The Berlin Package

by Peter Riva

  “Mein gott …” was heard from the phone speaker while Sam was still shaking his head.

  Pero continued, “The IAEA would conduct its inventory in the heavy water bath, measure the radiation in that spent-fuel-rods heavy water tank the size of a gymnasium, and all would appear to be normal or close to it. Right?” Sam was nodding, Pero told the Berlin phone, “Sam agrees. So, meanwhile a ton of real, potent, bomb-grade plutonium would be secretly whisked away to a deep subsoil lab somewhere. Perhaps even ex-Soviet scientists could be doing what they have done for forty years, only for more money: making bombs. Sophisticated, lethal, world-politics’ altering, powerful atomic bombs.”

  Sam, sitting very still, his eyes half-closed, still said nothing. Susanna and Bertha Reidermaier in Berlin were now similarly quiet. Only the faint crackle and hum of the speakerphone punctuated the quiet.

  Pero hadn’t wanted to tell Langley. If they knew of or believed his version of the real use of the shipment of gold and uranium, every agency resource would kick in, and they would consider the loss of his friends as unfortunate collateral damage on a path to crush Tische and whomever he was working with or for. Pero desperately felt he needed to save his friends. Surely, there would be time for CIA action and recovery of the uranium and plutonium later if Pero calculated correctly. Moving tons of material takes time. Tische had made one mistake, he had set a deadline of thirty hours, thirty hours was way too short to move that uranium. Pero felt he had time to save his friends.

  Sam was the first to speak up. “Christ Pero, you’re a devious bastard. It would work, damn it, it would work. Oh, good God damn I hate these people.”

  “Who Sam?” the speakerphone broadcast.

  “Scientists making the damn things. Think I hate the politicians and those power-mad thugs? No, they’re more human than the scientists who spend a lifetime learning secrets of the universe, speaking the language of God, math, and then they allow themselves to build something that can vaporize fellow living beings. They make me so damn angry.” He smashed his fist on the table and dented the metal top. Sam was a very strong man.

  Bertha chimed in, “Ja, it ist vat we fight against every day. Not to have science used by these people.”

  Sam continued, all business now, “Pero, if what you say is true, if it is even possibly true, we need to think this through. First, they would have to smelt the gold and extract the uranium. The density of the uranium would sink in a smelter and you could pour off the gold. But there is no place I know that could do this, every worker would die within hours, as you smelt the ingots. Even here we could not do an ounce in our ovens and shop.”

  Bertha wanted to know: “Where is here please?”

  Sam answered “CERN, Geneva.”

  “Ach, dat Professor Sam Turner.” She said it in a way that reminded Pero of someone who was tasting a new dish, savoring every morsel. “Das forschungspapier, research paper you presented in Rio last year, it was good but ihr displacement theory is wrong mit the chemical equations you used. I have data for you to help better erklären sie” (explain it). Sam was looking very intense, he grabbed a pen like he was expecting this pre-Nobel scientist to dictate.

  Pero interrupted, “People, can we stay on point here?” Sam nodded, and he heard two “ja’s” from the speaker. “Okay, Sam, what would you need? Heat, a pot, some shaper for the rods—I assume it would have to be recast into rods, the uranium?”

  “Yes, it would have to be, but not molded, they would need to extrude it, five centimeters in diameter to match, to pass visual inspection.”

  “Okay. What plant would have an automated smelter and an extruder that size?” Pero referred to a pressure squirter that forces, extrudes, molten material—whether plastic or metal—through a hole of a certain size. Windowpane extruders are flat, those for metal rods are perfectly circular.

  Samuel was shaking his head, “But they would not be able to separate …” He paused and smacked a hand on his thigh, “Ah, but they don’t care, do they, Pero? It is the uranium they want, the rest—the gold—can be wasted, right? The gold has a value way less than the illegal value of the uranium—not to mention plutonium. And later, anyway, all they have to do is cast that residue gold into ingots and sell it off. It’s not the damn gold they want, it is the fake rods! Christ, they can sell those rods for millions, maybe even billions, to countries wanting to swap the old uranium rods for plutonium that would escape IAEA scrutiny.” Sam was shaking his head. “But still I do not know of a smelter that could handle all this, let alone an extruder.”

  “Think my friend, who smelts stuff in this region? And who did we see on a school field trip years ago making gears that start as an extruded bar of any diameter?”

  Sam’s eyes widened, “Damn, you’re right, the watch companies. They have automatic smelters, untouched by human hands to make sure the watch parts are perfectly true and pure steel. A fine steel extruder handles much higher temperatures than ones for uranium or gold, it could work.”

  “What about the plants around here?” Sam knew the region better than Pero.

  “No way, Pero. We’re in charge of water and soil contamination for this whole region because of our work here at CERN. That was the deal. We take samples and fly helicopters for air sampling up and down this region, from Lyon to Lausanne and over the lake. If anything were being done in this region, we’d know it. Couldn’t they simply be doing this overseas? Maybe Thailand?”

  “You ever hear of a watch factory in Thailand? It would stick out like a sore thumb. No, it has to be here, where a factory would be only one among many. I am sure it’s here, and I’ll tell you why. Because if any radioactivity escaped the plant, they would have a perfect excuse: the radium in the dials, years of watch making pollution. One declaration of ‘Oops,’ and Switzerland would close ranks to avoid unemployment or collapse of the watch business. Wouldn’t the Swiss want to mask a small air or water leak?”

  “Yes, and for that reason no one in the watch industry dares use the stuff, not since 1982 when the entire watch industry had to stop using it, it was causing cancers. So it’s a dead end.”

  “Is it? When did Tische start funding this little venture? Let’s say they—the Stasi—started their operation in the ’50s or ’60s, wouldn’t it have been reasonable, back then, for the locals to expect a little leakage now and then?”

  “Pero, you’re getting too far away from reality here. If they are still doing this or preparing to with this shipment you’re thinking, about … no, no … current environmental laws would make them stand out, no matter how careful they were. And besides, how could they get the gold into such a plant without anyone knowing? You saw what happened when we even opened your bag.”

  “I don’t know, but TruVereinsbank does—Tische is desperate, exposed, relying on Stasi contacts and muscle. That level of desperation can only mean he’s got something already in operation, already underway, already—maybe for years—doing exactly this. Twenty million or ten times that is not sufficient reason for his desperation.”

  The phone emitted the two women’s agreement and chagrin. Sam sat on the edge of the desk, looking dejected.

  Pero laughed, “Come on people, we’re figuring this out. Don’t lose hope. Now let’s hope Lewis comes back with something we can use, Thailand or not.”

  Bertha, the expert chemist, suddenly added, “Scheiße … und you have another Problem. Cadmium. Nuclear rods require cadmium for the making of them. Ach, what is the word for ablauf?”

  “Flow.” Susanna translated.

  “Ja, flow. Not a catalyst, but cadmium molecules will be rejected by the molten uranium or plutonium and will migrate to the outside, acting as a lubricant for die extraktion. It is an old process. New rod processors use magnetic extruders. There are only four of those in the world. If you are right and these ingots will be made into nuclear fuel rods in a watch factory, Wird hat müssen, sorry, they must have cadmium for the process.”

  “Okay, it’s worth a shot.
We’ll look for that when we get a hot trail, or … wait! Maybe that is the trail. Good job Bertha! Sam, you and Bertha work on shipments of cadmium into Switzerland first, then spread your search outward. Me, I have to get going. I have a date in Berlin. If I hear anything from Lewis about TruVereinsbank, I will call one of you, right away. Then they will call another, and then that person will call another and so on. We’ll make a telephone tree, okay?” Everyone said yes.

  Sam asked, “Now, how are you going to get out of here? How can I help?”

  Pero had a plan. It was simple. “Ah ha! Watch!”

  Pero told Susanna—still on the coded phone, “Susanna, I am going to hang up and call you on the hotel room phone …”

  “Why, why not call me on your handy? Heep left it on the table.”

  Ah, Tische left it behind. So that wasn’t an accident. Pero also knew Tische had probably copied the SIM card and would be tapping the line. Good. “Susanna that’s perfect, we’re winning already. I am going to call that cell phone and lie to you, just play along, they’ll be listening, I’m sure. Do an act: you are completely distraught, you are crying. Okay? Just agree to anything I say.”

  “I won’t have to pretend very hard. I still feel Drohend,” (threatened).

  “Chin up, Susanna, this will work fine. And when I leave, keep Sam and Bertha talking on the secure phone, his, he’s got one like mine.”

  “Are you all CIA?”

  “Yes and no, he’ll explain later … here’s his number, he’s infrared ported your code to his phone so it will work safe and secure.” And Sam read out his cell phone number, along with the 5-5-5 sequence.

  They all hung up. Pero told Sam to run the cleaning cycle that sounded like a washing machine in the sample box as background noise, and Pero called her again, on the open cell phone. “Susanna …” She burst into tears telling him about the kidnapping all over again. He got her calmed down, she was doing a perfect job. It was his turn, “Okay, I was just arriving in Lausanne …” On his schedule, it was time for the second TGV to arrive from Paris, “I got off the first because I was being followed and then took the next one.” He gambled that the aftershave man he suckered off the train had moved heaven and earth to catch up with him while he was, supposedly, waiting at Vallorbe to catch the next train. He went on, “I am taking the next train to Geneva, to go to CERN and give them the bag. They can give it to the police.” That should make Tische pay attention. “I’ll call you after I get there.”

  She was into her part now, “What about Heep and Danny?”

  “I have something Tische will want more than this dumb bag. I know what he’s doing and where. He’ll want me more than them.” It was a bluff, but he knew Tische would use Heep and Danny as bargaining chips to get Pero to reveal everything. He was counting on it. He’d expect Pero to ask to speak with or see them, and he intended to do just that.

  Wait, he thought, there’s something else he’ll expect. “Susanna, has Amogh called?” Her answer was a surprise.

  “Yes, apparently someone called Mbuno is trying to thank you, his wife is doing fine, but he needs to talk to you.”

  “Okay, I’ll call him, don’t worry I’ll call you back within the next two hours. Bye.”

  Then Pero immediately called her back on the other coded phone, on speaker, and congratulated her. She told him a man in a green coat had arrived, German Internal Security, with a man showing ID from the US embassy, to protect her.”

  Sam mouthed: Lewis’ people?

  Susanna answered his silent question, “Bertha is calling the embassy to verify … yes confirmed. I am feeling safer, danke Pero, danke fur alles.” Thank you for everything.

  “No, Susanna, it is I who thank you and also apologize. Please don’t cry anymore.” He could just imagine the tears in those blue eyes. “I will, forever, be sorry I got you into this mess.”

  “Forever sounds,” she inhaled “hopeful. Bye.” Then she hung up. Sam gave Pero a teenage look and snicker saying lucky devil.

  Pero? He was puzzled. What had he said to encourage her? And yet, he felt that little pang you do when an adventure may be beginning. Hopeful. Hope. It was a good word under the circumstances.

  “Come on Sam, I need to get out of here.” Sam handed Pero the sample from the box in the film bag inside the Russian bag. Pero grabbed the phone and his train bag.

  As they walked back the way they had come in, locking the lab behind him, Sam was worried about something. “Pero your clothing is contaminated. That many rems, it’s bound to be. Look, there’s a gym here. We scientists need to exercise occasionally. They have a locker full of gear to borrow. No one remembers to bring sweats and such. We can give you a change …”

  “No, they need to see me in the same clothing.”

  “Well okay, but how about putting a track suit in that bag and when you’re done doing whatever it is you plan to do, you can change?”

  “Okay, Sam, I won’t argue. Lead the way.” They turned sharp right and three doors down was a small gym and sauna closet. On one wall were lockers. Sam went to the first one and after a few seconds, brought out an Adidas gray suit, black stripe down the leg. “That’s about right, I think. Remember to ditch the coat and underwear. You’re stuck with the shoes and socks.” Pero opened the bag and took out the shower cap with the blood-soaked towel. “Merde Pero, that’s nasty! You lose that much blood?”

  “It looks bad, never mind. Throw these out, will you? Don’t want to attract too much attention.”

  Sam took a corner of the shower cap and, at arm’s length, went to the last locker and dropped it on the floor. “Doctor Marc’s closet, he’s in America for two weeks. Plenty of time to get this mess cleaned up later.”

  “Okay, let’s go, I have a train to catch. And when I call, you hop the next flight to Berlin, agreed?”

  “Yeah, I get to meet Bertha, oh and your Susanna …”

  “She’s not my Susanna. Behave will you?”

  “Well, not yet she isn’t, but there’s hope. No?”

  Pero thought Sam was, always, a boy at heart—adult smart, but a child emotionally.

  * * *

  Nyon is the canton capital, a small town on Lac Leman, in the State of Vaud before one enters the Canton de Genève when the lake changes name to Lake Geneva. Pero stood on the platform, direction Genève, and waited for the local train, due in three minutes. He had driven with Sam in that silly cart back to the car, hot-wired it again, Sam shook his finger at Pero. Then, Pero drove cross-country through Grilly and into Divonne and ditched the car again, making sure the note and compensation money was on the driver’s seat again.

  In Divonne, he hired a taxi and turned south to Nyon. He was then in Switzerland proper. Passport control south of Divonne was simple, the Russian bag giving him confidence. As it turned out, he didn’t need. No one even looked.

  As the train pulled into Nyon station, he opened the door and got on. No one else got on, and he didn’t spot anyone on the train who seemed interested. The trick was to get to Geneva station and spot someone, have them see that he spotted them, and run back the way he came. Then he would have time to lose them. He was gambling that any Stasi from Berlin would not know the region as he did from his school days.

  If Tische thought he was running toward CERN—Lausanne-Geneva then onto CERN—Tische would think his course of action was clear: get Pero, get the sample. Meanwhile, Sam would be free to travel, and Tische wouldn’t know they knew what the sample was. It was the only advantage they had—their knowledge and Tische’s false assumption.

  As he alighted from the train in Geneva, he spotted the tail but made sure the man didn’t know he knew. Pero kept his face open and innocent. The open call to Susanna had worked. He took the steps down, used the tunnel passageway, and walked back up into the main ticket hall where the information counter was. He needed the tail to follow, so he took his time. As he asked the information attendant questions about CERN, he palmed the timetable for the intercity trains i
n Switzerland and slipped it into his pocket. He glanced above his head at the track and time of departure/arrival board with the ever-present accurate railroad clock face. Quickly looking away, he calculated he had forty-five seconds until the express train to Basel departed. That would do.

  Switzerland runs on time. If the station clock said 17:14:15, that was the exact time. If the Basel train left at 17:15, he had forty-five seconds. Simple as that. Geneva was a head stop, the train would, always, leave on time.

  As he turned, he spotted them, two of them and made deliberate eye contact. They wore the same leather coats he was familiar with from Tempelhof. In Switzerland, they looked out of place. Way too fascist. One was covering the street entrance, the other the platform access. Pero put a look of shock on his face.

  They didn’t know the station. Behind the information and ticket hall was the second hall with the down ramp to the second under-track tunnel, with access to the quays. Pero ran as fast as he could. They followed. As he rounded the corner into the second hall, he ran into a third man, knocking him flat. The two behind him started yelling. Pero vaguely saw the man he had knocked down had wiring in his teeth and stitches on his cheek. Danny’s victim. He stretched his legs.

  Pero had never been a very good runner. He was muscular, at least his legs were, and he could sprint, but one hundred yards and he could be toast. He had fifty more to go, and he was already out of breath. As he reached the banister for track number four and started to climb, two steps at a time, one of them reached him from behind and pulled on his jacket. Pero did what any self-respecting operative would do. He turned and kicked the man in the face. Someone blew a whistle. Pero started yelling “Au voleurs, au voleurs!” Thief, thief! His accent was local, so help was immediate. A woman with an umbrella was the final insult to the hardened Stasi. She whacked him as he tried to board the moving train, right on Pero’s heels.