Rift Zone

by Raelynn Hillhouse

  “Swell.”

  He carved on a rubber stamp, a tiny curl following the stylus blade. “Don’t go back there.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re here, too.” Faith detailed the interrogation and kidnapping.

  “Faith, I don’t want anything to happen to my best customer. It’s got to stop before you get hurt. The cavalier way you were talking about it, it didn’t seem like such a big deal.”

  “They said they knew what happened to my father.” She paused for a deep breath to steady her composure, but tears streamed down her face. “They claim he’s alive.”

  “Come here.” Hakan helped her from the chair and into his arms. He held her tightly. She allowed her body to relax against him for an unguarded moment. She sat back down, but he remained at her side. “At least promise me you’ll go to the Americans for help.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll march into the embassy. ’Hi, the Stasi is threatening my life and they just resurrected my dead father, so I thought I’d work for them, but I was wondering, would you like me to be a double agent or something? I know you didn’t want to hire me before, but I think you can see that I’ve positioned myself well to serve your current interests.’ “

  “Just promise me you’ll go to your embassy and ask for help.” He rubbed her neck. “Promise?”

  “Hakan.”

  “Faith, promise.”

  “Understand this is under protest. I promise I’ll think about considering going.”

  “That’s as good as I’m going to get, isn’t it?”

  “You know me. So does this mean you’re going to do my papers?”

  “I have to think about it.”

  “You still a student at the TU?”

  “In my thirty-fifth semester and haven’t gone to a single class yet. How else would I pay for health insurance?” He wiped fresh ink from the rubber stamp with a rag.

  “Someday the Germans are going to catch on and start charging tuition. So you can still get jobs through the student employment office?”

  “Haven’t done it in a while, but it’s not a bad way to pick up a few marks.”

  “Does Pan Am still use day laborers from there to clean the planes?”

  “You’d think after Lockerbie—”

  “I do my best not to think about airline security. I’m going to need you to be prepared to get something into Tegel for me. You don’t even have to take it on the plane—just past security. Please, just do the groundwork now so we’re ready to roll whenever they notify me. I’m dead if I don’t get something to Moscow for my new friends. I also need those documents to stash away so I’m prepared for my next rainy day over there.”

  “At least think about quitting. Take a little time off—go to the States and visit some friends. By the way, I almost forgot to tell you, Summer called early this morning. It must have been really late his time.”

  “What did he say?”

  “To tell you happy anniversary and you should give him a call sometime.”

  “Oh, no. I totally spaced it with everything that went on yesterday—not that I even could’ve called. This is the first time I’ve been living in the West that I didn’t call him on our former anniversary.”

  “He’ll get over it. It’s you I’m concerned about.”

  “Hakan, please try to understand. I have to find out.”

  “They could be making up the whole thing about your father. Why don’t you quit being so stubborn and ask your mother?”

  “I don’t even know what continent she’s living on right now and she’s not going to change her story. I’ve never even seen a picture of him. The only thing I have from him is a brief note Mama used to keep in her Bible and refused to show to me. I stole it when I was eight.”

  “Did it give you any kind of clue about who he was?”

  “Only that he was a German with old-fashioned handwriting. I couldn’t even decipher it until I was in high school. It wasn’t signed, but the way Mama acted about it, I knew it was from him.” She reached down and gingerly removed the worn paper from her wallet. She read it again before she handed it to Hakan.

  He pulled down the visor and examined it. “You’re right about the handwriting, but the note’s thirty years old and most adults would have written that way back then. The paper is interesting, though. You don’t see such coarse paper in the West except in the immediate postwar period. I’d say it’s from the East.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. I do know they met in Berlin, but that’s about all I know. I’m going to have to go along with them. It’s the only way.”

  “So you’re going back over there?”

  “I finally got the multiple-entry visa and they want something from me so they’re not going to arrest me before I do their job. That means I’ve got a window of opportunity right now to clean the place out and the Stasi will stand by and watch. I can’t pass this one up—I’d never forgive myself for the missed opportunity or for letting their scare tactics get to me. The game’s still afoot.”

  Hakan pulled a French passport from a drawer. “And I might not forgive myself, either, but you’ll have the new documents by morning.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  LUBYANKA (KGB HEADQUARTERS), MOSCOW

  THURSDAY, APRIL 20

  The director of the Counter Intelligence Service of the KGB’s First Directorate, Colonel General Vladimir Vladimirovich Stukoi, lowered his head to each of the dozen telephones lined up on the table beside his desk. He picked one up and spoke, but the ringing continued. One by one he slammed each phone into the cradle with a curse and continued his search for the ringing one. Colonel Bogdanov looked away so as not to embarrass the general. On the fourth attempt, Stukoi was united with his caller.

  Tired from the flight from Berlin, Bogdanov waited in the hard red leather chair, content to stare at a painting of Lenin inciting the crowds at the Finland Station to revolution. She didn’t like how tempted she was by Kosyk’s plan, but she was even more irritated that he knew it would get to her. If she went along with him, as the organizer of the Moscow side of the conspiracy, not only could she restore her father’s honor, but she could position herself nicely in the new regime. Very nicely. She had the connections to pull it off. The future of the Soviet Union—her future—depended upon what she would report to Stukoi, if he ever got off the phone.

  She absentmindedly straightened a lock of her short curly hair. She hated the curls. It was hard enough being taken seriously in the KGB as a woman without having curly hair, strikingly good looks and a taste for other women. At least she was tall, just shy of a hundred-eighty centimeters, and muscular. She trained and worked harder than any of her male colleagues because she had to be the best to have a shot at being equal. Restoring the old order would definitely assure her the respect she deserved—curls be damned.

  The director slammed the receiver down. Bogdanov motioned toward his phone bank. “I’m surprised that they didn’t put in the latest telephone-switching equipment when they built this new facility.”

  “My telephones are the most modern available.”

  “I mean the facilities to route multiple lines and numbers into one phone. It eliminates all but one of your phones and the need for a lot of operators. That would even save us on the copper wiring used for each individual line.”

  “We’re a very rich country. We have copper.” The general picked up a partially smoked cigar and champed on the end. “I must say I didn’t expect to see you in Moscow for some time. I take it you’re going to tell me who’s selling our communications algorithms to the Brits?”

  “We’re narrowing it down to the residency, but we don’t know yet.”

  “Then what’s so important? Let me guess: Honecker’s had an epiphany that his time is running out unless he gets with the program. The old fart’s ready to do something desperate and invade West Berlin?”

  “More like Moscow.”

  “Honie always was a cutup. I was at a get-together with hi
m once out at Brezhnev’s dacha. By looking at him, you’d never know the guy would turn out to be the life of the party. Every time Leonid left the room to take a leak, Honie would go into this great Brezhnev impression. I tell you, he had him down.”

  “He’s serious, sir. He’s plotting the assassination of Gorbachev.”

  “How the hell do you know that? You’re supposed to be in counterespionage, chasing after our own people. You screwing his daughter or something?”

  “Major General Gregor Kosyk of the MfS—”

  “I know Kosyk. Shifty little prick.”

  “Kosyk approached me on Honecker’s behalf. They’re convinced that the opening of the Hungarian border leads directly to the dissolution of the GDR, the Warsaw Treaty Organization and eventually the Soviet Union itself. In their scenario, not even the People’s Republic of Mongolia is left. Let’s just say, if the Germans are right, the Chinese are going to be pretty damn lonely.”

  “They’ve got a point there.” Stukoi waved his cigar.

  “Sir?”

  “Some of our analysts would concur; that’s all I’m saying. Why did he approach you?”

  “He’s known my father for years and he believes I have reasons to be dissatisfied with Gorbachev.”

  “And they are . . .?”

  “Personal, professional and ideological.”

  “That about wraps it up. Are you? Are you dissatisfied with Gorbachev?”

  Bogdanov shifted in her seat, searching Stukoi’s face for the right response. “I believe you know the answer to that.”

  Stukoi pursed his lips and nodded his head. His large brown plastic glasses slid down his wide nose.

  Bogdanov took out a cigarette and tapped the end on the table. “The bottom line is the MfS wants to lend its full support and cooperation to dissatisfied elements in the KGB to prevent the end of the Soviet era. Kosyk believes I’m cooperating with them and I’ve come to Moscow to recruit. He’s hoping I’ll even go outside the KGB and use my family’s contacts to go after key military officers.”

  “Keep him thinking that. Tell him I’m in and I expect Gasporov to join us. We’re going to let this one run its course, catch them in the act and then we’ll clean house. And you’re right not to trust regular communications; assume everything between here and Berlin is compromised. I’m putting a Yak-40 at your disposal. When you have something to report, do it in person. We’ll let it leak that you’ve been reassigned to Internal Affairs. No one wants anything to do with Internal Affairs. Nothing you do will be questioned.”

  “I’m sure you’re aware this jeopardizes my other investigation.” Bogdanov lit the cigarette.

  “A small sacrifice. Saving the General Secretary’s life will give you your choice of postings. Who knows, your father might even get his full pension restored.”

  “What about Titov? The resident isn’t going to like that I’m now reporting to you.”

  “You always have, anyway.” Stukoi lit the cigar. “You afraid of Gennadi Titov?”

  “All prudent officers at the residency are cautious, very cautious. Permission to speak freely, sir,” Bogdanov said, aware no conversation was ever truly off the record. “Mikhail Skorik was one of the best officers I ever served with. I witnessed how Titov fabricated reports to get his position. Misha was the one who earned the Berlin slot, but instead he was sent to chase mujahedeen in Afghanistan. At the risk of saying so, I wouldn’t be surprised if Titov would work with the Germans to eliminate Gorbachev if that would mean advancement.”

  “We nicknamed that devil years ago. You don’t fuck with the Crocodile. People still call Titov that?”

  “On occasion.”

  “I take it the Croc doesn’t know you came to me directly. You ran a hell of a risk.”

  She took a drag from the cigarette. “It was my duty.”

  “You’ve got balls, Bogdanov. You did the right thing, but you’ve got balls.”

  “I’m going to need more than that. Like West marks and a staff free to travel between East and West Berlin, surveillance people. I understand Kosyk is attempting to acquire an American asset, and I don’t intend to make things easy for him.”

  Stukoi cleared his throat. “Do not discuss this with anyone—and I mean anyone, including your father. You report to me and only to me. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.” The general turned toward a Robotron computer terminal on his desk.

  Bogdanov noted the letters he pecked on the keyboard with his two index fingers: KUSNV and LATA33. She smiled and hurried out the door. The logon and password would grant access to the highly guarded SOUD system of joint acquisition of enemy data. Every Warsaw Treaty intelligence network fed data into the system, providing precise descriptions of enemy agents and their suspected contacts. KGB paranoia limited access to only the highest-ranking counterintelligence officers. Now Bogdanov was among the privileged.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  The Party is always right. The Party. The Party. The Party.

  —EAST GERMAN COMMUNIST SONG

  GERMAN STATE LIBRARY, EAST BERLIN

  FRIDAY, APRIL 21

  Faith dashed into Jürgen’s office, a room the East Germans called the “medicine cabinet” because it housed what the Party believed should be kept out of reach of its children. The walls were covered with books and a mezzanine sagged with the weight of thousands of censored tomes. The air was heavy with the scent of a used bookstore; Faith could smell the pages yellowing. Jürgen closed the door and cleared a stack of books from a chair for her. His eyes were red and Faith thought she smelled whiskey on his breath. He picked up a blue and white packet of Sprachlos cigarettes and lit one before she could object. He had recently gone through a rough divorce and it seemed to Faith he wasn’t recovering very well.

  “You might be interested that this morning I sent a protest letter on behalf of the library to the Party’s Central Committee. Colleagues at all major libraries are also sending their objections about the recent censorship of Soviet periodicals. Right now I’m finishing up an appeal to Moscow for assistance.”

  “I thought you were the library’s chief censor. What gives?”

  “Read this over and see what you think.” He pushed a piece of paper across the table. “You haven’t heard, have you? They banned the last issue of Sputnik because of an article criticizing Stalin. Sputnik—not even a solid intellectual magazine, definitely telling of the cultural level of our Politburo. I’ve heard they’ll decide day by day if they’ll allow Pravda to be sold. Imagine our Party censoring the Organ of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the SU. The world’s coming to an end. It can’t happen.”

  She picked up the letter and read it. It reminded the Soviet government of the clause in the GDR’s constitution promising eternal friendship between the two countries and requested a symbolic intervention to pressure the East German government to follow Soviet reforms. Not once in the history of the Cold War had the East German communists defied the Soviets, and not since the worker uprising of 1953 had the passive East German public taken a stand against the government. Cold War melodrama didn’t get better than this. Faith was almost hooked. In fact, she was inspired.

  She saw a way out.

  Jürgen picked up a coffee pot from a hotplate where it had spent the better part of the day, judging from the burnt-coffee smell. He poured her a cup. “I’m meeting a rep from the university library in a few minutes to jointly deliver the letter to the Soviet cultural attaché.”

  “Mind if I tag along? This could really turn out to be big—the beginning of a political thaw here. Besides, as a guest researcher, I have an interest in access to research materials.” And I have an interest in public contact with the Soviet government.

  “I don’t know. But then, Americans don’t seem to be the class enemy anymore, do they? In fact, word has it Honecker’s doing his best to court your government for an invitation for a state visit to Washington.�
�� He wrapped a plaid scarf around his neck and put on a brown beret.

  “I’d rather not carry this package with me to the embassy. Do you mind keeping it for me?” Faith pulled a small bundle from her bag.

  “No problem. Give it here.” He tossed it onto a stack of books on the floor. “I suppose this means you’re coming along and you don’t want the coffee.”

  Ten minutes later, they met Jürgen’s colleague on Unter den Linden in front of the Bulgarian Cultural Center. The woman feigned interest in a display of an automated carpet loom, the Balkan state’s latest contribution to the industrial revolution. He introduced Faith to her and they marched to the embassy.

  The Soviet embassy was a granite cereal box built in the heyday of Stalinist architecture. Through the spiked wrought-iron gate, a bust of an angry Lenin snarled at passersby. He was no friendlier to Faith and her friends.

  A sentry radioed their arrival and let them in. Both librarians remained silent while they waited in the cavernous lobby. A photograph of Gorbachev hung on the wall across from Faith. His bright eyes stood out as welcome contrast to the usual dullness of Honecker’s. Soviet Woman, Moscow News and a pamphlet about the Autonomous Republic of Birobidzhan, the world’s first modern Jewish state, were scattered on an end table. Faith leafed through the Birobidzhani propaganda documenting Soviet generosity toward its Jews. It included rare photos from the depressed Zionist outpost beyond Siberia.

  The prospect of entering Soviet territory and meddling in East German affairs was precisely what had tempted Faith to go along. If the East Germans wanted her to smuggle something into the Soviet Union, they wouldn’t tolerate any contact between her and the Soviet government. Getting caught in the middle of a petty international squabble over a youth magazine might compromise her beyond usefulness. She hoped.