by Lee Jackson
Ahead, Collins came into view, his bright camera lights creating a glow around him. Wolfgang’s scarf had fallen away, revealing his face. As he stepped into the light, people recognized him and began cheering, “Sacher, Sacher, Sacher.” Wolfgang waved, but quickly sought the safety of darkness. He was too late.
A man stepped inside the moving security perimeter. He shoved a pistol into Wolfgang’s chest. His former security chief. “Wolfgang Sacher, you are under arrest for treason and other high crimes against the state.”
Sofia moaned as Wolfgang froze, jarring her arm. Her adrenaline surged. The rest of the team and Wolfgang’s family stood still. A group of uniformed policemen formed a ring around them.
“You will come with me,” the bodyguard said. “You and your family.”
Wolfgang released his hold on Sofia. He looked over the crowd. “For the love of God, man. Can’t you see what is happening?” He waved his hand toward Checkpoint Charlie. “The gates are open. We are free. Let us go.”
The security chief smirked. “There is no God in East Germany. This is your doing. Soon the gates will close, and you’ll answer for your crimes. Because of you, many will die tonight. I have my orders.”
Wolfgang’s shoulders slumped. He turned around slowly to look at Sofia. “Thank you,” he murmured. “At least we got a lot of people out. I hope your family is among them. I hope your Atcho is safe, and that your arm heals quickly.” Then he looked into the fearful eyes of his family.
The team member who had supported Sofia’s left side had let go as well and stepped away. Sofia stood on wobbly legs, trying to gauge the nature and direction of the threat, chagrined at her limited ability to respond.
Sensing the tension, the crowd diverged, opening a wide gap around them. Amber streetlights delineated the opposing forces, an East German police perimeter surrounding the inner circle of Sofia’s team, now with weapons drawn. At the center were Wolfgang’s family and Sofia.
The security chief grabbed Wolfgang’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Sofia summoned every physical and mental reserve left to her. She struck, kicking the security chief’s pistol away. Another kick caught him on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground.
Sofia’s scream of agony tore the night. She fell in a heap.
Jeff’s team leaped at their closest opponents. After a brief skirmish, the fight was over, almost as quickly as it had begun. The highly trained team subdued and disarmed the policemen—all except the security chief, who rolled and came to his feet, reaching for his pistol. He grabbed it and took deadly aim at Wolfgang.
The loud report of a gunshot split the air. The crowd fell further away. The security chief gaped at Wolfgang in disbelief. Then he slumped to the ground as blood bubbled from his chest.
Nina crouched by him holding her gun. Smoke rose from the barrel.
The man clung to life, each breath a bloody gurgle.
“You said we wouldn’t live out the night,” Nina said. “We did.” Her eyes did not blink. “You didn’t.” She took his pistol from his hand and returned her own to its holster.
The man rolled to his side, his eyes staring into nowhere.
Wolfgang knelt beside Sofia and lifted her. Jeff walked over to help, but Wolfgang motioned him away. “I’ll carry her.” He faced the policemen grouped together under the team’s guard. “Go home,” he said. He indicated the crowd with his chin. “Go home before these people figure out what they can do to you.” He nodded at Jeff. “Let’s go.” He set out again toward Checkpoint Charlie, carrying Sofia.
They went by Ivan, who stood not far from the Stasi Wartburg that had brought him there. He had posted himself by the barriers as if holding back the East German guards. He nodded, grim-faced, as they passed. They traversed the wide expanse of the kill zone, through Checkpoint Charlie, into West Berlin.
37
Ranulf fought his way through the crowds to return to his office. When he arrived, Oily was waiting for him, lounging in one of the chairs in front of his massive desk. Ranulf tossed the two duffle bags into a corner and took his seat.
Oily peered at the bags. “What’s in there?”
Ranulf thought rapidly. He heaved a sigh. “Documents that Baumann no longer wants in his office. He’s worried about what the next few days will bring.” His eyes widened in false indignation. “Can you believe the Wall is open? What does that mean for us?” He regretted telling Oily to come by his office. Once again, he had been impulsive, intending to share his idea but not the money. “This has been a crazy night.”
Oily leaned his chair back, his face expressionless. “What’s your idea?”
Ranulf spoke eagerly. “With our hit squads, we built an organization that delivers a unique service.” He did not mention that the idea had come from Yermolov. He smirked. “Speaking like a capitalist, we can expand our market in the West. I understand the demand for what we do is high there.” He laughed. “The checkpoints are open. We can all go through. We don’t even need papers.”
Oily did not share his mirth. “You said you’d pay us tonight.”
Ranulf nodded, attempting sincerity. “The money will be here tomorrow. I’ll pay.”
Oily allowed his chair to drop forward with a loud thud. The door swung open. Two men entered, pistols drawn. They aimed at Ranulf.
Fear crossed Ranulf’s face. “What are you doing?”
Oily ignored him. He gestured to one of the men. “See what’s in those bags.”
The man stepped forward, opened one of the bags, and looked inside. He chortled and lifted out several stacks of wrapped bills. He set them on Ranulf’s desk and looked in the other bag. “Same stuff here. Quite a haul.”
Oily stood, glassy eyes on Ranulf. “You lied to me.” He stepped over to peer inside one of the bags. “One thing you never understood. This was never ‘our’ organization. It was mine, and these are my men.”
Ranulf’s eyes widened in sudden terror. Before he could protest, Oily nodded. The two thugs shot into Ranulf’s chest. He dropped, lifeless.
Without missing a beat, the man by the duffle bags turned his pistol and put two bullets each into his erstwhile companion and Oily. They went down. He checked their pulses. None. “You never had an organization either,” he scoffed at Oily’s limp figure. “We were never your men. Like everyone else in East Germany, we just survived.” He threw the bags over his shoulder. Five minutes later, he blended into the crowd, headed to the nearest checkpoint.
Collins stood watching in disbelief as East Berliners continued to stream past. Their numbers had swelled as word spread that the borders were open. Ivan stood a short distance away.
Collins was not sure why Ivan remained, but the former KGB officer seemed intent on exerting his illusory authority over the guards to ensure they did not attempt to reverse course.
A face coming toward the checkpoint caught Collins’ attention. It belonged to a man he knew, one he had interviewed outside Paris nearly a year earlier and had followed desperately through the West German side of the Helmstedt–Marienborn crossing less than twenty-four hours ago. Seems like a century.
Veniamin walked straight toward him. He looked frantic. “Please, Mr. Collins. The bombs. My family. I must speak to you.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. I remember you from last year. I’m glad you found me.”
“I saw you interviewing people. You must help.”
They spoke for several minutes; their heads close together. Abruptly, Collins swung around. “Come with me.” He led Veniamin to Ivan and repeated what Veniamin had told him.
As he listened, Ivan’s lips hardened into a thin line. “Get in that vehicle.” He pointed to the Stasi Wartburg.
Veniamin whirled to Collins in abject fear. “Where is he taking me?”
“Don’t worry,” Collins said calmly. “He knows what he’s doing. He’ll help.”
Meanwhile, Ivan strode toward the Stasi supervisor. “I’m taking that car into West Berlin. I’ll bring
it back tomorrow. Any objection?” His tone was only slightly menacing.
The officer stared at him, and then at the car. He shrugged in resignation. “No. All border crossings are open.” He ordered his subordinates to let the car pass.
Forty minutes later, Ivan parked the Wartburg in front of the Berlin Brigade headquarters and escorted Veniamin into the building.
38
Atcho stepped from behind the column in the lobby. Only twenty feet separated him and Yermolov. “Set the suitcases down.”
Yermolov complied. He lifted both hands in the air. “Atcho,” he crooned. “I knew that was your voice. I’d know it anywhere.” He smirked as he wiped blood from his eyes. “That wasn’t very nice, shooting into the elevator. After all we’ve meant to each other? The ricochets could have killed us. One of your bullets grazed me.”
He looked down at his suitcase and then back at Atcho. “I’m going to pick up my suitcase. Then, I’m going to walk out of here.
“Before you shoot me, you should see what’s in my left hand.” He held high a black rectangular object. “This is a remote to one of my bombs, like the one I had last year. Do you see my thumb pressed on the single button?”
He held his hand out, palm up. His thumb held one end of the device wedged against his forefinger. “One punch, and it’s all over for anyone within a mile of your embassy.”
Atcho stared at the device. Horton remained silent in the shadows of the hall.
“You walk around with that in your hand?” Atcho’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Sure. No chance you’d bump into something and set it off accidentally.”
“Your appearance prompted me to use it. It’s so easy. My cousin made it. The button is double action. I push and hold it down at least five seconds to arm it, and then push further down to detonate. It requires fifteen pounds of pressure for the second push. Would you like to try me?” He grinned, enjoying the repartee.
“How do you disarm it?”
Yermolov laughed. “Your clearance isn’t high enough to know that. We’re safely out of the blast radius, if you’re wondering.” He chuckled. “Are you calculating whether a bullet can get to me before I push the button?” He sighed. “Atcho, we’ve been together so long. Cuba, Washington, Siberia. Remember the Azores? I was a little hungover then.” He sighed again. “Parting will be such sweet sorrow.”
Atcho remembered vividly when Yermolov had driven into the night with his four-year-old daughter. Memories coursed through his mind of the long recovery after being beaten nearly to death on Yermolov’s order. Then the loneliness and despair of nineteen years in prison and seven years of manipulation as a sleeper agent. The freezing cold chase through Siberia. He tried always to blot those recollections from his mind, but they surfaced sometimes, along with a rush of unbridled emotion. He had no time for them now.
“It ends tonight.”
Yermolov turned his head slowly to the side. “Shoot me right here.” He pointed to his temple. “My muscles will freeze. I won’t be able to detonate the bomb.” His face darkened. “But if you miss, I promise you, there will be a mile-wide hole in Berlin where your embassy is now.” He mocked, “Never bring a gun to a nuclear fight.” He glowered. “Drop it.”
Atcho did not move.
Yermolov shifted his feet impatiently. “Atcho, I have a plane to catch. Klaus too. You remember Klaus? He wants to rip out your throat. Klaus, come greet your brother’s killer.”
Klaus emerged from the elevator, his face contorted with hatred. He carried a suitcase identical to Yermolov’s. With his right hand, he aimed a pistol toward Atcho. “Can I kill him now? He won’t dare shoot in this direction.”
Atcho ducked behind the column. “Major Horton,” he called. “If that man twitches, shoot him. Make it count.”
Yermolov looked around and fixed his gaze on the dark hall behind Atcho. “You brought someone with you,” he taunted. “How clever.”
“You killed my brother,” Klaus called in a savage growl that welled from the depths of his being. “I will kill you.”
Suddenly, he dropped to the floor, rolled, and fired three rounds into the dark hall behind Atcho. He rolled again, firing at Atcho and hitting the column.
Two shots exploded from behind Atcho. Two bullets ripped into Klaus’ right shoulder. He dropped the gun, howling, his joint destroyed. A dull thud sounded in the hall, but no more gunfire. Klaus struggled to his feet, grabbed the suitcase with his good arm, and ran through the entrance. He left his pistol on the floor.
Yermolov had not moved. He lifted his hand in front of his face with a look of stunned realization. He had pushed the detonation button on the remote, an involuntary reaction to the sudden burst of shots.
Atcho dove from behind the column to a new position next to a concrete wall. He fired the pistol on his way down, aiming for the center of Yermolov’s chest. Given the speed of events, he had no idea where the bullets hit. He loaded a new magazine. Then, he braced for a massive explosion.
His options were limited. The best he could do was lie flat on his stomach against the wall that protected him from the direction of the expected blast. He covered his head with his arms. When he looked up, Yermolov still stood but teetered on his feet.
Seconds passed. No explosion. No distant roar. No vibrations or shattering glass. No heat waves. Yermolov was in the same place, but he had slumped to his knees and sat back on his haunches. Blood poured from his lower abdomen.
From the front door, Klaus bellowed, his voice agonized. “This isn’t over, Atcho. I promise you, it isn’t over.”
Atcho fired off a couple of shots toward him and heard running footsteps. He scrambled to his feet and hurried to the entrance. Klaus was gone, leaving a trail of blood.
“You all right, Horton?” Atcho called, looking into the dark hall. No answer.
Atcho stood in front of Yermolov, covering him with his pistol. The rogue general looked down vacantly at his own hand. His thumb still squeezed the button on the remote. His other hand pressed against his stomach. He pulled it away slightly to look at it. The flow of blood increased, welling out over his palm.
Atcho looked closer. Yermolov held another remote. Atcho had no idea when or how it got there. He knew only that his nemesis, so close to death, remained a threat.
Yermolov raised his head, his eyes already bleary. “I guess it doesn’t hurt to bring a gun to a nuclear fight after all.” He gave a sickly laugh that ended in a groan of pain. He looked at the second remote. “Oh well, if I gotta go, I should take as many with me as I can.” Coughing, he looked back up at Atcho. “This one detonates Klaus’ bomb. He can’t have gone far. We can all go together.” He pressed the button.
Atcho resigned himself to eternity.
Nothing. Yermolov looked at the remote, confused. “Huh, that’s two out of three. I’ll have to speak to Cousin Veniamin. I should get a refund.” He looked up at Atcho with a wan smile. “Aren’t you going to save me now? That’s the humanitarian thing to do. Then you can bring me to justice.”
Atcho squatted in front of him. “You’re beyond help. My orders are to stay with you until there is no pulse.” He called back into the hall again. “Major Horton, are you OK?” No answer.
The rogue general chuckled, and then groaned. “I won’t keep you.” His eyes had receded into their sockets. A pool of blood encircled him. “So, Atcho, our long years together come to an end.” His words slurred. “This time for real.” His lower legs had splayed apart so that his thighs settled between them. He shot Atcho one last baleful glance, then his head dropped forward. He sat there upright, held in precarious balance by gravity, a solitary dead figure.
39
Atcho ran into the hall. Horton lay prone diagonally across the floor.
Atcho saw no wounds on the major’s back, but blood pooled under his legs. Atcho felt for a pulse. He turned Horton over and checked his breathing. It was regular, but bleeding from his right leg was steady. Judging by the color, a bullet must have str
uck an artery.
Atcho tore off his own belt, made a quick tourniquet around Horton’s wounded leg, and tightened it. Then he crossed Horton’s feet and elevated them against the wall.
A figure darted into the lobby. Atcho ducked and peered through the dim light. Chad crouched in the foyer.
“Over here,” Atcho called.
Horton awoke, groggy. He looked around. “If this is heaven,” he groaned, “take me to that other place.” He looked at the tourniquet on his leg and then back at Atcho. “One thing is certain. You got a lot to learn about puttin’ on a tourniquet. An’ do you have a clue how uncomfortable lyin’ on the floor in this position is, with my feet up like that?” He spotted Chad. “What the hell are you doing here? I gave you an order.”
Chad stood over him. “Major Horton, meaning no disrespect, shut up. You taught me never to leave one of our guys behind.” He grinned. “Much as I hate to claim you, you’re one of ours.”
Horton glared at him, his jaw tightening, the characteristic mischief returning to his eyes. “You know I could bring you up on charges?” He looked at his leg again. “The least you could do is fix that tourniquet.” He pointed at Atcho. “That guy don’t know the first thing about putting one on. Good thing you happened by.”
Atcho pulled himself to his feet and hurried back into the lobby. Yermolov still sat in deathly repose. Atcho felt for a pulse. None. He checked for breathing. None. Then he pulled the remotes from Yermolov’s hands and patted the body down until he found the third one. He put all three in his pocket and picked up the remaining suitcase.
Sofia’s eyes opened in slits. Everything she saw was blurred. She tried to turn but the motion produced sharp pain. She moaned and slid her eyes wearily to the right. Her arm was heavily bandaged.
