The Berlin Package

by Peter Riva

  What Pero hadn’t calculated was that once the call went out that a green jacket had been spotted. Tische’s men would converge on the spot. As more and more sightings were made, they converged in greater numbers. As he was, stupidly, still in the region, he had brought them to himself. Idiot, he thought. His diversion had backfired. He was sure they knew that if they had asked even one student, it was a man of his description who had handed them out. The camelhair coat was now a liability. He needed to change it.

  The FilmMuseum Berlin houses one of the great collections of pre-eminent art form of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries: film. People going to museums like to eat. Downstairs was a trendy café named after the Berlin and Hollywood director, Billy Wilder, with posters from his films—The Fortune Cookie, Some Like It Hot, and others—decorating the walls. Pero went down the galvanized open steel stairs for lunch.

  There he hung up his coat on the communal rack, sat, and watched who came in last, about his size. When Pero paid his bill, he left and lifted the other man’s coat—a gray-black wool business coat, three-quarter length—instead of the Sergio’s camelhair one. On the street, he found a cap in the pocket and put it on and, with nerves jangling, blithely walked past the man in the raincoat who was still scanning the Sony Center. Pero hurried toward the Brandenburg Gate two blocks away.

  Passing the Holocaust memorial, with its granite blocks looking like dense, but hollow, tombs, representing the millions who died, he called Sergio. Sergio answered first ring.

  “I lost your camelhair coat. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay, you still in one piece?”

  “Yes, too many close calls. There is a ton of security everywhere.”

  “I know, even my passport was scanned by the front desk—police orders—when I checked in. Mbuno’s passport made them double check. That may not be so good for you if Tische knows Mbuno’s name. I put him down as my safari guide. And they want me to give them my mistress’ passport when she arrives. They claim it’s a terrorist threat warning issued by the police. What the Americani call Red Level.”

  “He’s got contacts and power, that’s for sure. Is the room available?”

  “Yes, I’ve got the key—Room 822, next to mine, up here under the eaves. But, Pero, it would be better if I get a woman to check in there first. The electronic key will tell them someone’s in the room, lights and so forth trigger computer responses, your every comfort taken care of.” Pero knew what he meant. If you turned off the room air conditioner these days and opened the window, the front desk would call up to ask you if everything was all right with the room. You change something, they know. Use the key, they know.

  “I don’t know what to do about that Sergio.”

  “I do, but you’re not going to be happy. I’ve been talking to Sam.”

  “And?”

  “A woman will be here in about twenty minutes. Unless you say no. You come on over and up to my suite, 824. You are Signore Lontra. I told them I am expecting you. Oh, and I brought fresh clothes. And a razor.”

  “I did the shaving part already, spent the morning shopping. Okay, we’ll do it your way, I am on my way.”

  Passing down the east side of the Adlon, the line of luxury shops was impressive. Pero chose a jewelry shop, browsed and bought a fancy key ring and walked out of the store using the back door, into the Adlon foyer. He held the brightly wrapped box he had just purchased like a talisman. It said, to anyone watching, he’s conducting normal business here.

  Pero walked over to the elevators and asked the bellhop standing there if he could get him the room number for Signore Negroni’s suite. He went away, and a manager came back, black tails, looking officious. Pero explained what he wanted.

  “And we are?”

  “Signore Lontra, I was expected.” The manager bowed his head. He already knew her name. They are efficient at the Adlon. The manager himself pressed the call lift button.

  Lontra means otter, in Italian. It was all Pero could do not to smile standing next to the manager, awaiting the elevator to open. Sergio is still such a kid. The doors finally opened, and the manager waved for Pero to enter. Reaching around the doorjamb, the manager stuck his elevator card in the slot, pressed number eight, and wished Pero a good day.

  “Grazie monsignor gentile,” Pero said in Italian, completing the farce.

  On the eighth floor, he walked left to Sergio’s suite and knocked on the door. Sergio opened the door and saw that the major’s two police officers were there with him, guns drawn. Pero went in.

  “Pero, you have got to come listen to this …” Sergio walked over to a small Grundig radio on the table in front of the couch and chairs in his living room. The radio was on a police band. The babble was constant and perhaps a bit comical. “They’ve got sightings of a man in a green day-glow jacket coming from all around the city. So far, they are all students. Something about a man in a camel coat handing them out. Genius, pure genius.” Even the two cops were enjoying Pero’s ruse. The discomfort of their fellow officers was amusing to them.

  “Well, I needed a diversion. Problem was, I attracted attention, too much attention, and before I could get away, I saw the usual local cops being directed by a man in a raincoat, very tough looking. I suspect he’s a professional.” Pero meant an agent or one of Tische’s ex-Stasi men. “They’re looking for a camelhair coat now. Poor fellow, I swapped this one with, he might have a tough time until they know it’s not me.”

  “So, what’s next?”

  “I need to talk with the ambassador, make sure he’s got a reservation at Borchardt’s. Have you?”

  “I don’t ever make one, I don’t want to start acting differently now. They’ll seat me. But Pero, what do you want us three to do when we’re there?” He indicated the two officers.

  “Right now, I am not sure. It’s a matter of an opposing army. If they have loads of people, we need loads of people. I don’t want a war, but I don’t want to be a pushover either. I want to get out of this alive. All I need to do is get him, on tape, to admit to kidnapping. Then the police can have him, right there in the restaurant—and squeeze the bastard for the rest of the information. With you and these two officers—thank you, by the way, in case I haven’t said it before,” they did that little Swiss-German head bow of recognition. “Anyway, with the ambassador’s two men with the major, we’ll have six. And don’t forget, the ambassador’s two men are in the system here. If they yell police, then the police must respond in his favor—ex-Stasi opposition or not, Tische’s power base or not. Agreed?”

  “Sounds right, especially if the ambassador is there.”

  “I was worried about that. He’s a risk taker, and it sounded to me as if he left that possibility open. Frankly, I’d prefer if he’s not there, it’s too great a risk.”

  “On the other hand, Pero, my guess is that the man is running for President in two years … Don’t look so shocked. Why do you think he hasn’t fought his forced retirement and why he’s always pushing the media? Anyway, my guess is that he’ll be there.” Power politics was Sergio’s world. Pero trusted him to know.

  “Okay, then we’ll be seven with a high-profile ally. That might help if any of those five agents come into play or lord knows how many other ex-Stasi foot soldiers Tische has. They would have to be really stupid to take an order to act against the ambassador. The first five we know about from Lewis are ex-CIA or CIA contractees. Let’s hope they can think for themselves.”

  “Pero, not everyone is like you. The real professionals don’t think as much as act.” The phone rang. Sergio answered like he was in Italy: “Pronto? Ah, please escort her up to my suite and have the maid turn down her bed, immediately. Danke.” And he hung up.

  “Sergio, who’s this?”

  “My mistress, the Countess von Trappe, and her bodyguard. I just bought her a fifty thousand Euro coat to prove it—the manager went personally to pay for it for me.”

  There was a knock at the door and the manager, clickin
g his heels in servitude, showed a big puffy, arctic fox clad, vision of beauty into the room followed by her bodyguard, André. “Carissima.” Sergio oozed. The manager left, backward.

  She stood looking at Pero. He stood there, dumbfounded.

  “Hello, Pero.”

  Chapter 16

  Borchardt

  Pero wasn’t angry. Susanna had expected him to be. But he needed to know how their change in plans would affect his planning for the rendezvous with Tische. If Tische now connected Susanna to the Adlon and Negroni, that element of surprise was lost. It was the major who had solved the problem and explained.

  “I arrested her. I put the cuffs on her and with the two friendly police officers, summoned up a police car and hauled her away. We went to the airport and checked her in on the next flight out, like a deportation. I saw several confirming people making sure, you know ones I was sure would report to the police and then on to Tische. Susanna went through control and security, and she was waiting for the Swiss plane that would take us to Switzerland. I had extradition papers—faxed openly to the Hotel Steigenberger. The police and Tische, no doubt, will have a copy of the papers by now. Susanna Reidermaier wanted in connection with the theft of industrial secrets related to recording systems.”

  “How’d you get away?”

  “Down the steps. Passengers went into the plane. The first class curtain was drawn as we boarded down the Jetway. Instead of boarding, we walked down the Jetway side steps to the cargo area on the tarmac, then around back, into the police car. We were lying down while they drove at breakneck speed to a suburban taxi stand. Then a taxi to the furrier Sergio had called and a quick change for me too and then a limo, blackened windows, again thanks to Sergio, to here.” He was really into this cloak-and-dagger stuff. “And how do you like my new coat?” He spun around, the fine tailoring evident, Sergio’s money proving useful again.

  “Don’t get cocky, Major, these guys are killers. You think it’s all okay? No tails?”

  “I am very sure.” He got serious. “I know my job. The arrest warrant was real. The plane ticket and check-in were real. Susanna looked terrified in handcuffs, and the Swiss flight has us as ‘on board’, arriving,” he looked at his watch, “in about twenty minutes.” If they check that end, then perhaps they’ll find out. But I doubt it. First, I have officers in Zurich sealing the plane and keeping people waiting while they “remove the prisoner” supposedly in the cockpit, behind the curtain, which will remain drawn. Second, one of the flight staff will be wearing Susanna’s coat or one like it. It’s a silly ruse, but should work.”

  “Okay, sorry I doubted you.” Pero took a breath, “You’re here, now tell me the real reason you brought Susanna along.”

  Sergio and André looked at each other and then at Susanna. She spoke up: “Because, you idiot, I wanted them to. And I am the expert. Without me, your plan has no meaning. The microphone has to be on you, the major agrees so don’t scowl. Now, let’s get the SilkeWire planted on your jacket.” Sergio showed her the clothing he had selected for Pero, and she set about sewing the thread into place.

  Pero realized there was no point in fighting. She was here. “Susanna, do you have a second wire with you?”

  “What do you need it for?”

  “I was thinking, if he steals the bag,” Pero held up the Russian bag, “then maybe we’ll still get some sound from that.”

  “I have only one recorder receiver, so the channels would overlap, and we would have to be within radio range, about three hundred meters. But I have two senders, yes. But that bag, it is radioactive, nein?” Pero said it was, inside. “Then we will have to put a wire in the bag which feeds to the sender before the inside, how do you say it? Between the layers on the outside.”

  “How about a sock? Put the wire and sender in the sock, and I’ll slip the Russian bag inside that.”

  “That will work, but any radioactivity and the microphone and sender will be kaput, you understand?” He said he did.

  Sergio asked, “How much time have we got?”

  Pero looked at his watch, “It’s one-fifteen, so about five to six hours. From seven thirty on, all attention will be focused on Borchardt, so any agent in the field will be there or watching access points. I don’t trust Tische’s men not to hijack taxis as they pull up, nor do I think he would hesitate to have his agents lift me off the street right in front. They do have the corrupt police on their side, and I don’t want to start a war, a gun battle.”

  “So, how are you going to get in?”

  Major Schmitz had been looking at Sergio’s computer printouts. “Do what he doesn’t expect, hijack him from his office or from his home. See here?” He pointed at the printed map, “He needs to pass along the Französische Strasse coming from Friedrichstrasse or at least cross Friedrichstrasse. The plan could be to get into his car somewhere there. If two of you will help me.” Pero nodded. Then Schmitz spent the next ten minutes going over his plan. Everyone thought it would work. And if it didn’t, there was still the open restaurant option, find a way in and start recording.

  Pero was tired. He needed rest, they all did. They needed to be fresh, even the major agreed. Pero asked, “Sergio, anywhere I can lie down for a while?” Sergio said Pero could take the mistress’ room through the connecting door.

  Pero lay down on top of the duvet on his side, not able to sleep on his stomach yet because of the stab wound. It seemed to be healing, but it was very sore after the previous night’s physical activity. Just before he drifted off to sleep, he felt a body get in behind him. “Move over a bit.” He did and Susanna put her arm along his side and her hand on his shoulder and they fell asleep, soundly, together.

  Almost immediately, it seemed, Sergio was waking him. “Six thirty Pero, time you got up.” Pero was alone in the bed. While he had slept, the major had catnapped in a stuffed armchair and looked disheveled. He was talking with Susanna, going over the radio controls. She was showing, helping him, thread the earpiece up his sweater and shirt. He practiced turning his head away so as to not show the wire too obviously. The earpiece wire was flesh-colored, a stage wire. The color would help hide it.

  Mbuno was sitting, on the wide windowsill watching the street eight floors below, his tracker skills sharpening his eye for detail. Before he could be asked, he told Pero there was no unusual police activity below.

  Sergio and the two police officers were sitting intently watching news TV and listening to the Grundig radio, set to the police frequency. There seemed less activity across the airwaves than before. Pero asked if there was any change. Sergio explained that the activity on the radio had been reduced. The police seemed to be calling off the general search, but perhaps only reducing the extra manpower. Schmitz explained that hopefully that would reduce Tische’s forces—his closest police stooges and, not to forget, the five agents.

  Pero wanted an update on that. He went to the window, opened it, and dialed up the satellite phone. “Lewis here. Go ahead Baltazar.”

  “Any progress on those agents? I would love them called off in about an hour.”

  “I repeat your orders are to stand down and cease and desist, I’ve told you twenty-six times. Any command being given for field agents to stand down in one hour have nothing whatsoever to do with you. Do you understand?” He was yelling but without, it seemed to Pero, any conviction.

  “Yes, thank you. Out.” And he hung up. Pero told the crew, “He’ll order them to stand down in an hour from now. There’s no guarantee that such an order will be effective. We just have to hope.” As he pulled on his shoes, he added, “Look, if you come across one of them and have a chance to speak to them, you have a secret password, twenty-six. Lewis has confirmed the number has been given to them, I hope. Since twenty-six is a strange number, they will have to check it out. It’ll at least cause them to hesitate. The moment they call Langley, they’ll stop whatever they are doing, Lewis sounded pretty adamant.”

  Schmitz didn’t tell anyone that he felt t
hat there was no hope those agents would join their side. He suspected that the White House or CIA orders wouldn’t permit that much support.

  Berlin at night is magical. There are lights, shadows, mystery, and playfulness that is unlike other European cities. Strangers talk to strangers, looks are exchanged, no one is excluded from the atmosphere or, more accurately, from the anticipation that a party is about to happen, somewhere.

  The Unter den Linden, leading to the Friedrichstrasse that, in turn, crosses the Französische Strasse—all these streets proclaim, “Be Berlin, come join the party.” Couples walk hand in hand or arm in arm. People of every ethnicity, sexual persuasion, or religion are more than tolerated. They are the norm, not to be noticed as being different. After ten p.m. things change, only the serious revelers remain—those who do not have work in the morning. But until then, the streets are full if it is not raining, with people just happy to be out and about, on the town, like an Easter parade without the bonnets.

  One of the places late night revelers gather in is Borchardt’s. The restaurant has a high eighteen-foot ceiling with art-deco lights. There is a full-length bar on the left as you enter, ending with a small round standing bar for people waiting to be seated. There are decorative pillars rising from the floor to the ceiling, around which are seating alcoves and banquette sections all around the room. In summer, there is a little outdoor garden for dining, opening back onto the main dining room via tall and wide French windows. Any time of year, Borchardt’s is noisy, boisterous, and intellectually stimulating.

  People always gather outside Borchardt’s door, some wanting tables, some hoping to see celebrities, always a few paparazzi, and some functionaries waiting for their lords and masters to be finished eating. The outside crowd creates the atmosphere celebrities crave—exclusivity and privilege given to those who enter.