Rift Zone

by Raelynn Hillhouse

  The safe house felt like a seedy motel, stained by the lowlifes who drifted through its doors. As a reminder that the building was constructed before the days of indoor plumbing, a glass shower stall was mounted in a corner near the stove. A Russian front-loading washing machine vibrated so hard that the chubby charwoman on the Fewa detergent box seemed to tremble in fear. Schmidt flipped a switch and the machine fell silent.

  “The last one here left dirty towels. I’m reporting them to housekeeping.” Schmidt picked up a fork and turned bacon pieces in an aluminum skillet. “I took the liberty of making you some breakfast. You didn’t have dinner last night and I doubt you found anything proper this morning.”

  “You didn’t need to.”

  “I know.” Schmidt picked up a cracked ceramic bowl and whisked some eggs, using the top of a tiny refrigerator as a countertop. “Making breakfast in these places is a ritual I’ve missed ever since I left fieldwork. No matter where I was or what the situation, I tried to make myself a real American breakfast of bacon and eggs.”

  Faith wondered what kind of ritual he performed before ordering an execution, but decided not to ask. “So you’ve spent time in the States, or did you pick up the taste from an American expat?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss it. Get me some spices from the basket—basil and anything that looks hot. I do miss your American pepper sauce—Tabasco, isn’t it?”

  Faith selected paper packets from the People’s Own Spice Company in Gera. Schmidt poured the beaten egg onto the bacon chunks and then dumped a heap of paprika into the mixture. Faith sat and studied Schmidt, trying to remember where she’d seen him, now sure it wasn’t in the movies. He dressed more like a Western business exec going casual than someone reliant upon the dowdy clothes selections in the East. Instead of an ill-fitting polyester suit and wide tie, he wore a neat polo shirt, khakis and Italian loafers. He no longer wore the Russian watch, but a Breitling. Either he was at the pinnacle of influence, not far removed from Honecker himself, or he had something lucrative on the side. Most communist countries thrived on corruption, but the GDR was Germany and they prided themselves on running a clean shop. She concluded Schmidt had to be one of the most powerful men in Germany, and what really unnerved her was that, in this part of Germany, power was unbridled.

  “So why’s an MfS general slumming with me?”

  Schmidt chuckled. “Clever. What makes you think I’m a general?”

  She smiled. “What do you want from me, Herr General?”

  “Toast bread. Stick it in the toaster oven. There’s orange juice in the cupboard, if you wish.” Schmidt stirred the eggs. “Frau Doktor, I need you to do what you do best. Move some items for me.”

  Faith retrieved a can of juice and opened it. “There’s something here I don’t quite understand. The West isn’t my turf. You have free rein in West Berlin and West Germany—and all of Western Europe, for that matter. I’m not the one to help you. My thing is Commieland. And don’t get me wrong; I do mean ’commie’ in the most affectionate, respectful sense of the term.” She smiled.

  “I need you to take some items between two socialist states.”

  “Come on. You know I don’t do much in Asia outside of the SU. I’d be more lost in China than Nixon was.”

  “It’s not China.”

  “Vietnam?”

  Schmidt shook his head as he turned off the gas burner.

  “Your African satellites are too corrupt for you to need me. A couple of bucks and a Pepsi can get anything in or out of those places. North Korea?”

  “Europe.”

  “Albania? Want me to smuggle out a goat?”

  He started to laugh, but stopped himself and let out a snort instead. “The SU.” Schmidt placed two plates on the table. “Coffee?”

  Faith nodded. “The Soviet Union? You’re kidding. You have far better connections there than I do. Interflug flies there several times a day. You’ve got passenger, freight and military trains, not to mention diplomatic pouches. There are a billion ways that don’t involve me.”

  “We require complete discretion.”

  “As in deniability? Can’t you set up the Poles or Czechs? Make it look like they’re doing something when it’s really your guys? Moscow never trusted either of them after the Prague Spring.”

  “The Poles with good reason; though, I must say, the Czechs did get their house in order.” Schmidt sat down at the table and scooped up a bite of eggs. “Mahlzeit.”

  “Guten Appetit. Delivery or extraction?”

  “Delivery.”

  Uncomfortable silence forced most people to talk more than they wanted. Faith waited for Schmidt to explain. She sipped the tart Cuban orange juice and was not comforted by the fact that Schmidt was important enough to rate such a scarce luxury item; she’d sampled it only once before, in the canteen of a cosmonaut training facility in a Soviet city closed to all foreigners. Schmidt stopped eating and stared at her. His smile told her he understood her tactic, so she broke her own silence. “I suppose you’re not going to explain why you want to use me.”

  “It’s in everyone’s best interest not to question. You receive the goods in Berlin. I’ll make it easier for you and arrange the hand-off for the West.”

  “Have there been any prior attempts?” She couldn’t believe she was negotiating with him, but she was relieved to be back on familiar ground. “Do you have any reason to believe that Soviet authorities are aware of your intentions?”

  “No to both.”

  “I need to know the contents.”

  “Knowledge can shorten a life considerably.”

  “It determines how I take it in.”

  “By the most reliable and expeditious route.”

  “What kind of weight and volume are we talking about?”

  “Around five kilos and less than a tenth of a cubic meter in volume. And you have a forty-eight-hour window that begins upon receipt.” He sipped his coffee.

  “Negotiable?”

  “Fixed.”

  “Forty-eight is tight even if everything runs perfectly.”

  “I found it rather generous. If the goods have not been delivered within forty-eight hours, we must assume you have either absconded with them or gone to the other side.” Schmidt sopped up the egg remnants with a piece of toast. “Either way, we will kill you.”

  Faith pushed herself away from the table, knocking over the orange juice. She had to back out while she still had a chance. Staying in Germany wasn’t worth risking her life. The time had come to move on. “Forget it. I’ll find my own way back to West Berlin.”

  “Why are you making this difficult? You have the opportunity to learn much from me if you would only cooperate. I can guarantee you a magnificent career with the MfS—more exhilarating and rewarding than smuggling tchotchkes could ever be.”

  “I have no desire to be the Stasi’s apprentice. Thank you for breakfast.” She left the room.

  Schmidt raised his voice, but remained sitting. “Frau Doktor, I know what happened to your father. And he’s not dead.”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  To choose one’s victims, to prepare one’s plan minutely,

  to slake an implacable vengeance and then to go to bed . . .

  there is nothing sweeter in the world.

  —STALIN

  DEMOCRATIC BERLIN — MITTE

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 19

  MfS General Gregor Kosyk hailed a cab on the former Stalinallee. Even though the recruitment of Whitney had taken longer than he had budgeted, he was now back on schedule. Taxis were rare, but a boxy green Wartburg stopped for him within minutes. He surveyed the street and jumped into the car.

  “You should’ve been here on time,” Kosyk said as he slammed the door shut. “Because of you I’ve been exposed on the street corner for two fucking minutes.”

  The cabdriver turned toward his fare. A tuft of hair peaked in the middle of each bushy white eyebrow. “It’s a beautiful day for a drive t
o the countryside.”

  “Ivashko, haven’t you known me long enough to dispense with this idiocy?”

  He repeated the code phrase.

  Kosyk sighed with irritation, then spoke with the mocking cadence of a schoolboy reciting a lesson. “Do you know if the Moskva restaurant serves solyanka on Wednesdays?”

  “I make my own soup with ingredients from the Russian store on Andernacher Strasse.”

  “Many of our friends shop there, don’t they? You feel like a real spook now, Ivashko?”

  Ivashko dropped the flag on the meter and sped to the Soviet enclave in the Karlshorst district. The KGB residency there was the largest in the world, and, thanks to the Stasi’s efforts, the most productive. Ivashko took a circuitous route through Lichtenberg, constantly glancing in his rearview mirror. Neither man spoke.

  As the car bumped along the cobblestones of Köpenicker Allee heading southeast, Kosyk congratulated himself for his quick thinking during his meeting with Honecker and the other naïve conspirators. Taking personal control over the MfS surveillance of the Soviets was a stroke of brilliance. As Kosyk neared Karlshorst, the units assigned to the KGB residency were across town on a futile counterespionage mission following the chief resident to lunch. No one would ever learn of his secret meeting with the Russians or suspect him of betrayal.

  The car turned into Rheinstrasse and immediately pulled up to a control point at the entrance to the KGB compound. Few efforts had been made to hide the purpose of the gray multistoried building that could have passed for regular barracks if it hadn’t been for the roof: Antenna masts, cables and satellite dishes pointed to the truth.

  A uniformed KGB officer waved the taxi into the residency and the driver parked in an underground garage that was large enough for only two cars. He escorted Kosyk through a private entrance to a conference room, drew hot water from an electric samovar and poured tea from a porcelain teapot into the hot water. Without querying Kosyk about his taste, he plopped two sugar cubes and a small silver spoon into each glass, both cradled by an ornate silver holder. He then slipped from the room, shutting the solid wood door.

  Kosyk sipped his tea, regretting having allowed the sugar crystals to dissolve into the already-saccharine liquid. The longer he waited, the more he resented the KGB. The Stasi handed some of the best intel in the world over to the residency that it in turn transmitted to Moscow, claiming it as their own. Most of the KGB’s intelligence on NATO and Western Europe was courtesy of the Stasi. Without the Stasi and its tens of thousands of operatives in the West and its advanced signal intercepts, the KGB would be nothing. How typical of the KGB to keep him waiting just like Honecker and the other fools in the Politburo. The arrogant bastards liked to remind everyone who the real bosses were.

  He would show them soon enough.

  A half-hour later, Lieutenant Colonel Bogdanov entered the room wearing the KGB service uniform with its royal-blue epaulets and trim. Her curly black hair, dark brown eyes and Mediterranean complexion made her look more Italian than Slavic. Kosyk guessed she had Tartar blood mixed with the Russian, and that would explain her guile. She shook Kosyk’s hand and seated herself at the head of the conference table.

  Kosyk spoke in German, although his Russian was flawless. “How’s your father? So few ever make the leap from the Foreign Service to the Politburo. The news of his early retirement was a disappointment.”

  “For him, too,” Bogdanov said in Russian, despite fluency in German.

  Kosyk persisted in German. “So did he really step down for health reasons?”

  “Comrade Kosyk, I don’t know where you’re leading with this, but I have no doubt you know Gorbachev removed him. You didn’t request a clandestine meeting to chitchat about my pensioned father. Get on with it.”

  “You’re certain this room is clean?”

  “Absolutely. Only my assistant knows you’re here and I even broke protocol and didn’t inform the chief resident.” Bogdanov sipped her tea. “Now what do you want?”

  “Nothing said here today leaves this room without my consent. I need your word.”

  She nodded.

  “In a way, I am here to talk about your father. What does he think about Gorbachev’s reforms? About his decision to allow the Hungarians to dismantle the border to the West?”

  “I haven’t spoken with him about it, but it doesn’t take a Gypsy to see the future on this one.”

  “True.” Kosyk stroked his goatee. “And what you see pleases you?”

  “I’m a loyal Party member. I believe in the progress of history toward communism, but I must say what I see right now is not progress.”

  “And I understand your career has also made little progress. Disappointing after your early meteoric rise. Your work impressed me. You had such promise.”

  “Politics haven’t treated me well, but I got out of Pyongyang and back to Berlin. And I’m still in the foreign directorate.”

  “You used to be posted in capitalist states. It must be hard to go from plum assignments to here.” Kosyk’s left eye twitched.

  “What’s your point? I think you’re going to have to get to it or leave.” Bogdanov stood. “I’ve never liked you.”

  “I’ve never liked you, either,” Kosyk said, reverting back to German. “But you’re a highly effective operative, although I question some of your unorthodox methods. I also don’t understand how anyone of your lifestyle can be tolerated in your position, especially now that your father is out of the picture.”

  “I suppose there is one advantage to glasnost, isn’t there?” Colonel Bogdanov motioned toward the door.

  “And because I don’t like you, I trust you—fondness compromises objectivity. I know how we can avoid the impending chaos and move in the direction of progress—for both history and your career.”

  Bogdanov sat down and said in German, “Continue.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  WEST BERLIN

  Her roommate’s study reeked of a photo lab, but today it was perfume to Faith. Negatives and prints cluttered a light table. Blown-up official seals from a dozen different governments were tacked to a wall above rows of homemade rubber stamps and an impressive collection of inks. When she walked in, Hakan turned down Wagner and squinted at her through the jeweler’s visor. He flipped it up for a closer look. “What happened to you? You okay?”

  “How can you listen to creepy Teutonic schmaltz like ’Ride of the Valkyries’?” She dropped her purse onto the floor.

  “When you didn’t come home, I thought you’d finally defected.” Hakan grinned.

  “You noticed? Your date must not have gone well,” Faith said. German women seemed to adore Hakan. He had the perfectly proportioned features of an ancient Greek statue, but, because he was a Turk, Faith never dared tell him that. She picked up a piece of paper covered with round ink stamps of German eagles holding swastikas. She glanced it over and dropped it back onto the table. “I won’t bore you with the details, but I’m now a Stasi secret agent woman.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  “I wish.”

  “Congratulations, comrade. When’s your first Party meeting?”

  “Screw you,” Faith said with a smile, content to settle into the comfort of their own faux Cold War. Over the last several hours she’d begun to harden herself to the idea of doing a Moscow run for the Stasi, but she was still stunned that her father might be alive.

  “I didn’t think you’d ever work for them. Thought you always said you couldn’t bring yourself to choose sides just like you can’t commit to a relationship.” He pressed the stamp into an inkpad and firmly pushed it into the margin of that day’s Hürriyet, flown in fresh from Istanbul. “What do they want from you? The Stasi starting up its own flea market?”

  “I deal in antiques, not junk. They want me to transport something into the Soviet Union without the Sovs finding out.”

  “The commies always seemed weird to me, but I thought above everything els
e they stuck together like Jews.” He lowered his visor and studied a proof. “Look at this! Another line break.”

  “Seems okay to me.” Faith tossed it onto the table after a polite glance. “Yeah, spying on the enemy is one thing. It’s embarrassing to get caught, but they have the routine down. Relations chill; the other side arrests known spooks, then they all meet on the Glienicke Bridge for a spy swap. There’s even an East Berlin lawyer who specializes in arranging spy exchanges.” Faith sipped her tea.

  “I thought I caught everything when I touched up the neg. This isn’t my day. Last time I pulled a proof, all the lines were too thin from overexposure. Can you hand me that stylus by your right hand?”

  “This thing? I think my dentist stuck one of these in my mouth last checkup.”

  “This has to be perfect before I can do a run. You wouldn’t believe what I went through to get the right paper, and I only found a couple of sheets.”

  “Give me a swatch and what you know about it—where it was produced, where it was used—and I’ll see what I can do. I know a paper collector in Karl-Marx-Stadt. If it’s old or from the East, either he’s got it or knows where to find it. I hope this means you finished the job for me.”

  “Faith, I don’t know if I’m ever going to finish it. It’s not safe for you. Why don’t you sit this one out? The big boys play for higher stakes than a couple of old dishes. It’s not like you’re dealing in something really valuable like jewels that might be worth some risk.”

  “Anyone can traffic stones. You have to make the documents for me in case I get trapped over there again.”

  Hakan used his palms to pick up a set of newly minted papers. He compared the fresh stamp to one in a worn booklet and then motioned for her to come closer.

  “This is an Aryan pass? What the hell are you doing making Nazi documents?”

  “It’s a new product line. An Aryan pass can get you German citizenship. It did for me. The government accepts them as proof of enough German blood to qualify as a citizen. Fascist bastards. But I’m telling you, there’s a huge untapped market in the Turkish community alone.”