Appointment in Berlin

by Neil Maresca

  Sasha grabbed Lukas by the arm and almost threw him down the stairs as Ambrose charged László.

  There was a second POP and then a third. Lukas screamed “Ambrose” as Márton rushed in and scooped him up. It only took a moment for all three to get into the waiting car and pull away.

  By the time László untangled himself from Ambrose’s lifeless limbs and made his way down the stairs and out the door, the car was gone, and with it any chance he might have had to complete his task. He had no way to pursue them, and no friends in Italy. It was over.

  END OF PART ONE

  Part Two

  Chapter 27

  May, 1957

  Landstuhl Army Medical Center

  Frankfurt, Germany

  “Professor Washburn! What a surprise! What brings you to Germany?”

  “I was in Oxford for a conference. Frankfurt is only a short flight from Heathrow, so I thought I’d pop over and see how you are doing.”

  “I’m doing fine. Should be out of here soon.”

  “That’s great news. Too bad about Peter, though. I wish he could be here with us.”

  “Yes, I do too. I’ll miss him.”

  “I feel responsible, you know. If I hadn’t recommended you both to the Ambassador’s program, none of this would have happened, and Peter would still be with us today. I just feel terrible.”

  “There’s no need to feel like that, Professor. Nothing that happened was your fault. It was our doing, not yours.”

  “What exactly did happen, Lucas? No one will tell me anything. I know of course that Peter was killed and you were arrested. Is it true that the Germans claimed you were a spy?”

  “The East Germans are paranoid. They think everyone is a spy.”

  “That’s true, but that still doesn’t explain what happened to Peter.”

  “Wrong place, wrong time. You know Peter, Professor, always looking for excitement. I’m a little ashamed to say it, but we went someplace we shouldn’t have gone, and unfortunately, Peter paid the price.”

  “But why all the secrecy?”

  “Bad publicity I guess. The Ambassadors program doesn’t need to spread the word that two of its members were involved in a drunken brawl in an East German whorehouse.”

  “Is that all it was? A drunken brawl?”

  “That’s it, Professor. Peter wanted to go, and I couldn’t dissuade him, so I went along. Not your fault.”

  “Are you sure that’s all there is to it, Lucas? I can’t see Peter doing that. I didn’t think he was that kind of person.”

  “Don’t think badly of him, Professor. It was more curiosity than anything else. He was a Kurt Weill fan. He wanted to see the environment that spawned “The Three Penny Opera,” and maybe meet a modern day Lotte Lenya. In any case, it was supposed to be great fun. Sadly, it didn’t turn out that way.”

  “Still…”

  “Don’t make more of it than it is, Professor. It was a tragic mistake. That’s all.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why the Germans accused you of spying.”

  “That’s just the East German propaganda machine at work. They found an American student at a crime scene and they used it to embarrass the U.S. There’s nothing unusual in that either. It was my own fault. I never should have been there, and it may seem unkind to say it, but neither should Peter.”

  Professor Washburn was about to raise another objection, but he was interrupted by the appearance of Doctor Rosenfeld, who bustled into the room in his usual absentminded manner, and attempted to take his usual seat only to find it occupied by the Professor.

  “Well, the gang’s all here,” Lucas quipped.

  Doctor Rosenfeld looked down in surprise at Professor Washburn, who smiled broadly and extended a hand. “Washburn,” he said, as if no further explanation was needed.

  Rosenfeld stared at Washburn for a moment or two with a puzzled look on his face. Then it dawned on him. “Oh, Lucas’ Washburn. Pleased to meet you,” he said, “Rosenfeld.” —and added nothing further.

  After a few awkward moments during which Lucas looked on in amusement as neither Washburn nor Rosenfeld offered any information on who they were or why they were there, the Professor rose and excused himself, leaving Lucas and Doctor Rosenfeld alone in the room.

  With Washburn gone, Lucas and Rosenfeld fell back into what had by now become a comfortable relationship. Like an old, long-married couple, they sat in silence, neither feeling the need to speak just because the other was in the room. Rosenfeld had learned that Lucas’ mind was never still, even if he at times appeared to be dozing.

  Rosenfeld pretended to read his notes. Time passed slowly; nurses came and went; the life of the hospital went on outside the door. Rosenfeld continued to wait. Eventually, he was rewarded.

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Who?”

  “Washburn.”

  “Not much really, why do you ask?”

  “I’ll answer your question, when you answer mine. I know you doctor. You observed him. What did you see?”

  “I know he’s a friend of yours. He helped you get into the Ambassador’s program, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s irrelevant—and it doesn’t answer the question.”

  Rosenfeld straightened himself in his chair, and examined Lucas closely before he answered. He decided that he had to choose his words carefully. This clearly was a matter that had occupied Lucas’ mind since Professor Washburn left. Rosenfeld’s answer could be the key to finally gaining Lucas’ trust. After some consideration, he decided to adopt the old adage “honesty is the best policy.”

  “I saw a man ill at ease. The Professor is used to being in control of the situation, but here, he had been frozen out. He didn’t like it. I sensed anger. He controlled it very well, but I sensed it just the same. He has an agenda, and it doesn’t include a concern for your health.”

  “All of that in a handshake? Very impressive, Doctor.”

  “And now, to my question. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t trust him, but, like the East Germans, I tend to be paranoid, so I was looking for confirmation.”

  “Which I have provided.”

  “Yes.”

  The room descended into silence once again, but it only remained that way for a short time before Doctor Rosenfeld spoke.

  “Why don’t you trust him?”

  “The soviets knew all about our operation. They were waiting for Peter. But I don’t think they expected me. There were very few people who could have known that Peter was a CIA operative, or what he was up to. Washburn was one possibility. He told me once that he had friends in high places, and he was certainly close to Strickland. I have no doubt that he was a recruiter for the CIA. But maybe he was more than that.”

  “Are you suggesting that Washburn is a double agent?

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “Are there other possibilities?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure Strickland has a list.”

  “Any idea who is on it?”

  “I have no idea who is on Strickland’s list, but if I were constructing one, I would include Miss Hall and Mrs. Van der Alte and any other staff members who might have access to Strickland’s and de Groot’s files.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “There has to be a mole somewhere. There is no other explanation. I wouldn’t eliminate de Groot for that matter, and then there’s Pietr Roosa, and….”

  Lucas left the sentence unfinished, and sat in his chair in silence. He had gone somewhere private. It was as if Rosenfeld were no longer in the room—as if he no longer even existed. Lucas had the ability to shut everything out so completely that sometimes he was astonished when he returned to the real world and found others, like Rosenfeld, waiting for him. The doctor wondered if Lucas’ ability to escape into his own world frustrated his captors as much as it frustrated him.

  He studied the young man for a long time, then, after glancing at his watch and realizing
that he had to go, he said simply, “And?”

  The word startled Lucas, who looked up in surprise at the doctor and repeated “And?”

  “You didn’t complete your sentence earlier. You said ‘Pietr Roosa, and…’ but you never finished your thought. It’s important Lucas. Pietr Roosa and who”?

  “Anke, his daughter Anke.”

  Chapter 28

  January 8, 1957

  Office of Samuel Nicolas Strickland

  Director, Section 1

  American Information Agency

  Washington, DC

  Kate strode confidently down the corridor toward the door labeled DIRECTOR in large black letters, her high heels tapping a steady tattoo on the hard marble floor. She carried a large file in her arms, and unlike that day in the waiting room in Washington, she showed no signs of nervousness. She switched the file from her right to left arm, opened the door without knocking and walked in. Strickland’s fierce-looking secretary, Miss Hall, sat behind a large wooden desk. She glanced up when Kate entered and said, “Go on in. He’s expecting you.”

  The Director’s office was unimpressive. In keeping with Strickland’s military background, it was starkly furnished: A desk—not very elaborate—a few upholstered side chairs, a coffee table. A large map covered most of one wall. Strickland stood with his back to the door, looking down on an empty courtyard through the room’s only window.

  Kate waited a minute, and when Strickland failed to acknowledge her presence, coughed quietly into her hand.

  “You wanted to see me sir,” she said when he turned in her direction.

  “Peter Cameron.” He said.

  The words hit her like a smack in the face. She nearly dropped the file she was holding. She blushed; her hands shook; she could barely keep herself upright. Peter Cameron! The name conjured a face, the face a vision—the press of his chest on hers, the taste of his lips, her hands probing his muscular body; the odor of expensive cologne mingled with the musky smell of sweat; the rhythmic rocking of their bodies—and then, Sweet Jesus! Then!

  The next morning when she woke, yearning for more, he was gone, only the slight odor of expensive cologne left behind to reassure her that it wasn’t all some alcohol-induced fantasy.

  For the next several weeks, anger and sorrow had contended for her soul. One minute she would rage at him, the next, cry for him. Her rational self reminded her that she knew he could not stay the night, that he would be gone in the morning. She had no reason to expect more. They had promised each other nothing. On the other hand, her emotional self clung to the belief that something that was so meaningful to her could not have meant nothing to him.

  But as day after day passed without a word from him, Kate gradually accepted the truth of the matter. She and Peter had become close friends during the stressful weeks of CIA orientation and training, and at the end, they had celebrated enthusiastically, carrying the party over into her apartment and ending the night tearing at each other’s clothing. That’s all it was, she reluctantly concluded. It was foolish to think it was anything more.

  Kate had been rejected by the Student Ambassador Selection Committee, not that this surprised her. She knew she wasn’t prime material. Her grades, until the last semester when she finally decided to get serious, were nothing to write home about. The only reason she even got an interview was that she begged her father, the U.S. Senator from California, to use his influence. She regretted her decision almost as soon as she made it, convinced that it would prejudice the Committee against her. Nevertheless, he had made the effort, called in a few favors, and, lo and behold, she received an invitation to interview. So she went, not really expecting to be accepted, but hoping that—at the very least—she wouldn’t embarrass herself and her father. That plan failed miserably, and she left the interview room in tears.

  Early the next morning, as she was packing to go home, she received a telephone call from Miss Hall, inviting her back for a second interview, not with the Student Ambassador Selection Committee, but with one of its members, Director Strickland. The woman gave her a time, and told her not to be late, “The Director is a very busy man.” Kate thought the woman sounded annoyed.

  She probably has a good reason to be annoyed, Kate thought. No doubt, one of Dad’s friends is applying pressure. She rued the day she asked her father for help—but she had wanted this so badly! She had wasted most of her college career with sororities and parties only to find out that when her senior year rolled around, all of it seemed such a waste—the incoming freshmen pledgees seemed beyond silly. She couldn’t believe that she had ever been like that. She dropped out of sorority, and dedicated herself to her schoolwork, even taking extra courses in an attempt to make up for lost time. And when she saw the poster on the bulletin board, the one with President Eisenhower’s picture on it, and the words, MAKE A DIFFERENCE, BE A STUDENT AMBASSADOR, she knew what she wanted to do.

  She called her father immediately, bubbling over with excitement. He was equally excited, and promised to do what he could to help. It all seemed so innocent. What could be more natural than to ask your father for help? But it had all gone wrong, terribly wrong, and now she had to face the ferocious secretary and equally frightening Director Strickland, who (she was certain) was being pressured to spend another hour of his time in a forced interview with a totally unqualified, spoiled brat of an influential politician. She wanted to run away, go home and tell her father it was all a mistake, but she knew she had no choice but to go forward. To do otherwise would only cause more trouble. Better to go through with the charade and get it over with.

  She approached her second interview with even more trepidation than she had the first. This time she was alone in the room, and as she sat like a prisoner waiting for the jury to return with a verdict that she knew would be “guilty as charged,” she reviewed her life up to that point, and concluded that she was a failure, a disgrace. She was a child of privilege, had been given every opportunity, was not without talent—and had wasted it all. She expected the Director would lay it all out for her in no uncertain terms, describe her failures, and dismiss her as quickly as he could.

  When the dour secretary called her name and held the door to the office open for her, she braced herself for the worst, and entered as bravely as she could.

  Strickland rose when she entered the room, extended his hand, and offered her a seat. The rest of the meeting was a bit of a blur. The Director began pretty much as Kate had anticipated—by cataloguing the reasons she had not been selected as a Student Ambassador. But then he surprised her by saying he saw qualities in her that intrigued him, and so he was going to “follow his gut,” and offer her an internship in his office. His associates, he said, “thought he was nuts,” but he had a feeling about her, and his feelings were rarely wrong. “Was she interested?” Of course she was! But, he cautioned, it was only an unpaid, temporary appointment, a trial of sorts. “Was she still interested?” Absolutely! Yes! Kate could scarcely believe what was happening. In an instant, with a few words, Strickland had turned her world around. Instead of facing a death sentence, she now saw the chance for a new life. She vowed not to screw this opportunity up as she had done with all the others she had been given.

  “Do you have any questions?” Strickland asked.

  “When do I start?”

  “Miss Hall will tell you when and where to report. Anything else?”

  “No sir.”

  “Good.”

  And that was that. Ten minutes. Less. And Kate, who had entered the room in despair, left full of hope.

  The next day she reported as instructed by Miss Hall to a small, undecorated meeting room on the fifth floor of the USIA headquarters. Having arrived a half-hour early, she was the only person in the room, and consequently had her choice of seats, as well as the opportunity to look around. The room was set up in classroom style with a dozen metal folding chairs facing a single metal desk. To the right of the desk was a flip chart, and behind the desk hung a pull-
down screen. The room was ordinary. It had the appearance of a low-budget training room in a local sales office. The only thing that made it extraordinary was the symbol on the screen: The Great Seal of the United States with the words Central Intelligence Agency superimposed on it stared down at Kate, who had claimed the center seat in the front row.

  Kate sat alone for a long time staring back at the imposing image on the screen, feeling small and insignificant, excited and confused. The CIA? They thought she wasn’t good enough to be a Student Ambassador, but they were going to make her a spy?

  Gradually, the seats began to fill, the back row first, then the end seats in the first row. The last person to arrive would have to sit front and center, next to Kate. She made no effort to look at the others as they entered. They held no interest for her. Besides, she was afraid to look, afraid that they would all be older, somehow wiser and more impressive than she. One thing she couldn’t help but notice, however, was that she was the only female in the room, a fact that only served to increase her anxiety and confusion. About a minute before the class was to begin, the last person entered. He sat down next to her, and when she turned to glance at him, smiled pleasantly and said, “Hi, I’m Peter Cameron.”

  Peter Cameron!

  Chapter 29

  January 8, 1957

  Office of Samuel Nicolas Strickland

  Director, Section 1

  American Information Agency

  Washington, DC

  “Peter Cameron, Miss Porter? You are familiar with him, aren’t you?”

  “Yes sir, of course sir. I’m sorry sir—something at home….”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No sir, no, no, nothing like that.”

  “All right then, let’s get down to business. What can you tell me about Peter Cameron?”

  What could she tell him about Peter Cameron? What should she tell him about Peter Cameron? Her mind was filled with a thousand random thoughts and images, and, at the same time blank. She stalled for time. She placed the file folder she was carrying on his desk and tried to look composed. “Well sir, it’s all here in the folder, just as you asked. I’ve filed reports on all the men.”