by Peter Riva
At Borchardt’s, at midnight, the next day’s papers are handed out. Half the journalists who contributed read them to see how their words had been chopped. Actors read them for reviews and the earliest nibble at gossip. Writers check reviews, and bankers check economic forecasts. Before that bewitching hour, trendy people, intellectuals, and politicians gather to eat the plain but perfectly prepared food, drink, and smoke. Conversation drifts from table to table. It’s loud but intimate, casual yet elegant, bustling but exclusive. It is chic.
Using his computer, Sergio pulled up dozens of press photos showing the make and model of Tische’s car—Mercedes, black, stretch. Pero thought, what else could it be? It’s the modern day panzerkampfwagen! There was the chance that Tische would get a police escort, but Pero and the major hoped not. Mbuno assured them, “The hyena male travels alone, he is always confident.” Still, Pero knew Tische had agents aplenty all around.
A little before the deadline, on a walk-by to reconnoiter, Mbuno, in nondescript clothing, again bought by Sergio, spotted a few loitering professional looking men near the top of the block where Borchardt’s was. Mbuno went back to Pero’s dark doorway and identified them because there was nothing else on the block in either direction.
What Major André Schmitz wanted to do was illegal. He wanted to decoy the car to a stop and then shoot the car dead. Tires, engine, Schmitz didn’t care. He knew that discharging a firearm was against the law and the police would arrive. Under Schmitz’s instructions, Pero hoped to have Tische out of the car and onto the pavement by then.
Arresting Tische was not enough. They needed a confession. They needed to get him to a public place where he would feel safe and talkative. The cattle car had given Pero the idea. When Tische had the upper hand, he became talkative. Or at least that’s what Pero hoped for.
What happened was even simpler. Pero was standing in the shadows of the YSL shop watching for the car. André, by then re-costumed in the standard Stasi leather jacket was on the corner. He stepped into the street tapping a Polaroid on the knuckles of his left hand. As Tische’s Mercedes advanced toward him, André could see the man on the back seat lean forward to peer through the windshield. André started waving at the car simulating that he had something to say and the car slowed and pulled over. A car behind the limo honked and sped past, its driver gesticulating madly, visibly annoyed.
André walked up to the driver’s and backseat passenger’s windows as they both powered down. Mbuno ran out from his hiding in the shadows of the YSL shop to the driver’s door, using André’s body to hide his face and skin color from Tische. Mbuno stuck Sergio’s nine millimeter Beretta in the driver’s face.
André drew his revolver and pointed it at Tische, put his hand into the car, and opened the driver’s latch as Mbuno moved quickly. Mbuno was an expert in close combat. The driver had lost consciousness before his head hit the empty seat on the right of the gear stick. André reached further in, took out the keys, and threw them away. Mbuno sat sideways in the driver’s seat and aimed the gun at Tische as André withdrew, keeping watch up and down the block. Pero emerged from the shop shadows and quickly approached the car.
From down the block, two men were walking, quickly toward them. A gun battle was about to begin. André warned Pero.
Pero spoke quickly, “Herr Tische, I have what you want, you have what I want. Let’s make the exchange, as planned, and you can leave without getting shot.” Mbuno clicked off the gun safety.
Tische knew Pero would know that if he was shot, Danny and Heep were going to die, he was sure his orders would be carried out. And Tische was sure Pero and these other two would know that. But Tische wanted the bag as promised. Feeling he had the upper hand still, “You will not shoot. But I agree.” So he got out of the car and barked a command at the advancing men, “Verlassen sie uns allein” (leave us alone).
Pero casually asked him if he still wanted dinner.
Tische declared through clenched teeth, lips pulled back, “Why not.” It wasn’t a question, more like an order. He did not seem to Pero to be a man who was asked many questions nor asked questions unless he had a purpose. He was used to being in command. Pero calculated that was the best way to put him at ease, remembering Mbuno’s words about male hyena being “always confident.”
Mbuno handed the gun to the major and walked off into the night seemingly away from Borchardt’s. Tische’s eyes flicked recognition, acceptance—Pero was sure he knew then who Mbuno was. The three of them, the major, Pero, and Tische walked the two blocks to Borchardt, past the two stalled men, who stepped back into the waiting small crowd by the entrance. When they walked into Borschardt’s, brushing past three men in the crowded entryway, Pero and the major worried those three were also Tische’s. One had a British raincoat on, no belt. Pero felt a bead of sweat drip down his spine.
Once inside, the major left their side and stood alone at the bar. Pero saw him keep a hand on the gun pocket and the other in his waist pocket where Susanna had put the recorder. Pero had an urge to lower his chin and say “Testing, one, two, three …”
The waiters fussed over Tische. They knew him well. He had a regular table on the far side of the room away from the hustle and bustle of the center of the room. Tische ordered a whiskey and soda and Pero ordered a glass of red house wine. The waiters placed the menus on the table and both men pretended to look at them.
“You did not check your coat, Herr Baltazar.”
“Nor did you Herr Tische.”
“Ach, but I do not have anything valuable in mine, and I hope you do.”
Pero thought the time for games was over, but he still needed to pretend a little longer, “Look, Tische, this isn’t a movie. I know what you want, and you know what I want. Why the hell did you take Redmond and Heeper?”
“It was necessary.” Evidence. They had him. But Pero wanted more if he could get Tische to talk, Pero felt they needed to keep recording. “Leverage is always necessary to ensure the outcome. Oh, yes, I read that report on Kenya. You are adaptive, most adaptive, but the enemy there was stupid. We are not stupid. We have your friends and will have them tortured, most horribly unless I get what I want tonight. No promises, no delays. I get what I want or they get tortured. Day by day until they die. The sooner you deliver what I want, the better for them.” It struck Pero then that this was a truly evil man.
Behind Pero’s head, Tische was watching the door to the restaurant. Pero was watching the door too, reflected in the French window behind Tische. The ambassador was arriving with two men. Outside, the dynamic of the people waiting for a table or hanging around changed. Pero saw some of the men he had assumed were Tische’s exchange glances. With the ambassador there, the possibility of any struggle on Tische’s behalf changed, not in their favor.
Just as suddenly, two men, in American suits, who had been standing at the bar, one of whom was looking at his cell phone, looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and left. Pero watched Tische’s eyes follow their departure. Tische’s eyes said he was not pleased.
The men who left were plainly not Germans. “Sorry to see them go? Your players?”
“Nein, yours it seems. Well done Mr. Baltazar. But the game is not over yet. Now my leverage also needs insurance. So I need more leverage.” A man pushed his way in and advanced to their table. He was in full uniform. It was the Polizeibeamter, the ex-Stasi cop, from the Technisches Museum encounter. Tische greeted him, “Abend, Hans.”
“Mein Chef.” He replied and sat next to Pero. He pulled out his gun, making sure Pero saw its nasty muzzle, and placed it under the table pointing at Pero’s stomach.
“Hans will shoot you here. He’s an officer. He can unless you give me the package now.” It was blunt, no finesse. It was exactly what Pero should do before his position deteriorated any further—give him the package. Pero and Tische had seen the contracted agents leaving. Pero could only guess what was happening outside. What was happening outside was not Tische’s concern. Inside
, right there, at that table was his to command, and he was not about to be distracted from his goal.
“When you tell me where they are.”
“Tomorrow, I will call, they will be safe until then. You have my word.”
Pero paused as if he was making up his mind. “Okay. I give. Where will you call?” Pero reached for the bag inside the coat, in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out, the Russian bag holding the liquid inside the sock and passed it to Tische.
Tische studied the outside. Turning it over, studying it. Wondering.
Pero wanted that reaction, “It’s what you wanted, now get out.”
Tische’s face darkened. He leaned on the table. Pero felt that intimate sensation of Tische’s bloodlust again.
Tische grinned. “Ah, so, you know something I need to know. That was too easy. You will tell me what you know now or I will have Hans shoot you anyway.”
Pero was incredulous, raising his voice, “You have a gun pointed at my belly in the hand of this crooked cop and you say it’s too easy? I just can’t make you happy. Can I Tische? Okay, here’s what I know, Herr Aue …” and he let it hang. Pero turned his head to talk to the waiter, who was hovering again, but he had seen Tische’s shoulder move his hand that was under the table and it was going to contact Hans. There could only be one reason for that. Pero kicked his legs out and fell backward.
The bullet from Hans’ gun pierced the wooden seat bottom of Pero’s falling chair and went on to shatter the French window behind. Quickly, Hans stood, ordering everyone to sit, declaring that this was a police matter, he was apprehending a terrorist. Hans was watching Pero as he said that, gun leveled at Pero’s chest. With his other hand, he was motioning Pero to stand.
From the bar, André took six quick steps over to Hans and chopped his hand upwards. The gun went off again—aimed at the ceiling—and then André jabbed him in the throat cutting off his air. The police gun clattered to the floor.
Still lying on the floor, Pero noticed feet passing by his head, people panicking and heading in every direction. André, as he subdued Hans with handcuffs, handed Pero the small metal box containing Susanna’s digital recorder and nodded toward the kitchen. Pero, still on the floor, still shocked at being shot at, was slow on the uptake.
The ambassador’s men had immediately stood and bodily protected the ambassador. The ambassador shouted, “Any CIA here, drop your weapons and disengage, this is an order from Local One.” It made the papers the next day. Sergio, Mbuno, the two Swiss police aides, and Susanna arrived about then. The two Swiss officers plunged into the fray, taking on three of Hans’ fellow ex-Stasi, peeling them off the bar or getting them up from tables near Tische’s. Because Local One was there, German State Security had men on hand, but they didn’t know who to arrest or shoot. They guarded the ambassador and barked orders for everyone to stop.
From his vantage point, slowly getting up from the floor, Pero watched Mbuno trip one of the men. Then Sergio disarmed a leather-coated goon coming into the restaurant, one of the ones from the street. Pero watched Sergio hand the confiscated pistol to a uniformed police officer as the officer came in from the street. The police officer looked surprised. When the thug Mbuno had tripped tried to get up again, Sergio hit him, paparazzi cameras flashing, and Mbuno sat on the man’s back, pinning him to the restaurant entrance floor.
Sergio smiled at the photographers and his front-page moment of fame was certain–once again.
But Tische had slipped out through the kitchen. Pero’s fog of very nearly being shot began to lift. He turned to run after Tische, finally figuring out what the major had wanted him to do when he handed him the metal box: keep recording.
Chapter 17
U-Bahn Halt: Alt-Tegel
Like most kitchens in busy, gourmet establishments, the Borchardt’s kitchen was small and crowded. Cooking so many meals required a ballet of timing and movement—an elderly, but determined man running through, crashing into everything, and you have chaos. Tische had gained distance from the dazed Pero, but there was little Pero could do to catch up until they reached the street. As Tische spun out the back door, slipping on the cream, he had made a sous-chef spill, Pero spotted him turning to run up the block, northward. Tische had a hundred-foot lead. Pero ran after him.
Although Pero was gaining, it was not fast enough. Pero was not a fast runner. Tische reached the U-Bahn station, Oranienburger Tor and went down the steps to the U6 train that was waiting, about to depart, doors open.
Sirens could be heard back at the restaurant and Pero wondered if anyone knew where they were running. In desperation, Pero took the steps three at a time and, thankfully, got to the bottom just as the normal loud tone was sounding for closing doors. He jumped into the first car he came to, and the train moved off. With every stop the train made, he leapt out and walked up a car, but he could spot Tische doing the same. Pero wasn’t in a rush to apprehend him, he just didn’t want too much distance between them. Pero was not sure if Tische was armed. But Pero was sure that if Tische felt Pero was coming on to attack, he would turn and fight—never run away. Hyenas confront attackers, chattering all the time.
As the U-Bahn sped north past the eighth stop, it emerged from the tunnel into the open night air. Emerging from the tunnel inside West Berlin and onto the elevated section in the old Eastern sector, Pero could see through the windows that Tische was in the fourth carriage from the front, while he, Pero, was in the car behind. At the next stop, Pero planned to move into Tische’s carriage and talk with him. Pero hoped the recorder would still be working.
“Die nexte halt ist Kurtchumacher Platz” the speakers blared. Pero looked through the connecting windows and saw Tische smiling, all teeth, back at him.
As the train came into the station, the last of the passengers in Pero’s car got off except for two. There were three in Tische’s still, hopefully giving Pero some cover or at least witnesses. Carefully, hiding, checking that the recording buttons were still on, Pero left his carriage and walked forward to Tische’s car. Keeping at arm’s length, he addressed Tische, “Herr Aue?”
Tische seemed resigned if unbeaten, “It is clever of you to figure this out. No doubt your bosses have calculated that my usefulness is over. Pity, it was an easy association and good cover while it lasted. Now we will have to carry on without their bungling.”
Pero thought There is that “we” again. Pero nodded, “Herr Aue, what do you hope to gain? The uranium is useless.”
“Ach, so that is what you know. But it not so, you are wrong. In the right hands, in the right way, it is most useful. It is part of a planned existence, a new order. We are patient.”
“Like your father was patient?” Pero asked as he took a standing position, leaning on the train doors that would open each stop. Tische was opposite him, swaying with the train, uninterested in holding the handrail.
“Mein foter,” he used the Yiddish word, “was weak. He couldn’t see. Mein Vater,” he used the German word, “was pure, perfekt.”
“Before or after he killed your foter?”
“I warned you once before not to be sentimental Herr Baltazar, it is a game you are ill-equipped to play. You know nothing, will learn nothing.”
The train stopped again. Doors opened, closed. Two fewer people left in their car. Their discourse was painfully slow for Pero. He was impatient to get Tische to reveal all. But Tische would speak, chattering really, and it was clear he would only answer or ask questions after minutes of silence.
“On the contrary Hitler Jugend Spacil, I have learned much.” It shocked Tische, but only for an instant.
“And so? So what is your next trick? You think to shock me into penitence dummer kleiner mann?”
Pero knew Tische was partially right. A little man he might be, in a big game, but not dummer, stupid.
Tische sneered, showing teeth, and sarcastically added, “Ach so, you think I was the poor orphan indoctrinated boy of Spacil or Aue. So what? I did my time in that filthy
French prison. My real Vater rescued me. My foter never could have.”
“You are right, he couldn’t. Did Spacil execute him in the Ukraine, did you know about it?”
The train stopped again, the carriage emptied completely. Pero moved a pace sideways and away. Tische was making him increasingly afraid.
Tische laughed, “Frightened? Again, you show signs of the TV generation you grew up in—soft, weak, and melodramatic. You cannot understand power, Herr Baltazar, its intoxication, its value, its cleanliness for the soul. Did I know—did I know?” He laughed again and was enjoying the exchange, “I watched him execute first meine mame, she begged him to save me … He said he would. He was most gentle, one bullet. The blood spattered mein foter. And my Vater’s shiny black boots. After he shot mein foter, he made me clean his boots, standing there next to my dead parents, fallen together, weak even in death. Then he took me back to his quarters, and he had slaves bring me food and clothes, fine leather shoes. He had power, you see, he knew how to provide, to show the way. My birth parents were weak, inferior. She for sleeping with a Jew, he for being what he was, unclean and unworthy. Mein Vater made me a German, not weak. So did I know? Oh yes, I watched and I learned. It was eine wertvolle lektion, a good lesson. Vater Spacil made sure I learned it again and again. I became better at exterminating them than he did. Later, in Berlin, I enjoyed eliminating the homosexual French soldiers.” He laughed and sneered, “So, Herr Baltazar, keep your petty American values to yourself.”
The train slowed to a stop, and the doors opened, “Otisstrasse,” was proclaimed and the doors closed. Then there was no one aboard in any part of the train, just the two men hurtling into the night. Pero was wondering if André or perhaps Mbuno were tracking the U-Bahn’s passage. Feeling more afraid now that they were alone, Pero wanted to shake Tische’s confidence, “Your sister is not so sure.”
