“No, I do not,” the officer answered sternly.
Keeton—as Marzell Adler—pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Well, I have written many articles on economics—it’s my specialty, you see. I have many critics in the West who do not share my enthusiasm for socialist policies. But one only has to look around your beautiful capital, with its efficiency and order. Clearly there is not a better argument for centralized planning. When you compare it to the dirty and decadent West, you can…”
“Herr Adler,” the Reisebüro officer interrupted as he stamped the page in Keeton’s fake passport. “Your visa is good for today only.” He leaned in. “But it is sometimes possible to get extensions; just return here and register. We can arrange hotels as well.”
“Thank you very much,” Keeton said amiably. “I can imagine wanting to stay longer, once I become immersed…”
“Thank you, Herr Adler. You may move along now.”
Keeton nodded and tipped his hat to the officer and walked north from the Grenzübergangsstelle Friedrich-Zimmerstraße—known on the West Berlin side as Checkpoint Charlie—and into East Berlin. The midmorning air was heavy and warm. Keeton began to feel himself perspiring under the layers of tweed jacket, Oxford shirt, and cotton undershirt. After several blocks he hailed a taxi.
“Cafe Moskau, please,” he told the driver. “You know, I’m writing a book about the wonderful economy here.”
The driver looked back at him in the rearview mirror and grunted. Ten minutes later he dropped Keeton off at the sleek, upscale restaurant built by the state in the 1950s in honor of their Russian comrades. Keeton had been in the Moskau twice, but for this mission he simply walked past the entrance and began a brisk fifteen-minute trek eastward along Karl-Marx-Allee then down a narrow side street to a small bar called Hauptmann’s. He walked in carrying the tweed jacket, having taken it off halfway between the Moskau and there.
Hauptmann’s was a simple place, with the bar on one side and a wall of booths along the opposite wall. Doors led to the toilets, the kitchen, and the alley behind. At the moment there were three men sitting at the bar, two obviously together and talking in rapid, slurred German—and a loner who looked as though he had been there quite a while as he signaled to the bartender for another Weißbier. Keeton sat himself in the booth farthest back, facing the front door. A beautiful barmaid emerged from the kitchen and walked over to his table.
“Welcome, sir,” she said pleasantly, the white flash of her smile contrasting with the darkened corner and the dingy atmosphere of the place. “My name is Heidi. What may I get for you?”
“A double vodka, please, Heidi,” he said, smiling back. She nodded and turned back to the bar as the front door opened and a tall, rangy figure was framed against the bright sun outside. When the door finally closed, Keeton noted the gaunt, bearded face under the straw fedora, just as he had been told to expect. The man took off the fedora and walked to the bar, ordering a glass of Rotkäppchen. After Heidi brought Keeton his vodka, the man with the fedora sauntered over and sat at the table across from him.
“A very pretty girl, eh?” the man said in German, but with what Keeton recognized as a French accent. Without the hat, the man’s balding scalp and sculpted goatee gave him a devilish appearance. “Even in those drab communist clothes, her beauty and her curves refuse to be contained. Unlike this dog piss of a wine, which refuses to be even decent.” He raised the glass and took a long sip. In English, he said, “I am Bleudot.”
Keeton considered this for a moment. “You picked that code phrase just so you could complain about the wine, didn’t you?”
Bleudot smiled and tossed back the rest of the Rotkäppchen. “As a Frenchman, I am sickened by this. I cannot wait to return to…”
“She’s back,” Keeton said softly. Heidi walked up to the table.
Bleudot switched back to German. “As I was saying, as avowed socialists and friends of the German Democratic Republic, we owe it to our friends here to do what we can to support them. Hello, Heidi!”
“Mr. Bleudot, good to see you,” Heidi answered, pouring him another glass and setting down the remainder of the bottle in front of him.
“Always good to see you, Miss Heidi,” Bleudot said, giving her an obvious once-over look. “And please meet my friend, Mr. Adler. He’s a journalist and writer.”
Keeton realized that Bleudot had made himself a regular at Hauptmann’s, reinforcing his cover as the socialist sympathizer. “I agree with your point of view, Bleudot. That is why I, a West German only by the unfortunate whim of fate, am here to write my greatest work yet—the success of the socialist economic model.”
“Success?” Heidi said with a loud guffaw that Keeton found endearing. The other men in the bar didn’t seem to notice at all. “What wouldn’t I do for a Western dress that I see the tourists wearing.”
“Now, now, my dear,” Bleudot answered with a flourish. “Look around. Efficiency, technology, rebirth. While I can’t speak of female fashion, I do have some experience with the finer culinary arts. Only the best here in the Democratic Republic!” He took another long drink and made a show of smacking his lips.
“I suppose I’m just a simple barmaid,” Heidi said, raising her hand to her bosom in mock innocence. “I will take the word of learned men like yourself.”
“I think Heidi is teasing you, Bleudot,” Keeton said before finishing the vodka.
“She often does, my friend. Now, Heidi, it’s a bit early yet, but may we order our lunch?”
“Of course,” she said. “The regular for you, Mr. Bleudot?”
“Yes—a large bowl of solyanka in honor of our Soviet comrades. For Mr. Adler, let him try your very excellent pork chop with sauerkraut.” He leaned in toward Keeton. “It’s said to be Secretary Honecker’s favorite dish. And of course another bottle of this fine sparkling wine!”
After Heidi had brought Keeton a wineglass and filled it, Bleudot’s face suddenly turned serious. “Enough of this playacting. I’ve been waiting for us to begin. Now, how are we going to save Agent Red?”
“More importantly,” Keeton answered. “Do you think he’s even still alive?”
“Well, Zeppelin’s been keeping an eye on the factory,” Bleudot said. “And apparently he’s hired a team of his own to stay in his uncle’s apartment, just watching. I picked up the last dead drop message just this morning—so far no suspicious man-size bundles carried out in the middle of the night.”
“That’s not hard proof,” Keeton said. “But at least it’s a start. Bleudot, there’s something you need to know about Zeppelin.”
Bleudot stared at Keeton for a moment. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Keeton nodded grimly. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Yesterday I met him at the Tiergarten. He was supposedly running a secondary informant, code named Whisper, which turned out to be one of his fictions.”
“He was a very resourceful man—clever and committed. I’ll miss him. How did he die?”
Keeton then told Bleudot about the attack in the Tiergarten shed, his escape, and the meeting between Roy and Zeppelin, which ended in Zeppelin’s death. As he spoke, Keeton thought he could see Bleudot’s shoulders slump and the sharp countenance change from experience and savvy to weariness. When Keeton was finished with his story, Bleudot simply uttered a bitter oath in French.
“His last words,” Bleudot said. “That you were the one being followed, not him—what do you think of his opinion?”
“Honestly, it makes sense,” Keeton answered. “I was attacked in London, too. There’s something there, to be sure. I just haven’t been able to piece it together.”
Bleudot shook his head and stared away absently. “This is not good news. Listen, I have something to tell you…”
Just then Heidi stopped by with their lunch. Both of them put on the happier tenor of their socialist stooge covers but also ordered strong coffee with the meal. Two more patrons entered the place. They were working-class men with that look of desperate mean
inglessness that the Iron Curtain inspired and Keeton despised.
“What I have to tell you is both classified and unofficial within the SDECE,” Bleudot said after Heidi had gone. “I can tell by your surprise that you weren’t aware I was from the French company.”
“Yes, I’m surprised. I assumed you were recruited directly into our company,” Keeton said. He had worked with the French intelligence agency, Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage, during a few missions in the past. They were known to be ruthless and efficient, but even in the dark world of spies, they had a spotted record that caused them to be heavily scrutinized by the tumultuous French authorities.
“You might say that I’m on loan, in a way,” Bluedot answered. “I’ve been with Red for two years. My service is actually part of the news. There is an SDECE agent—I cannot even give you a code name—who has implied heavy infiltration of KGB into SDECE, and to some extent into the other Western agencies in Europe. I know this agent well, and I respect and trust him, but I’m in the minority. This agent and his accusations are not popular with the bosses, and by extension neither am I. So that’s why I’ve been offered to the CIA. I’m sorry if this information hurts your confidence, but I have a good record. I don’t know if your attackers have a sleeper working for them, but I advise you to keep this possibility in mind.”
Of course Keeton had considered the sleeper possibility. And he did not even know if Zeppelin was entirely clean or not. And what about Bleudot? Keeton finished his wine. “I trust my director to have vetted you—what choice do I have? And if you don’t mind me saying so, the French government has more than flirted officially with communism since the end of the war. I don’t think it would be a terrible stretch to think the KGB might be able to get a foothold.”
“Yes, like you I’m under no great delusion about governments and spies and sleepers,” Bleudot said. “I’ve seen more than a man’s share of betrayal and death. Zeppelin is just the latest in a long line of fallen comrades in arms. As for your director, I worked with him during the war against the Nazis. So he more than vetted me—he saved my life! A story worth sharing, once we are done getting Red back from these socialist salauds.”
Bleudot signaled to Heidi that they were ready to leave. After paying the bill with a last suggestive look at the alluring barmaid, he led Keeton outside and back to Karl-Marx-Allee, where they could find a taxi.
For his part, Keeton was annoyed to find his thoughts returning to a possible Soviet penetration into Europe, into the CIA, and even into the Cavalry itself.
What if they already knew we were coming to save Red? he thought darkly.
***
“Of course, I will simply call you Adler, as you will call me Bleudot. I know this is a cover for you, and you may correctly assume Bleudot is not my real name, either.”
“I’ve gotten used to not asking,” Keeton answered the Frenchman. They had taken a taxi from Hauptmann’s—conversing only in their innocuous cover language—to within six blocks of the East Berlin safe house. “It saves time for both the liar and myself.”
“I know better than that,” Bleudot said playfully. “You enjoy trying to unravel the mysteries of your friends just as much as those of your enemies. We all do.”
With his silence, Keeton refused to acknowledge the obvious. Bleudot led him down a residential street to a narrow detached three-story house. The door was answered by a younger man with long, unkempt hair who had one of those faces with eternal daily stubble. Once inside, Bleudot made the introductions.
“This is Eichel,” Bleudot said, indicating the man who had answered the bell. “I presume at some time your agents and teams mingle, but I happen to know in this case that you two have never met.”
“Marzell Adler,” Keeton said, shaking Eichel’s outstretched hand. “I like reading, learning languages, and my favorite color is orange.”
“An honor to meet you, Agent Orange. I’ve been on Red’s detail for eighteen months, and…it’s just that…”
Keeton raised his hand. “I read about a support agent—scored very high at Peary—on his first assignment. That’s you.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so,” Eichel answered demurely.
“We’re going to go in and get him,” Keeton said firmly. He understood that the junior agent was dealing with the gamut of feelings from anger to embarrassment to fear. He had also noted that Eichel had switched from perfect German at the door to Midwestern English now that they were safely inside. “I’m glad you’re here, and Bleudot is a professional’s professional, too, which you already know.”
“Thank you, sir. You’re right about Bleudot—and yes, I’m anxious to get Red out of there.”
“Eichel, why don’t you grab some provisions and take them into the conference room?” Bleudot said. “We’ll be right there.”
The young man nodded and walked further into the narrow house, back to the kitchen. Bleudot leaned into Keeton.
“He’s a good field operative,” the Frenchman said quietly. “Young, bright, and tough. But perhaps—and far be it from me to question the American company—putting him into the Agent Red assignment just out of the gate might’ve been a bit much even for a…what is the term, thoroughbred?”
“That’s the term,” Keeton said with a smile, momentarily caught thinking about his Kentucky upbringing. “You’ve watched him under pressure. What do you think?”
Bleudot glanced down the hallway for a moment. “When the mission starts, he’ll be fine. Both of us share some guilt about not being there when Red was picked up.”
“That’s natural, Bleudot. The difference is, you’ve been there before. First impressions—I think he’ll do fine, too.”
“Before we go into the conference room,” Bleudot said, “I wanted to ensure you that the walls of this place are checked regularly. We have the gear that picks up the wiring signals in the walls, and the windows are dampened as well. So it’s safe to talk.” He leaned in even farther and whispered. “Still, we have our bunker.”
Keeton gave him a quizzical frown, and Bleudot put his finger to his lips. Eichel came back from the kitchen holding an old wooden toolbox containing a teapot, cups, and two plates filled with breads, cold-cut meat, and cheeses. Bleudot then bent down and carefully selected one of the floorboards and prized it up with his fingers. The adjacent floorboard became a handle with which he lifted up a small trapdoor. A steep makeshift stairs led down into the darkness.
Eichel went first, holding the toolbox. Keeton followed and found himself waiting at the bottom of the stairs alongside Eichel. He could tell that they and the stairwell were surrounded by dark felt curtains that blocked light from this secret level reaching the hallway above. Bleudot went into the small study and began playing the radio, set on the GDR state broadcast, then descended the stairs and shut the trap door behind him.
“Like good little socialists,” he said happily in the total darkness.
Eichel then pushed open the curtain to reveal a surprisingly spacious and bright cellar lit by several incandescent bulbs, with a poured-concrete floor and cinder-block walls. The place was set up as an operations center, complete with maps, weapons, radio equipment, and other gear. Makeshift desks and tables provided surfaces on which to work. He set the food and drink out on an old oak table in the center of the room and invited Keeton to have a cup of strong black coffee.
Keeton walked out of the dark area of the stairs to the table and took the coffee from Eichel. “Who else is here?” he asked, making a motion to the quartet of cups.
“That would be Ziska,” Bleudot said.
Keeton heard the shuffling of feet behind him and turned around. From behind the dark rectangle of the curtains stepped a beautiful woman. She had classic German features, with blond hair braided into a single thick ponytail that curved from behind her neck and lay across one ample breast. Keeton estimated her age at thirty. He admired her rosy cheeks and bright, full mouth but also recognized that look of bot
h weariness and militant resistance in her eyes that often accompanied the freedom fighter.
“I am Ziska,” she said simply, with a rough voice reminiscent of Marlene Dietrich. When they shook hands, he felt her strong grip and noted the flexing of the muscled forearms.
Either farm work or industrial, Keeton thought. Or both. She looked confidently—almost defiantly—into his eyes. Her natural beauty, unadorned with makeup or the latest hairstyle, made her very alluring to him.
“Marzell Adler,” he said. He had not been aware of a third member of Red’s team, much less a woman. He realized that everything about this woman that attracted him also reminded him of a femme fatale. Although he knew this was more imagination than reality, he gave Bleudot a look.
“Ziska’s a cleared informant,” Bleudot explained. “She’s been on the scene with Red for a while, longer than Eichel in fact. A proven asset. She saved Detlef Neumann’s life, by the way.”
“I thought he’d disappeared, too,” Keeton said.
“He has, again,” Ziska answered. “After I got him out of a situation, he got anxious and left. I hope he’s safe for now, but the Russians want him caught, and therefore so do the East Germans, and therefore so does Captain Franz Junger.”
“Junger,” Keeton repeated. “We have him from Zeppelin’s pictures.”
“The man you knew as Zeppelin died for this cause,” Ziska declared. “That’s good enough for me.”
“I know he died for it. He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last.” Keeton’s answer was harsher and more reactive than he intended. He immediately regretted the tone.
“Then let’s hope that your Agent Red isn’t among those to be sacrificed,” Ziska said as she raised her cup in conciliation. As Keeton completed the toast, she gave the slightest hint of a smile.
“Let’s give Adler what we have so far,” Bleudot said. Eichel brought over a stack of papers and photos. They sat together with the material and the coffee and food.
The Frenchman tore off a piece of bread and began eating and talking. “Ziska here has got herself a job—and a boyfriend—at the factory. The night-shift manager, as it turns out.”
Agent Orange Page 13
