Breach

by W. L. Goodwater

  Jim. No.

  “I thought you would like to know. Auf Wiedersehen,” he said, turning to go. “And good luck.”

  He left the way they had come and Karen had no wish to follow. She pressed her way through the narrow alley to the far exit. The street beyond was mostly quiet. No more gunshots. No more screams. For now.

  She ducked out and fell in behind a group of older men and women. One of them had a bloody rag pressed against a gash on his forehead. Another was held up by two companions as he nursed a swollen ankle. Minor wounds, she thought. West German wounds. She did not want to imagine what that choking fog had hidden, but could not stop herself.

  Lost in these thoughts, she didn’t notice the men behind her until they were already on either side, hemming her in. Plainly dressed but thickly built, they towered over her. She reached for her locus, but one of them quickly, efficiently, pinned her arm to her side.

  “That won’t be necessary, Miss O’Neil,” he said without looking at her.

  A car pulled up alongside them and they directed her toward an opening door. It was all over before she could even think to protest. Some spy she turned out to be. The car door slammed shut and tires squealed and she found herself sitting across from Milton Garriety.

  “You’ve been a busy girl,” he said softly.

  TWENTY-SIX

  His head hurt. He was fairly certain other things hurt too, but right now his focus was on his head. Busted ribs would heal. Cuts would close and bruises fade, but only if he could think. Only if he could remember. If he kept his wits, if his head would stop pounding for one moment and let him think, then maybe he could stay alive.

  She had yelled something. It was hard to hear in the tunnel over his own breathing, but he had heard something. Then a flash of light, dust and sand in his eyes, in his mouth. Then nothing.

  Then this room.

  He did not think he had been here before. The walls were gray, the floor concrete. There were no windows and one door (with no handle).

  His chair was bolted to the floor. There was a table and then another chair across from him. Empty. He wasn’t tied up or chained down, but his legs felt too weak to stand.

  The tunnel. Why were they in the tunnel? Where were they going? Every time he tried to remember, the pain started in, blacking his vision, burning up his skin.

  A wall. Something about a wall . . .

  The door opened. How long had he been waiting for the damned door to just open? A man walked inside and sat in the chair across from him. He was dressed in a military uniform. Soviet? GDR? GRU? KGB? Letters swam in his vision as he tried to focus on the man’s face, on his insignia.

  A green jacket. Golden leaf on both shoulders. Holy hell. This guy was army. US Army.

  “Major,” he said, trying out his voice (it wasn’t pretty). “Where am I?”

  The major placed a blue folder on the table and flipped it open. He could see photographs, typed pages, marked up with red pencil. A map of Berlin, a dark black line outlining the Wall.

  “What is this about?”

  “Treason,” the major answered, his eyes on the pages as he thumbed through them.

  “Treason?” His voice was working, but maybe his ears had failed. “What do you mean, treason? Is this some sort of joke?”

  The major’s eyes snapped up and met his. “Am I laughing?”

  “No, sir,” he said, flinching away from his gaze. “I just—”

  “James Fletcher Jr., born 9 August 1936 to Elizabeth and James Sr. Recruited into Central Intelligence out of college, completed training in Virginia, transferred to Berlin Operating Base to work in counterintelligence. Currently in third year of deployment, where you have served without distinction.”

  “Hey now,” Jim said, the words, the facts, jumbling up in his skull. “I—”

  The major closed the folder. “Agent Fletcher, why do you think we are here?”

  “I . . . I don’t . . .” It was like the memories wanted to crack their way out of his head and had found a crowbar to make it happen.

  “Do you remember illegally crossing the border into the German Democratic Republic?”

  “We had to use the tunnel,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “The Soviets would have identified us if we crossed at a checkpoint.”

  “Do you remember authorizing the unplanned extraction of a German asset code-named Yellowjacket?”

  “Ehle?” Jim could see now: the dusty apartment, the men in the car, falling out the window. “We needed his help. He was going to help us fix the Wall.”

  “That is what this . . .” His voice trailed off as he consulted the folder’s contents again. “Karen O’Neil told you? That this Ehle would help you fix the Wall?”

  “Yes,” Jim said. “Yes, she said he . . . that he contacted her.” Something was wrong. Why was he answering questions? He didn’t know where he was, who he was really talking to. Remember your training, he told himself. “Listen, I need to speak to my boss. Is he here?”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “What else . . .” Jim felt his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “What kinds of questions are these? You know what, I need to speak to Arthur before I answer any more of your questions. Get him in here and then we’ll talk.”

  The major sighed. Jim tried to focus on his face, make out any detail. Was he older, graying? Were those glasses? His head was pounding. When had the lights gotten so bright?

  “Agent Fletcher,” the major said, “I do not believe you have the proper perspective.”

  “Is that so, pal? Well, why don’t you—”

  “The Berlin Wall is gone, Mr. Fletcher. The entire thing disappeared the night you crossed into East Berlin. Thousands are dead, shot trying to cross the border. Soviet and East German military units have surrounded West Berlin and cut off all communication and supply. We are looking at the start to a world war and Washington is looking for someone to blame.”

  “Blame? For the Wall? You don’t mean—”

  The major folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Tell me what you know about Karen O’Neil.”

  “Karen? What’s she got to do with—”

  “Agent Fletcher,” the major said abruptly, cutting Jim off. “The situation is dire. It is time to start answering questions, not asking them. If you are going to save yourself, it is time to become helpful.”

  No, this wasn’t right. He knew it wasn’t. Don’t talk, don’t give away information. They covered this in training. Don’t give away intel to the enemy. But this wasn’t the enemy; this was his own people. The training didn’t apply. If only he could think. If only his head would stop threatening to explode.

  “You were in love with her?”

  “What?”

  The major drummed his fingers. “With Miss O’Neil.”

  “I just met her. Why would you even ask—”

  The major pulled an off-white paper from his folder. He looked at it briefly before passing it across the table to Jim. He did not bother to hide his disgust.

  “If you weren’t in love with her,” the major said as Jim picked up the paper, “why did you buy her an engagement ring?”

  There was a picture of a ring clipped to the paper. It was simple, a solid gold band with a small diamond in the center. It reminded him of the one his mother wore even long after the news about his father had come. Behind the picture were copies of receipts, amounts in different currencies, the name of a jeweler in the American sector, and a signature, undeniably his.

  “I don’t remember any of this,” Jim said, mostly to himself. He felt faint. His hands were as white as the paper they shakily held.

  “A pretty girl,” the major said. Jim could feel the man’s eyes on him, eyes he couldn’t meet. “Great smile. Smart, pleasant, all-American type. Easy to fall for her. Who wouldn’t, in your shoe
s?”

  No, it wasn’t like that. Sure, she was a looker, and he liked making her laugh, but marriage? “There was a problem at the Wall,” he said. The words came out slowly, but the cadence helped him think. “We asked for help. We needed a magician. And the OMRD sent Karen. She was a colleague. Maybe we were friendly, but I don’t remember a ring.”

  “How familiar are you with magic, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “A little,” Jim said. “I studied it for a bit, had some knack but not enough.” This answer came out before he even realized it. Slow it down, Jimbo. Think. Don’t give away information.

  “In your studies, did they teach you about magical emotional manipulation?”

  “Magical emotional . . .” The pain was swelling again. The words rattled around like rusty nails in an old tin can. “Are you saying . . . she cast a love spell on me?”

  “Do you have another explanation why a trained intelligence operative of the United States government spent three months’ salary on a diamond ring for a girl he just met? And then accompanied that girl across an international border so she could meet up with a known Communist magician for some unknown purpose? And then when these two magicians were under the Wall, in a secret tunnel the CIA provided for this purpose, it just so happens that the Wall spell failed and put us on the road to total war?”

  The major leaned forward. He seemed bigger, or the room smaller. Jim couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The man’s face, unknowable but everywhere, loomed over him as he shrank into himself.

  “Because if you’ve got another explanation, son,” the major said, his voice grinding inside Jim’s head, “you better start talking. You’ll find me a better listener than the firing squad.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Was I unclear?”

  “No, sir, but—”

  “Did I mumble?”

  “No, I—”

  “Stutter?”

  Karen licked her lips. “I just wanted—”

  “So you understood; you just chose to disobey my direct order.”

  “I wasn’t in any danger.”

  Arthur slammed his fist down on his desk. The sudden but brief explosion of violence left the room utterly silent. “You have no idea if you were in danger or not,” he said, jabbing a blunt finger toward Karen. “You have no damned idea. You know how I know that? Because I don’t know. I have no idea what is going on out there, and if I don’t know, you sure as hell don’t either.”

  Karen swallowed. Her mouth was dry and her palms moist. She had assumed the worst when Garriety’s thugs threw her in the car: they were going to drive her out to the woods, or some abandoned factory, or just toss her in the river, like some loose end to be tied up before the bombs started falling. Instead they had driven her back to BOB in silence, which may have been a worse fate than the grim ones she’d imagined.

  “I wanted to see the Wall,” she said. Garriety was behind her, watching, breathing softly, but she tried to ignore him and just focus on calming Arthur. “I needed to see what state it was in. Everyone here had more important things to do than play tour guide, so I went out. I’m sorry.”

  Arthur looked at her like she had lost her mind. He placed his hands flat on his desk as if steadying it. Bright, ugly veins stood out like scars on his nostrils.

  “Miss O’Neil,” he said, like he was the principal and she was the disappointing sixth grader, “it’s going to hell out there. I’ve got generals, senators on the line calling me. Between politicians and reporters and refugees, there are more eyes on Berlin right now than anywhere on God’s green earth. I don’t have time to . . .” He stopped himself, forced himself to breathe.

  “I’m sorry,” Karen said, almost as a reflex, but Arthur held up a hand.

  “You’re wrong about something,” he said. “You said people around here have better things to do than look after you but you’re dead wrong. That Wall going back up, as painful as that might be, is the only chance we’ve got to calm this hornet’s nest down, and you’re our best bet at that happening. There’s nothing more important than repairing the Wall, got it? So when I give an order about your safety, I’m not being difficult and I’m not trying to be your father; I’m trying to keep Europe from burning down.”

  Karen felt a lump in her throat, but she wasn’t about to show even a glimpse of a tear to these old men. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve released your friend the German magician,” Arthur said. “See what help he can offer, but don’t trust a word he says.”

  “So go ask him for help, but don’t believe what he tells me?”

  “Welcome to the intelligence game.”

  “Arthur,” she said, hesitant. Her hands balled into fists. “There’s more.”

  “More,” he said. It wasn’t a question; she wasn’t sure he even realized he had said anything. He looked blank, like an unwritten page, offering nothing to the reader.

  “Can I tell you in private?” she asked. Garriety snorted, but she pressed on. “It is important.”

  “You don’t trust Milton?” Arthur asked, almost amused.

  “I don’t trust any of you.” She had meant it to sound like banter, like a joke she might have thrown at Jim and Dennis, but when it came out, her voice sounded hard and sharp, like cracked marble, and she realized she meant every word.

  Arthur didn’t laugh. The empty page of his face filled in with dark black lines of some ancient, universal script. “Milt,” he said, “give us a moment.”

  “Wait now,” Garriety said. “Arthur, if she—”

  “Out.”

  The door slammed a little when he left. Karen tried not to smirk.

  “Dieter found me at the Wall,” she said. Arthur hadn’t been playing before; she’d crossed a line by disobeying him. But at the mention of Dieter’s name, his mood somehow turned darker.

  He listened without interruption as she explained what had happened at the Wall and what Dieter had told her. She honestly didn’t know if what she’d learned was good news or bad, but in the end it was information, and that was Arthur’s business.

  “Why did he go to you?” the chief asked when she was done.

  “He said . . . he doesn’t trust us,” Karen answered. “He thinks there’s a traitor. Someone working for the Soviets.”

  Arthur nodded. “And you don’t think it’s me?”

  Karen finally laughed at that. “Dieter trusted me because he had to trust someone. Now I’m trusting you.”

  “Thank you for that,” he replied. He was silent for a long time, his gaze moving through her and through the walls and out to the uncertain sky.

  “You don’t look surprised.”

  “Few things surprise me anymore, Miss O’Neil.”

  “You knew?”

  “Suspected.” He paused, drumming his heavy fingers on his desk. “The tunnel. They got to it while you were gathering Mr. Ehle. That means someone has been telling tales out of school.”

  “Can you get Jim back?” she asked.

  “I can try.”

  Karen nodded. “Being a spy seems like a lonely job,” she said softly.

  “You get used to it,” Arthur said.

  “Is it worth it?”

  “On the good days it is,” he said.

  “And on the bad?”

  “I’m here for the good days. The bad ones . . . they’ll figure themselves out.” He tried to smile, but abandoned the gesture quickly. “I meant what I said before. We need you to solve this thing.”

  “I’ll go speak to Ehle now, sir.” Whether he likes it or not.

  “Actually, before you do that,” he said, rummaging through a pile on his desk until he uncovered a pink note, “you need to call home.”

  She took the paper. Dr. Haupt wanted her to contact the OMRD immediately.

  “Just make the call,” Arthur said. “You have
my leave to stay here until we’re all on airplanes to Bonn. But make the call.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He stood up. “Because I’ve got work of my own to do.”

  * * *

  • • •

  When Dr. Haupt answered, his voice was metallic and very small. “Karen? Karen, is that you?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” she said. She wondered what she sounded like to him on the other side of the world.

  “Oh, my dear, it is so good to hear from you,” Dr. Haupt said. “I was so worried when I heard what is happening there. Terrible, just terrible. If I had known I was sending you into a war zone . . . I am just so relieved you are well.”

  But you don’t know if I’m well, do you?

  “I’m safe,” she decided to say, hoping it was actually true. “But the situation here is serious.”

  “That is what I feared,” he said. “I believe it is time for you to come home.”

  “No, Doctor,” she said. “I can’t leave now. They need me.”

  “Karen, I—”

  “I need your help, sir,” she said quickly, before he could finish. Did she trust Dr. Haupt? Did she truly know him? She continually replayed Ehle’s words in her head: Your superiors do not fully trust you either. There was something they were keeping from her, something about the Wall. They knew more about it than they were letting on. “Doctor,” she said carefully, “can you tell me anything more about the Wall spell?”

  There was a long stillness on the line, only the cicada buzz of static. If anyone in the US knew more about the Wall, it had to be Dr. Haupt; he had forgotten more about magic than most American magicians combined ever knew. But why wasn’t he in Berlin then instead of her?

  “The Wall was raised after I left Germany for the United States,” came the eventual tinny reply. “There’s nothing I can tell you.”

  She remembered that “misfiled” document Jim had given her, dated from just before the Wall cut Berlin in half. “What do you know about Operation Hobnail?”