Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  “Just make sure you do. Anything else?”

  Henry was about to offer the day’s pièce de résistance, their discovery up in the ceiling vent in the envelope marked “Sisterhood.” But something about Mitch’s attitude had rubbed him the wrong way, and made him uncomfortable. Just this once, Henry figured he’d hold something back, at least for a while. The School of Night had not offered a single lesson on how to avoid or obstruct your handler, much less on how to balance divided loyalties, so he was winging it now.

  He wished Anna’s mom were here so he could pose the question to her. They could swap a few Berlin stories while they were at it. From the scantiest of findings, he’d begun to feel a kinship with the woman.

  “You still there, Mattick?”

  “Yeah, just trying to remember if there was anything more that was worthwhile. But that was pretty much it.”

  “Pretty much? I told you, Henry. I want it all.”

  “And you’ll have it, as soon as I’ve got it.”

  “Okay, then. And send that photo ASAP.”

  “Sure.”

  He hung up. Then he stared at his phone, feeling more conflicted than ever.

  Mitch carried no label, no address, no office number, and no line of authority. Above him lay only the darkness of the unknown, and the further Henry proceeded on Anna’s behalf, the more troubled he became by the known.

  He turned off his phone. From now on, Henry would be the one who decided when they talked.

  21

  Berlin, 1979

  Helen checked her watch. One full hour at her desk, and not a single visitor. More to the point, Herrington hadn’t yet summoned her to his office. Still employed, then, at least for the moment. Even more miraculous was that someone had left her key to the records room right there on her desk, plain as day.

  She hadn’t yet gotten up the nerve to use it, lest Eileen Walters chase her away. Although, judging by the key’s precise placement—squared perfectly to all four sides of her desk—Helen was guessing that the always orderly Walters was the one who’d returned it. It was as if, with the disappearance of the tapes, the entire drama of Helen’s apostasy had disappeared as well. From the moment of her arrival her coworkers had offered smiling nods and measured words of welcome, as if to show her the way toward salvation.

  Only Baucom could have engineered it. Even an early flight wouldn’t have prevented him from passing the word to Herrington that she was no longer a danger. And Baucom would know, since he was the one who had rendered her harmless. With that thought her anger rose anew. She was tempted to pick up where she’d left off, by requesting all files and cables relating to Kevin Gilley.

  But where would that get her? Without a job, she would no longer be able to act on Anneliese’s behalf. Even so, Helen wasn’t yet comfortable with this new status quo. So, she remained at her desk, drearily attending to paperwork.

  By noon, she had come up with a way forward. Alas, it was the same course Baucom had recommended. A failure of the imagination, perhaps, and certainly a failure of daring, but it was better than nothing.

  Shortly after lunch she filled out a few blank request forms to give to Eileen Walters. One asked for all recent cable traffic involving the cryptonym “Lewis.” The other sought further information on the source of the requisition of the Macallan Scotch whisky for the Alt-Moabit safe house.

  She walked to the records room and unlocked the door. Walters looked up from her desk, and smiled when Helen handed her the forms. Across the room, a low-level researcher named Duane stopped what he was doing to peer at Helen from across an open file drawer.

  “These are both for Langley,” Helen said. “Do they look okay to you?”

  Walters took a glance.

  “Everything looks to be in order,” she said, in apparent relief. “I’ll send it right on through.”

  Across the room, a file drawer latched shut. Duane had already lost interest in her. Helen was boring again, a repaired and functioning piece of the daily machinery. It was almost disappointing, and for a moment she was tempted to do something outrageous. But, no. Live to fight another day.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “And welcome back,” Walters replied. “I was so pleased to hear it.”

  Helen turned to go, then wheeled back around.

  “What exactly did you hear? I’ve been wondering all morning, because no one actually told me anything.”

  Duane again went silent on his side of the room. Walters peered over Helen’s shoulder and said, a bit sharply, “Will that be all for now, Duane?”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  He cleared his throat, gathered up a sheaf of folders, and departed. Walters waited for the door to shut behind him.

  “No one said much of anything, actually. All I got was a very brief call from Herrington first thing this morning telling me your clearance had been restored, effective immediately. When I asked for written confirmation, he said that would not be forthcoming. I gathered he wasn’t all that happy about it. I decided to return the key on my own initiative.”

  Well, that was something, Helen supposed. No wonder Herrington hadn’t shown his face.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “As I said, you’re not alone in this.”

  Helen wondered again about the deeper meaning of that remark. Who were her supporters, and how widely were they placed? Maybe Baucom was responsible for that as well. He might even have done her a favor by removing her single greatest temptation for rash action, although she would never forgive him for the way he’d gone about it.

  The rest of the workday passed without incident. She saw Herrington only in passing, in the hallway. Expecting him to look away, she trained her eyes on him. Instead, he met her gaze and nodded.

  “Miss Abell,” he said frostily.

  “Hello, sir.” She refrained from smiling so he wouldn’t think she was gloating, and then felt like a suck-up for having done so.

  It confirmed her belief that Detective Otto Schnapp really had stayed mum about her, because surely Herrington wouldn’t have been so forgiving if he knew she’d been poking around on a police matter. But if that were so, how had Baucom known what she’d been up to? Whatever the case, for now she seemed to be in the clear.

  She made one more trip to the records room, only to run into Erickson—Mr. Statler, as Schnapp knew him. He, too, said nothing about Anneliese Kurz or the police. His only inquiry was to again invite her out for a drink. She didn’t need long to consider the offer. Sleeping with Erickson, or spending time with him at all, would be more of a punishment than what Baucom had done.

  “No, thanks. I’m busy this evening.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Oh, you know. Subversion and malfeasance, the usual.”

  He laughed a bit nervously and left without a further word.

  Sitting in her apartment that night she found herself feeling chastened and proper. She microwaved a box of frozen lasagna, sipped abstemiously from a single glass of wine, and watched a dubbed episode of an American cop show—Kojak, as luck would have it. She changed into PJs, slippers, and a bulky terry-cloth robe before brewing a mug of ginger-lemon tea, which she took to bed along with a self-help book about mother-daughter relationships that a college friend had recommended.

  Within half an hour she drowsily concluded that the book had no relevance at all to her own life. She then thought about her mother for a while, remembering her seated furtively in the woods, nursing her jam jar of cheap vodka, her means of coping with a shuttered life in a small town in the Bible Belt.

  “At least I’ll never end up like that,” she announced to the empty bedroom, just before switching off the light. There were worse things than being on Herrington’s shit list, she supposed, just before thinking yet again of Anneliese—her ghastly white face, her horr
ibly twisted neck.

  Helen switched the light back on and looked for something to read. It was hours before she could sleep.

  22

  Arriving at her desk early the following Monday, Helen almost immediately found herself reimmersed in the realm of forbidden pursuits. All it took was a terse interoffice phone call from Eileen Walters.

  “I have something for you. See me.”

  She hung up before Helen could reply.

  Helen arrived at her desk a few minutes later. Walters looked around as if to reassure herself they were alone. Then she leaned forward and lowered her voice.

  “Was anyone else coming down the hallway?”

  “No.”

  “Good. We need to wrap this up as quickly as possible. If anyone else comes in, we’ll stop what we’re doing and then finish when they’ve gone. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  Walters reached into her desk and pulled out a sealed envelope.

  “This arrived this morning by diplomatic pouch, over at the consular office. It was addressed to me but the sealed parcel inside was intended for you.”

  “By diplomatic pouch?”

  “To avoid the usual cable traffic, encrypted or otherwise. A courier brought it by. Herrington knows nothing about it.”

  Helen flushed with anticipation.

  “I told you there were others. Well, this is one of them. I’m a go-between, nothing more.”

  “Who is it from?”

  “She’s in records, in Langley, someone I’ve never met but have often been in touch with. All I can say for sure is that she appears to know a little bit about everything, so I’ve always gathered that she’s fairly senior. Beyond that I can’t tell you anything, so please don’t ask. And you’re not to reply through me. That’s also been made clear.”

  “All right.” Helen’s palms were tingling as she took the envelope. “Thank you.”

  “You should probably go now, before someone else sees us talking.”

  “Of course.”

  Helen moved breathlessly away from the desk and went out the door. The hallway was still clear. She carried the sealed envelope back to her office, shut the door behind her, and then set it on her desk, as if it might open of its own accord. Taking a few seconds to collect herself, she decided to lock her door. Then she took a letter opener from her desk, tore through the tape, and slid out a single folded sheet of CIA stationery with three typewritten paragraphs.

  The sender was someone named Audra Vollmer. Helen had never heard of her. Her letterhead said she was chief of records for the analytical group of the Information Operations Center. An archivist, located at the heart of all Agency records. Like Walters, but to the tenth power. For anyone needing the kind of information Helen had been seeking, Audra Vollmer was a connection of the highest possible value.

  Vollmer’s inclusion of her name and title was a bit surprising, as was her use of official Agency stationery. For someone who seemed so intent on keeping this communication a secret, she seemed just as determined for Helen to know not only exactly who she was, but also what sort of authority she wielded.

  The message was concise and, as Helen soon realized, intriguing:

  Your concerns with regard to Robert are not isolated. Information that I believe to be pertinent is available. Toward that end, an asset will soon be in contact.

  On housekeeping matters, my perusal of your safe house usage reports and associated records indicates that your secure facility on Sachsenwaldstrasse is overdue for maintenance. In keeping with suggested protocol I have scheduled a resupply of cleaning materials for delivery at approx 19:00.

  I will forward instructions for further communication. Do not reply until you have received them. Please destroy this message and envelope upon receipt.—AV

  No wonder Vollmer had contacted her this way. She had apparently decided to enlist in Helen’s secret war on Kevin Gilley, cryptonym Robert. Somehow—perhaps through Walters—word had reached her of what had happened in Berlin. This told Helen that Gilley had his enemies, Baucom’s warning notwithstanding, and that they were interested in joining forces.

  It was promising. Check that. It was fantastic.

  Helen slowly reread the message. Obviously, a third person was about to become involved—the “asset” to whom Vollmer referred—and apparently that would happen at seven o’clock this evening via some sort of delivery at the safe house on Sachsenwaldstrasse. The message, with its vague reference to “cleaning materials,” made her wonder exactly who or what would be arriving at the house. She wondered what Vollmer’s prior experience was.

  The Sachsenwaldstrasse safe house was on a leafy street in Steglitz, and was the smallest of the four locations Helen administered. It was a third-floor flat in a bland stucco apartment building, near a children’s playground that the Agency sometimes used—albeit rarely—for dead drops and brush passes, two ways of handing off messages between agents and case officers.

  On the pecking order for hypersensitive meetings it probably ranked last among the four locations. But, due to its tenant’s full travel schedule and the neighborhood’s high level of pedestrian traffic, it was often the handiest for crash meetings and other emergencies. In that sense, Vollmer had made the perfect choice. She had done her homework. She must have studied the fine print of Helen’s reports and lease agreements, copies of which were all on file in Langley.

  Helen’s first action was to follow Vollmer’s final command by shredding the message. Her second was to give notice in writing that she would be making a maintenance visit to the Sachsenwaldstrasse safe house between the hours of six and nine that evening. If Herrington happened to see it, he’d be pleased to see that she had returned to her tame role of Agency domesticity.

  She kept to herself as much as possible the rest of the day. Shortly before six, which was well after sunset in Berlin in late October, she departed for Steglitz, first by bus, then by taxi, and then by U-Bahn, a roundabout journey that took forty minutes but left her satisfied that no one had followed her from Berlin station.

  She let herself into the safe house and took up a watchful position at the front window, louvering the blinds open at an angle that would allow her to see anyone approaching the building downstairs without being seen from the street. The nearby playground was dark and quiet. Last-minute shoppers headed home with full tote bags. Bicycles came and went.

  At two minutes before seven, a mailman in a Deutsche Post uniform approached with a push cart. He reached into his mail bag and carried a stack of envelopes up the steps and into the building. It was certainly a bit late for a real postman to be on duty.

  Helen unlocked the door to the stairwell and held it ajar to listen to the sound of the mailman on the floor below as he opened the bank of mailboxes in the entryway. A moment or two later it clanged shut, and she heard him leave. She took the tenant’s mailbox key and descended the stairs. Awaiting her was a phone bill, an advertising flyer, and a white envelope that appeared to be a personal letter. All were addressed to the tenant, Gerthe Schneider. But the envelope for the personal letter was neither stamped nor metered, and the name Vollmer was scribbled above the return address. Helen took it upstairs. She opened it in the kitchen.

  Folded inside was a single sheet of paper with a two-line message. It was typewritten, but not in the same font as the message that had arrived by diplomatic pouch.

  The first line read: Call at 20:00. Use phone box and coins.

  The second line was a phone number with the country code for France. The message was unsigned. Looking closely at the paper and envelope, it was obvious that all the materials had been acquired locally. Whoever Audra Vollmer was, she seemed to have a lot of resources in the field at her disposal. Helen memorized the number, burned the message over the toilet, and then flushed away the ashes.

  Helen knew from her own scou
ting of this location that there was a phone booth only two blocks away. But with extra time on her hands she decided to go farther afield, partly for security and partly to walk off her nervous energy. She stopped in a bar down the street to change some bills for D-Mark coins. She considered buying a shot of whiskey to brace herself, and then thought better of it. Instead she bought a copy of Tagesspiegel.

  Twenty minutes and many roundabout blocks later, she chose a phone booth on a relatively busy stretch of Bismarckstrasse. There was a fallback location just around the corner in case someone jumped into this one at the appointed hour. Helen checked her watch. Six more minutes. She sat on a nearby bench and opened the newspaper, checking the time obsessively until a minute before eight, when she stepped into the booth.

  The overhead light flickered on as she shut the door. She dropped in a handful of coins and punched in the number. A woman answered on the third ring.

  “Hello? Is this Berlin?” American accent, someone about her age.

  “Yes. Hello.” She had given a lot of thought about what to say—not her name, certainly—but she had never come up with an opening line she was comfortable with, so she settled for something fairly bland. “I’m, uh, calling about Robert?”

  “Splendid. I have instructions for you.” So cool and competent, this one. And a surprisingly friendly tone, which helped put Helen at ease.

  “Go ahead. I’m ready.”

  “First, if I may step out of operational character for a moment, I’d like to say what a relief it is to finally have an ally on this. Thanks for sticking your neck out.”

  Under other circumstances the woman’s approach might have made her suspicious. But Helen detected the same notes of relief and release that she was experiencing, so her answer came naturally.

  “Thank you as well. You’re right. It’s good to have an ally.”

  “Now, if we could only share a drink afterwards.”

  They laughed. The tension eased.

  “I suppose you’re working for the same firm as me.”