Happy Birthday. Weather bad here. Hope your day is clear. Love MP.
She shoved it across the table to Jürgen and hoped Hakan hadn’t again disappeared on another wild date.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Sometimes . . . when you stand face-to-face with someone,
you cannot see his face.
—GORBACHEV
LUBYANKA (KGB HEADQUARTERS), MOSCOW
Colonel Bogdanov entered the new KGB building through the main entrance on Dzerzhinsky Square, masking her true emotions as she had learned to do in Party meeting after Party meeting. The palatial entrance with its towering marble columns, crystal chandeliers, plush red oriental carpets and mahogany paneling was too reminiscent of the opulence of tsarist and Stalinist designs for her taste. The illusion of grandeur only reinforced the feelings of omnipotence among the petty bureaucrats working within those walls. And she had seen too many suffer at their hands.
A few minutes later, she entered Stukoi’s outer office. The warm greeting from his secretary indicated she was anticipating another gift from Germany. Good.
“Pyatiletka, every time I see you, you look younger,” Bogdanov said. In truth, every time she saw her, she not only had aged, but had also added to her babushka physique.
“Did you get my cheese? The one with the peppercorns?” Pyatiletka said.
Bogdanov sat in the chair beside her desk and suddenly found herself looking up at the stumpy woman. She was certain Pyatiletka had sawed off a few inches from the chair legs so that she could tower over any visitors. “Any news for me?”
Pyatiletka took a deep breath, leaned closer to Bogdanov and spoke in hushed tones. “I hear that General Titov isn’t happy about your being reassigned away from his direct command. He threw quite a fit here a few days ago. I’d watch my back around him, if you know what I mean. He has family in high places. Remember what he did to Skorik.”
“How is he?”
“He was here a few weeks ago. He left Afghanistan, but it hasn’t left him. Sometimes I wonder what the point of this place is. What is the point? Everyone’s scurrying around, recruiting agents, stealing enemy documents. We’re all up to here in information.” The fat of her upper arm sloshed back and forth when she held her hand above her head. “And despite all of it, we only write reports of what our leaders want to hear. Now I was talking to a girl in the typing pool—I can’t say who—I think you understand. She says it happens to her all the time. She types up a report from one of our boys and it goes to his supervisor. Three days later the supervisor makes her retype it, only this time, things are all rosy: Socialism is on the march and the imperialists are cowering in fear. And that’s always the report with the distribution list for people at the top. I don’t know how anyone can know what’s really going on in the world from the whitewash that comes out of here.”
“That’s why Gorbachev has been trying—”
“Don’t get me started on Gorbachev.” Pyatiletka made a spitting sound. “You can’t buy anything right now on my salary. Speculators everywhere steal goods that are supposed to go to state stores and sell them for too much. They’ve siphoned everything away from the stores. In Stalin’s day, none of this would happen.” She wagged her plump finger.
Bogdanov dropped a package wrapped in white butcher’s paper onto her desk. She motioned with her head toward Stukoi’s office. “So, what’s the big boy up to lately?”
Pyatiletka shoved the German cheese into her drawer. “Do you think you could get me some bratwurst next trip?”
Bogdanov nodded.
Pyatiletka’s eyes darted back and forth and she made an exaggerated check for eavesdroppers. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Ever since you were here last, he’s been leaving at odd times. He won’t tell me what he’s up to. At first I thought he had swapped mistresses again, but I asked the other girls. Now, you didn’t hear this from me, but Zolotov, Karlov and Gasporov have all been unaccounted for at the same times.”
“I thought Stukoi despised Karlov.”
“And Titov hasn’t spoken to Gasporov in over ten years—until this week. But remember, you didn’t hear it from me.”
When Bogdanov entered Stukoi’s office, he greeted her, ignoring the ringing bank of telephones beside his desk. He motioned toward the sofa and walked over to join her. Bogdanov was surprised at the uncharacteristic engagement of her former mentor, who was famous for endless telephone conversations in the middle of scheduled meetings. Even when he was attentive, he was skimming field reports.
He wants something.
Whatever it was, she wouldn’t give him FedEx—not yet. All assets were disposable to him, and she didn’t want him making any decisions that might put the woman at further risk. Kosyk endangered her enough.
“You’ve generated significant interest around here.” A cigar dangled from his mouth as he spoke.
“I thought we were going to keep this very quiet.” Bogdanov studied his face, but couldn’t read him. He was too professional to let any hint slip that might confirm Pyatiletka’s suspicions.
“Tell me what our Germans are up to.”
“They’re attempting to use an American agent I’ve designated FedEx to move goods from here to Moscow. My working assumption is it’s some type of weapon, most likely American-built. What I’m not so sure about is why they’re using a courier unless it’s part of a scheme to blame the Americans. I wouldn’t be surprised if they plan on burning the agent to expose CIA involvement.”
Stukoi took a long drag from the cigar. “Assumptions, speculations. What do you know?”
“The Germans are going to run into difficulties controlling FedEx. She’s got a mind of her own and knows how to use it.”
“Sounds like some of the problems we’ve had controlling our agents—don’t get me started about problems with some of our immigrants to Israel. We help the goddamn Zionists get there and then, once they’re there, they thumb their big noses at us.” He tapped the cigar on the edge of the crystal ashtray.
“Kosyk didn’t exactly approach her with a soft touch. After she met with me, he had a long talk with her—at least a day long and counting. I’m assuming they wanted to know what we wanted with her.”
“You fool! And you’re speculating again. Don’t you know anything? How could you be so sloppy as to let them know we’ve approached FedEx?” He banged his fist on the coffee table and ashes toppled from his cigar. “Why did you have to screw it up?”
“I salvaged the situation. FedEx came to me in the embassy on an unrelated matter and requested a follow-up meeting. At that point, I knew they would assume I was running her. I chose a very public place for her to refuse to cooperate with us.”
“You took a big risk. Too big.”
“I trust my judgment. And now we have them convinced we’re not a threat.”
“Or at least that you didn’t turn their stubborn agent. You idiot, Bogdanov. Stupid moves like this are why you’ll never make full colonel.”
“FedEx is mine,” she blurted out and immediately regretted it. “I turned her.”
“Interesting. Get back to Berlin immediately and find FedEx after they let her go and make damn well sure she’s cooperating with them—and us. When you meet with Kosyk, tell him General Karlov sends his greetings. His Moscow garrisons will not be coming out in defense of Mr. Gorbachev.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
EAST BERLIN
Faith slept until noon, awoke long enough to stumble into the bathroom and then went back to bed. It hurt too much to breathe deeply, so she settled for short, shallow breaths. The stabbing pain was now intermittent. Mostly she ached.
She tossed and turned for hours, worried that Jürgen had gone to the Stasi. When her fear became strong enough to force her awake, she got up and dressed in his ex-wife’s clothes. At least now she had the costume to pass for an East German while she wandered the streets trying to devise a better escape plan. Then she heard Jürgen walk int
o the apartment. She checked outside the window for a fire escape, but the building’s architects didn’t plan on a fire. She took a deep breath and went into the living room.
He carried flowers and an assortment of groceries she recognized from Delikat, the state-run chain selling Western and high-quality Eastern goods at inflated prices. She smiled and helped him carry the bundles into the kitchen.
Faith sat at the table and sipped a Vita-Cola. Over her years in the East, she had grown fond of the East German Coca-Cola imitation. She swished it in her mouth, savoring the full-bodied kola-nut flavor as her short fingernails plucked at the chartreuse label, working their way toward the bear logo. Jürgen tossed a parcel onto the table. She caught it before it slid into the squat bottle. Its seal was still intact.
“Thought I wasn’t going to find your stuff for a minute. I didn’t realize I collect so much in a day or two.”
“Thanks. So I take it no one came around asking about me.” Her throat had quickly recovered and it no longer hurt to talk.
“I have to disappoint.” Jürgen rifled through a cabinet, clanking pots. “Come to think of it, the cultural attaché, Medvedev, did call just as I was walking out the door. She wanted to follow up on our visit. She asked about you, if I’d seen you lately or knew how to reach you.”
She feigned indifference, although she wanted nothing more than Bogdanov’s help to get out of the East.
“I told her you always seemed to pop up at odd times.” Jürgen pulled a pot from the cabinet, reached inside and retrieved a roll of West German marks. He held his forbidden life savings in his left hand. “Maybe this can help you get out of here.”
“That’s so sweet of you, but you already brought me everything I need.” She patted the package.
Jürgen nodded and bent down to return his stash to its hiding place. “Medvedev is interested in arranging an exchange for me with my counterpart at the Lenin Library in Moscow. It’d be interesting to review how the new access criteria are formulated now under glasnost.”
“You mean how they make up new censorship guidelines? Fascinating.” Faith tuned out Jürgen’s discourse on censorship criteria while she mulled over Bogdanov’s intent. She had made it clear that she couldn’t help her in East Berlin, so why did she try to get information about her? Faith finally interrupted the monologue. “I don’t mean to be rude, but there are a few things I need to take care of before I can be on my way. I have an appointment in a couple of hours.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“The less you know, the better off you are. Give me some time in private.”
“You need anything?”
“A flat surface, your brightest lamp and a magnifying glass, if you have one.”
“I’ve got one with my stamp collection. I’d offer you my desk, but I haven’t seen the surface in recent memory. Kitchen table okay? I’ll see what else I can find.”
Jürgen delivered a desk lamp and a scratched magnifying glass, then excused himself. She ripped into the package. It had seemed excessive when she assembled it, but now as she sat in East Berlin without her passport, it seemed minimal: a dog-eared French paperback, a plastic bag from Galeries Lafayette, an oversized European wallet, three train tickets, a blank East German transit visa and a cardboard box. She opened the wallet and counted the banknotes—five hundred dollars, fifteen hundred marks and three thousand francs. She hoped it would be enough.
She removed her new passport, République Française. Hakan had done a flawless job replacing Marie-Pièrre Charbonnier’s picture with hers. Madame Charbonnier was a few years older, but, given her recent experiences, she was certain she could pass.
The Berlin border guards would be on alert for her and several knew her by sight. It seemed ridiculous to take a roundabout route to get to the other side of town, but this was Berlin and the two parts of the city were worlds apart. She fanned out the Reichsbahn tickets purchased in the West: Hamburg, Praha and Warszawa. The frontier to West Germany was almost as tight as to West Berlin, and they would expect her to head West, so the Hanseatic city was out.
Security between Eastern Bloc countries was high, but not as severe as between East and West. She had considered Prague, then making her way to West Germany, but the Czechs were more Prussian than the East Germans and might cause trouble for her on their side.
On the Polish-German frontier, the focus was on political and economic smuggling, the emphasis shifting with the direction of the border traffic. Guards scrutinized arrivals from the East for any Solidarity or glasnost contaminants. Eastbound travelers to Poland were searched for East German consumer goods; chronic shortages of basic necessities in Poland ensured a thriving black market between the two countries. No one would expect her to head farther east to flee to the West. She selected the one-way ticket to Warsaw and shoved the rest aside for disposal.
The ticket, passport and money were useless without the appropriate East German visa and corresponding entry stamp. Hakan had already taken care of the Polish document—a business visa valid for the next three months. Faith wished he could have done the same with the East German one, but GDR transit visas were only issued on the day they were valid and they were only good for the expected length of the journey. The East Germans had high standards.
Hakan had assembled everything she needed to issue herself a visa into a cigar box. She prayed that the years of watching his meticulous work were enough. If only she had paid more attention to his tedious instructions.
She calculated her fictitious time of entry. The evening train would leave Bahnhof Zoo in West Berlin at 9:45 and in about ten minutes it would enter a secured area of the Friedrichstrasse station, where border guards processed the transit visas for travelers to Poland and beyond. Her entry time into the GDR would be twenty-two hundred hours—two hours away. She picked up the rubber stamp and studied it, admiring Hakan’s carving skill. The state seal of the GDR was in the upper left corner, an electric-train icon in the other. Faith needed to insert the date and hour into the middle of the rectangular stamp. She opened the box, unfolded a tissue paper packet marked TIME, and squinted to make out the rubber numbers he had sculpted for her.
The rubber-cement vial had glued itself shut. On the way to the sink she managed to twist it open. She scraped a toothpick against the brush to collect a small drop and dabbed it into the middle of the stamp. She turned the toothpick around and removed the excess. Pain zinged through her rib cage and she jumped. Holding her breath, she picked up the tiny number, flipped it backwards, and teased it into place. As she had seen Hakan do countless times, she held the stamp at eye level and checked the alignment. She shook each bottle of ink and twisted off the caps. She dipped a toothpick into the blue ink, smeared it on the lower third of the stamp and then repeated the process with red on the upper portion. She checked her fingers for splatters and stamped the passport, then the visa form.
With a flick of the razor blade, she scraped away the face of the rubber stamp, then dumped the shavings and the extra numbers into an ashtray. The flame of Jürgen’s lighter melted the evidence. Faith rolled it between her palms into a ball. She wished she could show it to Hakan, even though she knew her handiwork wouldn’t pass the master’s inspection. Fortunately he wasn’t a border guard working at a lonely outpost on the graveyard shift. She’d done a damn good job, under the circumstances.
The train rumbled into the East Berlin Hauptbahnhof just as Faith dashed up the concrete stairs as fast as she could, given her shooting pain. The wide green Soviet cars rolled by her, each displaying the state seal of the USSR. Destination signs hung on each one: PARIS, BERLIN, WARSZAWA, MOSKVA. Next came the Polish cars, but she waited for the more comfortable and cleaner Reichsbahn wagons. She held a second-class ticket, but would bribe her way into a first-class sleeper once in Poland. She climbed onto the train, favoring her right side, and searched for a seat.
The conductor blew his whistle and the train lurched forward. She steadied herself with the
rail as she walked along. She passed by a cabin filled with Arab students. The odds were good they would be closely scrutinized and she didn’t want to risk any guilt by association. Two Polish women sat in the next cabin along with a young man reading a French travel guide to Krakow. A conversation in her weathered French was something to be avoided, so she went on until she found what she was looking for. In the next compartment a couple sat together on the side facing the direction of travel. From their clothes, hairstyles and demeanor, she knew she’d found what she was waiting for: a staid East German couple probably off to visit relatives who got stuck in Poland when the German border was shoved west after the war. She went inside and settled into the window seat, facing west as the train carried her deeper into the East.
A little before midnight, the train rolled into Frankfurt an der Oder—the other Frankfurt. Faith placed the French paperback on her lap. She took her passport from the plastic bag and crumpled the bag on the seat next to her with the French logo visible. She was Marie-Pièrre Charbonnier, a French national, on her way to see Warsaw. Nurturing her anger at the fictitious thieves who stole her purse and luggage in West Berlin, she sank further into character.
“Passport control.” A guard slid the door open. A metal case hung around his neck by a wide leather strap. A small shelf folded down from it like the display case of a 1950s cigarette girl.
“Passports, please.”
Faith handed him her documents.
He glanced at her picture and flipped through the pages until he found her handiwork. The officer pulled out his stamp, aligned it with the edge and pressed it against the passport. He unfolded the visa, stamped it and filed it in his case.
“Please.” He held the passport out to Faith.
“Merci.” She smiled but didn’t exhale. She wasn’t in Poland yet.
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