Roger. Out.” Ivan shook his head at the irony of ironies that he of all people was about to take this initiative. He, Ivan Chekov, former Soviet spy, a defector, was here in East Berlin taking the last action that would erase the border between the two Germanys and open a gateway to the Soviet empire.
He approached the nearest guard. “Take me to the Stasi officer in charge.”
The guard looked uncertain. Ivan showed his KGB ID. The soldier came to attention and escorted him to an officer at the center of the checkpoint.
“Why are these barriers still closed?” Ivan demanded. He presented his credentials. “The politburo ordered them to be opened”
The man eyed him cautiously. “I received word about new travel regulations, but no order to open the checkpoint. I can’t act on the basis of a press release.”
Ivan drew himself up to his full height. He pulled his shoulders back and brought his mouth close to the officer’s ear. “Do you think the East German politburo would dare to act without the Kremlin’s mandate?” he growled. “By order of General Secretary Gorbachev, I command you to enforce his directive.” He glanced toward the crowd. Collins’ camera and spotlight were aimed directly at him.
Ivan turned to make his face less visible. “Look at that camera. It’s aimed at you.” He stepped closer. The vapor of Ivan’s breath in the cold air deflected into the man’s face. “The world is watching.”
The officer took no action. He gazed over the crowd, then at his men, and then into Ivan’s grim face. “I have no orders.”
Ivan’s lips curled around his next words. “If you would like to explain to Mr. Gorbachev why your judgment is superior to his, I can arrange that.” His eyes bored into the officer’s face. They swept appraisingly down his uniform and then back up to meet the man’s uncertain expression. “You’re Stasi. You know what happens if you go against Soviet Party orders. You’ve seen the inside of a Stasi prison. That could be you.” He looked again at the expectant crowd. “Tell your guards to stand down.” He enunciated his next words slowly. “That is an order.” He leaned in, his eyes mere inches from the officer’s. “Let the people go.” His tone was threatening. “Do it now.”
The officer looked over Ivan’s shoulder. Collins and the cameraman stood a few feet away, broadcasting his picture. Behind them, the massive throng stretched along Friedrichstrasse as far as he could see. He felt the urgency of their intent bearing down on the spot where he stood.
Ivan gestured toward the barriers. The officer snapped to. “Lift the barriers,” he shouted to his men. He hurried to raise the one closest to him.
Border guards, immigration control, and Stasi officers alike stared in bewilderment. “Do it,” he yelled, his tone harsh and bitter. “Now.”
One by one, the guards lowered their weapons. They moved out of the way and lifted the barrier arms, the last obstacle to West Berlin.
A hush fell over the crowd. The Stasi officer stood aside and waved the people through.
36
Shortly before Wolfgang made his announcement, Atcho watched the crowd blocking his progress anxiously. We’re trying to save them, and they’re slowing us down.
“We’re going to play hell getting anywhere to do anything, Atcho.” Horton emphasized the nickname in his Texas drawl. He chuckled. “Ya see, I can break habits. It takes effort. Where does that handle come from?”
“Handle?”
“That’s Texan for ‘nickname.’ Where did you get it?”
“It’s a long story, Major Horton.”
“We got time.”
The throngs of pedestrians filling the streets had brought headway in the olive-drab sedan to a crawl. More than half an hour had passed since Chad had evaded the truck at the old building. They were only halfway to their destination, and the crowd became thicker by the minute.
Suddenly, the sound of loud cheering started somewhere ahead and rolled past them in a thundering wave. People danced in the streets and hugged each other. Horton told Chad to halt. He and Atcho emerged from the vehicle.
Horton nudged a man walking by. “What’s going on?” he asked in fluent German.
Atcho stared at him, astonished.
Horton returned his look, deadpan. “What? My wife’s German. We have to communicate.” He turned back to the man and they conversed for a moment.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said, turning back to Atcho. “The German politburo guy—you know that Wolfgang Sacher? He just announced that East Germans were free to travel anywhere through any crossing point, including here in Berlin. Effective immediately.” He put his hands on his hips, dumbfounded. “The little lady did it.”
“Yeah, she did it,” Atcho breathed. “And now we’d better do our part, or—" He left the thought unstated.
“All right, sir. Let’s go.” Horton started to clamber back into the vehicle and then stopped. “Atcho, we ain’t gonna get there in time this way. If that guy, Yermolov, is doing what we think he’s doing, he’s not going to wait. Especially since that announcement.”
“You’re right.” Atcho had already discarded the Army shirt he had been wearing. In doing so, he dropped his radio, unnoticed, on the floor in the back of the sedan. “I’ll go the rest of the way on foot.” While he spoke, Horton removed his own shirt. “What are you doing, Major?”
“Ya know, that ain’t real friendly of you making me call you ‘Atcho,’ and meanwhile, you keep calling me ‘Major Horton.’ The name’s ‘Joe.’” He grinned. He had loosened his belt, and now stood in the shadow of the car between the two open doors. He reached down and untied his boots. “By the way, you never told me where the name ‘Atcho’ came from.” He reached below his seat and pulled out a pair of civilian trousers, a shirt, and running shoes.
Atcho watched. “You’re not coming with me, Joe. I’ll do this alone.”
“Like hell you will. Do you know your way there? How do you think these people will rea
ct when you ask for directions to Stasi headquarters? My job is to watch your six. You think I’m going to make lieutenant-colonel by not doing my job?” He looked up at the sky in mock indignation. “Like I’ll ever get another promotion. But don’t get the idea that you can order me not to do my job.”
He dressed while he spoke, and when finished, he pulled out his pistol and checked it as if to make a point. “Check yours, sir.” He returned the pistol to its holster and looped it on his belt. Then he stood, hands on hips, eye to eye with Atcho. “Are you going to tell me how you got that name?” He belted out his trademark laugh.
Atcho had to chuckle. He pulled his pistol out of his belt and checked it. “There’s nothing to it, Joe. My father’s name was Arturo. He was a colonel in the US Army during World War II. Some people had difficulty with the pronunciation, so it morphed into Atcho. It became my code name in Cuba during the invasion.”
Horton glanced at him while tucking in his shirt. “Geez, sir. That wasn’t so hard.” He ducked his head into the sedan and called across to Chad. “Listen, you hoof it back to post as fast as possible.” Then he leaned in farther and grabbed the driver by his arm. “Pay close attention. I got an order for you. Stay more than a mile away from the embassy.” He looked Chad in the eye to make sure he understood. “If you’re not safely home in an hour, take cover. Heavy cover. Get into a building with some concrete. Got it?”
Chad’s eyes narrowed. He nodded. When Horton turned around, Atcho had already started down the street.
“If you’re coming with me,” Atcho called back, “stop talking and let’s go.”
Horton cussed under his breath, grinned, and hurried to catch up. They pushed through the crowd, darting around people who were slower. The sedan fell far behind.
“You never did tell me, Atcho. Why do you think Yermolov is at the Stasi headquarters?”
“Has to be. He’s obviously exercising influence over the Stasi. They have the bombs. To move them through East Germany, he had to have Stasi help. Baumann’s the last of the hard-liners. He still has an organization to run and political masters to answer to. With all this stuff taking place the last few weeks, he had to have stayed close to his command and control center. Yermolov will stick close to him.” He gave Horton a sideways look. “Besides, Burly received a back-channel report from the Soviets that Yermolov had been spotted there. If they get to him first, they’ll take him down.” He grinned. “See, I can be subtle too.”
Horton looked at Atcho with mock disgust. “An’ here I thought you was bein’ brilliant,” he huffed through rapid breaths. “Good to have some confirmation that we’re on the right track. What about the bombs?”
“Veniamin crossed the border less than twenty-four hours ago. Yermolov and his guys haven’t had much time to do anything with them. No one on the eastern side expected Wolfgang’s announcement tonight. With any luck, the bombs won’t be activated yet, and they’ll be with Yermolov when we catch up to him.”
Horton mock-rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’d be great. What about Klaus, the guy who’s supposed to plant them?”
“Yermolov will control the bombs tightly. He’ll give them to Klaus as he needs to. If they use remotes like last year, Yermolov will keep possession of them. I’m pretty sure that when we find Yermolov, we’ll find the bombs.”
Horton thought about that. “What if you’re wrong?”
“Don’t ask.”
Twenty minutes later, they stood across the square from Stasi headquarters. While catching their breaths, they observed the building.
It was seven stories tall, light in color, longer than a city block, and boxy. Strangely, lights were on in many offices, but few people seemed to be inside. “They must have sent every last man out on crowd control,” Horton observed. “Nobody’s home.”
“Or a lot of Stasi officers are hightailing it for cover. They could have a lot to answer for. A bunch of them are probably in the crowd heading toward the crossing points. Let’s get closer.”
They moved through the mass and approached the main entrance. It was shielded from sight by an awning that stretched across a driveway with a half wall and trellis along the front and sides.
Atcho felt for the radio to inform Burly that they were going in. To his chagrin, he could not find it. “I think I dropped the radio,” he told Horton.
“Criminy, you mean we’re going in there without commo? No one even knows where we are.”
“Looks that way. Where’s your radio?”
Horton put on his best exasperated look. “In the car where it’s supposed to be. I ain’t got one of them fancy-fangled handheld ones. You gotta have pull to get one of those.” He shot one of his characteristic searching-for-sanity looks at the skies. “Oh well, it’s like that time in Afghanistan. Did I ever tell you that story?”
Atcho grimaced. “Joe, do we have time for that now?”
Horton grinned. “Nah but remind me to tell it to ya later. It’s a good one.”
They drew their pistols and moved into the shadows on either side of the entrance. From that vantage, they could see into the lobby. One lone officer sat at a desk barring the way to the rest of the building.
Atcho put his weapon back in its holster, rounded the corner, and entered.
Horton joined him and walked straight to the desk. “Where is everyone?” he demanded harshly in German. The Stasi officer was young, probably newly added to the force and still in training. He drew the short straw on duty tonight. Lucky him.
Atcho glanced at Horton. Gone were the habitual half smile and twinkling eyes. The major looked as stern and forceful as anyone Atcho had ever met.
“I asked where everyone is,” Horton bellowed. “Come to attention when I speak to you.”
The young officer leaped to his feet. “Everyone left,” he stuttered. “Only a few people are upstairs.”
“Why are you still here?”
“Sir, I’m on duty.”
Horton glowered. “You are relieved for dereliction of duty. Report to your superior tomorrow that you failed to come to attention when General Hortz entered the building.”
The officer looked crushed. He fixed his eyes straight ahead as though he were afraid to move. “Before you go,” Horton continued, “tell me how to get to Director Baumann’s office. I will have a few words with him about the deplorable lack of discipline I see here tonight. No wonder the country is coming apart.”
“His office is on the seventh floor, but he left a little while ago.” The officer looked toward a bank of two elevators. “Perhaps one of his staff members can advise you. Some people are still in his offices on the seventh floor. Shall I call?”
“No,” Horton replied. “We’ll go up. Do those elevators work?”
The officer nodded.
“Good. Now go.” He softened his voice. “Maybe I’ll put in a good word for you.”
The young officer scurried into the night. As soon as he had gone, Horton explained in a whisper what had happened. “You wanna ride up to the director’s office?”
By way of responding, Atcho walked to the elevator and punched the button. From the shaft behind the doors, they heard mechanical groans and clanking as the car descended. A minute later, they rode it up.
Even before the doors opened, they heard voices. One of them Atcho recognized; a voice he would never forget. Yermolov.
“…When we succeed, we’ll have plenty of money. Let’s go.”
Atcho jerked his pistol from its holster and bolted out of the elevator.
Yermolov was stepping into the second elevator. He saw Atcho, but his momentum carried him into the car.
Atcho opened fire and kept shooting until the magazine was empty. The bullets entered the second elevator, opening a pattern of tightly packed holes on the opposite wall. Atcho slapped in another magazine.
The doors started to close. Yermolov appeared in the space between them and returned fire, but the angle was too shallow. Bullets whizzed by Atcho. The doors closed.
The elevator moaned and clanked and began its descent.
“The stairs,” Horton yelled. He pointed.
“He didn’t see you,” Atcho called as they raced to the stairwell. “Go to the bottom floor. Get in the dark hall across from the orderly’s desk. I’ll herd them to you.”
When they reached the sixth floor, Horton continued down while Atcho stopped. As the elevator light switched to number six, Atcho fired into the door. The elevator continued. Atcho repeated his action at each level until it passed the second floor. He expected that the sound of guns would bring others into the foyer, but the building was strangely, eerily empty. He raced to the bottom floor and positioned himself behind a heavy column.
The elevator arrived, and the doors opened. A fusillade of gunshots and smoke exploded from the interior. Bullets split the air, broke windows, and ricocheted off of walls. Then all was quiet.
“Come out,” Atcho called. “You can’t escape.”
Silence.
“Come out, Yermolov. You’re done.” To make his point, Atcho fired into the middle of the elevator’s ceiling.
Seconds ticked by. Then Yermolov called out. “Hold your fire, Atcho. I’m coming out.”
“Throw out your gun.”
A pistol flew out, clattering to the ground. Yermolov emerged, his right hand held in the air. In his left hand, he carried a suitcase.
Through a haze of excruciating pain, Sofia watched, mesmerized, as the crowd started moving forward again through Checkpoint Charlie. Despite all the planning, the careful organization and execution that had gone in to bring about this moment, the fact of it happening almost overwhelmed her.
A team member on her left carried much of her weight with an arm under her shoulder. Careful not to bump the wound, Wolfgang supported her right side with his arm around her waist. She was grateful for his paternal attention.
He had recovered his faculties as he moved with the surging crowd, but he clearly felt at a loss to fathom the full impact. He told her repeatedly, “I can’t believe this is happening.”
