Appointment in Berlin

by Neil Maresca

  Neither man liked the other. To Dunayevsky, Alexandrovich was a popinjay, a communist of course—one had to be a party member to prosper, and Alexandrovich was eager to prosper—but he was not a committed communist, not a Marxist, a late-comer, the son of some well-connected party official, sporting medals he did not earn. Dunayevsky doubted that he had ever fired his weapon, if he even knew which end to point.

  For his part, Alexandrovich detested the crude peasant with his secret stash of vodka tucked away in his desk as if nobody knew he regularly gulped down bottle after bottle until he was so wasted he would start boring everyone in sight with his war stories, as if anyone cared about ancient history. Alexandrovich couldn’t understand how Dunayevsky had avoided being purged along with the rest of the Stalinists whose time and usefulness had passed. But he was a dangerous man to cross. Like most of the old Stalinists, he had a reputation for ruthlessness, and he could still make your blood run cold just by staring at you with those evil-looking, serpent’s eyes. He kept a vintage German Luger next to his bottle of vodka, and you could never be sure when he opened the drawer if he were going to invite you to a sociable drink, or blow your brains out.

  Alexandrovich bowed and scraped, and ate humble pie in front of the General, but he kept a notebook, writing down Dunayevsky’s every action, every word, every indiscretion, anything that he could use against him when the time came, as he was certain it would, if only he were patient. Dunayevsky’s days were numbered; he was sure of it.

  Alexandrovich stood at attention, waiting for Dunayevsky’s permission to speak. He stood for a long time, while the General stared at him without comment. Little beads of sweat began to run down the back of his neck.

  Bastard, he thought, but he remained rigid, waiting.

  Dunayevsky continued to stare at his aide as he pulled open the drawer on the right side of his desk, and slid his hand in and held it there while Alexandrovich stood nervously at attention, his eyes glued to Dunayevsky’s right hand.

  Good God. He’s going to kill me! Alexandrovich felt his knees buckle. He probably would have collapsed completely if he had been aware that Dunayevsky knew all about his notebook and his communications with his father.

  “Join me in a drink, Major,” Dunayevsky said as he extracted the vodka bottle and poured a large glass which he pushed across the desk to the Major.

  Alexandrovich could only manage a barely audible “Thank you General,” and his hand shook visibly as he took the glass.

  “None for you, sir?” he asked, noticing that there was only one glass.

  Dunayevsky didn’t respond. He lifted the bottle, tipped it toward Alexandrovich, said “Dlya nashego zdorov’ya,” and drank from the bottle.

  Alexandrovich downed the vodka in one long swallow as custom dictated, cursing as the crude peasant concoction scorched its way through his esophagus to his gut.

  “Thank you General,” he said as soon as his breath returned.

  Dunayevsky smiled. “Now to business,” he said. “What is the latest news on this circus that Ulbrecht has arranged?”

  “As you know General, the students arrive tomorrow. There is a formal reception to which you have been invited. The complete program for the week is contained in the report on your desk…”

  “Which I have read, Major.”

  “Of course, General. What is it you wish to know?”

  “What happened to our agent who was supposed to be part of the British contingent, and who is this Caitlyn Porter who has replaced him?”

  “The agent you are referring to has disappeared. The British are saying that he is ill, but they are offering no further information, and we have no idea where he is. We have to assume he has been arrested. As for Miss Porter, I have assurances that she is not a threat. Apparently she is the daughter of a U.S. Senator who has used his influence to get her assigned as an aide of some kind to Strickland. Her presence appears to be some sort of political favor. Our agent does not hold her in high regard.”

  “Who does our agent ‘hold in high regard’?”

  “The American Peter Cameron. He appears to be a rising star. Our source tells us he is being fast-tracked within the CIA.”

  “I assume our friends in the Stasi are aware of this.”

  “Yes sir. As you know, we share information and resources. My contacts in the Stasi will keep close tabs on all the visitors, especially the American.”

  “Well then, this all seems fairly harmless, and the Stasi are fully capable of handling it. I don’t think we need to be involved.”

  “You don’t want to assign any agents to work alongside the Germans?”

  “No Major, this is a GDR publicity stunt, and it is one that Premier Khrushchev does not look upon favorably. We are best served by keeping our distance. If we are involved, and it goes well, we run the risk of angering the Premier, and if it goes badly, the Germans will accuse us of sabotaging it.”

  “Very well sir. What shall I tell the Minister?”

  “Mielke? Tell him what you will. Tell him the moon is made of green cheese. It doesn’t matter. He won’t believe anything you tell him anyway. He’s much too smart to believe anything we would tell him.”

  “I thought we were on the same side?”

  “That’s why you are a major and I am a general.”

  Dunayevsky dismissed his junior officer and poured himself another drink. He waited until he was certain that Alexandrovich had left the KGB wing and was on his way to Stasi headquarters before picking up the phone and dialing. The phone rang three times. Dunayevsky hung up and redialed the same number. This time someone picked up the phone, but said nothing.

  “László“

  “Yes General.”

  “I have work for you.”

  Chapter 47

  May, 1957

  Landstuhl Army Medical Center

  Frankfurt, Germany

  “Do you remember the first time we spoke?”

  “Of course.”

  “I asked you what you felt when you shot that man in Berlin.”

  “I remember. I said, ‘Nothing’”

  “That’s not true, is it?”

  Lucas didn’t answer. He and Dr. Rosenfeld were sitting on a small bench in the hospital garden. He watched as a small bird flitted from a tree to the ground, quickly snatched a seed of some sort, and then immediately returned to the safety of the tree.

  “A lot like you, Lucas,” Rosenfeld said.

  “Are you suggesting that I am fearful, Doctor?”

  “Not fearful, Lucas, cautious. When you said you felt ‘nothing’ after killing a man, I thought for a while I might be dealing with a sociopath, but you have expressed a deep love for your mother, affection for your adoptive father, Ambrose, and Father Márton, and something very close to love for Anke. These are not the emotions of a sociopath. So I feel that it is impossible that you felt nothing when you killed that man.”

  When Lucas failed to respond, the Doctor continued.

  “We have come a long way together, Lucas. This is not the time turn back. You must confront that moment honestly and openly. You will not be whole until you do.”

  Lucas mulled it over for a short while. Rosenfeld was familiar with Lucas’ patterns, and waited patiently.

  “You read the debrief?” Lucas asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not entirely correct.”

  “It’s time to set the record straight, don’t you think?”

  Chapter 48

  February 15, 1957

  Checkpoint Charlie

  American Sector, Berlin, Germany

  The East Germans were already waiting when the Allied contingent arrived at Checkpoint Charlie. Strickland and de Groot went ahead, walking easily in the bright sunshine of a cold but beautiful Berlin afternoon. They smiled and exchanged greetings with the East German officials, who were led by First Deputy Commissioner Sanne Viser, second in command of the Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung, or HVA, a division of the Stasi responsibl
e for foreign surveillance. Strickland and de Groot were aware of Frau Viser’s role, just as she was aware of theirs, but they shook hands cordially, like foreign dignitaries, not the spymasters they really were.

  The East German students advanced stiffly, and formally introduced themselves to Strickland and de Groot before stepping over the line into the American zone. Then the allied contingent stepped forward and introduced themselves to the East Germans. All the students on both sides were nervous and serious—all, that is, except for Peter Cameron, who smiled comfortably as he greeted each of the East German officials, and flashed a ‘thumbs up’ to Strickland just before entering the van that would carry the Ambassadors to their temporary home in the People’s Technical Institute, the GDR’s answer to M.I.T.

  The gesture drew a frown from Frau Viser, and a smile from Strickland, who would recall that moment often. It was the last time he would see Peter alive.

  The Student Ambassadors piled into a small van and stared out the windows in silence as they made their way through the city to their hotel. The difference between East and West was obvious and startling. The American zone had been almost entirely rebuilt since the war. There were cars on the streets, and stores filled with shoppers. East Berlin, on the other hand, looked much as it did in 1945. There were some new, drab, soviet style concrete block apartment buildings, but few cars and even fewer stores. Lucas noted, in particular, the long lines outside the few stores that were open. But he also noted the dour looks on the faces of those East Berliners who were out walking or waiting in line. There was no joy in East Berlin or East Berliners, and this Lucas thought, was the one great difference between East and West. Hardship was OK. Many Americans had lived through hard times, but America offered possibilities; communism offered nothing, and the hopelessness and despair Lucas saw in the faces of the people he drove past strengthened his conviction that communism was an evil that had to be destroyed just as Nazism had been.

  If the Ambassadors’ initial enthusiasm had been suppressed by the dreariness they observed outside the van window, their introduction to their living quarters quashed it completely. They entered a drab, colorless rectangular concrete block building, and carried their bags up two flights of stairs before stopping to get directions to their rooms from Frau Viser. Kate and Penelope were assigned the last room in the west wing, while Lucas and Peter, along with the two French Ambassadors were assigned to the last two rooms in the east wing. Frau Viser warned them against visiting each other’s rooms. “Sex is not permitted,” she warned, and when she said it, Peter couldn’t suppress a small smile and a glance at Kate, who returned his glance, but not his smile.

  Lucas and Peter went to their room, which they found to be as stark and dreary as the building itself.

  “No bathroom?” Peter asked.

  “Outside, at the end of the hall. You’re not in the Ritz anymore,” Lucas answered.

  “The Ritz? I’ve seen better homeless shelters.”

  “I suppose Frau Viser would consider the Ritz an example of bourgeois decadence,” Lucas said.

  “It may be decadent,” Peter responded, “but it’s a damn sight more comfortable than this hovel.”

  Peter flopped on the bed and winced. “Ouch!” he said, “Lay down gently, Lucas. This bed is like a rock.”

  “You capitalists are soft,” Lucas joked. “That’s why you are doomed. Here in the German Democratic Republic, they are building men of steel, not powder puffs like you.”

  “And women, Lucas, don’t forget the women. Tomorrow we get to visit the women’s physical training institute.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “Yes, strong German women with lots of hair under their arms. I can’t wait.”

  Once Frau Viser was satisfied that the students were safely stowed away in their respective rooms, she made a hurried trip back to her office where she found her aide, Klaus Mechler, waiting for her.

  “Well, Comrade,” she said without bothering to greet him, “what does Major Alexandrovich have to say?”

  “He says the General refuses to help. Dunayevsky claims that he doesn’t want to interfere, but the Major believes that he doesn’t want to anger Khrushchev by doing anything to help make the event a success.”

  “Is he planning to do anything to ensure that it isn’t a success?”

  “Alexandrovich doesn’t think so, and I don’t think he would be that foolish. If he did try to do anything, it would cause an international incident, and Khrushchev would have to disavow it—and that would mean the end of General Vasely Dunayevsky.”

  “Then perhaps you should recommend such a path to the Major. I believe he would not be unhappy to see the General disgraced.”

  “Indeed, he would not, but Alexandrovich has neither the brains nor the courage to engage in conspiracies. He is already out of his depth. He complains to me constantly about the General, but seems incapable of doing anything more than writing in his little book and sending notes to his father requesting a transfer to Moscow. I believe his father is playing a high stakes game back in Moscow, a game that has serious implications for him as well. If his father wins, all well and good, but if he loses…?”

  “Interesting, Let’s keep a close eye on comrade Alexandrovich. He may prove useful to us.”

  “Very good comrade Secretary. Will there be anything else?”

  “Yes, I want all the information you have on the American, Lucas Hamilton.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Yes, because I asked for it.”

  “Of course, I’ll work on it immediately.”

  Chapter 49

  February 16, 1957

  A Coffee House

  East Berlin, German Democratic Republic

  The following morning, while Peter was trying to find a way to have a few private words with Kate, General Dunayevsky was meeting with László Farkas, who had just arrived on the night train from Moscow.

  “You’ve put on weight, Comrade.”

  “As have you, General.”

  Dunayevsky and Fargas had been partners in murder and assassination for almost 15 years, and in that time they had only met face-to-face twice since the end of the war. Fargas was Dunayevsky’s creature, his secret weapon, a cold-blooded killer who asked no questions, and cared nothing about his victims. He only needed to know their names so he could locate them. Who they were? Why did they need to die? Were they ‘enemies of the state’ or merely enemies of the General? Nothing mattered to Farkas except the successful completion of the assignment—that, and staying alive, which was almost the same thing, for neither the General nor the Soviet Union accepted failure.

  Fargas lived alone in a three-room flat in Moscow, a rare luxury in post war Russia where most flats of that size housed three families, the rule of thumb being: one family, one room. It marked him as someone special, and his neighbors, frightened of his apparent power and his demeanor, avoided him. This suited László just fine. Since his emergence in Budapest as an assassin, his life had changed completely. Before, he was the head of a household of servants; he shared meals with the other servants, seduced whomever he could, and enjoyed a semi-privileged position in a comfortable household. Now, he lived alone, ate alone, and rarely sought the company of women; and when he did, he paid for it, and felt the women underneath him tighten and shudder at his touch. He had become a pariah, as if the stain of his newly-found vocation were visible like the mark of Cain on his forehead. He lived in shadow, moved in shadow, and only emerged into the light of day when summoned by his master.

  He feared almost everything, but most of all he feared Dunayevsky—Dunayevsky who, with his death’s-head skull and evil serpent’s eyes, resembled the devil himself, and reminded László to whom he had sold his soul. Every time the General summoned him, he felt it was to call in the debt, and to carry him off to hell. Yet he came; he always came when called, for without the killing, he had no reason to live.

  “I have a job for you.”

&nb
sp; “So you said, General. Who is it this time?”

  “A man, Peter Cameron, an American.”

  “An American?” László had never killed an American, and the prospect immediately piqued his interest. He had killed Germans, Serbs, Croats, Russians, even a Greek—lots of Russians—but never an American.

  “Yes, an American. This is important, Comrade, There can be no slip ups. We cannot have a repeat of Zagreb.”

  “I killed an SS General in Zagreb. You gave me a medal.”

  “Yes, but we both know that it was a mistake. It was sloppy, and we cannot afford to be sloppy this time. There is too much at stake.”

  “More than your life and mine?”

  “Infinitely more.”

  Farkas had no interest in, or understanding of, international politics. He was, at heart, an uneducated serf, concerned only with self-preservation.

  “What are your instructions?”

  “Do nothing for now. Stay out of sight. The Stasi are everywhere, and they are not our friends. Go to the room I have arranged for you and do not move until I give you instructions. I will choose the time and the place. You go there, kill the American, and leave. Understood?”

  “Completely.”

  Dunayevsky passed an envelope across the table. László made no attempt to open it. He would do that later, in the privacy of his room. He expected to find a picture of Peter Cameron, but he would be surprised to find that the envelope also contained a diagram of the basement of the state opera house.

  László downed his coffee in one long swallow, and left.

  The People’s Technical Institute

  The Student Ambassadors were almost constantly under the surveillance of Fruelein Viser and her cast of assistants, some of whom, Lucas noticed, were armed and seemed very nervous.

  “Do they think we will attack them?” Lucas asked Peter, who merely shrugged and smiled his usual smile. “They’re just being East Germans,” he said. “They think everybody is going to attack them.”