by Peter Riva
“Now, he has no lead to the package, but he has me in his sights. He can squeeze that trigger anytime he wants, but he doesn’t … yet, and he won’t … I don’t think. He wants me to take him to the package.”
Susanna was aghast, “He nearly kill you, yes? He stabbed you.”
“Yeah, that was blood lust, Heep, and you saved the day. But now he’s keeping me on the loose so I can show them around a bit more. That’s why I need to run and run fast. But one more thing … I know some things Tische doesn’t. I know where the bag is and where it needs to go. And I know how to hide it.” He turned to Heep, “You got one of those lead-lined bags for film shipments?” Heep’s face lit up. “Yes, it’s simple, isn’t it? No one uses them anymore. They’re not sold because there are such problems with security at airports. But I am going by train, no screening. Anyone with a radiation wand could pass it up and down me, and they shouldn’t get a beep. I hope.”
The next half hour was spent getting Pero ready. It was critical that he leave so they could simply get back to filming routine. The less suspicion, the better. The less stress on them, the better too, Pero thought.
They could talk on the phone the next day. Pero had a plan for that call to be untraceable to him. He’d ask Lewis to bounce any call via Bombay—just to rub it in if anyone was monitoring his calls—and he was sure they would be. Pero had realized that Tische was just too resourceful. And he had no illusions about the so-called unbreakable State or CIA phone coding anymore. If there was an inside man at the CIA, Tische didn’t need the code, he could probably get the transcript in plain English by email.
Pondering all these pitfalls, Pero suddenly had a frightening thought, Damn, maybe he’s getting the one we just had—right now, on feedback from inside the CIA. They know I am leaving, but … He paused, shook his head, think Pero, did I? Nope, I didn’t tell them how, thank God. But I’ll have to watch for tails.
Pero took Heep’s lead bag, a small one, and folded it into the pocket of the ski parka, which he wore blue side out. He had passport, phone, cards, and all the cash the three had, about two thousand dollars. It should prove to be more than he would need. He took a small Longchamp bag, the ones you get at airports that fold up into nothing, and stuffed in extra sweaters, a few towels, two free hotel shower caps, the toothbrush kit the hotel always supplied, and some underwear and socks. A traveler must have luggage not to be suspicious. It was time to go.
Heep clapped Pero on the back as he handed him the normal cell phone. They both looked at it, knowing that news of Mbuno’s wife was overdue. Heep tried to allay Pero’s fears, “I’ll call them first thing, redial should work to Amogh, it’s worth a try. He’d have called if there were anything you needed to do. Take it easy. And take care, Pero.”
Susanna took his special phone and started pressing buttons, holding hers end to end with his. Pero had no idea what she was doing except that the infrared connection was on. While she was busy, she asked, “Mary Lever, she is your wife?”
“No, my wife’s dead.” Even to Pero, that sounded callous. His face, however, showed sadness that Suzanna could not misinterpret. Pero continued, “Sorry, Mary is Heep’s wife. Why?”
“You were protecting her.” She was staring into his eyes. She wanted to ask a different question, her eyes said so.
“Yes. She’s a friend, a good one. And now Heep’s wife. I owe her that.”
“So, your wife is Addiena? I see the name on your arm when you are taking off your shirt in the bathroom.” She was blushing.
“Yes, that was her.”
“She is a lucky woman.”
“Was, Addiena died.”
“Ja, so? She was and is a lucky woman.” Then, all businesslike again, she handed Pero the phone and said, “Please to come back safe. It is secure, perfekt secure, to his handy,” she nodded to her cell phone, “I programmed it in.” She turned and left the room in a hurry. Pero stared at Heep.
“It’s up to you Pero, and this one is special. I think she likes you.”
Damn, Pero thought, all I need are complications, as if he didn’t have enough already.
* * *
It’s a strange thing. Hotels protect their guests from intruders but extruders—if that is a term that can be used—have free rein. Pero knew the police were in the lobby so he took the elevator to the second floor, the elevator registering his sixth-floor special key card, went to the pool area which was still open, and swiped in there as well. The cops would have seen his room card swipe twice on the security screen. He must be in the pool area, second floor. All’s well.
He pretended to go to the changing rooms and simply walked through the one-way Nur Notausgang door (no exit). This lead to the back stairway, which was connected to the old casino next door, and another one-way door to the garbage alley behind. There he climbed over the iron gate and dropped onto the pavement. He walked away normally, just another person making their way somewhere with a bag. The matchbook in his shoe annoyed him, causing a desired limp. Danny’s little trick might just make him unrecognizable. Most surveillance depends on seeing a familiar pace, recognizable pace and tempo. Pero was aware he was taking shorter steps as well.
They don’t secure aquariums like art museums. They should sometimes. The valuable last breeding chances are in there. This time he wasn’t complaining. Pero scaled the wall to the zoo using the zoo animal sculptures laid into the brick wall. One tow on the baby Rhino’s nose, the next foot onto its mother’s back and, presto, he was over. Then he simply broke the lock to the aquarium exit door, the one he had used before, with Heep’s toolkit hammer and screwdriver, the way New York car thieves do. Nothing pretty. Get in, do your thing, get out. He had seen there were no wires yesterday on the hinge section or the doorjamb. Training sometimes kicks in, sometimes it doesn’t. That time it had, so he thanked God or rather his instructors. God or instructors, they’re the same, popped into his head.
The bag was where he had left it. But the plant had wilted. That puzzled him. Suddenly glad of Heep’s lead bag, he said sorry to the swishing arowana who looked hungrily at his fingers and stuffed the radioactive bag into the lead pouch, folding over the metal top.
Then it was back to the wall and … damn, no rhino sculptures this side. He dragged over a bench and stood it on end. It made noise, but no one seemed to care, no guards to be seen. Strangely the animals were quiet, even the chimps didn’t call out, but they watched carefully, their eyes boring into the back of his head. Maybe they identified with one of their own making a break from prison and didn’t want to squeal. He was over with no one in sight and walked the two blocks to the old Zoologischer Garten train station.
Once upon a time, this was the prime station for West Berlin. Now it was relegated to drug dealers, urine smells, and students looking to score hashish. He climbed the steps two at a time to the platform, thirty feet above the street, and waited. The night Moscow-Paris Express, stopping at Kiev, Warsaw, Berlin, and Paris was due within an hour. Pero chose a dark corner and waited. No one else came up the steps, and the platform was empty.
The train was, as expected, late. It had stopped at the newer, renovated Lehrter Bahnhof, an eight-story monster station of glass and steel in that new breed of architecture that astounds and gives one the feeling that, surely, Berlin has limitless resources. Lehrter is in the center of Berlin and the Zoologischer Garten station is now only a curved, slow, pass-through for international trains, no stopping.
But he knew that the old station was on that very sharp curve, necessary from the days when trains had to turn around within the city limits to go back the way they had come, back to the West. Through trains now had to slow drastically. He also knew that the Russian carriages still had hinged doors with actual handles. European trains, in the liability-free world Pero lived in, had abolished handles, the doors shutting when the guard pressed a button. The Russian sleeper carriages should, if he guessed right, have a step he could jump onto and a handle he could open. Once insid
e he’d pay the fare. He slipped his trouser belt through the handles of the Longchamp bag and refastened it, creating what amounted to a large bum bag. And waited.
Plans don’t always go the way people want them to. The train wasn’t slowing as much as he thought it would, maybe still doing twenty-five mph. Pero could not run that fast, so he worried and calculated that he really had to time it right.
From his vantage point on the inside of the curve, he could see the line of railcars squealing their way around the station curve, illuminated by the garish neon beer and kebabs signs one level below the platform. The Russian sleeper cars, old-fashioned, boxy, and a dark brown color, not the red or dark blue with a white stripe of the German carriages, were at the rear. The second to last looked like a very old sleeper, with two iron steps below the door. He started his run as it reached the middle of the length of the platform and missed the first door. He kept running as hard as he could. He felt the superglued wound split a little, that warm sensation of blood leaking but kept going. As he reached the end of the platform, with an imminent thirty-foot plunge off the end, he leapt for the last door.
His foot slipped. He thought, Oh, you’re kidding … knowing it was a cliché, but his foot did slip. His right hand held onto the door handle, which was slowly pivoting down. If it turned all the way down, it was a toss-up what would happen first: either the door would open—throwing him off completely—or his hand would slip off the vertical open position, and he’d plunge to the street below. Either way, his plan to get aboard wasn’t going well.
His other hand, flailing about, made contact with the top metal step, he slipped his fingers into the grille and pulled up, hard. Like a mountain climber, he got one knee on the bottom step and using the one good handhold, changed his right grip from the door handle to grab the vertical handrail next to the doorway instead. Then he pulled himself upright. There he was, standing on the bottom step, panting hard, holding both handrails now either side, catching his breath. The Longchamp bag was still held secure by his belt and bouncing in the wind behind his rear. The train began to accelerate in preparation for the express corridor toward Koln when a woman’s face loomed over him in the door’s window and the door began to swing open—toward his right arm!
There was nothing else to do. He let go of the right side handrail, swung his body out of the way of the opening door and as soon as it was open, swung his leg and arm inside. He grabbed the doorjamb. In a continuous movement, he then let go of the left handrail and pivoted his left side in through the door. Smiling, the only thought he had was of a circus act. Ta da!
Thankfully, though, his acrobatic tricks were done for the night. He was in, safe and sound. The door latched shut behind him. The little mother Russian carriage guard was less amused. She reached up and slapped his face, hard.
Chapter 8
Jura
He was pushed down the corridor of the Russian sleeper car by the five-foot barrel of a woman in a floral nylon smock over her blue Russian train service uniform, complete with aluminum buttons. They were fastened up to her neck, fat spilling over the tight collar. Her hair was covered by a scarf, tied under her chin, framing fat cheeks, now glowing red from the exertion of surprise and of pushing Pero before her.
Her responsibility was this first-class carriage and Pero was clearly not first-class material, so out! “ .” Get out, forbidden, get out!
He tried protesting in halting Russian, “ïîæàëóéñòà, , ïîæàëóéñòà.” Please, little mother, wait, no, please …
They neared the end of the car, adjoining the next car, which was a Deutsche Bahn (German Rail) company car. There he would be subject to a rule-biding, strict, train guard who would, no doubt, throw him off the train at the next opportunity, or worse, call the police. Pero finally physically resisted the little mother, twisted to face her, stuck his hand in his pocket, and drew out a dollar bill. He didn’t know which one he had grabbed. It turned out to be a hundred dollar bill. He waved it in front of her. She stopped.
“?” For what? She folded her arms, an imposing authority.
“.” A bed, just a bed to Paris.
“!” No, no, no! She wanted no part of him, but he could see her eyes fixated on the money.
“?” Two hundred dollars?
She hesitated. “.” Euro. Pero nodded and pulled out the Euros and she snatched them. Then she grabbed his sleeve, checked the corridor anxiously behind him in case another conductor was coming, and now like a sweet, affectionate granny shooing him back to bed after a nightmare, she opened 5a-5b, with her passkey. In a conspiratorial whisper and lots of hand gestures, she gave him instructions, “ .” Stay in there. She put her hands in prayer to one ear, pretending to sleep. “,” Paris, “.” I wake. She pointed to her watch at the six, “?” Six o’clock?
He nodded and thanked her, smiling happily. She smiled back, patted his chest, withdrew, and locked the door. He could open it from his side, no problem. But he put the chain on anyway.
The wood paneling modeled after the Grandes Wagon-Lits of the 1950s was well oiled and polished, making the cabin smell of linseed, as little mother did. The bottom bed was folded down and made up with crisp Siberian linen, thick and smooth. They often left a bed ready for late-night unexpected guests, although not those who stowed away as he had. He took off the coat, removed the bag from his belt, toed off his shoes, and made himself at home. Somehow, taking off his shoes always changed his mental pace. Now, if he only had slippers, he could pretend he was vacationing or at home. He smiled, realizing humans were such creatures of habit.
The train left the last of the track points of Berlin, so the swaying reduced and it picked up speed. He found the catch for the sink and folded it down, revealing the two taps and the soap dish, a piece of soap wrapped in paper, waiting. The polished copper basin had no plughole, as usual. To empty the sink, you folded it up, and the water went down a drain onto the tracks clickity-clacking below. He washed his face and hands, cleaning up as best he could. Then he gingerly lifted his shirt. There was a nasty red stain just coming through the hand towel he had left there, stolen from the Steigenberger. In his pocket was the superglue. He took it out and unscrewed the top. The tip was solid. It never ceased to amaze him that the manufacturers of superglue cannot make a reusable container. One use and it glues itself shut!
He bit through the top with his teeth. It stuck his lip to a tooth. As he pried that off, it hurt. Checking the mirror, he pulled the towel away from the wound and saw that it was leaking, slightly, not too bad, about only half was open again, only about half as deep as the cut. He quickly glued it back shut.
Looking at the tiny tube, he stuck the cap back on hard, hoping he might get one more use. He contemplated biting through the other side next time. He was vaguely aware that superglue was consuming way too much of his thinking. He realized it was shock. This was normal. Mundane things become overly important as shock approaches.
He quickly cleaned up the surrounding area, wiping the blood off his stomach with another facecloth from the Steigenberger. He patted the area dry. It wasn’t seeping, a good sign. He took off his trousers and slipped into the sheets, placing the crisp linen floor mat over his stomach, just in case. He had five hours to Paris, almost, and he wanted to sleep deep, but he couldn’t lie on his stomach as usual, his arm with Addiena’s tattooed name against his heart. So he folded his arms and drifted off to a somewhat fitful sleep, the adrenaline still keeping him awake. With discipline, he stayed that way, like an Egyptian mummy as the train screamed into the night. There was no passport control for anyone. This was now an inter-European Union train with little, if any, customs. He was sure his little mother would keep quiet, so finally he slept shallowly through every stop, every jostle. Adrenaline consumed, he finally zoned out.
But her knock on the door with “!” Paris! woke him quickly. He looked out the window. The train was just beginning to wind its way through the various points and sidings outside the station, the Ga
re de l’Est. He figured they had about ten minutes to go.
The wound had not bled. He brushed his teeth, put any soiled linen in a Steigenberger shower cap in his bag, and stole the clean hand towel from the cabin. Then, in a fit of remorse, he left the one hundred dollar bill to cover. No way he was going to make little mother pay for the loss. He washed, took his antibiotic, got dressed, zipped up the coat, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was ready. He opened the door and stepped into the corridor, joining the other passengers getting ready to depart. The little mother spotted him and nodded, even gave a little smile. Taking her smile as approval, he was sure he must look cleaner, less suspicious.
They pulled slowly into the station, a head stop, and he deliberately went out the farther door, away from the station. He wanted to pass her and say one more “ïîæàëóéñòà, .” Thank you, little mother. She smiled wider, cackled, and reached up to smack him on the back as he passed. He pretended to stumble because of her heavy hand, and she laughed. As he stepped down from the train, he smiled back through the window and waved good-bye. Her face pressed next to the train window, she waved until he was out of sight.
