“I don’t think they dig many tunnels your size,” Jim said. He was dressed more casually than Karen had seen him before: gone were the suit and tie, replaced with coarse, colorless trousers and a slightly stained work shirt. He looked less like a CIA agent than a poor German laborer, but she guessed that was precisely the point. She had been a little flattered when he volunteered to go over with her, especially since she was short on escorts due to Garriety’s refusal to risk any more of his agents.
“Looks roomy to me,” said her other knight-in-homespun- armor, Dennis. He’d volunteered after Jim, maybe slightly more reluctantly, though he had seemed like he didn’t want to miss the party. “My whole life has been leading up to this moment: I’m finally glad both my parents were short.”
“It was not built for comfort.” The speaker stood at the foot of the stairs that led down from the main house. He was dressed like Jim and Dennis, though the simple clothes hung less like a costume on his sturdy frame. His hair and eyes were dark, his expression dour, and when he looked at her, Karen had the sense that their presence in his tunnel was a sort of violation. “It was built for expedience.”
“Thank you again, Dieter,” Jim said, moving past the others to shake his hand. “The United States owes you a great debt.”
“The United States can repay that debt,” Dieter said, “by helping me save more of my people from Soviet-imposed captivity.”
“We have,” Jim said. “You know we have; that’s why you’re here.”
“Every day that Wall stands,” Dieter said, “more Germans starve. More Germans freeze. Every day you in the West allow the Soviets to remain, we suffer.”
“We are grateful,” Jim said, squeezing Dieter’s arm. The German did not appear to appreciate the gesture. “And we’ll hold up our end of the bargain: money and manpower for this and your other tunnels. We’ll open the floodgates, pal. You’ll see.”
Karen wondered how much the digger had been told. Certainly he knew something of their mission; he would be coming with them for some of it, after all. But did he know that they were heading east in order to find someone to help keep the Wall standing? Not to keep the Germans in bondage to the USSR, but to prevent the chaos that would follow. Surely Dieter would understand. Surely Jim had made all that clear to him.
“We ready?” Dennis asked, eyeing his watch.
“Where’s the frog?” Alec asked.
“I am here,” said the last member of their party. The British had been content to be kept aware of the mission, with Alec acting as liaison between their governments. But the French were displeased by the whole idea and had required further coaxing. They had not wanted to “provoke” a response from the East Germans or worse, the Soviets, by an illegal crossing, especially when they were still ostensibly allowed access via the checkpoints. Arthur had prevailed eventually, but not before agreeing to allow a French agent to join them.
“Emile,” Alec said, “you’re looking chipper, as usual.”
“I was in a wonderful mood,” the Frenchman said, blowing out a cloud of cigarette smoke, “until they told me you were here.” It sounded like a joke, just without any trace of humor in his tone. Karen hoped that had been lost in the translation. “Why are you here?”
“I’m providing valuable oversight,” Alec said. “Someone has to make sure the Yanks don’t start a war.”
“We don’t start wars,” Jim said. “We just finish yours.”
“Yes, your knack for involving yourself in the business of other nations is unparalleled,” Emile said. Again, Karen couldn’t tell if the Frenchman was bantering or truly held the rest of them in that much contempt.
“We’ll remember you said that the next time Paris is getting bombed,” Jim replied.
It seemed someone needed to remind them that they were on a mission. “While you boys are having your little geopolitical pissing contest, I think I’ll just pop over to East Berlin for a bit,” Karen said, starting for the ladder. “Don’t wait up.”
“Feisty,” Alec said with an approving laugh. “You got Scottish blood?”
“Irish,” Karen replied.
“Close enough,” Alec said. He elbowed Jim in the ribs, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Take good care of her, gents. This one is a keeper.”
* * *
• • •
Karen was still not sure if she was claustrophobic. She was fairly certain, however, that she hated being in a narrow tunnel deep underneath Berlin. The damp, stale air threatened to steal the breath from her lungs. Run, the fear whispered to her. Run away, little girl.
It was fortuitous, then, that the others were ahead of her and behind; she couldn’t run even if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to, not really. And not just to show these men that she was just as capable as them, and not to prove that magicians were not cowards who hid at a safe distance while real patriots did their duty. No, this wasn’t about them; this was research. This mission was her laboratory and she was the test subject. She wanted to prove herself once and for all.
She did wish, however, that she had chosen an easier test to start with.
Dieter and Jim led the way and they stopped just as the tunnel widened into an antechamber. Battered shovels and picks were stacked in the corner. In the jaundiced light from the bulbs hung precariously along one wall, her companions looked ill and uneasy.
“The Wall is just ahead,” Dieter whispered. “When we pass under it, you will know.”
Jim raised his eyebrows at this, but for once, he made no reply. Karen chose to believe that was a good sign; he was taking this seriously. Though perhaps that meant the mission was more dangerous than she had realized.
They continued along the tunnel, hunched over and silent. No, she told herself, it isn’t getting narrower. It’s all in your head. It’s all . . .
The magic of the Wall pushed suddenly down, as if it were trying to drown her. She stumbled and choked, her body burning. A hand went instinctively to her locus. A host of defensive spells jostled each other in her mind. This was no fencing match; this was a real magical assault, and yet she couldn’t even control her thoughts long enough to cast the simplest of shielding spells. Her fingers clawed the soft sand of the tunnel floor, her voice dying silently in her throat.
Then a hand grabbed hers and pulled her forward. She scraped gracelessly along the dirt for a moment, and then the Wall’s magic receded. She breathed deep of the moist, chthonic air, oddly surprised to be alive.
The Wall had been designed as a barrier; clearly the spell took that charge seriously.
Dieter’s edged voice jangled in her ear. “It always affects magicians worse.” He helped her to her feet. “I should have made my warning more precise.”
She nodded, though not out of understanding. I warned you, the fear whispered with a laugh, but she just wiped the sand from her clothes. “I’m fine,” she said. “Let’s keep going.”
* * *
• • •
The world was dark when they reached the tunnel’s end. The lighting had stopped some ways back, but Dieter knew his way by feel and soon had them out of the earth and in some cramped basement on the Eastern side of the Wall. After a moment of fumbling in the black, he lit an oil lamp and hung it from a post.
“I have done what you asked,” he said, speaking to Jim. “Though I wonder why you would want to come.”
“Thank you,” Jim replied, taking his hand, repeating it in German.
“You okay, Emile?” Dennis asked. The Frenchman did seem pale.
“I am fine,” Emile replied, rubbing his forehead.
“Do what you came for,” Dieter said, nodding to a set of stairs so steep and narrow it was at least half ladder. “So we can return home. Being in the East makes me feel like a bag will be pulled over my head at any moment.”
The image made Karen’s skin prickle.
“Right,” Jim said, ignoring the grim German. “Dieter will stay here and watch the tunnel. Emile, you’ll find a place up top to watch. Either of you see anything, you have your radio.”
“If we see something,” Emile said, “it will already be too late.”
“That’s what I like about you guys,” Jim said. “Always looking on the bright side.”
Dennis tapped his wrist. “Moonlight’s burning, Jimbo.”
Everyone turned toward Karen. Ehle had said that she would know the way when they came. She had assumed he would show her how to find him via some sort of spell, but the encounter at the Wall made it difficult to sense any magic in the air now. But they had done what he asked and she doubted he would fail on his end; even speaking through the wind, she had heard the desperation in his voice.
“Alright, Karen,” Jim said. “Where to?”
SEVENTEEN
Her picture was still on his desk, where it had always been. Arthur couldn’t quite say why he hadn’t tossed it in the trash after she’d walked out on him. And then she’d gone off and died, giving him two perfectly good reasons to move on. He couldn’t have asked for better excuses for a clean break. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. Leaving the wedding ring in a drawer hadn’t been too hard. The skin worn smooth by twenty years of friction had even begun to take on a normal, healthy color. It was good, moving on. Natural. Expected.
But then there was the damn picture. Arthur picked it up. The frame had seen better days. Moving half a dozen times across Europe was bound to leave a mark, in more ways than one. She had enjoyed that at first: the intrigue, the mystery, the cloak-and- dagger, as she always called it. That hadn’t lasted long. It wasn’t the life he’d imagined when he signed on after the war. It certainly wasn’t the life she had wanted when she put that ring on his finger. They’d been just kids then: dumb, happy kids.
She didn’t look much older than that in the picture. Beautiful, full of life, beaming that irresistible smile over her shoulder, right at the camera. He was surprised she hadn’t cheated on him sooner really, a woman like that, left alone, her smile like a candle drawing all the horny moths. One of them was bound to get through. A matter of time really.
He hated her, of course. That was only appropriate. But he didn’t, couldn’t hate the woman in the picture. He pitied her. He wished someone could go back and tell her not to marry such a deadbeat. Find a man who will cherish you, someone who wouldn’t choose a job over being with you. Someone who’d sacrifice everything. Otherwise you’ll end up becoming something no one ever would have guessed: ugly.
He set down the picture and found the scotch. He didn’t like to drink at the office. Instead he usually saved it for the empty nights in his tiny apartment, when he could pretend for a moment that there was still a part of his life that wasn’t promised to the Agency. That fiction was getting harder to swallow these days. He poured some and then poured some more.
The office was quiet, for once, since he’d sent most everyone home early. No sense in anyone else knowing what they were up to. Plausible deniability and all that. Would make things easier for the war crimes tribunal.
Now he was just being dramatic. They sent people over the border all the time to spy on the Commies. Sure, they didn’t usually sneak in via illegal tunnels. And typically they weren’t civilians or magicians. If word got out, he had no doubt it would have a negative impact on diplomatic relations, but that was a problem for the diplomats. His job was information, something he sorely lacked right now. Here was a question for those suits at the State Department: which was worse, violating the borders of the German Democratic Republic or letting that same border go all to hell when the Wall collapsed on his watch?
He tried to take a sip of scotch, but somehow his glass was already empty. He tilted the bottle, but it was nearly dry. He groaned. It was too early in the night to run out; they probably hadn’t even violated any of the good international treaties yet.
There was noise out in the bullpen. He saw no one. Arthur drained the bottle and set it down slowly. The drawer he’d fished it out of was still open, so he retrieved what had been sitting next to it: a loaded Colt .45. Why so jumpy? The stentorian voice of his family’s Methodist reverend came to him then: The wicked flee when no man pursueth.
Arthur worked the slide on the pistol. “. . . But the righteous are bold as a lion,” he murmured.
“Chief?”
“Bill?” Arthur came out of his office, still holding the gun. Bill Holland was standing in the center of the room. He looked like he was suffering the worst hangover in history. His eyes were red with angry veins, his skin sallow and sweat sheened, and his knees boneless and uneasy. “What in the blue hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Sorry, Chief,” Bill said, a hand pressed against his temple, presumably warding off one monster of a headache. “I . . . I just . . .”
“Get to bed, Bill,” Arthur said, tucking the .45 in his waistband.
“I remembered something,” Bill said.
That got Arthur’s attention. He pulled out a chair before Bill’s legs gave way. The spy slumped gratefully into the chair. “Alright, let’s hear it, if it is so important.”
“I don’t remember much. It’s all still such a blur,” Bill said, grinding his fists into his eyes. “But something came to me. I was lying there and it just popped in my head. I don’t remember why it matters, but I thought I needed to get down here and—”
“I’ll tell you if it matters,” Arthur said, “once you tell me what it is.”
“Just a word,” Bill said. “‘Nightingale.’ That mean anything to you, boss?”
Cold sweat prickled his forehead. The remnants of his scotch tasted suddenly sour in his mouth. “Oh, hell,” Arthur said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “Where’s the damn phone?”
EIGHTEEN
East Berlin, for the most part, looked very much like West Berlin. They came up from underground far enough from the Wall to be out of sight of the guard towers and increased patrols, so all Karen saw was the same bleak landscape of lifeless buildings and potholed roads. Even the sky seemed unwilling to bother with the city, its face black-washed of any stars.
But there was something different here, even if it were just in the air: dread. Karen reminded herself that she’d asked for this, pushed for it. But now, facing down alleyways bound to conceal unfriendly eyes and waiting for the first Soviet tank to appear from around any corner, she started to think that maybe she should have become a dentist.
“I will wait for you there,” Emile said softly, motioning with only his eyes toward a nearly empty parking lot within sight of the building that housed the tunnel’s entrance. “If I see anything suspicious, I will use the radio.”
“Sure you don’t want to come with us?” Jim asked.
“I will wait,” he replied. “But do not make me wait long.”
“Roger that,” Dennis said.
“Alright, Karen,” Jim said. “Lead the way.”
She closed her eyes. There was something else different on this side of the Wall, something that had been left for her to find. She felt the cold night wind on her face, heard a car a street or two over, smelled the wet dirt on their shoes. And then there it was again: a trace of magic, a faint signal on some metaphysical wavelength.
“This way,” she said.
The metaphor was unflattering, but she felt like a bloodhound as Dennis and Jim followed her, oblivious to what only she could track. But was she the only one? Couldn’t anyone attuned to magic find the signal if they knew to look? She stopped, the scent lost. Focus, Karen. Forget the fact that you’re probably walking into a trap. Forget the fact that you want to run and hide. Forget and focus.
A moment later, her mind brushed up against it again and she took hold. She sensed the signal spooling out ahead of her, a delicate thread leading them toward
the center of the labyrinth. “Come on,” she said.
* * *
• • •
The signal stopped at an apartment building in Lichtenberg.
“You sure this is the place?” Jim asked, keeping his voice very low. They were deeper into the city now, and the farther they got from the Wall, the more people appeared. Few made eye contact or even looked in their direction, but that didn’t mean they weren’t listening.
Karen pressed hard on her locus. She could feel the familiar jagged edges against her palm. There was noise murmuring around her, the realities, magical and practical, of a city this big. And even this far east, the Wall droned in the distance, obscuring the signal. But it was still there, and it was coming from the fourth floor.
Not wanting to risk the foreign sounds of English, she nodded.
Dennis sighed and dug in his pockets for a cigarette. “I’ll watch the street,” he said, flicking his lighter. “But please hurry.”
Jim patted him on the back and held the door open for Karen.
The stairs were old and protested their intrusion with every step, but they still seemed the safer choice than the wheezing elevator. The air inside the building smelled of mold and damp cigarettes. As they wound their way up, Karen found herself wondering if Jim was armed. If it were a trap waiting for them, she doubted even a gun could help them, but she still would feel safer if they weren’t entirely reliant on her magic in case of danger.
She heard a creak behind them and turned, her lips already moving, but there was no one. Just a tired old building settling.
“You okay?” Jim asked from a few steps above her.
“Sure,” she said. What if it had been a threat? What spell would she have cast to protect herself? Would it have been in time?
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