by Neil Maresca
Lucas backed away, shook his head to clear his senses, and turned his attention to Peter who lay motionless on the floor, blood seeping out from under his crumpled body. Lucas knelt down next to him, saw the two small, round bullet holes in his back, and felt his heart sink. He gently rolled him over and, seeing the exit wounds, knew there was no hope. He whispered “Peter.” At the sound of his name, Peter’s eyes opened; his right hand fluttered, and a small glycerin envelope, the kind that stamp collectors use to hold their prize possessions, fell to the floor. Lucas picked it up. Peter was trying to talk, so Lucas bent lower. “Strickland,” he said.
He might have said more, might have wanted to give Lucas a message for Kate, but the assassin had begun to stir. He was pulling himself upright, using the wall as a crutch. Lucas saw him, and left Peter. He picked up the man’s revolver from the floor where it had fallen, and waited for him to rise and turn around to face him.
Even through the blood that ran profusely down and over his face, Lucas recognized the man.
“Hello László,” he said, and pulled the trigger.
László groaned and fell back against the wall, holding his stomach. Lucas was no trained assassin. His shot had struck László in the abdomen, painful, but not necessarily fatal. Seeing this, Lucas walked up to the now-slouching László Farkas, and pointed the gun at his head. László, in pain and cowering in fear, now looked up into the face of his killer, perhaps hoping for mercy, but what he saw there instead was his worst nightmare, the face of an avenging angel come to carry him to hell.
“Lukas!” He tried to say the name, but the word never came out because the bullet pierced his head and splattered his brains on the wall before the thought could be converted into sound.
Satisfied that László was dead, Lucas turned back to Peter, but he saw that he too was dead. He wiped his fingerprints from the gun and dropped it to the floor; looking around to make sure that he had left no other signs of his presence in the room, he stuffed the glycerin envelope into his pocket and made his way as quickly as possible back to his box in the loge.
Chapter 54
February 28, 1957
Checkpoint Charlie
American Sector, Berlin, Germany
Strickland and de Groot sat in the back seat of the sedan eyeing the snow flurries that whirled like dust devils in the half light of the cold February Berlin morning. Neither spoke. There was really nothing to say. Peter Cameron was dead, and Lucas Hamilton was in an East German prison charged with his murder.
They lingered as long as possible wrapped in the warmth of the car’s heating system, but after the convoy of black sedans pulled to a halt on the East German side of the crossing known as Checkpoint Charlie, they reluctantly stepped into the frigid air. Strickland turned to look behind him. Everything was in order. The black hearse was standing, its rear bay open, waiting to accept Peter’s body. A Marine honor guard stood at attention, unflinching as the cold wind threw flecks of snow onto their faces and into their eyes.
Strickland strode solidly forward while De Groot bent his weight onto his two canes and strained to keep up. Neither Strickland nor anyone else offered to help him, certain that their offers would be refused.
They stopped mid-point in the crossing, remaining on the American side of the line separating the American Zone from the East German zone. They were met there by a tall woman of indeterminate age wrapped in a full-length fur coat and wearing a fur cap that came down so far over her forehead that it obscured her features.
There was, however, no mistaking Sanne Viser.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, her voice as cold as the morning air.
“There’s nothing good about it,” Strickland growled. De Groot merely nodded.
She ignored Strickland and turned her attention to de Groot. “Please accept the sincere sympathies of Secretary Ulbricht and the people of the German Democratic Republic on the needless, tragic death of Mr. Cameron.”
This time, de Groot answered while Strickland stood mute. “Thank you, Madam Viser,” he said. “What can you tell us of the cause of his death?”
“Everything you need to know is in this envelope. It contains photos of the crime scene, along with pictures of the autopsy and a full autopsy report. You may, of course, wish to perform your own autopsy, but I believe you will come to the same conclusion. It is rather straightforward. He was shot twice at in the back at close range with a nine millimeter semi-automatic pistol, which we recovered from the scene. A ballistics report is also included. I believe you will see that we have been quite thorough.”
“And what about the Hamilton boy?” Strickland interjected. “When will we you release him?”
“When our investigation is complete. He is the prime suspect.”
Strickland wanted to express his rage; he wanted to punch Sanne Viser in her smug face. He knew Lucas was innocent, and he also knew that he was most likely being tortured while they stood politely chatting with this commie bitch, but he held his tongue. He was already in enough trouble. Ike was furious, as was the State Department, which was eating humble pie trying to keep the incident out of the news while simultaneously negotiating Lucas’ release. God knows what price Ulbricht will extract for that, Strickland thought. Or what price Eisenhower will extract from me.
While Strickland, de Groot and Viser were talking, the East Germans had removed the black plastic-wrapped body of Peter Cameron from a hearse and placed it on a gurney, which they had rolled up to the crossing.
Strickland turned to watch as the Marines took the body, placed it in a coffin which they had at the ready, and draped the coffin in an American flag. He stood at attention and saluted as the Marine pallbearers carried the coffin to the hearse, and watched as the hearse drove away.
“I am truly sorry for the death of this young man,” Sanne Viser said, “As is Secretary Ulbricht. None of us wished for this.”
Strickland grunted. De Groot thanked her, and all three turned away, the two men turning West, and Sanne Viser East.
Strickland opened the car door and was greeted with a rush of warm air. He jumped in and waited in silence while de Groot wrestled his body into the seat beside him.
“What did you make of that?” Strickland asked.
“Quite extraordinary,” de Groot replied. “She all but told us a third party was involved. What did she say? ‘None of us wished for this’?”
“Meaning,” he continued, “that they didn’t order the assassination. To me, that leads to only one other possibility.”
“And that is?”
“The Russians.”
“I agree.”
“Is it possible that Lucas was working for the Russians?”
“None whatsoever.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m sorry Johan, but that information is top secret. This sad episode has been kicked upstairs. Even if I were privy to all the information, I would be unable to share it with you.”
“Of course. I understand. There’s a mole someplace—either in your organization or mine. I assume that even I am under suspicion.”
De Groot had been in the spy business ever since Hitler rose to power in the 1930’s. He knew that when an operation went bad, it was usually because someone within the organization was a traitor.
What he didn’t know was that Kate, in her debriefing following her release several days earlier, had turned over a single negative that had been clipped from a roll of film. The negative, she explained, had been inside an envelope slipped into her coat pocket by Lucas as the students were being hurried out of the opera house. Lucas was already being guarded by two policemen, and so she had no opportunity to speak to him, and not seen or heard from him since. She didn’t know what the envelope was, how Lucas got it, or what she was to do with it, but she realized it must be important, so as soon as she returned to her dormitory room, she cut a small slit in the collar of her topcoat and inserted the negative, discarding the envelope. Later when Fr
au Viser told her of Peter’s death, she concluded that Lucas had retrieved the negative from Peter, and that it was intended for Strickland.
If Lucas were working for the soviets, and had killed Peter, Strickland thought, why would he have passed on the envelope to Kate? It made no sense.
The car engine started, interrupting Strickland’s thought process.
“How’s Kate?” De Groot asked, as if he could read Strickland’s mind.
“As well as can be expected—better maybe. Did you know that Peter had proposed to her while they were there? They were to be married when they got back.”
“No, I had no idea.”
“I can still see him, you know—smiling as he walked across the line into East Berlin. I liked him Johan.”
“So did I, Sam. So did I.”
“What was that, 10 days ago? Seems like a lifetime.”
Chapter 55
March 7, 1957
American Information Services
The Hague, Netherlands
Strickland was glad to be back in his office. It had been a terrible week—starting with the long flight back to the States with Peter’s flag-draped coffin, followed by meeting the grieving family at Edwards Air Force Base as the coffin was unloaded, and after that a week of highly stressful meetings with his superiors in the CIA, and concluding with Peter’s funeral, and the long flight back.
He didn’t bother going to his apartment, preferring instead to come directly to his office, and diving immediately back into work. There was a lot do to, beginning with a review of everything he had on Peter, Kate, and Lucas, as well as an analysis of the situation as he knew it, and a security check on his and De Groot’s organizations.
To say that the people in Washington were angry would be a gross understatement. Eisenhower was furious. The Student Ambassador program was his pet project, and now it had blown up in his face—or at least it would if it ever became publically known. So far, the story had been contained to the top echelons of government, and there was tremendous pressure to keep it that way. Nobody in the U.S. government wanted the story to go public, and seemingly, neither did anybody in the GDR.
Strickland was angry too, at himself mostly, but also at a world that he barely understood. He was a Marine. He had led men into combat in World War Two and ordered them into combat in Korea. He had held dying comrades in his arms and seen the results of his orders on the lives of many men, but that was war, and everybody understood how it worked. But this? How was he supposed to react to this? This was no hill to be captured or island to be stormed. He couldn’t send his troops into the GDR and make them, or whoever did this, pay. And to make matters worse, he wasn’t even being asked to make anybody pay; instead, he had been ordered to do whatever needed to be done to get Lucas Hamilton home without making a fuss.
Mostly, however, he was angry at himself for sending Peter into a situation he had underestimated. Peter was a novice at this spy business, but so was he, and the combination had turned deadly. As commanding officer, he knew where the blame lay—squarely at his feet. He, and he alone, was responsible for Peter’s death; but no amount of self-recrimination would change that or bring Peter back, so he sat down at his desk and opened the top file, which happened to be the U.S. forensics analysis of the data provided by Frau Viser.
The report confirmed some of what Frau Sanne Viser had told them. Peter had been shot in the back twice at fairly close range. Two nine millimeter bullets were included in the package, although they could not be confirmed as coming from the murder weapon since the GDR did not send along the weapon, just the bullets, and the ballistics report. The crime scene photos showed a nine-millimeter, Malakov pistol on the floor next to the body.
At first glance, it seemed very straightforward. Peter had been shot in the back by an unknown assailant, who dropped the pistol before fleeing the scene. The Germans were working on the theory that the assailant was Lucas. Strickland had no idea why they thought that Lucas was the killer. No one had been allowed to talk to him since the murder took place. The U.S. State Department, working through the Swiss embassy, was doing everything it could to gain Lucas’ release, or at least allow the Red Cross to visit him to make sure he wasn’t being tortured, but the Germans weren’t budging. Nobody knew where Lucas was being held, or if he were still alive.
The U.S. analysis revealed that Peter’s death was not quite as simple as Frau Viser had stated. The pathologist concluded that, based on the angle of entry, Peter had been kneeling when shot, but not kneeling upright. He was on his hands and knees, or possibly rising from that position when he was shot. Moreover, the body had been moved. X-ray analysis of the crime scene photos showed what appeared to be blood stains on the sleeves and back of Peter’s jacket—stains that couldn’t have been there unless Peter’s body had been rolled over at some point in time, and then rolled back into its face-down position. They also showed some retouching along the rear wall of the small room, but the analysists could reach no definitive conclusion on the meaning of the alterations. Strickland found one picture particularly interesting. It had been taken from outside the room, in the hallway. It showed the position of the body as seen by someone entering the room. It was unretouched—and it showed the room number, B-4, clearly. It struck Strickland as odd. He was sure the East Germans had selected only the pictures that they wanted him to see. Why, he wondered, was this one included?
There were as many interpretations of the data as there were analysts. It all made Strickland’s head spin. He decided it was foolish to waste time speculating. Lucas was the key. They had to get him back. In the meantime, he would concentrate on trying to find out the source of the leak. Peter’s death left one thing certain—someone tipped the soviets off that Peter was going to be in room B-4 that evening.
Chapter 56
March 5, 1957
Hohenschönhausen Prison
East Berlin, German Democratic Republic
Lucas was already seated when Frau Viser entered the interview room. It had been almost two weeks since his arrest, and he hadn’t yet fully recovered from his beatings. The bruises had faded to a light yellowish-purple, and several small scars had been added around his eyes and cheekbones. He still couldn’t walk without help, but he was improving, and it wouldn’t be long before he could be returned to the U.S. Thankfully, aside from his nose which had been set, nothing had been broken. He is young, she thought, he’ll mend.
She had made a terrible mistake.
She had accosted Lucas when he returned to the box.
“Where is Peter?” she demanded.
“He’s not in his seat?” Lucas responded.
“You know he is not in his seat. You followed him. Where did he go? Where is he now?”
“Frau Viser, I’m sorry. I followed him to the bathroom. I saw him leave. I presumed he came back here. Has something happened to him? Should I go look for him?”
Lucas seemed sincere, but Sanne Viser was an experienced agent and interrogator. She was not about to let Lucas off so lightly. Peter had managed to get away from the man assigned to follow him, and now had not returned to the box. Something was obviously very wrong, and all her instincts told her that this quiet young man was at the bottom of it.
“You were gone a very long time, Mr. Hamilton. Where did you go after you left the bathroom?”
“This is a little embarrassing, but I never left the bathroom. I’ve been sick almost since the day I arrived here—a very bad case of tourist tummy.”
Frau Viser had to struggle to keep from laughing—Tourist Tummy! He must think her a fool! But she had no time for Lucas now. She would deal with him later. She ordered her aide, Klaus Mechler to take charge of the students while she directed a search for Peter. She instructed him to put Lucas someplace safe, where he wouldn’t have any contact with any anybody, especially the other exchange students—and that was her mistake. She had assumed that Mechler would put Lucas under house arrest, but instead he shipped him off to Hohenschönh
ausen Prison, a place that officially did not exist.
The prison was not marked on any maps, and was never mentioned except in top secret communications between high-ranking Stasi officials. But it did exist, tucked away in Berlin’s north-eastern Lichtenberg district inside a large military base, unknown to almost anybody other than those who worked there. It had begun as Special Camp Number 3, a post-war prison and transfer point run by the Soviet Secret Police. Conditions in the camp were deplorable. An estimated 3,000 people died and were buried in mass graves in one year alone.
When the Russian Secret Police abandoned the site, the Stasi took it over. Although Hohenschönhausen was called a prison, it held few permanent prisoners. Its main function was to extract confessions by any means necessary. Sometimes this involved torture, but most often results were achieved through psychological techniques. Prisoners were never told where they were; they were completely cut off from the outside world and even from fellow prisoners.
The usual routine at Hohenschönhausen involved beating newcomers senseless, throwing them into a cell, and leaving them unattended for several days. Only when they were deemed to be close to death were they given enough care and treatment to sustain them before being abandoned once again. Periodically they would be interrogated, sometimes tortured, and sent back to their cell. First their bodies were broken, then their wills, and eventually they confessed. Everybody confessed.
When Mechler delivered Lucas, hooded, bound, and gagged, to Hohenschönhausen, he told the commander that Lucas was an American and Frau Viser wanted him to be handled with ‘special care.’ Although he later protested to Frau Viser that he intended the commander to understand that he should treat Lucas kindly, both he and Frau Viser knew what ‘special care’ meant in Hohenschönhausen.
For several days, Frau Viser had no idea that Lucas had been sent to Hohenschönhausen. She was overwhelmed with the investigation of the crime scene, writing reports, and attending meetings with Stasi and GDR officials, all demanding answers she did not as yet have. In addition, she had the problem of Kate. She sent the British and French students home after brief interviews, but Kate required a more intensive investigation. She would have liked to interview Lucas immediately, but Kate was the daughter of a U.S. senator. Keeping her for longer than 48 hours was risking too much, so she had to concentrate on her first. But after two lengthy interrogations during which Kate either sobbed uncontrollably or called down all the powers of heaven and hell on her, the GDR, Russians, and communists the world over, Frau Viser decided that she knew nothing of importance and released her to the Swiss embassy for transfer home.
