A second official entered the cabin. “Customs control. Your customs declaration, please.”
Merde.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
EMBASSY OF THE USSR, DEMOCRATIC BERLIN
The KGB technical support staff moved the antenna up and down along the walls of the cultural attaché’s office as if washing a window with a squeegee. Bogdanov noticed him pausing for a moment near a picture of Gorbachev joking with assembly-line workers. For months the cleaning crew had ignored the coat of filth along the frame, but in the few hours that Bogdanov was away in Moscow that morning, someone had been inspired to dust. The technician finished the wall and removed his headphones.
“The room’s clean.”
“Would you mind leaving your equipment behind? I’ll have it sent to you shortly,” Bogdanov said.
“I can’t. I’m responsible for it.”
“Since when is anyone around here responsible for anything? That’s an order.”
He set the device on the table. “I should stay in case you have any questions about how it functions.”
“Dismissed.”
The lieutenant left the room.
“What’s this all about?” Bogdanov’s assistant, Major Alexander Ivashko, tapped his pen on the cherry-wood desk.
Bogdanov held a finger in front of her lips and put on the earphones. She walked over to the print and moved the dial to the highest sensitivity setting, noting the low setting where the tech had left it. She waved the antenna over the corner of the frame. It shrieked. She yanked the earphones off and rubbed her ears. Even with the low sensitivity level the tech had used, the tone was unmistakable.
She removed the picture and found a tiny slit cut into the brown-paper backing. She ripped away the paper, furious someone was checking up on her. A transmitter was lodged in the corner of the frame. She plucked it out. Both the MfS and KGB used the Soviet-designed remote-listening device in their arsenals of tricks, but, with German perfectionism, the MfS had its own improved production line. She recognized its origins immediately.
Made in the USSR.
She dropped it into a cup, splashing stale coffee onto the desk. Without bothering to wipe up the spill, she donned the headphones again and swept the entire room. After her search yielded no additional eavesdroppers, she sat down in an armchair across from the major.
“Us or them?” Ivashko said.
“Who would ever have thought ’us or them’ would mean KGB or MfS?”
“I heard Titov was throwing bottles across the room when he found out you’re reporting directly to Moscow instead of to him. How’d you know the tech was lying?”
“Some of my dust was missing. And the tech jerked his head a little when he got the hit.”
“You think it’s Titov?”
“Probably, but I don’t want to get caught up in residency politics.” And she didn’t want to speculate with Ivashko that Stukoi might even be behind it. From now on, she’d trust no one. “Moscow wants us to find FedEx, fast. She can’t go directly to West Berlin from the East. She’s a known quantity. She’ll somehow get to West Germany and fly to West Berlin. We’ll catch up with her there. I want the officers assigned to both Tegel and Tempelhof to be on the lookout for her. Have them check the arrival manifests for the last couple days. Get them her photo, known aliases. And check with every hotel in West Berlin. Put your best surveillance team on the Turk she lives with. She’ll contact him and the Turk will take us to her.”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
A lie told often enough becomes the truth.
—LENIN
EAST GERMAN–POLISH BORDER
12:03 A.M., WEDNESDAY, APRIL 26
Faith sat on the bench in the stuffy train compartment staring at the seat numbers, feeling trapped. She hated herself for being so careless as to forget the customs-declaration form. The Berlin border guards never bothered with it and their complacency had lulled her into her own.
The customs official stood before her and repeated his request for her form.
Charbonnier. Je suis Madame Charbonnier. But the real Charbonnier wouldn’t understand the seriousness of her faux pas. So from that second on, neither did Faith.
“Rien à déclarer,” Faith said as she studied the hammer-and-compass state seal on his uniform’s aluminum buttons.
“This one,” the East German customs official said in heavily accented French and held up a declaration form.
“I have none.”
“You fill one out when you arrive in the GDR.”
“No, no. I have nothing like that. I filled out a card and paid five marks. The officer in Berlin gave me the visa. That was all.” She shook her head with stereotypical French indignity.
“Wait here.” The officer stepped into the hall and called his supervisor.
“So what do we have here?” the supervisor said in German.
“The Frenchwoman. She has no customs declaration.”
“What does she have with her?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t have the form.”
“Find out what’s she’s got.”
The official turned to Faith and asked for her luggage in broken French.
“This is all.” She waved her hand over her plastic bag. “My valise and purse were stolen at Bahnhof Zoo in West Berlin. You can contact your colleagues there. I made a police report. There was no time to buy anything or I would have missed my train.”
The officer translated for the supervisor. The older man shook his head. “Tell her she should have gone shopping in the West when she had the chance.”
Exactly twenty-four hours after Faith had left Jürgen’s apartment, she arrived at the Hotel InterContinental in West Berlin—ten kilometers from where she started. She showered and crawled into bed. CNN International repeated a story about the environmental impact of last month’s Exxon Valdez oil spill, but she was too groggy to care yet too wired to sleep. Sometime the next morning, a persistent knock jarred her into consciousness. Every muscle in her body complained of its miserable existence as she jumped from the bed and fumbled with the hotel robe. She rushed across the room and pressed her ear against the door.
“Hey, it’s me. Open up,” Hakan said.
She unbolted the door and shielded herself from view behind it. Hakan squeezed through the crack in the doorway and then she locked the door. She slid her arms around him and didn’t let go even after she noticed her robe soaking up moisture from his drenched trenchcoat. She squeezed too tightly and sharp pain radiated from her ribs.
“You okay?” Hakan said.
“I’m going back to the States.” Her voice was weak.
“I’ve called the Interconti nonstop since the telegram. I haven’t been able to get any of my work done except your backlog. You know, I even considered going East to try to find you.”
“Really? You’d break your vow for me?”
“I said ’considered.’ ” He flashed a smile, but she didn’t return it.
“I would have given anything to have had you there a couple days ago. Your junior-counterfeiter’s kit was a lifesaver.”
“What can I say? You trained with the best. I do have some ideas about things I’ll add next time . . . if there is a next time.” Hakan placed his wet umbrella in the wastepaper basket beside the writing table and set a small suitcase on the floor. “How serious was it?”
She turned away from him and walked to the window. She pushed back the heavy drapes and peeked out. Sheets of rain nearly hid the bombed-out shell of the Gedenknis Kirche. She jerked the curtains shut before anyone could see her. “It’s over.”
“No way.”
“The goddamn Cold War’s gone hot on me, too hot. I can’t do it anymore. I’m getting out,” she said in a monotone.
“I never thought you’d come to your senses and, honestly, I don’t believe it. You can’t let go that easily. You’re an addict.”
“I just overdosed. I’m leaving Berlin and getting
out of Germany and I don’t give a crap if I ever set foot on this screwed-up continent again.”
“I’ll never understand what you see in the whole communist mystique, but it’s what you do, who you are. It’s what you grew up with, for Christ’s sake—and I mean that literally and figuratively.”
“Then I’ll just have to join a twelve-step group to get over it. ’Hi. My name’s Faith. I’m a spy-a-holic. It’s been nine days since my last strip-search.’ ”
“This isn’t like you.”
“And it’s not like you to encourage me to stay in the game.”
“If I told you to get out, you’d jump right back in. I’ve had a lot of time to think since the telegram. At first I thought I should do whatever it took to get you to get out, but then I realized it would be a tragedy. You wouldn’t be you anymore. I’ve seen it before when people abandon their loves. It’s not pretty. Granted, I think it’s strange what you do, but it gives you life. Regular jobs drain it from you. You know what it’s like to have a zeal for your work and you won’t settle for less, but less is pretty much what’s out there.” He turned on a lamp beside the bed. “You also can’t stay in the dark like this.”
Faith squinted as she adjusted to the light. “I’m not as pathetic as it looks, holed up in a dark hotel room. I really was sleeping before you got here.” Faith ran her hand along the base of the desk lamp, gathering dust as her fingers searched for a switch.
Hakan disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a towel. “What would you do? You’re not the nine-to-five type.”
“I have a real doctorate from Michigan. I could become a real professor.”
“I can’t see you grading freshman papers and dreaming of the upcoming alumni tour you get to lead down the Ohio. Maybe during your lecture you’d get to drop a story or two about your last secret-police encounter—the big one that put you on the sidelines and sent you downriver with a bunch of geriatric donors.”
“The price is too high to stay in the game. They’ve threatened my life if I don’t cooperate and do a run to Moscow.”
“That’s old news.” He mopped the beads of water from the valise, turning the towel brown as he wiped through strata of dirt.
“The KGB thinks the Stasi’s likely to kill me even if I do cooperate. They offered to help, but it’s all too much.”
“Not for the Faith Whitney I know. That’s enough to pique her interest.” He leaned into the bathroom doorway and threw the soiled towel onto the floor. “What did they do to you?”
“Held me for days of questioning and dumped me in a park—without my glasses or my passport.”
“That should have been enough to get you hot and bothered. So why aren’t you plotting the overthrow of communism or some other way to pull their pants down? They did something else to you, didn’t they? Look at me and tell me nothing else happened.”
Faith returned to the window and glanced outside. She closed the dusty curtains, but held on to them in silence. After a minute she spoke. “I can’t go up against the entire Stasi alone.”
“You have before. And I thought you said it seemed like only a small group or cell or gaggle or whatever they’re called.”
“It’s a handful at best. They definitely want to keep it contained.”
“So it’s you up against a couple of secret agents and the KGB volunteered to help. If it weren’t against my religion, I’d put my money on you.”
“That’s sweet of you, but it’s time to roll up shop for a while. Set me up with American papers, someone not very well traveled, no Middle East, no communist stamps. I want to go through US customs without anyone looking at me twice. If I need to get a message to you, I’ll go through Bahadir. Just make sure he knows not to tell you anything over the phone.”
“He knows your standard procedure—gets quite a charge out of it.”
“You’re going to have to take me seriously on this one.” She peeked out the window. She didn’t recognize anyone or anything suspicious, but the rain blurred everything. “I’m not paranoid. It might interest you to know the Stasi has a camera in our kitchen. And you were almost ready to commit me when I first insisted the phone was tapped.”
“What right do they have to spy on me? I’m calling the Verfassungsschutz.”
“And tell them that the Stasi is observing you eat your Rice Krispies? Snap, crackle, pop.”
“They can’t do that. This is West Berlin—not their Berlin.”
“It’s all their Berlin. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“What the hell do they want with our kitchen?”
“Forget about the kitchen. What I’m worried about is your study. I don’t want them to see what you’re doing for me. Look around and even check the smoke detectors I brought over from the States, though I doubt the installers ever stray from their usual tricks.”
Hakan opened the suitcase. Usually he was an exacting packer, but the clothes were wadded and shoved together. Faith could tell he had left the flat immediately when he knew she was back in town. She felt his concern in every wrinkle.
“I have a new identity for you—Jutta Menning. Oh, I nearly forgot; this arrived on the doorstep for you yesterday evening.” Hakan dropped a small package onto the crumpled bedspread. The distinctive coarse gray paper bound with twine screamed “Made in the GDR.”
“They won’t leave me alone.” She tugged at the string. Hakan pulled a knife from his pocket and sliced it open. A glass case was accompanied by an envelope with her name typed on it. She flipped the case over and read the gold inscription: MADE FOR KARL-ZEISS-JENA. She slid the glasses onto her face. “The Stasi interrogates me for days, threatens my life, dumps me in a bog in the middle of the night, but goes to the trouble of finding a glass case and a nice one at that. Go figure.” She pulled her glasses off and held them up to the lamp for inspection. “They even cleaned the lenses.”
“They might be commies, but they’re still Germans.”
“After this, I’m going back to my contacts. Did you bring them?”
“In your cosmetic bag. Faith, look at me and tell me what they did to you.”
She glanced at him and then turned away, shaking her head. He put his hand on her shoulder. She slowly turned her head back to him. Dean Reed. “They held me under the Spree.”
“That could make you really ill. You didn’t swallow any, did you?”
“I never swallow.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Hakan smiled, exposing his mouth full of gold fillings.
“I didn’t think they were going to drown me at first because they need me, but when the water got into my lungs, I thought it was over.” Her affect was flat. “I just went through Warsaw and both Frankfurts to go a couple of blocks across this schizophrenic city.”
“I’m not responsible for your poor sense of direction.” Hakan paused while he studied her eyes. “Come on, laugh for me. You’re starting to scare me, and I’m not talking about the Stasi stuff.”
“Nothing like a near-wrongful-death experience to shake you up a bit,” Faith said.
“I could handle it if you were agitated, but if we hooked you up to a heart monitor right now, we’d see a flatline. When did you start feeling this way?” Hakan hoisted a suitcase onto the bed. The leather trim was worn to a slick, shiny finish.
“Don’t go crawling into my head,” Faith said, then paused to think. “I guess I kind of shut down when I made the decision to quit.”
“Think the two are related?”
“Back off, Sigmund.” She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. She looked him in the eyes for the first time that morning. “You might be on to something. Before the decision I was angry and terrified, but I felt alive, very alive. You can’t imagine the thrill of facing death and beating it, beating them. I realize it sounds warped.”
“At least you’re aware how sick it is.”
“Thanks. I was in the Lufthansa office in Warsaw when I came to terms with the fact that it was time to move
on; things had become too dangerous. Since then I’ve felt as empty as the dead zone between Berlins.”
“I’m going to hate myself for pointing this out, but you’re quitting before you get your payoff. You passed their initiation test—whatever it was about.”
“They had to believe I wasn’t working for the KGB.”
“And you convinced them of that now?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Have you thought of any other way to find your father?”
“Even if I could bring myself to ask my mother and if she’d tell me everything she knows—both highly unlikely—she’d never know how to find him now, not thirty years later. Cooperating with Schmidt is the only way unless the KGB comes through for me, but they’ll only help me if I work with Schmidt.” She sighed.
“All you have to do for him is a Moscow run?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you?”
“You know I’ve done it all my life.”
“Then do it. Find out about your father and don’t ever mess with them again.” Hakan watched her and after a pause he spoke. “So, how are you going to do it?”
“I was thinking about using the Estonian mafia through the Gulf of Finland as a backup plan.”
“I thought you were retiring from the business.”
“It’s not a business—it’s a calling.” Faith smiled.
“More like an obsession. Welcome back.”
Someone knocked at the door. Faith jumped. She glanced at Hakan, who shrugged. He stood to answer it. Faith fled into the bathroom.
“For Frau Charbonnier.”
“Go ahead and put them on the desk.” A pause. “It’s okay. You can come out now.”
“What was that all about?” Faith walked over to the bundle on the desk. She folded back the paper. Roses. A dozen long-stemmed red roses. How could he have been so careless to call attention to her—especially now? Hakan had never given her flowers before, and it had been too long since someone else had sent her any. The damage was done, so she might as well feign appreciation. As she picked them up, a pink envelope fluttered to the worn carpet. Hakan sprang from the bed to retrieve it and handed it to her.
Rift Zone Page 11
