12 Drummers Drumming

by Diana Deverell

  Midway into my speech, Harry stood, began stalking around like a Bengal tiger in center ring. Then stopped and said, “They figure out I’ve been talking to you, they’ll have me dressed in an orange jumpsuit and talking to my lawyer.” He looked as peeved as he sounded.

  I could guess what story Holger had used to win Harry’s cooperation. One that had lost most of its credibility as soon as Harry found me alive and in good health, asking him to do a distasteful task. Jet-engine noise rumbled, grew louder, filled the room. I spread the miniblind with my fingers to peer out, but all I saw against the anvil-gray clouds were the red neon letters of a sign announcing that this part of Berlin was Siemens territory. I dropped the blind and turned back to Harry.

  “I don’t have time to argue,” I said. “Nobody has to know I’m involved, at least not at first. Just go in there and find out if they’re willing to deal for a former Stasi major.”

  “You claim this dude was a heavy hitter in the Hauptver-waltung Aufklärung. How heavy are we talking?”

  “The man was in Department Nine up until he faked his suicide in 1990.”

  Harry stopped pacing. HVA’s Department Nine had done formidable damage to American interests. Department Nine successfully induced at least a dozen American soldiers to spy for HVA at U.S. military bases in West Germany, while at the same time compromising every operative the CIA ran in East Germany. Harry froze his features into the blank nonexpression he’d perfected playing poker with the Marines in San Sal. “Give me the rest of it,” he said.

  Holger slid a photo from his pocket and passed it over. “Our man as he looks now.”

  Harry glanced indifferently at the picture, then let his hand drop to his side, his posture challenging Holger to say something to relieve his boredom.

  Holger named Reinhardt Krüger, detailed his former career and briefly outlined his current business, operation, including the Gunter Storch alias.

  I took the photo from Harry. It showed a man’s head and shoulders in sharp focus against a background of blurred leaves. Probably snapped covertly by someone working for Holger. Krüger wore his dark blond hair swept back from his broad forehead in a style that made his face appear heart-shaped. Strong nose, nice lips, a dimple no larger than a thumbprint in the pointed chin. A pleasant face, made more so by the addition of a modest pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Nothing hinted that Krüger was a man who’d orchestrate merciless acts of international terrorism.

  Nothing in what Holger was saying hinted at that either. Krüger was too savvy to seek refuge in the U.S. if anyone there might blame him for the Global 500 bombing. It was important that Harry hadn’t yet connected Krüger to that incident—or to any other.

  But, of course, Harry caught the discrepancy. He said to me, “Your specialty is supposed to be counterterrorism. Krüger worked in counterintelligence. That’s not the same thing.” He plucked the photo out of my fingers and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Who suggested using Krüger for this deal you want to make?”

  “I selected the target.” Holger spoke before I could. “I understand he has some concerns about the future business climate for him in Germany. I heard he might be susceptible to an offer of safe haven in the U.S.”

  Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “I can guess where you heard that.”

  “I have a number of useful sources—”

  Harry cut him off. “But there’s only one in place to give you this stuff. That guy you Danes had inside the Stasi. The one you code-named Gorm. We spotted him back in action last year. Hanging around that ex-Stasi group, the one set up to help former officers in financial distress.”

  “Gorm has done some work for the organization you mention, the so-called Insider Committee for Rectification.” Holger spoke calmly, as if he weren’t surprised that Harry knew so much about his undercover agent. “Not with Krüger directly, of course, since in his role as Gunter Storch he denies any Stasi connection. But over the last couple of months Gorm has had occasion to speak to one of Krüger’s associates. That one dropped some hints about his employer’s state of mind. When it became clear that Kathryn needed help clearing her name, I saw how she could use Krüger to get things started.”

  “I bet you did.” Harry’s voice was tight. “But your focus is supposed to be illegal arms flows to radical groups. Why are you collecting information about Krüger?”

  Holger dipped his head toward Harry, a gesture of respect. “I heard you were well versed on the structure of the NATO intelligence branches.”

  I broke in. “Holger’s interested in any German who’s part of Qadhafi’s supply system.”

  “Trade with Libya?” Harry was watching us both intently. “Back to terrorism. So now Krüger’s got ties to Qadhafi. What about before, when he was still in the Stasi? Are you saying that a former major in East German counterintelligence played a role in international terrorism?”

  Holger said, “In the eighties Krüger did some work on the armaments side, getting East Bloc ordnance into terrorist hands, but that was mostly a sideline. I’m convinced that the radical Palestinian terrorists worked closely with someone in HVA, but we’ve no evidence implicating Krüger. Certainly, he’ll be able to fill in some of the gaps in our information. But his specialty was counterintelligence.”

  No change in the timbre of Holger’s voice, no verbal or physical tic, suggested that there was any duplicity in his words. I felt a chill on the back of my neck. You don’t expect a Lutheran priest to be so skilled a liar.

  Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek. “All right. You say Krüger is nervous about his future in Germany, looking for a soft landing in the U.S. Maybe I buy that. But spell out for me again how Casey benefits from brokering the deal.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I asked. “Krüger’s my ticket home. He’ll have the names of any Americans who stayed on HVA’s payroll after they rotated back to the U.S. The FBI wants to nail those traitors more than they want me. They’ll have to back off. I’ll have enough space to make things clear, prove I’m not guilty of anything.”

  “Not guilty of anything? What’s all this crap I keep seeing on television? Hamburg, Antwerp, arms deals, burning buildings, dead bodies—you sure look guilty.”

  “If that’s what you think, let’s stop this right now,” I said.

  “Get off the tall pony,” Harry said. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were in league with terrorists. You got to admit, though, Casey, you’re in one hell of a mess.”

  “The situation’s complicated. It’ll take some time to clarify things. But if I come in there with Krüger, I can demand that they pay attention while I explain.”

  Holger said, “And, of course, Krüger may be able to supply other information that will clarify some of the FBI theories now clouding Kathryn’s future.”

  I blinked. Other information? What did that mean?

  Harry didn’t seem puzzled. “Back off, Sorensen,” he said. “I trust Casey. I didn’t say I trusted you.”

  “Look, Harry,” I said, “I’ve got to go meet this guy. I won’t get anywhere with him unless he’s convinced I’ve got a line of communication open back to the U.S.” I rubbed a hand over my scalp, the hair a quarter inch long now, silky against my palm, moist with nervous sweat. “Are you going to front for me in D.C. on this?”

  “I need to talk to you alone first.” He glared at Holger.

  The Father-Major turned his right wrist to check his watch. “Five minutes,” he said. “She has to leave this place in seven minutes, or the rendezvous with Krüger won’t happen.”

  “Got it, Your Holiness,” Harry said, shoving the door shut behind Holger. He hooked the safety chain, then muscled me into the bathroom. It smelled of disinfectant. He turned on the fan and the faucets in both the sink and the bath.

  “I doubt anyone’s listening in,” I said.

  “You doubt it.” Harry gave me a scathing look. “Well, I’m certain that the Great Dane is doing his damnedest to hear every word.” He gave me a shake
and put his face inches from mine. “Now, you tell me why you’re pretending you don’t know who Krüger really is.”

  I could hardly breathe. In a strangled voice, I said, “You did a good job of acting as though you’d never heard of him.”

  “For his benefit.” Harry put his hand on the back of my neck and pulled my ear toward his lips. “You know I checked out this guy back in ’86. I was probably more relieved than your Danish buddy was after Major Krüger killed himself. But you obviously didn’t tell Sorensen about me. So why should I mention that I’m up to speed on Krüger? Why not hear what else got left out of his story?”

  Harry had checked out Krüger in 1986? He’d been relieved when Krüger died? Why? And why did he think I knew that? We were tiptoeing together through a minefield of misinformation and I didn’t have a clue to what might set off an explosion. Gingerly, I asked, “Was there anything else Holger forgot to mention?”

  “You noticed how he downplayed Krüger’s association with the terrorists.” Harry gave a dry laugh. “Trying to shift the blame to a single archfiend tucked away in the bowels of HVA.”

  “I thought you preferred that little-picture approach.”

  “Only when it’s true. The Stasi was a bureaucracy, like any other. No single individual was ever responsible for anything. All of them had their asses covered. Just as well. We know Krüger’s dirty, but not so dirty we can’t do business with him.”

  I let my breath out. Harry had ended up where this interview was supposed to take him. Ready to deal for Krüger—but not to hang him. “You’ll do it, then—handle things for me on the D.C. end?”

  His expression clouded. “Going to this meeting—you sure he’s not going to make you disappear?”

  “I’ll have company all the way to the spot where Krüger’s leaving my instructions. There’ll be another team in place to back me up from there.”

  “I guess it’s not that risky for you.”

  “Not much risk at all.” I tugged at his sleeve. “So it’s a go on your end, then?”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Harry said. “If Krüger’s interested in coming to us, you’re the obvious choice to bring him home. So why didn’t you say that?”

  I let my gaze drift around the bathroom. The brown-and-tan tiled walls were spotless, the porcelain tub scrubbed to alabaster whiteness. Beneath the astringent odor of pine, the drains emitted the sweetish scent of decay. Why did Harry think I was so obvious a choice? I couldn’t risk asking. I licked my lips. “Holger didn’t feel he needed to spell it out.”

  Harry’s expression was suddenly compassionate. “Sorry. Guess it’s still hard for you to talk about.” He squeezed my arm. “This will get their attention. Some people might think it’s ghoulish so soon after Krajewski got blown apart. But it’s the sort of thing that the spooks go for.” He pulled the photo from his pocket and held it up so that Krüger’s image faced me. “Once you know, he starts to look familiar.”

  I could feel the small hairs on my spine begin to stand up, one by one. The resemblance was subtle, but it was there, especially in the bone structure. A Slavic skull covered over with tightly drawn Prussian flesh. A common mix. Nothing alarming in what Harry was saying—until I put it together with what he hadn’t said in the past.

  Harry—my nosy, advice-dispensing pal Harry—had never asked me a single question about Stefan’s background. He’d gone to more reliable sources to compile his dossier. Knowing Harry, I assumed his file was complete right down to the hour of Stefan’s birth and an exhaustive list of every living relative.

  The man in the picture looked familiar because the man in the photo was family.

  Harry flipped the photo around so he could see it. “Must’ve got those cheekbones from their father,” he said.

  The running water splashed against the basin and the ventilator hummed in the ceiling above. The fluorescent lights pinged at odd moments. And in my brain inexplicable behaviors suddenly became sensible actions, the pieces clicking into place like the solution to Rubik’s Cube. Stefan Krajewski and Reinhardt Krüger had the same father.

  16

  “I thought Stefan’s half brother died in a car accident.” I kept my voice carefully neutral.

  “I never had a doubt Krüger was dead,” Harry said. “Masterful stroke, wasn’t it? Burn a body beyond recognition in a crash fishy enough to raise a lot of questions. Leave clues so the police discover quick that the scene was rigged. They conclude it was all a setup, intended to obscure the fact that he killed himself. Of course the cops stopped there. Why not? What was he, the fifth or sixth Stasi guy to off himself that spring?” He shook his head. “What a shock when Billy Nu brought in that picture.”

  “What a shock,” I echoed.

  He tapped the photograph with his index finger. “Notice how seamless his new identity was? Few people would connect Gunter Storch to Reinhardt Krüger.” He raised his eyes to my face. “Billy tell you how he got on to it?”

  “Not in detail.” My voice was steady. Hanging around liars, you’re bound to pick up a trick or two.

  “The FBI’s Legal Attaché in Brussels thought there might be an American connection to that renegade Belgian company, the one doing business with Qadhafi. LegAtt’s big on criminal investigation, so he enlarged that old news photo and projected it onto the wall of his office. Billy Nu was in town writing reports after a trip through the old Warsaw Pact. He’d finished updating your file, wanted to ask the FBI guy something about the next one. And boom! Krüger’s mug is right there on the wall, twice as big as life, smirking at him. Said he blurted it out. ‘Casey’s in for it now.’ ”

  “He got that right,” I said.

  Harry frowned. “Too bad Krüger stayed under the Storch cover. No reason to, after the German courts decided against prosecuting bureaucrats like him. Some people might think he was trying to conceal Stefan Krajewski’s ex-Stasi connection. Makes it look bad for you.”

  Seriously bad for me. Quickly, I said, “He channeled Stasi funds for his future use. He wouldn’t like to repay that. And I hear he has enemies.”

  “Sure he does,” Harry said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so eager to come to us.”

  A fist banged against the door. “Our time is up,” Holger said from the other side. “We must leave.”

  “Okay,” Harry said, shutting off the faucets. “I’ll go back and set up the deal. They’ll jump at it. He’s got information they want badly. Just remember: He has to tell them Stefan wasn’t working with him. If you can’t persuade him to do that, the FBI will claim Krüger could’ve sent more than Western technology to Qadhafi. They’ll figure he passed on intelligence, too. Classified stuff he got from your lover.”

  And they’d suspect that my lover got at least some of those secrets from me. “I know.”

  Harry lowered his voice and spoke more slowly. “But you have to bring him to us. All the way home, Casey. You leave him in Denmark, like you did with Krajewski, the questions will never be answered. That bunch of Viking vigilantes will burn you all over again.”

  The fact that Stefan and Krüger were brothers changed everything. I no longer had any choices. I had to bring Krüger back to the U.S. Once there, I’d have help to make him reveal which airliner was scheduled to explode next. And after that, we’d force him to tell the truth about Stefan and me. Nothing less would earn my life back for me.

  The pounding grew louder. I said, “I have to go.”

  “Like always.” He grinned as he unlatched the corridor door. “Running away from me to be with another man.”

  I grabbed my hat and coat, donning them in the elevator as Holger, Harry and I descended silently to the ground floor. I hurried outside to the waiting taxi. The two men hovered inside the Novotel lobby, watching me through the glass-fronted double door. They both wore khaki slacks, wrinkled across the hips from hours spent sitting in airliners. On top, Harry wore a royal blue cotton sweater with a V neck; Holger had on green wool with shoulder patches, the typ
e of sweater issued to military personnel and sold all over Europe in surplus stores. Insulated from the cold, out of the action. Tall men, inclined to stoop, they stood without speaking to each other, watching me, their approaches to the world so divergent, they might be from different planets, not just different continents.

  The Mercedes taxi smelled of polish. It was warmed by a scentless heater and powered by an engine silent as death. Hans van Hoof was behind the wheel, a Tyrolean hat with a feather incongruous above his thickly muscled neck. Van Hoof playing at being German—I felt a rush of affection for him. I was in a hell of a mess, Harry had said. And like Harry, van Hoof was helping me get out of it. In his own huffy way.

  “You are late,” he told me.

  I smoothed the maroon folds of my wool coat. When I stood, it covered me to mid-calf; when I sat, it touched the toes of my wine-red leather boots. My head was covered by a matching broad-brimmed felt hat. Elegantly bundled up, my features hidden, but my silhouette easily identified at a distance. Designed by some spy costumer fixated on Mata Hari. I replied, “I’m only two minutes behind schedule. You can make that up.”

  The skin on the back of van Hoof’s neck turned a darker bronze. “You cannot afford to be so blasé. Krüger was specific to the last detail. You must be at the Cecilienhof at exactly ten forty-five. If you miss the tour bus—”

  “But I won’t. You’d never set up a schedule that depended on an American being on time.”

  He made a growling noise, low in his throat, but I saw his lips twitch as if he were struggling to suppress a smile. He knew I had him pegged. He was having trouble keeping up the grouchy attitude. Better be careful, or he’d find himself actually liking me.

  “Is everyone in place?” I asked.

  “You won’t recognize anyone except Bert. But Erika’s people are there. They’ll stay with you to whatever rendezvous point Krüger selects.”

  I patted my coat pocket. A basting thread had created a false bottom. Below it was the transmitter that would make it possible to track my movements when I wasn’t in sight. “And Erika’s Mossad buddies—they understand this is our operation? They’re covering my back, nothing else?”