The Nazi's Son

by Andrew Turpin

  Johnson threw up an arm to protect his face from the glass, but then felt something on his left wrist and looked down to see blood spurting from a cut.

  He pulled the Beretta from his pocket and flicked off the safety, covering the door with his gun. Another round cannoned into the wreckage of the mirror, splattering more glass over him. Johnson could hear the thud of running footsteps—Balagula was coming for him.

  Come on, close, Johnson willed the doors shut.

  The twin doors slid across just as a third shot sliced between them and into the light fixture on the elevator wall at the top of the shattered mirror. It plunged the car into darkness just as the doors clanged shut.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Friday, April 11, 2014

  Leipzig

  Johnson swore to himself in the darkness of the elevator car, his mind whirring at high speed. Balagula must have been sent by Severinov. Following the St. Petersburg encounter at the Yezhovs’ apartment, he must have realized the reputational danger to himself if Katya sent Johnson to see Helm and if Helm started talking.

  But who had tipped Severinov off about Johnson’s progress? There was no way the timing of Balagula’s visit was coincidental. It must have been the same mole who had leaked every other damn operation recently. And was Balagula operating alone? Severinov himself surely wouldn’t dare head into Germany on an assassination operation. Or would he?

  It also seemed unlikely that Balagula’s work was done in shooting Helm dead. Johnson had to assume that he too was on the hit list.

  The elevator doors opened at the third floor. At last, some light. Johnson gripped his Beretta and cautiously poked his head out of the car and checked carefully up and down the corridor before stepping out.

  His wrist was dripping blood, but he ignored it. He grabbed a fire extinguisher from a hook on the wall in an alcove nearby and put it into the elevator doorway so it would not close, effectively disabling it.

  Johnson looked up at the indicator lights above the elevator doors. The Russian would be able to see from the lights which floor Johnson’s car was at. The other car was on the ground floor. That meant Balagula could be about to use it to head up to his level.

  But there were also the stairs to consider. Johnson needed to check them too.

  First, he decided to try and change his appearance as much as possible. It might just cause a few seconds of confusion when Balagula came looking for him again, possibly enough to save his life. He only had two props on him: a black woolen beanie hat and a pair of plain glass black-rimmed glasses, both of which he had brought from Berlin.

  Johnson quickly put both items on and moved swiftly to his right toward the stairwell door, just a few yards away.

  He stood to one side of the doorframe, then opened the door a fraction, poking his head around it just enough to see down into the stairwell. There was nobody visible. Johnson took a step onto the landing and edged closer to the railing that ran around the edge of the stairs so that he could see down to the levels below.

  There was a loud clang as a door banged shut below. It sounded close, so Johnson assumed it was on the floor directly below, out of his line of vision.

  But was it someone entering the stairwell or leaving it? He couldn’t see.

  Johnson swore silently.

  He decided against descending the stairs—he could be walking right into Balagula’s line of fire. Instead, Johnson retreated back into the corridor.

  Now the elevator indicator lights were showing the other car was heading up. It was at level two, one floor below. But was Balagula in it? Johnson had no way of knowing.

  He slid into the alcove that had housed the fire extinguisher and flattened himself against the wall, Beretta in his right hand.

  The distinctive whirr of the elevator stopped. There was a pause, and the doors slid open. Johnson braced himself to move quickly. But there was silence. He poked his head forward, just enough to see the elevator doors, which remained open.

  What the hell was Balagula doing?

  Johnson decided in that second to go on the offensive—he held the initiative and had the possibility of surprising Balagula and opted to use it.

  He emerged from the alcove and, holding himself flat to the wall, slid along until he was almost at the elevator doors. He raised the Beretta and stepped quickly forward toward the doors, ready to fire.

  But the elevator was empty.

  Shit. Where is he?

  The Russian must have pressed the elevator button for the third floor and sent the car up but had not gone with it. Johnson looked around for something in the corridor that he could use to disable the doors of the second elevator, but there was nothing.

  Then he spotted a picture hanging in a large frame on the wall. That would do. Johnson stepped over to remove it from its hook, but before he could do so, the elevator doors closed, and it began to descend.

  If Balagula could play games with the elevators, Johnson could too. He pulled the fire extinguisher away from the doorway of the first elevator, pressed the button for the ground floor, and sent the wrecked car with its floor littered with broken mirror glass on its way down.

  Then he ran down the corridor toward the fire escape. Maybe the elevator moving downward would distract Balagula sufficiently for Johnson to get to ground-floor level. Then, if Balagula decided to go up, Johnson could exit the building.

  Johnson slowly opened the door to the emergency stairwell, gun at the ready. There was nobody there. He began to descend the concrete stairs, treading as silently as he could.

  He made it to the landing for the second floor, and there was still no sign of the Russian. Johnson began to work his way down to the ground floor, his stomach now knotted, tension gripping his forehead like a vise.

  God, I’m too old for this game, he thought. Come on, concentrate.

  As he reached the ground-floor level and stepped off the bottom stair, Johnson’s biggest concern was the lack of cover: there was very little of it in this building—the corridors were straight and unfurnished, and there were few alcoves. He also could not afford to get into a physical fight with the powerful Russian. There would be only one winner in that contest. He needed to outthink him.

  On the wall, Johnson spotted a red fire alarm button next to the fire door that led to the main corridor. Maybe if there was no cover, Johnson could create some. Filling the corridors with people might be a good start. He brought the butt of his pistol down hard against the glass front of the alarm. Instantly, a piercing, whooping shriek began to echo through the building.

  Johnson waited until he heard doors starting to bang and open in the corridor behind the fire door. Immediately there came a chorus of screams and shouts. He knew what that was all about: they must have seen Helm’s body lying near the elevators. And surely the old lady with the shopping bags must have called the police by now.

  He slowly opened the fire door a little and glanced through the narrow gap. A group of people was gathered around someone on the floor farther up the corridor. That was obviously Helm.

  The fire alarm, coupled with the sight of Helm lying in the corridor, was causing panic among the residents as they emerged from their apartment doors.

  Women and girls were screaming and mothers were trying to steer their children around the body. Men were yelling into their phones, and doors were slamming. Now at least a score of people was in the corridor, all heading toward the main exit, jostling and pushing.

  There was no sign of Balagula.

  Johnson flicked the safety on and slipped his Beretta into his jacket pocket but kept his hand on it. He cautiously slipped out into the corridor and stood with his back to the wall, flattening his profile, just in case Balagula appeared. The layout of this corridor was similar to the one on the third floor. He slid along the wall and into the alcove near the elevators and then paused as a sea of people passed in front of him.

  A few seconds later, out of his peripheral vision, Johnson caught a glimpse of a figur
e dressed in black emerging from the elevators.

  Balagula.

  Johnson shrank back into the alcove, out of Balagula’s line of sight. He was certain the Russian hadn’t seen him, but any second he was going to appear before Johnson if he kept moving toward the exit.

  The problem Johnson had was that firing live rounds in this corridor would be asking for serious trouble, with so many adults and children all pushing toward the exit.

  He pulled his Beretta from his pocket and, holding it by the barrel, twisted his body a little in order to get a better angle. He readied himself.

  As Balagula suddenly appeared next to him, Johnson swung the butt of the gun hard, in as short an arc as he could, straight at the Russian’s temple.

  But Balagula must have seen it coming out of the corner of his eye because he raised his arm in self-defense, making some contact with Johnson’s pistol as it descended.

  Johnson’s blow was slightly deflected but still managed to strike Balagula’s skull hard. The Russian groaned and staggered backward, but as he did so, he pulled a pistol from his trouser pocket.

  Johnson saw what was coming and threw himself to the floor, just as an off-balance Balagula pulled the trigger. The round cleared Johnson’s head by no more than a few inches and smashed into the wall of the alcove, sending a cloud of plaster and dust over Johnson.

  There were screams from the people standing in the immediate vicinity, who then scrambled in both directions to get away from the gunfire.

  Immediately, Johnson, who was lying on his side, switched his pistol around in his hand and disengaged the safety while he rolled onto his front and loosed a round at Balagula, who had fallen off-balance and was on his backside no more than ten feet away.

  The round hit Balagula somewhere near his right shoulder, spinning him sideways, and his pistol fell out of his hand. The Russian let out a low-pitched yelp but managed to haul himself up, lean over, and grab the gun with his left hand.

  Johnson could see no alternative. He fired twice more. One round hit Balagula somewhere in the stomach, the next higher up in the chest, and he fell backward, arms outstretched, dropping the gun once more.

  Johnson scrambled to his feet, took a few steps, and dived past Balagula to grab the Russian’s pistol in his left hand. He rolled sideways, out of Balagula’s reach, and sprang to his feet.

  Johnson pointed his Beretta at Balagula, who was now lying on his back, clutching his chest, his shirt drenched in blood, and barely moving. Further down the hallway lay the motionless figure of Ludwig Helm.

  More screams came from a mother who was trying to shield her two toddlers from the fighting.

  “This Russian has killed the old man over there,” Johnson shouted in German. “Somebody call an ambulance. Call the police.” He backed away toward the exit into the street.

  When he reached the door, Johnson turned, pulled it open, and went into the street. He pulled his beanie farther down over his forehead and pushed his glasses up his nose. Then he started to run.

  Part Four

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Saturday, April 12, 2014

  Vienna

  The glare from the sun reflecting on the snow-white limestone facades of the buildings that lined Bankgasse Street in Vienna caused Johnson to hold his hand to his eyes.

  Without speaking, Johnson turned to Vic, who after being briefed following the shoot-out in Leipzig, had flown overnight directly to Vienna from Washington, DC. Veltman, who viewed tracing the mole as the CIA’s number one priority, had insisted that Vic return to Europe.

  Johnson pointed toward a ten-foot-high wooden door ahead of them. It looked as though it would have withstood a full-scale military assault, and judging by its battle wounds, it had probably been in service since the Second World War.

  The business that lay within was only identified by a discreet six-inch-square brass plaque on the wall that read Österreichische ZPW Bank.

  Johnson was about to push the wooden door open when he realized that Vic, behind him, was standing still, staring down at the concrete sidewalk, seemingly lost in thought.

  “Are you okay, buddy?” Johnson asked.

  He had tried to put himself in Vic’s shoes, given what had happened to his brother Nick, but found it hard. How could he know what his old friend was feeling?

  Vic shook his head. “Give me a minute. I’ll be all right.”

  After fleeing from Ludwig Helm’s apartment in Leipzig, Johnson had decided to drive rather than fly to Vienna to obtain the crucial piece of evidence he needed: the notebook, papers, and photograph detailing the part Severinov and his colleagues had played in allowing the bombing of the La Belle discotheque by Libyan terrorists to go ahead.

  It was a six-hour drive, but he figured that by the time he bought an air ticket and went through check-in and security processes at both airports, it was probably just as quick. More importantly, he was uncertain whether security forces and police might be on the lookout for him at the airport following the gunfight in Leipzig. Had anyone managed to get a good description of him? It was difficult to know, so traveling by car seemed a safer option.

  Both Johnson and Vic agreed it was crucial that there were two witnesses present when they took possession of the written evidence from the bank vault. It might help avoid any future disputes about the origin and authenticity of the documents.

  Johnson, his wrist bandaged after being cut during the shootout in Leipzig, had collected him from the airport and briefed him in the car on Helm’s story. He had played the entire recording of the conversation with the old man, which Vic had listened to without speaking.

  By the time the recording had finished, Vic’s face had frozen.

  “I’ll kill them, Joe. I swear. Those KGB lot, I’ll kill them,” he said eventually, his voice sounding thick and hoarse.

  Johnson nodded. “They could have stopped that bombing. There’s no doubt. Moscow knew about it, and they ruled in East Berlin. It was their call.”

  Now, outside the bank, Vic seemed to be overcome. Maybe it was the prospect of seeing the evidence he had long been waiting for—that would change his entire perspective of the bombing that had indirectly ended his brother’s life.

  Eventually, Vic looked up again. “Let’s go in. I’m fine.”

  Johnson nodded. He turned and pushed the aged wooden door open to find within a much more modern form of security entrance: an airlock system of double interlocking electronic doors made from bulletproof glass designed to control access and to effectively imprison any unauthorized visitor who might present a threat.

  He strode to the bank’s reception desk, explained that he wanted to access a deposit box, and waited until the assistant bank manager responsible for numbered accounts was summoned.

  The manager took Johnson’s and Vic’s credentials and used a handheld device to input the security details that Johnson provided: Helm’s name, the account number, and the password that he had given Johnson.

  Johnson was then asked to show the key, from which the assistant inputted the six-digit number. He was then asked for his passport, given the ledger to sign, and told to take a seat.

  After a twenty-minute wait, Johnson and Vic were taken down a corridor to another double-airlock security door, this time made from solid stainless steel.

  The manager opened both security doors using an electronic fingerprint recognition pad, and Johnson and Vic found themselves in a room lined floor to ceiling with brass security boxes; four padded chairs were in the center next to a long, narrow table.

  “Key, please,” the manager said, holding out his hand.

  Johnson handed it over, and the manager also produced a brass key from his pocket. He checked that the numbers on each were identical and used them to unlock a box halfway up the rack on the left. He did not open it.

  “There you are. Give me a call using that phone when you have finished,” the manager said, pointing toward a gray phone that hung from a wall bracket. “It rings my
number automatically when you pick it up. No need to dial anything.” He walked out.

  Johnson opened the box. Inside was a fat brown paper envelope, which he removed and placed on the table. He sat on one side while Vic sat on the other and opened the envelope.

  To Johnson’s relief, the contents were exactly as Helm had described. There was a notebook with a wire spiral binding, together with a few photographs and some separate sheets of paper that were stapled together.

  First Johnson focused on the stapled sheets. They were typewritten in German, and all had dates at the top from February, March, and April 1986. A short underlined heading on each read SSD/KGB TREFFEN. SSD/KGB Meeting.

  The SSD was an abbreviation for Staatssicherheitsdienst, the old East German State Security Service, otherwise known as the Stasi.

  Johnson flicked through the sheets, looking for the one that related to the meeting Helm had described.

  The sheet, yellowed and creased, its staple rusted brown, was dated Tuesday, March 11, 1986. Johnson placed it on the table so they could both read the text.

  “See that?” Johnson said, glancing up at Vic. “That’s three and a half weeks before La Belle.”

  Vic pressed his lips together but said nothing. Johnson had to keep reminding himself that for his colleague, this wasn’t just any old arm’s-length investigation.

  He read the text of the minutes. There was no preamble; it went straight to the business of the meeting, all written in summary form. The participants were identified by initials, not their full names.

  RS and LH started by informing YS, GY and AS that information had been picked up from Eter (a Stasi asset working at Libyan embassy in East Berlin) about a planned bomb attack by the Libyans at La Belle discotheque in Hauptstrasse. Attack scheduled to be carried out 1.45am on Saturday April 5 and bomb to be planted just prior to that. RS outlined concerns that such bomb attacks would put GDR in a bad light and disrupt trade between East Germany and West Germany.