Bradley picked himself up off the rails, suddenly conscious of how vulnerable and exposed he was, concentrating on his target and not his environment. He laughed to himself; struck by a train would be his epitaph. He ran over to Jacko. “It’s on its way. You do the count and I’ll do the flash.”
Then he ran to the Rover and hauled out the a sports holdall, where the camera was, and placed it on the bonnet. Dipping in, he pulled out the Nikon F3, its chunky MD-4 motor drive attached, followed by the Metz flash attachment which he quickly connected. He plugged the lead of the oblong battery pack into the flash, switched it on then slung the battery pack, held by a leather strap, over his neck and shoulder. He was ready. The ASA rating was set for 1600. Although the pictures would be slightly grainy, it was good enough for what they needed tonight: evidence and clarification of their sighting. While Bradley moved up to the railway line to be in position and ready, Jacko turned the vehicle around so it was in the right location, should they need to make a quick getaway, before joining his tour commander.
“Can you see the light yet?”
“Yes. Seems to be nice and slow,” responded Bradley, a tremor of excitement in his voice. “Get ready.”
Bradley was on Jacko’s left, angling himself so he faced the side of the oncoming train, and Jacko was on the right, his pocket memo recorder in his hand ready. Two minutes later, the train crept past them, steadily gathering speed. The flash lit up the area as Bradley took photographs of each piece of equipment as the wagons travelled past them. Clack...clack. Clack...clack. The tarpaulin-covered missile launchers looked menacing as they towered above the two intelligence operators. Clack...clack. Clack...clack. The high-pitched whine of the flash recharging could be heard in between the sound of the wheels on the rails, the occasional squeal of tortured metal against tortured metal.
Clack…clack. Clack...clack. “Launcher, launcher, launcher, launcher, resupply, resupply, goods wagon, Zil 131 box body, Gaz 66...” Jacko’s voice could be heard amongst the mishmash of sound as he recorded on the hand-held tape recorder what he was seeing pass by in front of him.
Clack, clack, clack, clack. Phutt, whine, phutt, whine. Bradley took as many photographs as he was able, quickly making his way through the rest of the 72-frame film. Its purpose was not to provide detailed technical photography, but to provide a record and pick up on anything that the two operatives may have missed. All this information would be fed back to their sister intelligence unit in West Germany, a specialist unit highly experienced in imagery analysis – not just ground photography but also images from the air and even satellites. The train sped past faster and faster until the brake car shot past them, and the train slowly dwindled into the distance, disappearing into the darkness.
“How many?”
“I reckon eighteen launchers and half a dozen resupply.”
Bradley didn’t respond.
“Did you get that? Eighteen?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“What’s up?”
“Doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t? Spit it out.”
Bradley rubbed the side of his face. “They’re headed for Magdeburg.”
“How do you know that?”
“The rail ticket.”
“So?”
“Three Shock Army already have a Scud-B Brigade. These belong to a different unit.”
“Could they be for another GSFG unit?”
“I’m not aware of any Scud Brigade from GSFG being out of barracks. I’ll check when we get back. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
They headed back to the vehicle, stowed their kit and made their way back to Newcastle where they would continue their watch; perhaps treat themselves to a lukewarm cup of coffee. After remaining alert for the sight of more military trains, at 0745, their stag finally over, they headed back towards Checkpoint Charlie. The replacement tour had contacted them to say they were infiltrating from the south, so they went west, leading any potential tail away from the location.
There comes a time when a simple, spontaneous decision can have significant, unforeseen consequences. Had Bradley known the outcome of his next decision, he would more than likely have headed back home without any detours. They were both weary, having had perhaps two or three hours’ sleep between them, rubbing tired eyes as they sped along Alt-Biesdorf, looking forward to passing through Checkpoint Charlie, a quick debrief, then home for the three Ss: shit, shave and shower; a fourth S, if they had the energy for sex afterwards.
“Head for Karlshorst, Jacko.”
“What?” Jacko turned to look at his commander in bewilderment. “Why?”
“Just a quick look.”
“I knew something was bugging you. Ever since we saw that bloody train.”
“Just do it, Jacko,” Bradley responded sharply.
Jacko turned off the main route that would have eventually taken them to West Berlin, and headed for the outskirts of the Soviet military camp in Karlshorst. They weaved through the various unnamed roads, lined either side by a patchwork of single- and double-roomed summer homes; somewhere for the wealthier population of this communist capital to escape from their pokey flat in the dull inner city.
“Towards the wall.”
“What are you up to?”
“I want to look over the wall.”
“What about the other side of the barracks? It’s quieter.”
“You can see bugger all from there.”
A two to three-metre wall surrounded the entire Soviet camp; the camp shape an uneven rectangle with two of the sides being over a kilometre long. The patchwork wall was a strange sight. Made up of sections of wall taken from German homes after the end of World War Two, it was a mosaic. Some sections had a window frame or doorway bricked up, some were a mishmash of different brick types and colours, and some sections still had bathroom tiles adhered to their surface. On the opposite side of their current position, the wall was partially hidden by a thin screen of trees, but this side was fairly unprotected. There were many cracks in its poor structure, and it was Bradley’s intention to walk along the wall peering through those cracks to look for...He didn’t know what he was looking for; just something out of the ordinary, something that would satisfy the inkling he had that something wasn’t quite right. He leaned down into the foot well and took a smaller auto-focus camera from a small pack he kept there and cracked the door open...
Everything happened in a flash, yet almost appeared to happen in slow motion.
As he pushed the door open, he heard Jacko shout, “Fuck, look out!”
At the same time that Jacko shouted, a white Lada cut across the front of the Range Rover and a second across the back. They were MFS (Ministerium fur Staatssicherheit), the East German Ministry for State Security. The door was wrenched back sharply on its hinges, pulling Bradley with it. He felt his arms being grabbed along with someone pulling at his jumper, dragging him down as another went to snatch his camera. As he lost his balance and slowly collapsed to the ground, he peered up into the faces of Soviet soldiers, the epaulettes of one identifying him as belonging to a tank unit.
Bradley was dragged along the ground as more and more Russian soldiers joined in the one-sided fray. He struggled frantically to break their grip, desperately trying to push himself back up off the ground. He was off the floor, in a crouch, when a boot swung towards him, striking him in the chest, the crack of his rib audible, a groan escaping his lips as he folded over. As he went down for a second time, wrenching his camera hand free, pulling it underneath him, he caught sight of a different sleeve patch, one that caused his stomach to knot even tighter. The shield-shaped badge didn’t have the shape of a tank beneath a star but had the red Russian star, edged with gold, surrounded by a golden laurel wreath set on a black background with the Russian Cyrillic above it: КГБCCCP: the military section of the KGB, the Third Directorate.
Bradley twisted his head so he could see in the direction of the Range Rover and shouted, “Red Ra
g! Red Rag!”
Jacko, the driver’s door still locked, was about to leave the vehicle and come to his tour commander’s aid when he heard the call. He hesitated for a moment, never thinking he would ever hear that call – but only for a second, knowing they were in serious trouble. He grabbed the Teleport 9, unlocked the door and pushed it open, now clear of Soviet soldiers after their failed attempt to get in. The soldiers had a better target, their main victim who they were swarming around. He ran – ran for his life. His boots thumped on the hard-packed road as he sped in between the summer houses. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see that two soldiers had seen him and were now running after him. He increased his speed and lengthened his stride, his lungs burning as he forced air in and out of his lungs. He looked again, but they had given up the chase. He turned left, hurdling a low fence, and ran between two of the garden homes, ran round the back and stopped, bent double, his hands on his trembling knees, breath rasping. He held the radio close to his mouth. “This is Three-Zero-Bravo, any...shit!” He realised it was not turned on. He turned the switch and tried again.
“This is Three-Zero-Bravo, any Three-Zero call sign, over.”
Silence...
“This is Three-Zero-Bravo, any Three-Zero call sign in the Karlshorst area, over.”
He was still panting and bent over again, attempting to gain some control over his still laboured breathing. This short-range radio would not reach Section Intelligence Headquarters. His only hope was that the third unit was in the area.
“Any Three-Zero call sign, over.”
Silence...
“Any fucking Three-Zero call sign in the area? We’re in deep shit here, over.”
His radio finally crackled a response. “Three-Zero-Bravo, this is Three-Zero-Charlie. With you in figures five. Sitrep, over.”
The second boot struck Bradley in the stomach making him fold up, pulling his body into a foetal position, desperate to protect the vulnerable parts of his anatomy. He felt a boot striking the side of his head, just above his right eye, making him yelp involuntarily. He pulled his arms and legs in even more tightly, fear now making him retch as the Soviet soldiers continued with their punches and kicks desperately attempting to drag his arms out and get hold of the camera he was protecting beneath him. His biggest fear was not the pummelling he was experiencing, although he was concerned about receiving a major injury, but a fear of being dragged into the Soviet camp, lost to political bargaining. While they fought over his release, he would be at the mercy of the Russian intelligence department. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering. The film was blank, a fresh one he had put in earlier in the day. Routine, so they were ready for any troop movement they came across. Bradley always put the used film canisters in a small pull-string bag beneath his seat. It was safe for the moment. He had clocked at least three KGB uniformed troops amongst the throng of motor rifle and tank troops.
A boot struck his thigh, a numbing pain flowing down his leg before it froze, deadened. They clawed at his arms, desperate to pull them free of his body, releasing the camera he had been holding when they had dragged him from the vehicle. He pulled it in even tighter as another boot struck his chest, the pain unbearable as the boot rode up his broken rib, causing Bradley to move his free hand to the new source of pain. This was the opening the dozen or so attackers had been waiting for. Getting a better grip on his arms, they yanked them out, jolting his right shoulder painfully. They clawed at the camera, eventually pulling it free with a cry of victory, and the babble of guttural voices increased. Looking into their leering faces, the occasional gold-cap toothed smile, Bradley could see other military onlookers. He couldn’t estimate the numbers at the time, but he would learn later that up to twenty Soviet soldiers, including a number of KGB, had been involved in the assault.
Suddenly, the surrounding troops moved apart. Jacko with his skinny frame found the strength to thrust them aside. A Soviet officer was seen sidling away, heading in the direction of the Soviet camp.
“Fuck. You OK?” Jacko reached down to help Bradley up.
“Yes, but they got the camera.”
“I know. I saw them ripping the film out. No good to them though.” Jacko smiled. “I saw you change the film.” He steadied Bradley, pulling his arm over his shoulder as he could see he was unsteady on his feet.
“How about the Rover?”
“It’s fine. The Sovs didn’t bother with it. They were more interested in you. God, you’ll have a nice shiner on your left eye tomorrow.”
Bradley looked about him and could see a second Range Rover parked behind the white Lada and a Gaz-66 behind that. He suddenly crumpled and groaned.
“You OK? Stupid question, I know.”
“Just hurts like hell.”
As Jacko helped Bradley who was still unsteady on his feet, his body shaking, shock setting in, towards the second Range Rover, they saw the red beret of a Royal Military Police officer and an accompanying interpreter.
“Thank God,” uttered Bradley. “Thank God.”
Chapter 13
INNER GERMAN BORDER. 8 JUNE 1984.
THE RED EFFECT −4 WEEKS.
Keifer crouched down behind the sparse hedgerow, pulling his fiancée in close. He felt her shaking.
“I’m scared, Keifer, really scared.”
He pulled her in even closer. “It’s OK, I promise you. We’ll make it.”
“How far have we left to go?”
“About three kilometres, sweetheart. It’s not far now.”
“I’m tired, Keifer. I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“Me neither,” he said with a soft chuckle. “But once we’re in the West, you can have all the sleep you want. I’ll even bring you breakfast in bed: Westphalian ham, Gouda cheese, fresh bread rolls and some real coffee.”
He saw the whiteness of her teeth as she smiled. One of his attributes was being able to make her feel good, no matter what the circumstances. She squeezed his arm. He had such confidence and instilled that confidence within her.
Keifer Freeh was twenty-two years old, an electronics student living in the German Democratic Republic, East Germany. His fiancée Adali Keller was more into literature and history, and longed for the day when she could have access to the books she had heard were freely available to everyone who lived in the West. They both lived in the small village of Lüttow, about fifty kilometres south-east of Lubeck and about seventy to eighty kilometres east of Hamburg in the Federal Republic of Germany. They were a mere two kilometres from their home now. Their village was just outside the five-kilometre wide Sperrzone, the restricted zone. But, at this moment in time, they were well and truly inside the highly protected area of the Inner German Border, the boundary between East and West Germany; patrolled by guards with dogs, mobile patrols, and, yesterday, they were overflown by a Hoplite, a small reconnaissance helicopter. Both had been in the Sperrzone all night, Keifer insisting that they become acclimatised to the area, familiarising themselves with the sounds and smells and raising their awareness of any activity that might occur around them. He was also concerned about trying to cover the full seven-kilometre trek to the border in just one night. It would push them too hard, particularly Adali, causing them to potentially make mistakes.
It was 8 June 1984. Keifer had led them both from the village into the zone the previous night where they had lain up in hiding during the latter part of the night. Then they spent the entire day hidden from the authorities. Keifer had done his eighteen-months conscription in the NVA, the National Volks Armee, and had hated every minute of it. But a switch had been flicked inside his head, and, one night, he and Adali decided that they’d had enough and wanted to escape to the West, to perceived freedom. So, he used his time in the army well: to hone his skills, learn the art of camouflage, deception and moving quietly, and, more importantly, how the NVA functioned. Using the premise that he was potentially interested in joining the Grenztruppen der DDR, the border guards, he learnt as much as he could abou
t their organisation, how they operated, what border protection systems were in use. He proved to be such a competent soldier that the hierarchy tried to persuade him to make a career in the forces and were most put out when he declined. He was using some of the art of concealment he had learned during his training now. Both he and Adali wore home-made ghillie suits. Constructed by Adali, under the guidance of her fiancé, they consisted of dark green, thin cotton material, covered in netting of the same dimensions, with strips of light and dark cloth knotted to it. Although not perfect, when they lay on the ground close together next to some undergrowth or tall grasses, the edges of the ghillie spread out about them, they were well hidden. Keifer had even left both suits out in the rain for a month to weather and blend in even further with the countryside they would be hiding in. Applying a healthy dose of manure, much to Adali’s distaste, completed the picture and ensured it smelled even less like a man-made outfit. The five-foot-four, slim, blonde East German National was into nail varnish, nice clothes and fluffy teddy bears. A rotten, stinking ghillie suit didn’t quite go with that image, but she persevered, trusting Keifer’s instinct that it would help them escape discovery.
Keifer shifted. “We need to move now, OK?”
He heard her sigh. “I can’t do this, I just can’t. I’m cold, tired, I want a pee and I stink.”
He gripped her face gently between his two hands and pulled her in close to him. He could feel the wetness around her eyes where she had been crying and he kissed them, tasting the salty tears. “We...can...do...this. We can’t turn back. If we go back now, there is a greater chance that we’ll get caught than if we continue. If we turn around now, Adali, we will get caught.”
The Red Effect (Cold War) Page 11
