Brandenburg: A Thriller

by Glenn Meade

  During her time at DSE, Joe Volkmann had been her teacher and mentor. He had been friendly and warm, intense at work, but today when he offered to help her pack, she was a little surprised; still, she knew the offer was genuine and not a come-on. She got the feeling that he didn’t push things, so the man was a challenge.

  He’d spent the afternoon in the apartment in Petite France, helping her fill the wooden packing crates with her belongings and the small items of antique furniture she’d bought. When she suggested a meal to repay him, he countered with tickets to the opera and dinner afterward.

  The opera was The Magic Flute, music she loved. As she watched him throughout the performance, she saw that he listened to it attentively. And though he smiled at her a lot and the evening had a romantic flavor, he didn’t try to make a pass. That was usually a specialty of the Italians if you ventured near their DSE offices.

  His apartment on the Quai Ernest Bevin was on the first floor, and the balcony entrance overlooked a tiny, paved courtyard. It was a small, two-bedroom affair, and he kept it pretty neat for a guy. A TV in a corner, as well as a Sony sound system. Several books lay around and lots of CDs. Classical mostly, but she saw some jazz and rock. On shelves above were some photographs in frames, and more books.

  Choosing a disc, he inserted it into the CD player. Edith Piaf, Sally soon noted with approval. “How about a drink, Sally?”

  She went to sit on the couch and crossed her long legs. She saw him look at them briefly, and she said, “How about scotch?”

  “A girl after my own heart,” he said, smiling.

  “With ice and a splash of water,” she added, echoing his smile.

  She watched him go into the kitchen. He was tall, dark-haired with a touch of gray, and well built—not handsome in a conventional way, but he was attractive. He looked more French than British. And he had something, only Sally Thornton couldn’t figure out what. Maybe something in his sensitive brown eyes, the same eyes she had seen in the woman in one of the photographs on the shelf.

  He looked like the kind of guy who could protect a woman . . . But then, all the men she worked with looked like that—trained soldiers and intelligence officers and hard-nosed narcotics specialists masquerading as policemen.

  She figured out maybe what it was. Here was a man she could trust. He was a hard man, but he didn’t come on hard. And his smile gave him away . . . he was vulnerable, she reckoned, under the confident exterior.

  He came back into the room carrying their glasses. He handed hers across and sat on the couch opposite. He loosened his tie, and as he sipped his scotch, he let his eyes fall on her, and she was conscious of his stare—and of his gentle, unthreatening smile. In the background, Edith Piaf was singing. Je ne regrette rien.

  “You’re going to miss me, Joe?”

  “Sure. There’s a lot to miss.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  “Because they’re going to love you in New York.”

  “Who? The people at the embassy?”

  “Those, too. But I mean the Americans. The guys will be beating down your door.”

  She smiled, swirled her glass. “Why, thank you for the compliment. You’ll come visit me sometimes?”

  “If you like. But the truth is, you’re better off over there, Sally. Things are turning bad in Europe, and I think they’ll get a lot worse before they get better.” He glanced at his watch, then the TV. “You mind if I catch the late news? It’s a professional vice.”

  “Go ahead. I’m a news junkie, too.”

  He turned down the sound system and flicked on the TV. The news was pretty discouraging. The economic downturn was in its third year. Unemployment was over 20 percent. Business failures kept mounting—solid companies you’d have thought would never fail. And in Germany, where the East was never successfully integrated, the downturn was worse than in the other nations of the EU. Angry mobs rampaged through the streets. Except for the fact that the images were in color, the scenes were very like those from another age. And they both recognized that.

  He flicked off the remote.

  She said, “It’s not starting over, is it?”

  They both knew what “it” was.

  “I don’t think history repeats itself,” Volkmann said. “At least I hope not. Especially not in Germany. But you’re better off in the States, Sally,” he said again.

  “I’m just sorry I waited this long to get to know you,” she said, smiling.

  “Me, too.”

  She took a long sip from her glass. “Tell me about yourself, Joe. I’ve worked with you for months but I hardly know a thing about you. Apart from the fact you’re a news junkie.”

  He smiled back. “What do you want to know?”

  “How long have you been in DSE?”

  “Eighteen months.”

  “You like working in Europe?”

  “Sure. The problems are pretty interesting. It’s the main reason I’m in the profession. I like solving problems, don’t you? I’m easily bored.”

  She nodded assent. “And before that?”

  “Intelligence—SIS.”

  She uncrossed her legs and stretched them. He let his eyes fall on them appreciatively. “Were you ever married, Joe?”

  He sipped his scotch. “Divorced. No kids.”

  “And your folks?”

  She glanced up at the photographs on the shelf. Two were of a couple and a young boy, one taken outside a pretty stone cottage and another on a beach. The boy was obviously Volkmann, about fourteen, and the couple was surely his parents. There was another of the boy and his father, a distinguished but sickly-looking man in a heavy overcoat. They were standing near the cottage; the beach was down a long slope below. Another photograph showed just the mother. She was sitting at a piano in some great hall, a striking-looking woman.

  Then it came to her. “She’s that Volkmann, isn’t she? The famous pianist? Is she your mother? She hasn’t played in years. Whatever happened to her?”

  “Yes, she’s that Volkmann. And no, she doesn’t play any longer. Arthritis crippled her hands. But she still does some teaching.”

  “The photo was taken at Carnegie Hall, wasn’t it?”

  “You have a good eye.”

  “I remember her.” Sally smiled, inclined her head toward the woman’s photo. “She was up there with the best. I loved her Schubert. What about your father?”

  “He died six months ago.”

  “I’m sorry. Were you close to him?”

  “Very. He was a good man.”

  “I don’t think you took after him,” she said, staring at the other photo. “He looks a bit . . . otherworldly.”

  “You could say that.” Joe smiled. “He was a professor.”

  “You never wanted to follow either of your parents’ professions?”

  “No talent,” he sighed, and changed the subject. “I got a call from Dick Wolsey in London the other day.” There was heavy concern in his voice. “He claims the Germans and the French are trying to pull out of this operation.”

  “You mean out of DSE?”

  He nodded and took a long swallow of scotch.

  Sally said, “They’d be crazy to do that. If they do, all of DSE will come tumbling down, and bang goes security cooperation in Europe.”

  “Did you hear any rumors?”

  Sally shrugged and played with the top button of her blouse. “We’ve all heard the rumors, Joe. Some politicians think DSE is all a waste of taxpayers’ money. Everybody’s in trouble financially. You see the same news I do.” She gestured toward the television set. “The Germans, the French, us. As long as the financial markets are in turmoil, they have the frights. And when nations get the frights—watch out—it’s each for itself.”

  “Did you hear Ferguson say if he’s heard any rumors?” he asked. Ferguson was head of the British section of DSE.

  Sally Thornton smiled. “I hardly talk to the man. He’s so darned stuffy.”

  He laughed. “What a
bout Peters?” Peters was Ferguson’s number two.

  “All Peters tells me is that I have good legs.” She paused, saw Volkmann glance at her legs again. “And that you’re a terrific intelligence officer.” She looked at him. “Do we have to talk about work?”

  “Not at all.”

  She said, “Can I ask you a very personal question, Joe?”

  “How personal?”

  “Why didn’t you ever come on to me?”

  He let his eyes catch hers. “I like you, Sally. A lot. But I don’t like to rush things. And I don’t like to mix bed and work. Life gets messy enough.”

  “You’re a very sensitive man, Joe Volkmann. Did you know that?”

  His gaze remained on her, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Would you like me to stay?” Sally asked.

  When he smiled, she smiled back and put down her glass. “My plane leaves at three,” she said. “And yours?”

  “Two-thirty, to London.”

  • • •

  Sally was sleeping quietly beside him, nestled against him, but Volkmann was still awake, his back propped against a bunched-up pillow. The long-ago memory of his father came to him . . .

  They walked along the deserted Cornish beach together. It was November; the beach grasses were yellowed and dry. Waves swept up the sand, rattling the pebbles.

  He had come down from the weapons course in Scotland, soon after he joined SIS, the year before the Wall came down. The sun was shining—one of those perfect days in autumn when the air is crisp and clear and it feels good to breathe. His father looked frail as always, wrapped in the tattered tweed overcoat that looked a size too big for him. They sat on a driftwood log, and the old man regarded him with watery brown eyes.

  “Mama tells me they’re sending you to Berlin.”

  “It’s a good posting, Papa. And with luck, I’ll get home once a month, so it won’t be so bad.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  He saw the dark look on his father’s face. Berlin brought back bad memories. “No, Papa. Not dangerous. It’s intelligence gathering mostly. Nothing for you to worry about. They’re not going to send me over the Wall with a gun, I can promise you that.”

  “And Anna?”

  “She’ll join me in a couple of months.”

  “What’s it like now?”

  “Berlin? Pretty exciting. Full of energy. A little like New York, but on a smaller scale. Not like the old days . . . not like the Berlin you once knew.”

  He saw the old man look away toward the waves, his face drawn as if troubled by some private thought. Joseph Volkmann recognized the look, recognized the pain. The old man stood, glanced at his watch, cut off the pain before it took hold. He had had plenty of practice doing that.

  “Your mama will have lunch ready. We better not keep her waiting.”

  “Papa.”

  His father looked down at him, and Joseph Volkmann was aware of the pink circle of rutted flesh on the frail man’s temple, the wound indelible and permanent. The ones inside were not visible, but they were no less permanent.

  He said quietly, staring at the scar, “It’s all in the past, Papa. A long time ago. But sometimes I want you to talk about it. Maybe it would help.”

  His father shook his head. “Believe me, Joseph, talking about it does not help. I tried to talk for many years and learned that it’s much better to forget.” The brown eyes looked down at him. “You’ll learn that as you grow older, Joseph. Bury ghosts if you can. Don’t let them live. Now come, let’s not keep Mama waiting.”

  The son watched as the old man moved away, the bony, hunched body lost in the heavy tweed overcoat.

  He stood and followed his father.

  • • •

  The boy, Joe’s father, was thirteen. The girl, his sister, was six. Drunken SS guards made them stand in front of a shallow pit, half filled with the already murdered. The girl was so frightened, she reached out her hand to her brother for comfort. The SS man told her to stay still and he jerked her hand away. When the child reached out again in fear, the SS man shot her point blank.

  After that, they pushed her into the pit, then forced the distraught boy to kneel down; an SS captain shot him in the face, and then they threw him on top of his sister. The boy was horribly wounded. But the captain had been too drunk to aim properly. The boy waited, lying among the dead, more scared than he had ever been. Waited while the guards tossed dirt on top of the bodies. Waited until it was dark and at last the guards were gone, and then he began to cry out for his sister . . .

  3

  ASUNCIÓN, PARAGUAY. NOVEMBER 23

  Rudi Hernandez waited while the woman checked in at the desk. The airport was busy, crowded with midday passengers, but his eyes were fixed firmly on the woman. Watching her figure, he wished she were not his cousin.

  He told himself, Hey, remember who she is.

  But he couldn’t help it, enjoying the view of the woman’s long, silky, suntanned legs and the perfectly shaped hips and thighs that filled out the creamy-white summer skirt. Her blond hair was cut short, and it complemented her pretty face, her fine cheekbones.

  The view was exquisite, and he smiled to himself. It was the Latin in him. He liked women. And he especially liked Erica.

  It wasn’t just her looks, of course. She was smart, very smart, a good journalist for one so young—early thirties, five years younger than he was. Maybe she’s even a better journalist than I am, he reflected. I’m a reporter. That’s it. I find stories. But she can write. She’ll do books someday, just you wait, he thought, proud of her.

  But it wasn’t just that she was smart. She was also a very fine person, sensible and sensitive—wise beyond her years.

  Why does she have to be my cousin? He sighed inwardly. If it weren’t for their blood ties, he knew he’d have rushed over to her, torn up her tickets, and taken her in his arms.

  She turned and smiled at him, her business complete as she gathered up passport and tickets and picked up her carry-on luggage from the desk. She crossed to where he stood as he ground out his cigarette on the marble floor.

  He smiled back. “Everything okay?”

  Erica nodded. “I board in twenty-five minutes. We have time for a coffee.” Her hand found his arm; her eyes were glistening. “I’ll miss you, Rudi. It’s a long way—and a long time—between visits.”

  “Hey, I know. I’ll sure miss you, too, Erica.”

  He took her carry-on luggage and led her across the concourse to the small restaurant lounge. He found a vacant table and ordered two coffees and two brandies. As they chatted, his mind went back to the day they had spent in the mountains, up in the rain forest near the border with Brazil, the day they had taken the guided tour. Magnificent country, a splendid day. And she was so relaxed, so easy to be with. And my cousin. Darn!

  When the waiter brought their drinks, Erica took a sip of brandy and caught his eyes.

  “I’m worried about you, Rudi. I’m worried about the story.”

  So am I, Rudi thought. But I can’t tell you that.

  One good thing about her departure was that it took his mind—at least momentarily—off the story. It was a big one; all his reporter’s instincts pointed that way. And it had many complex strands—leading only heaven knew where. Perhaps it would turn out to be the biggest story he’d worked on. And it was dangerous . . . one man was already dead, murdered. The bad thing about her departure—the other bad thing—was that he would have loved for Erica to work alongside him. Her brains would have come in handy.

  “I want you to promise me you’ll be careful,” she went on. “Promise me that?”

  He smiled easily, letting his gaze rest on hers. “I’m always careful. You know that.”

  “Bull.” She smiled ruefully, with a shake of her head.

  With her fair skin and light hair, she looked so different from the South American women, the dark-skinned women in the barrios, and the contrast had turned heads. The Indian woman selling flowers o
n Calle Estrella had asked to touch her blond hair. “She’s beautiful,” the old woman had said, smiling as she stroked Erica’s hair like a talisman and looked at Rudi. “She will bring us both luck. Believe me.”

  And when the Latin men stared at her, he didn’t blame them.

  He saw her look of concern. “There’s not much of a story, Erica. Not yet. Maybe it will turn into something big—”

  “You know it will,” she interrupted. “We both know it. My thumbs are tingling, Rudi. When my thumbs tingle”—she smiled—“well, believe them.”

  He grinned. “That may be, but so far, I don’t have much. Really very little.” He shrugged. “Only what Rodriguez has told me. And the photographs.”

  “But the photos connect Rodriguez with that man, Tsarkin—a very wealthy man. And my old school friend Dieter Winter.” There was an ironic edge to her voice when she mentioned the last name. “And through them, the story leads to Europe. It’s not local, Rudi, whatever it is. It’s bigger. The lines go far.” Her eyes clouded for a moment. “It’s probably drugs,” she said . . . which was what she had said the first time he told her about Rodriguez. “But it could be something else, too.”

  “We’ll see,” he said quietly, catching her thoughtful mood.

  He remembered Rodriguez’s brown body, lying on the cold metal table in the mortuary of the city hospital, the feeling of nausea when the attendant pulled back the white sheet and he had stared at the man’s pulped, bloodied flesh. He suppressed the shudder of fear he felt inside and leaned closer, breathing in the sweet scent of her perfume as though it were a refuge.

  “But,” Rudi said, “so far, we have no idea of where the lines go. I don’t have any further leads. So far, Erica, there’s no story. Just suggestions. Hints.”