The Berlin Package

by Peter Riva

  “Die nexte halt ist Warschauer Strasse.” At the next stop, he had to change.

  The train slowed, the doors opened, and he waited and then made a dash for the door. No one else made the last second jump. He found the steps down for the U-Bahn connection. This station was the head stop for the U1, direction Uhlandstrasse. The train was waiting. He got on and studied the map, again. Ten more stops. The train was filling up. At the last second, two men got on. They looked about, pointed past Pero, and walked over. The people they knew made room on the red and black vinyl bench. Still clear, Pero thought. The train trundled on the elevated section through the morning mist before diving into the tunnel.

  “Die nexte halt ist Wittenbergplatz.” This was his stop, coming up. He didn’t stand, he waited. People started to assemble by the door, their eyes focused on the little white circle with the red lights on each door. When they went to green, you could touch it and the doors would open. If no one wanted to alight, the doors stayed shut, keeping the heat in.

  The driver applied the brakes, and the train slid to an almost stop. U-Bahns always seem to be still moving when the doors are opened by passengers pushing the green door lock release button. People began to alight. Pero made a last second dash for the exit and suddenly saw, in front of him, a man watching the train. He had a small photo in his hand. Pero stepped back inside as the doors closed. Pero was sure the man had not seen him, so he turned his back to the doors. The U-Bahn sped away. Pero’s fear came on with equal speed.

  “Die nexte halt is Kurfurstendamm.” It was the end stop. He should have known someone would have been posted at the Wittenbergplatz stop—it was closest to the hotel and Los Angeles Platz. Damn, so is Kurfurstendamm. Somehow, he needed to get off this train undetected.

  The U-Bahn he was on was made up of several shorter trains linked together, one driver up front. There was an extra driver’s compartment in the fourth car. He quickly made his way there, through the adjoining doors, getting looks as he went along. He didn’t have any intention of trying to open that driver’s door, but it was the only solid wall in these trains of glass that he could hide behind. Damn, I’m hiding like a rat trapped in the corner of a barn.

  The train slid into the station just as he stepped behind the driver’s compartment, his back against the wall, breathing pounding in his ears. People got out, everyone he thought. No one got on, but he wasn’t sure. He had stopped breathing. The speakers were giving instructions. He didn’t listen. He was listening for the sound of recognition.

  The doors closed, and the train went forward into the tunnel and a switching yard, lights out. He was alone. In a few seconds it stopped, and he heard the driver making his way back through the length of the train to take his seat at the other end. The U-Bahn N1 was about to go back the way it had come. So Pero pretended to be asleep on the seat, arms folded, slightly snoring.

  In his street German, the driver woke him up with, “Hey, wake up, you can’t sleep here.” He asked where Pero was going and for his ticket. Pero showed him the properly stamped ticket, and he seemed satisfied. Pero explained he had been up all night and was going home, late. If it was okay, he would ride back and get off at his stop. The driver said it was irregular but agreed it was okay. He walked away.

  Pero was alone in the darkened car. His thoughts were whirring. How the hell did Tische have so many people covering the stations? Did he own Berlin? And then it came to him. He remembered that the men, his watchers, were all police, probably ex-East Germany police, following orders, and maybe they could give orders to non-Stasi police. It caused him to rethink his plans. Sitting in the car, waiting for the train to start up, he realized he would have to be especially careful approaching the Hotel Adlon later that morning. If there were that many pairs of eyes searching for him, if he was followed, Tische would gain the advantage.

  In a few moments, the lights came back on and shortly after that, the train moved off—screeching across the points to change tracks and head back into the Kurfurstendamm station. Pero peeked out the window. He knew there should be no one watching on this side, it was a head stop, the train coming into the station empty, so it would be easier to watch the steps leading to the platform in case anyone wanted to get on. On the opposite incoming platform, a man was standing tapping a photograph on the knuckles of his left hand. Pero spun around and resumed his fake sleeping position.

  He realized he couldn’t get off at Wittenbergplatz, the stop nearest the hotel where the crew was staying. He figured Tische’s force would be watching both sides of the station there. So he went past the station he wanted and headed toward Nollendorfplatz. He peered carefully through the scratched glass. There was no one around. Getting off swiftly, he went up the stairs, onto the street, and walked back, passing the Wittenbergplatz and the station by skirting the edge, watching windows when someone seemed interested and, generally, acting the tourist. At one point in his new fright, he had thought of going to the hotel but going over his plans made in the airplane, had realized that was impossible, it would draw too much attention to his whereabouts, making Tische’s job easier.

  Now, seeing how many eyes Tische had, he realized more than ever he needed to create a diversion. His plan had been simply, to change appearance, disguise himself. Now he knew a real diversion was the only way.

  He went into the side entrance of KaDeWe. He thought he could be certain there would be no one in there to spot him among the crowds. Sales were on and the store was already packed.

  On the third floor, there was the rack with the same day-glow green jackets the grip had bought for him … When was it? Oh God, only two days ago. Pero took twelve of them, on hangers, and went and paid. He used the cash he still had on him, trying to avoid a credit card trace. The coats were on sale, a bargain price he felt. They were Tommy Hilfiger licensed winter goods on sale for March. Not bad at the price. Trivia seemed comforting in his stressful situation.

  Pero had quickly formulated a plan, and the coats would keep several people warm, if a little harassed. KaDeWe packaged them up in their thick dark blue and black signature bags and he went to the sixth floor and bought a suitcase, a cheap one. Pero kept all the receipts in his pocket. He repacked the coats into the suitcase and left the building. At the door, he was stopped. He produced the receipts and got an apology. He didn’t mind. He did look disreputable, unshaven for two days.

  Wait a minute, I can take care of that here too. He went to the perfume counter and asked if he could get men’s aftershave. “Certainly sir …” and he was led away to the Hermes counter. He changed his mind, rubbing his beard. No point in aftershave without a shave … The counter assistant suggested the fourth floor, electrical goods. He went back up the escalator, found the shaver counter, and bought a cheap portable one with batteries. By the time he had descended the escalator to get his free sample dose of aftershave, he was clean shaven—even though the escalator passengers were scowling at a man shaving in public. Leaving the aftershave counter moments later, he finally smelled better too.

  He was stopped at the door again by store security, which raised his fears once more. So much for blaming his shifty looks on the two-day beard. KaDeWe security for shoplifters was ironclad. He showed the receipts again, and he was allowed to exit.

  In the street, his heightened fear made him cautious. He retraced his careful path to the Nollendorfplatz station and rode the U2, direction Pankow, four stops to Potsdamer Platz, the old center of Berlin and now a student and tourist heaven. As the center of the New Berlin, Potsdamer Platz was normally crawling with police. If they had his description, they could only have the one with the day-glow green winter jacket. It was the only one Tische and the agents on the TGV train had seen. He was hoping they didn’t have anything more recent. The Day-Glo coat description was his secret weapon.

  Outside the Mies van der Rohe-inspired Potsdamer Platz train canopies, structures that looked like giant black metal tables with glass tops under which the mice—humankind—went abo
ut daily lives, he set up shop on a granite stone wall. It was almost 11:30, early lunchtime, with plenty of foot traffic. He saw several uniformed officers, usually in pairs, but they were more interested in traffic movement, bicycle paths, and people not allowed jaywalking. Berlin is strict on jaywalking.

  Opening the suitcase, in his best German, French, and English, he said, “Show your student card and get a free Tommy Hilfiger jacket!” In ten minutes, he had a crowd, in three more he had a traffic police officer telling him to knock it off. Pero didn’t care, all twelve jackets were being sported, admired, green day-glow outside, as he had helped each student put them on. He watched as many of his green gang made their way into the various station openings, two of them taking the escalator down to the U2 line. He gave the last one the suitcase as well.

  It was a pathetic diversion, but it might confuse long enough to use up Tische’s resources and allow him to meet with Sergio later at the Adlon. He followed two students and walked the two blocks to loiter in the Arcade, a shopping mall, pretending to look at the shops. He planned to speak on the cell phone, just like every other modern normal businessperson.

  He keyed Susanna’s number and asked if the major had arrived. He had. Susanna was trying to teach him the intricacies of the microphone. But that wasn’t the first thing on her mind. First Pero got a tongue-lashing.

  “What do you mean by not telling me what you are doing? We are sitting here worried, we hear Danny and Heep are safe at the ambassador’s residenz, the major was most informative, but you … you … you promised, and you broke your promise.”

  “What promise was that Susanna? Didn’t we free Danny and Heep?”

  “Yes, but you also say you would keep safe and to come back. He is here, der major, why are you not here?” Pero wasn’t sure how to feel about his own reaction to this tirade. He was, on the one hand, flattered that she cared. It was a long time since any woman cared that much. It was in her voice. On the other hand, didn’t he have enough to worry about? Give me a break, was on his mind. Oh, hell. So, instead he merely said, “Yes dear,” a bit sarcastic.

  “Ach, stupid man, it is not a game.” And she left, handing the phone on to Andre Schmitz.

  “She’s really, really angry.” And he laughed. Pero heard Susanna telling him off in swift German. “Yes, she’s really, really angry.” At that point, he heard Susanna laugh and what he guessed was Sam and Bertha as well.

  “Can I speak to Sam?” Schmitz passed the phone. “Sam? I heard some disquieting news. An agent who had the package for about four days died. Horribly.”

  “Radiation poisoning?”

  “If you can call it that. He was found dead, and the skin and tissue around his heart, his chest, was all decayed. The best guess is that he was keeping it in a shoulder holster under his armpit.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, Pero, that film bag was a toy, but it should have reduced the radiation by, I think, a factor of twenty or so. Still …”

  “He didn’t have the film bag, just the sample.”

  “Oh God.” He paused, thinking, he could almost hear the scientific wheels turning. “He would have had brain swelling as well. All his systems would have begun to go critical within two days. His skin was … what … shed like a snake’s?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Then he died in agony, started twenty-one to thirty hours after he held that bag unprotected.”

  “Okay, but here’s my question to you: why would Mil Intel or the people in Mannheim—what did you say they were, atomic trigger experts? Anyway, why would they give him the package without any protection?”

  “If they did, Pero, they meant him to die. That’s murder, plain and simple. One more thing, my man,” he meant Bergen head of communications at the CIA, “found out that Brinker has had metals exchanges with North Korea, made several last year …”

  Aghast, Pero almost shouted, “What? How is that possible?”

  “Brinker is Swiss, they are neutral. Nothing being transported was on the embargo list, just some lead and, get this, aluminum rods.” Sam paused, someone was talking to him, and Pero could hear him explaining again. He came back on, “The major says he’ll lead an immediate investigation. Lord, Pero, do you think that’s where that regime got the fuel for their bombs?”

  Pero was still shocked, “I guess so … We really need to catch this bastard. Stopping him is not enough. Listen, ask the major to find out all he can about the microdots—he’ll explain. We need to know if we have enough leads …”

  “Want to drop the plan to capture Tische?”

  “No, I am sure not, but what happens if we lose him? No Sam, we have a plan, we want him physically and legally.” Pero asked Sam to give the phone back to Susanna. They talked about the microphone and she suggested that she come and fit it to his lapel and that she would teach him how to handle the recording functions. He told her that the microphone would be on him, but Schmitz needed to have the controls. He wanted her to teach André how to use it. He explained he was sure it was important that a police officer made the recording, to use in court. She gave in, reluctantly. “It means you will not come here now.”

  “Susanna, I cannot, there are Tische’s cops, ex-Stasi no doubt, everywhere. I tried to get off at Wittenbergplatz and just spotted two in time. I can’t come there. It would be too easy for Tische to capture me or maybe lead killers to you. There are five we know of in the city, taking orders from Tische, but I suspect he has the regular police helping as well, at least for identification. We’re setting a trap, at Borchardt’s, and then it will be all over. You’re safe there, Bertha is with you, Sam is strong, and you have two capable guards.”

  “Nein, we now have six. The local police have joined us. Bertha is famous. They want to serve her. They know each other, no one new. Two were the ones who didn’t like that Stasi officer at the Technisches Museum. The others are their friends.”

  Pero was pleased there were so many reinforcements protecting them. “That same Stasi officer is probably the one orchestrating this gauntlet for me. Okay, you are safe, right?” She was forced to agree. What he didn’t want to deal with—not now, not yet—was that she wasn’t only worried about being safe herself. “Just, please, be patient a little while longer. Please put the major back on.”

  “Mr. Baltazar?”

  “Ready to leave André?”

  “I will be in about twenty minutes. Susanna has to go over the controls one more time, then I’ll be ready. Where will we meet?”

  “At the Hotel Adlon, on Unter den Linden. Take a taxi. I was just going to call Sergio. He should have a room, an extra room, ready by now. I’ll get the room number and call your cell phone with the number.”

  The major was skeptical. “Is that wise? The Hotel Adlon?”

  “For Negroni, it’s the perfect place. Top flight, luxury, it would be expected. Also, it’s a three block walk to Borchardt.”

  “No, I mean, you getting into the Adlon, undetected.”

  “Look, the Adlon was a Communist Intourist Hotel, very grand, loads of stairways, lots of crystal—and tons of servants’ entrances. The place is like a sieve. When they hold galas and functions there, they need four times the number of guards, just to cover the fire escapes at ground level. And the luxury shops have their own entrances to the street and into the hotel. It’s like Swiss cheese when it comes to security. Now, the floors, they are secure, cameras, staff, everywhere. But I’ll be with Negroni, which should be okay.”

  “So you calculate getting in, for you is no problem?”

  “I think it’ll be okay, there are too many entrances for them to watch.”

  “How do I get in?”

  “When I call, I’ll give you the room number to Negroni’s mistress’ room, just come up and bring something you are delivering, maybe flowers. Got to go.” They hung up.

  Pero shivered involuntarily.

  Eyes squinting, without being seen, he was watching a man follow a green day-glow jacket. T
he student he had given it to took off his cap as he entered the heated Arcade entrance and the man following spotted red hair and turned away. How many people did Tische have on call? This was miles away from anywhere he had been before. It made Pero more nervous. More than nervous, afraid.

  He had to get to the Hotel Adlon safely. The route, from there, was straight: over to the Brandenburg Gate, down Unter den Linden, number seventeen, and enter. Sounded easy. He realized it might not be. With his eyes only, not turning his head, he followed the man who had checked out the student and saw him stop to talk to another two men. One had a photograph in his hand, the other wore a raincoat with a belt tied in a knot. Even from this distance, Pero could see the man was muscular and capable. The chiseled facial features were a giveaway. Pero needed to go out the back of the Arcade.

  Halfway down the length of the mall, he turned right, went through the doors, and followed the narrow alleyway toward Potsdamer Strasse and the Sony Center. He looked left and right, crossed against the light, an offense in Berlin, onto the grass median and then jaywalked again into the FilmMuseum Berlin, embedded in the Sony Center. Fortunately, no traffic cop questioned him.

  On the ground floor, he bought a ticket, like any tourist, and went up to the museum exhibit entrance on the second floor. He got off the open glass elevator, walked to the left and around to the steps, walked down a half flight and waited and looked through the clear glass side of the eight-floor building. He could see the entire internal plaza of the Sony Center, with its giant glass umbrella suspended magically over the top, the fountain playing in the center, tourists everywhere. The sun had come out, and people were eating lunch sitting on the stone bench diagonally across the center. Two of his green jackets were present. One had a tail. The tail grabbed the jacket, the girl wearing it turned and the tail let go. He could see Tische’s agent’s arm gestures apologizing from where Pero was, a floor and a half up.