by Erika Holzer
Aleksei nodded to Luka, who turned on a radio and fiddled with the dials until the radio coughed. Static muffled the background noise.
The symposium had begun.
Kiril and Adrienne leaned forward in their chairs, straining to hear. Aleksei was paying close attention. Brenner, looking mildly curious, had a pretty fair idea what his mother was about to say about his alleged defection. Luka, blank-faced, sat in the corner.
A Master of Ceremonies’ preliminary remarks signaled the start of the symposium, his mellow voice announcing the presence of an unscheduled but much respected speaker, Dr. Anna Brenner, mother of the esteemed heart surgeon Dr. Kurt Brenner, who had just told the world of his defection to the Soviet Union.
“I am here to speak the truth about my sons,” Anna Brenner said. “I chose to speak at Medicine International because my son, Kurt Brenner, is a peer of many in this audience. Until the mid-1920s when I married Max Brenner and became a German citizen, I resided in the Soviet Union. My name at that time was Anna Andreyev. My eldest son was, and perhaps still is, Aleksei Andreyev. My second son was Kiril. My youngest son, the eminent American heart surgeon Dr. Kurt Brenner, is about to learn that he was born—not in America—but in the Soviet Union. His name was Nikolai ‘Kolya’ Andreyev.”
Aleksei’s body turned to stone.
He noticed that neither Kiril nor Adrienne Brenner seemed surprised.
They must have learned about this in Zurich.
“—and it was because of a near-tragic accident that I received permission to take Kolya to Germany in hopes of saving the child’s life. I lost my eldest son Aleksei—politically, you might say—to his father and ultimately to the Communist Party. And once I made the painful decision to raise Kolya in a free country, I lost my son Kiril. Any attempt to communicate with him would have placed him in grave danger because of who I was—an Enemy of the People.
So this is what I wish to say by way of farewell to my son, Kurt, who has just defected to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”
* * *
The close of Anna Brenner’s speech brought silence in West Berlin as a distinguished gathering of doctors, scientists, and politicians absorbed her shattering words.
In a small office at the East Berlin airport, three men and a woman looked at each other, pondering their new relationship.
You! Aleksei’s eyes were fixed on the radio, as if Anna Brenner awaited his reaction.
Kiril’s mouth was twisted with the violence of his emotion.
Kurt Brenner’s near-hysterical laughter rose above a raucous mix of voices and static. “The Brothers Andreyev! It’s more like the Brothers Karamazov,” he said disdainfully, looking from Kiril to Aleksei as one would look at a couple of bastards who had abruptly sprouted on an impeccable family tree.
Aleksei’s hardened features melted into feigned amiability. “Little Kolya, is it?” he said, turning to Brenner. “And all these years I thought you were dead. My father—excuse me, I should say our father—never considered the possibility that German records could be forged. That citizenship could be so easily obtained. So the doctors gave you a forty percent chance of recovery? You certainly have recovered. Prospered, too. Time to share the wealth, Kolya—not literally, of course. Your operating skills will most certainly put our current heart surgeons to shame. But it’s your defection that has great propaganda value.”
“Dear God, the man is serious,” Brenner muttered, groping for Adrienne’s hand.
“Have you no sense of humor?” Aleksei mocked. “Has your soft American life bred it out of you? The joke is on our dear mother. Three sons, and the only one who merits her undying devotion—her precious Kiril—is the very one who tricked her and delivered you back into my hands. And now, madam,”—his glance shifted to the radio—“Mother Russia has all three of your sons. How you must be suffering!”
The static yielded to the animated voice of the Master of Ceremonies.
“But the biggest surprise, ladies and gentlemen, is how the woman whose revelations set off the tumult you hear is bearing up. The mother of Dr. Kurt Brenner is waiting, microphone in hand, for people to quiet down, ready to answer all those painful probing questions many of you are eager to ask. Yet Anna Brenner is the very picture of that old cliché—calm, cool, and collected. In point of fact, she looks relieved—”
Aleksei shot to his feet and snapped off the radio.
It was dusk when the phone rang. Aleksei picked it up. “Well?” he asked, and waited for an answer. “Good.” He hung up. “Time to go,” he announced unceremoniously.
Kurt Brenner was terrified to the point of immobility. He was silent as Luka Rogov twisted one arm behind his back and pushed him out the door. Adrienne and Kiril followed, heading for the waiting staff car.
Unwilling to risk losing his prize possessions, Aleksei ordered Luka to put Brenner in the front passenger seat, and then get under the steering wheel next to him. Aleksei himself sat behind Brenner. Telling Adrienne to sit in the middle of the back seat, he left the seat in back of Luka for Kiril.
As soon as Luka cranked the ignition, turned on his lights, and headed for the executive jet that would take them to Moscow, Aleksei was visibly relieved—though guardedly so.
Adrienne reached for Kiril’s hand, puzzled when he brushed off her overture.
Minutes into the ride—in a motion too swift for anyone to integrate—Kiril slipped one hand under his tuxedo jacket and removed a letter opener from his belt. He’d spotted it while he was clearing off the chairs in the clerk’s office.
Leaning forward, he placed the metal blade on the left side of Luka Rogov’s thick neck.
Aleksei blanched.
“This blade is resting on Rogov’s carotid artery, Aleksei,” he said. “If I were to push it just an inch or so, there will be a gusher of blood that even Dr. Kurt Brenner would be unable to stop. Your alter ego will be exsanguinated. Tell him what that means, Kurt.”
Brenner turned and had the pleasure of seeing Aleksei Andreyev’s terrified expression. “It’s true, Colonel,” Brenner said with authority. “If Kiril cuts or punctures this man’s carotid artery, he’s finished.”
Kiril had always sensed that Rogov was an irreplaceable part of the psychological netherworld that Aleksei inhabited. That in some primal undefinable way, Aleksei would do almost anything to keep Rogov safe. He was relieved to find that, so far at least, he had been correct.
“Do whatever Kiril tells you, Luka,” Aleksei said. He couldn’t resist adding, “We will have our time soon.”
“Drive to the furthest and darkest part of the tarmac and stop when I tell you,” Kiril told Rogov. “Aleksei, I want you to unholster your revolver—slowly—and hand it to Mrs. Brenner butt first.”
To underscore his orders, Kiril lightly scratched Luka’s neck with the letter opener. A tiny droplet of blood dribbled out.
“Kurt, please tell our brother Aleksei whether Rogov is bleeding and whether the cut is serious.”
“Yes about the blood, no about the serious,” Brenner said—and on his own added, “Not yet.”
Adrienne held Aleksei’s revolver by the butt, resting it in her lap.
“Mrs. Brenner,” Kiril said, “do you know what the hammer on a revolver is—the piece just above your thumb?”
Adrienne almost smiled. “I’ve seen enough movies. You want me to pull the hammer back?”
“Yes. Then put the end of the gun’s barrel into Aleksei’s side. If he so much as burps, I want you to pull the trigger. Can you do that?”
Her answer came slowly. “The hammer, yes. I’ve just done it. The rest? Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Half a loaf. Well, Aleksei can’t be sure either.
“Sit on your hands, Aleksei,” Kiril said.
Aleksei did as he was told.
By now Rogov had driven at least two miles deep into the airport. The tarmac was enveloped in darkness, the car’s headlights providing the only light. Before them were dense stands of tree
s. To the left there appeared to be a dirt trail, maybe an old logging road.
“Aleksei, tell Rogov to stop slowly, turn off his bright lights, and turn on the parking lights.”
Both men complied.
Kiril slowly moved his free right hand to Adrienne’s, took Aleksei’s revolver from her, and put it at the back of Luka’s head while replacing the letter opener in his belt.
“Kurt,” Kiril said, “Rogov’s revolver is holstered on his right side, next to you. See it? I want you to open the holster, remove the weapon, pull back the hammer, and step out of the car. Then go around to the door behind you, open it, and press the barrel against our KGB brother’s head. Can you do that?”
“With pleasure,” Brenner responded with undisguised enthusiasm.
“Kurt, step back so Aleksei has room to get out of the car. He will walk about ten feet—backwards. As you walk backwards behind him, aim at the lumbar spine. If he makes any sudden moves, put two bullets in his spine.”
“My pleasure,” Brenner said—and had to admit that the mere thought of crippling the sonofabitch was delicious.
“Mrs. Brenner,” Kiril said, “get out of the car through the right door and step about ten feet away.”
She did.
Kiril spoke to Luka Rogov in Russian. “I am about to get out of the car. The gun in my hand will be aimed at your head. If you make any move I don’t like, I will blow your head off and then do the same to Colonel Andreyev. Nod if you understand.”
Rogov, his bushy eyebrows creased in a frown, nodded.
“I’m not finished, Luka. Once you’re out of the car, you will walk backwards until I tell you to stop.”
Rogov nodded again, left the car, and started walking backwards.
“Now stop and turn around,” Kiril told him.
“No, don’t. Don’t kill him! He can’t harm you now!” Aleksei cried out.
“Listen to me, Rogov,” Kiril said, ignoring Aleksei’s anguished plea. “I want you to remove your tie, your belt, the straps that hold your equipment, the shoelaces from your boots—all of it. You too, Aleksei.”
As soon as they were done, Kiril asked Adrienne to collect whatever items would effectively bind their hands and feet.
Walking Luka to roughly ten feet from where Brenner guarded Aleksei, Kiril told both men to drop their trousers.
Luka just stared at him, not comprehending.
Not so Aleksei. Realizing they weren’t about to die after all, he made a crude joke.
“Explain what I want—what Rogov must do next—and why, Aleksei.”
He did, and they did.
Kurt Brenner was amazed that such a simple expedient virtually froze the two Russians in place. Unable to walk, let alone run, all they could do was hop like kangaroos!
Kiril signaled Adrienne to bring him what she’d sorted. There were more than enough sturdy items to secure both Aleksei and Luka Rogov.
Kiril tied up Rogov, Brenner doing the same with Aleksei.
“What now?” Brenner asked cheerfully.
“My original plan, of course,” Kiril replied, making no effort to lower his voice. “We’ll hijack the executive jet and fly to Tempelhof Airport in West Berlin.”
Kiril had no such intention—but no way yet to let the Brenners know what he really planned to do.
With a touch of alarm, he realized that he was slipping into a state of deep fatigue, every last ounce of adrenalin draining out of him…
So much had happened without respite. Knocking Brenner out and taking his place. Fear that Adrienne Brenner would realize who he was. His exhilaration when the plane landed him in Zurich. The painful discovery that his long-sought freedom was illusory. The stunning realization that he’d found his mother but simultaneously caused her unbearable pain. The bleak resolve to go back for his brother. The disgust he’d felt when he learned what Aleksei had been holding over Kurt Brenner’s head. The desperate hope, as he and Adrienne returned to East Berlin, that he could come up with a workable escape plan.
“Before you truss me up like some pig,” Aleksei said, “why don’t we brothers share a last cigarette. After all, before long one of us will be dead. You, if we catch your merry threesome. Me, if we don’t.”
Kiril took a crushed pack of cheap Russian cigarettes out of his pocket, offered one to Aleksei, and without thinking used his lighter. When it failed to spark he tried again—and only then noticed Aleksei staring at the lighter, his expression half-shock, half-knowing.
“So you were the source of the microfilm,” he said. “It was you who gave it to Stepan Brodsky. You who was his backup. And inches from my face is the last surviving copy of the microfilm that would prove you are guilty of treason, you—”
Kiril shrugged. “Now there really are no more secrets between us.”
“Let’s finish up here,” he told Brenner.
As soon as Aleksei and Rogov were tied and gagged, Kiril took Brenner and Adrienne thirty feet away. “My original idea was to hijack the executive jet once Aleksei got us on board. It would have been hard but it might have worked. Without Aleksei, it’s impossible.”
“What can we do?” Brenner asked.
“We have at least four hours lead time, maybe more, before someone finds them or before they manage to free themselves and get to a telephone or a radio.”
“Then let’s end it here and now.”
“What’s the matter with you, Kurt?” Adrienne snapped. “We should stand by while you blow their brains out?”
“Don’t worry about Aleksei’s plane,” Kiril said in an effort to defuse the tension. “In the meantime, we’ll figure out a way to get to Potsdam.”
“You have friends in Potsdam?” Brenner asked.
“I think so.”
Kiril was remembering a handshake. A look of profound gratitude in a man’s eyes. Letters carved in dirt by a miniature scalpel.
Adrienne smiled. She was remembering it too.
And thanks to a strong retentive memory, Kiril thought he could recall an address…
“For now,” Kiril told them, we have to hide out until it gets dark tomorrow night.”
“Why”? Brenner pressed.
“Because Aleksei will be looking for this automobile.”
Chapter 45
They made good time. It was almost dawn when they arrived at the outskirts of Potsdam in the powerful ZIN-110.
Knowing they had to get off the road soon before Aleksei sounded a quiet alarm, Kiril had pushed the automobile so hard it overheated twice and their petrol was almost gone.
He pointed out other factors in their favor. Aleksei would have to concoct some story about why he was looking for them—something that would take him off the hook for losing them in the first place. Which meant a large-scale search—lots of people in lots of places—was unlikely.
As the sun rose, they spotted a farmhouse deep off the road. “We have to chance it,” Kiril told them.
He drove down the road and parked behind a barn. The farmhouse was two stories of gray fieldstone with the top floor boarded up. The place looked abandoned. No farm animals. No outbuildings apart from the barn and a dilapidated shed.
But a plot of rich black soil in the back was plowed. Kiril smiled.
“We’re in luck,” he whispered as he moved to a window and looked inside. “A man and a woman. Retired farmers, probably. Too old to be put into a collectivization program.”
He took out his handkerchief. “Put your dollars and jewelry in this.”
“All of it?” Brenner asked. “Shouldn’t we save something for your pals in Potsdam?”
“If they help us it won’t be for money.”
Brenner looked skeptical but he emptied his pockets.
Adrienne unwrapped her scarf and handed Kiril a wad of greenbacks and a handful of jewelry.
Her gold-and-diamond wedding band included, Brenner noticed.
“Do we all go in?” he asked.
Kiril shook his head. “I’ll come back for yo
u.”
In a few minutes he returned with food, water, and no jewelry.
“They were farmers. Owned a lot of land here. After the war, the East Germans seized most of it while the Russians took off with whatever animals and equipment they had left. ‘Reparations’ they called it,” Kiril said with disgust. “They’ve managed to eke out a living by cultivating the small plot in back and husbanding a few animals. We’re to hide the car in their barn. We’re leaving it for them, along with our money and jewelry. Their hope is to bribe their way out of East Germany. As soon as it’s dark, we’ll walk up to the house so they can help us get out of here safely.”
“Can we trust them?” Brenner asked.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But I can tell you this much. They detest communists.”
As soon as the three of them settled down in the barn, fatigue began to overtake Kiril. He started to doze on the hay-covered floor.
Adrienne shivered. The draft from under the barn door made her long for the cape she’d left behind in East Berlin.
“Cold?” Brenner whispered.
Without waiting for an answer, he covered her body with his.
“Kurt, don’t.”
“He’s asleep.”
“How do you know?”
“Listen to his breathing. Then listen to mine…”
“What if he wakes up?”
“What if we’re all dead tomorrow or the day after? I want you, Adrienne.”
But I don’t want you. Not now. Not ever again.
“Damn it, Kurt,” she hissed, trying to edge him off her body without making noise.
“You’re my wife. Ever heard of conjugal rights?”
As he bent to kiss her, she turned her head abruptly in the opposite direction—and saw that Kiril Andreyev was no longer lying flat on the floor of the barn. Were his eyes open?
… Did it matter even if they were? She knew Kiril wouldn’t feel free to intervene. Not when he had yet to call her “Adrienne” instead of “Mrs. Brenner.”
She struggled to free herself.
