Puzzle People (9781613280126)

by Peterson, Doug

  All at once, she was up to her feet, and taking Kurt by the hand, she pulled him out of his chair and dragged him to the doorway. She motioned him to follow her, and they hurried down the hall and down the stairs and outside. Neither of them spoke until they were two blocks from the office, standing outside a coffee shop.

  “Okay, so you have me a little scared. What in the world did you find?” Kurt asked.

  Annie looked from side to side. She knew she was laying on the theatrics, but she didn’t care. She liked drama.

  “I found a document that identified the code number of our murderer. I know who killed Stefan Hansel.”

  39

  West Berlin

  November 13, 1989

  Stefan was nearly run down by a man on a bicycle, trying to steer one-handed while lugging three batches of bananas—another Easterner heading home from West Berlin with golden prizes. Bananas had always been impossible to find in the East, and they had become a symbol of scarcity in the GDR.

  It had been four days since the borders opened, and for some people, the party continued unabated—although for others it was more like a whirlwind of window-shopping. Over the weekend, Stefan’s parents had gone to West Berlin just to look into store windows and gawk at everything in paradise.

  Ducking into Café Mauer, Stefan asked for a table for four—just in case everyone showed up: Peter, Elsa, and Katarina. He looked at his watch. It was nearing eight o’clock. He was nervous but determined to see this through. Something strong, something beyond himself was pushing him to confess with no expectation of forgiveness. No more secrets. He would open up his past, as if this was a border crossing all its own.

  Over the years, Stefan had dug up secrets on many people, including Katarina, Peter, and Elsa. So he wanted to assure them that he would never tell another soul a single one of their secrets. If it was biologically possible to put the tainted information in his brain through a cerebral shredder, he would do it. But it wasn’t possible, so this would have to do. Stefan’s confession would be his cleansing—and their assurance.

  But would any of them even come? When he called Katarina’s number, Peter sounded angry, and Stefan was afraid he wouldn’t relay the message to her. So he left two other messages on their recorder, in the hopes that Katarina would check their machine. He left several messages with Elsa as well, and one time, someone in her apartment picked up her phone. He heard breathing on the other end of the line, but no one spoke. So he left the message to the ghost on the phone, just in case it was Elsa.

  Café Mauer, on the western side, featured a massive white wall, where people were encouraged to scrawl graffiti, as if it was an extension of the real Wall. Stefan found a table near the graffiti-splattered wall, and it appeared that someone had knocked a small hole in it. Probably some drunk who thought it would be amusing to take a hammer to the restaurant wall, in the same way that people were taking hammers to the real Wall.

  He ordered a beer and then settled back in his chair and watched people flow in and out of the café. He hoped he would be able to recognize Peter, Elsa, and Katarina when they came in. He had never met Peter in person, but he had seen photos. He didn’t think he would fail to recognize Katarina or Elsa, even aged twenty-some years.

  Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. By this time, the café had filled, and he felt guilty taking up an entire table. So at twenty-five minutes past eight, he took up a spot at the bar, positioned so he could still see people coming and going through the front door.

  He ordered a ham-and-cheese sandwich and listened in on random conversations as he continued to wait. He was becoming bored and discouraged when the man to his right suddenly said, “Did you hear the one about the Stasi officer talking to a citizen?”

  The setup of a GDR joke made Stefan think immediately of Katarina, and he spun around, only to find that the fellow was not talking to him. He was trying to flirt with a young woman on his other side, but the woman didn’t look very impressed.

  “The Stasi officer says to the citizen, ‘How do you judge the current political situation?’ And the citizen says, ‘I think—’ And the Stasi man says, ‘That’s enough! You’re under arrest!’”

  The man laughed, but the woman just smiled politely and turned away. Still, the man didn’t give up, spurred on by alcohol-enhanced boldness. “Did you know . . . did you know I was on the train to West Germany? You know, Honecker’s train.”

  Stefan smiled, amazed that this guy was using the Cold War as a pickup line.

  “I was on the Honecker Express,” the young man repeated, alcohol ratcheting up the volume of his voice quite a few decibels. “Here’s to the Honecker Express!” The drunk tried to clink glasses with the woman, but she was doing her best to ignore him, shielding her glass.

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Stefan, and the drunk whirled around to locate the source of a supportive voice.

  “Comrade! To the Honecker Express!” the drunk shouted again, and he had to take careful aim to make sure their glasses clinked.

  “I got on board in Prague, and we were sealed in,” he said to Stefan. “We were sealed in like . . .” He searched for just the right words. “Like people sealed in a train.”

  “I know of the train. It was Honecker’s idea of punishment, wasn’t it? Had you been trying to escape through Hungary?”

  “We had, but when the border into Hungary closed, we were trapped in Prague.”

  “I don’t suppose the Czechs liked all those East German refugees camping in their capital, did they?”

  “No, so that fool Honecker decided he would punish us by sealing us in a train of shame and shipping us off to West Germany. Some punishment!”

  Stefan smiled. “I was in Leipzig, and people were inspired by that train. It helped to light the fuse.”

  “You were in Leipzig?” the drunk said, leaning in a little too close. His breath was 100 proof. “What’s your story? You gotta have a story.”

  Stefan looked down into his glass and smiled. “Well . . . I’ve been part of the Leipzig protests this year.”

  The drunk’s eyes widened, like the lens of a camera. “I knew you had to have a story.” He raised his glass high. “To Leipzig! To Hero City!”

  This time, it took two tries for the drunk to clink Stefan’s glass. Then he clamped a hand on Stefan’s shoulder. “You’re a good man. You’re a hero.”

  Stefan shook his head. “I’m no hero. Not by a long shot.”

  The drunk stared at him, stupefied. “You were in the protests, right?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t make me a hero.”

  “But it does! You coulda been killed!” The drunk raised his glass and looked around the café, as if expecting everyone to raise their glasses in unison. He went unnoticed. “To heroes!”

  Another clink of Stefan’s glass.

  “No, no . . . I’ve done too many things . . . I can’t be called a hero,” Stefan insisted.

  “Nonsense. I’ve done things too. We’ve all done things. To things!”

  Another clink of the glass.

  The drunk leaned in even closer. “Have you changed your ways from the things you were doing . . . you know, the things?”

  Stefan finished off his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I suppose I have.”

  “Then you’re a hero! To heroes!”

  Stefan clinked his empty glass against the drunk’s. Before the man could find another dozen things to toast to, Stefan dropped his money on the sticky counter, patted the drunk’s shoulder, and bid him good night. He ducked out of Café Mauer, not feeling anything like a hero. He suddenly felt more alone than ever and wished he could be with Lora in Leipzig this night.

  Elsa recognized him immediately. She sat on a park bench directly across the street from Café Mauer, and she watched Stefan exit the restaurant at about half past nine o’clock.

  Keeping her distance, she tailed him down the street. She had seriously considered going into Café Mauer to talk with h
im. But she knew that if she talked with him, if she looked into his eyes, she would never go through with her plan. And she had to complete what had been set in motion.

  Elsa’s handler told her that Stefan knew everything about her. He knew she had been an informer as a student at Humboldt University. He knew she had been planted as a spy in the West, infiltrating the ranks of students digging tunnels in the early days. He even knew that the Stasi intentionally allowed her to escape that day in the cemetery as a way to plant her as a spy in the West. That was why she had been so shocked when they shot at her. After all, she was the one who had alerted the Stasi about the tunnel escape. They weren’t supposed to fire at her, but when it appeared that she was trying to help Stefan escape, one of the Vopos decided to improvise and took a warning shot at her, sending her tumbling into the hole. The fall could’ve killed her, but she limped away with a sprained ankle.

  Elsa went on to become a productive informer in the West, working for several handlers in Division X—the Stasi division that targeted the West, particularly West Berlin. Over the years, she had considered turning her back on being an informer, but she didn’t have the courage. She had heard of people being abducted on the streets of West Berlin and shipped off to prison in the East, and she couldn’t take that risk. She would kill herself before she let them put her in another prison.

  In the message that Stefan had left on her telephone, he said he wanted to confess his sins to her. The truth shall set us free. Easy for him to say. He didn’t have a spouse, he didn’t have a family, he didn’t have a career. Elsa had all of these, and she knew that the truth could only destroy. The truth would tear down everything she had built.

  Some days, she wondered if she was losing her mind. She would wake up with an overpowering sense of fear, like an airraid siren going off in her head. She still felt nervous in rooms with closed doors, especially if they didn’t have large windows.

  Her husband understood her fears and had the patience of a saint with her. She loved her husband, and she was determined not to lose him. He was her grip on reality. If he ever found out that she had informed on him . . .

  Elsa continued to follow Stefan, who had jammed his hands in his pockets and made his way down the dark street. She had become good at tailing people. They had trained her well.

  He walked about five blocks before stopping in front of a small Catholic church: St. John’s. He stood and stared at the brown brick edifice. It was a stout church, with two towers flanking its arched entryway. Above the entry was a massive ornate window.

  Stefan had found religion, at least according to her handler, and a person who found religion was especially dangerous. He would have no qualms about shining a light on all of his dark places—and on all of her dark places as well.

  Elsa had tried church for a few months many years ago. But the music was dull, and the pastor went on and on about angels. That was all he seemed to preach about. Guardian angels. In Elsa’s experience, guardian angels were in short supply. The pastor said, “Guardian angels watch our backs,” but the only watchers she experienced were Stasi men. Every few weeks, she would become aware that someone was following her. They purposely allowed her to notice their lurking presence—a friendly reminder that the Stasi was watching, always watching. They weren’t guardian angels, not by a long shot. More like guardian ghouls.

  Stefan entered the church. Elsa held back a few minutes before trudging up the short flight of concrete stairs and standing at the door, listening. She turned the handle and eased the door open. But not too far. She tested the door, hoping it didn’t creak too loudly. It didn’t.

  She pulled the door open just enough to allow her to slip inside. The church was pitch-black. She stood at the very back, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Suddenly, a tiny spark of fire flared at the other end of the church, next to the altar. Stefan was lighting a votive candle before a statue. She couldn’t make out the statue in the dark, but the light spilled onto its stone feet and across Stefan’s face.

  Hanging back in the dark, Elsa silently slid behind a life-sized statue of Mary. From this position, she watched Stefan—or at least his shadow—turn away from the altar and move to one of the pews at the front of the church. He was just a black blotch in a dark church. He knelt.

  Elsa loved her time with Stefan the month before she had escaped through the tunnel back in ’62. At the time, she had almost ditched her entire escape plan, just to remain in the East with him. She and Stefan could have made a go of it, but she was terrified. They wanted to place her in the West, and she couldn’t say no. The risk of prison was too great, and no man was worth that.

  By this time, her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she had a better view of Stefan kneeling with his head bowed. Slowly, silently, she slipped her hand into her coat pocket and felt the steel of her gun. She had to do this quickly. Just slip up behind him and put a bullet in his head while he prayed. Wouldn’t she be doing him a favor? Killing him in the middle of prayer might just send him on a direct flight to Paradise, no layovers in Purgatory.

  Stefan raised his head and stared up at the arched ceiling with its dark rafters, which resembled the interior of a massive ship that had been flipped upside down. Then his eyes drifted off to the corner, where he spotted an ornate confessional.

  When he rose and looked back over his shoulder, Elsa ducked behind the statue. She peeked out from behind Mary’s right hand and saw him approach the confessional and slip into one of the booths, closing the door with a click. That was when she made her move. She noticed that the priest’s side of the confessional could be entered through a thick curtain—a noiseless entryway. She had on soft-soled shoes, so she scurried across the marble floor without a sound. Then she slipped inside the priest’s booth and stood in silence, not quite sure what to expect. Elsa still didn’t like small spaces, and her heart began to race.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”

  Stefan’s voice startled her, but she did not move. Stefan had been raised Roman Catholic, so he was well versed in the formalities of confession.

  “I informed on my friends,” he said. “I betrayed my friends. Forgive me.”

  Stefan spoke his confession out loud.

  “I informed on my wife. Ex-wife, but you know that. Forgive me.”

  Elsa put her right hand in her pocket.

  “I spied on Katarina when she was a student in the East. Forgive me.”

  Elsa felt for the gun. She wrapped her hand around it.

  “I spied on Elsa when she was a student too. Forgive me.”

  Elsa slowly extracted the gun from her pocket.

  “I framed a minister, giving him gasoline for his car, gasoline that had been stolen, setting him up for an arrest. Forgive me.”

  Elsa’s forefinger slipped over the trigger.

  “I will speak the truth, and the truth shall set me free.”

  Elsa raised the gun and pointed it at the opaque window that separated the confessor from the priest.

  “For my penance, I will tell the truth. I will—”

  Elsa closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The silencer suppressed the expanding gas and the flash of the gun, creating a muffled spurt. The tiny glass window shattered, and Stefan grunted. He moaned, and she heard his body falling, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

  “Oh God . . . ,” Stefan groaned.

  Elsa thought he would die instantly, but he wasn’t cooperating. She wanted to run, but she had to make sure he was dead. Then he began to speak directly to her—his killer.

  “Who’s there? Why did you do this?”

  Then Elsa heard thrashing and glimpsed frantic movements through the shattered window, and she wondered if he was trying to open the door. Or was he trying to kick it open? It sounded as though a wild animal was trapped inside a box. Then the thrashing stopped, and she heard panting and moaning and words, barely audible words, being gurgled out.

  “Father, forgive me . . .”

/>   She heard a grunt, a choking sound. She continued to fight the urge to run. She had to make sure that her secrets died. She never wanted to hurt Stefan. She really didn’t. She only wanted to kill his memories. She only wanted to destroy the information in his head. If she could blast a hole in his head and only obliterate those specific neural connections in his brain, she would.

  Strangely fascinated, she listened to the sound of Stefan struggling, trying to get out. His movements became feeble, and then finally, they stopped entirely. Then she heard the death rattle, a final release of air, a gurgling of the saliva in the back of his throat.

  Silence returned to the church.

  Elsa stepped through the curtain of the booth and paused. She had to be sure that her secrets had died, so she put her hand on the confessional doorknob. When she opened the door, Stefan spilled out like a large sack. She didn’t want to touch the body, even to feel his pulse. She had gloves on her hands, but she didn’t want to run the risk of leaving any traces behind. But she had to be sure he was dead.

  So she set the gun an inch from his forehead and closed her eyes. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Then the gun went off in a muffled burst and kicked backward in her hand, and she felt something spatter on her clothes.

  She left through a side door, averting her eyes when she passed a statue of Jesus.

  40

  Berlin

  September 2003

  It was Annie’s favorite kind of meal. Dessert first. Kurt slid a heaping bowl of chocolate ice cream in front of her.

  “Just like you like it,” he said. “A few seconds in the microwave to get the ice cream good and soft.”

  “Kurt, you’re a gem. I love it.”

  I love it. Annie still hadn’t said anything about loving him, and she certainly hadn’t made any comment about his impulsive declaration—“I love you too much.” With all that had been preying on her mind, the last thing she wanted to wrestle with were her feelings for Kurt. She was just thankful that he had moved beyond his anger over her snooping and had invited her over for a meal.