by Alex Carlson
She sat in her smaller office with Lucinda Stirewalt. The door was closed as it always was when meeting with the CIA’s chief of station, which she often did at the end of the day. The two had developed tremendous respect for each other and each suspected that the other was going to go far in her own path.
“The references to Berlitec make this a sensitive case,” said Stirewalt. All chemical manufacturing was monitored these days, but when communication between a chemical manufacturer and suspected Islamists was discovered, intelligence services took a closer look.
“Should we just hand it over to the Bundesnachrichtendienst?” Sophia Venegas asked.
“Better let it play out first. The initial steps are open source and I’ve just arranged to have someone look into this who isn’t connected to us.” Venegas had known Adler, but Stirewalt didn’t need to reveal that he was the one looking into it. “If anything nefarious is going on, it’s probably someone inside Berlitec going rogue, not something company-wide. We can develop a good sense before deciding whether we need to penetrate deeper.”
“If penetrating a German national’s financial or personal records is needed, let the BND do it.”
“Agreed.” In truth, Stirewalt didn’t agree, but, again, the station chief didn’t tell the DCM everything. It wasn’t disrespect or lack of trust, but a solid principle of loyalty to her own.
“Keep me informed,” said the DCM. “To me personally. Under no circumstances is our new George Smiley to catch a whiff of this.”
Stirewalt smiled at the reference. “Have you also been plagued by his obsession?”
“He wants a tour of the rooftop,” Venegas said, her eyes wide in mock shock. She didn’t need to explain further. The roof, like roofs of American embassies throughout the world, supported a small shed, which housed NSA listening equipment, equipment used to monitor communications throughout Berlin’s nearby government district and the neighboring embassies.
Lucinda had also experienced the new ambassador’s infatuation with espionage, which, as a professional spy, made her cringe. She couldn’t resist sharing the latest anecdote with Venegas.
Stirewalt and Ambassador McClellum had been discussing the challenges posed by the free movement of Islamists throughout Europe, which Lucinda kept vague even as McClellum asked questions he never should have been asking. Then suddenly, his eyes lit up and he changed the subject:
“Have you read The Spy Who Came in from the Cold?” he asked. The question came out of nowhere.
“...,” The station chief opened her mouth but words failed her.
“What about Deighton? You like Len Deighton? Great stuff.”
“I, I, ...”
“When my appointment was confirmed I went to Amazon and bought every spy novel that took place in Berlin. You should have seen the bill! Read most of them, but still have a few left.”
“Well, of course fiction is a bit dramatic compared to what we do.”
“Sure, sure, and the Cold War was a different time. I know all that. But Berlin is still Berlin and I can only imagine some of the things that still go on.”
“It’s all really quite boring, I assure you.”
“Still, it’s fun to think about. Hey, what do you say sometime soon we take a tour of Berlin? We’ll take the limo and go see all the places covered in these books. Interested?”
“I’m pretty busy these days.” There was no way she was going to spend a day in a car with the ambassador.
“I’ll be the guide. The Glienicke Bridge! We have to see the Glienicke Bridge. I can tell you all about it. By the time I’m done here you’ll be an expert in Cold War spy craft.”
“I’ll see if I can find the time,” said the station chief.
Now, in Venegas’ office, the incident sounded comical. Still, Lucinda knew McClellum would have to be controlled.
“He’s been to Clayallee every day this week. He ignores the consular services and comes straight to us. He wants to meet the agents, to be kept in the loop. This has to be nipped in the bud.”
“I’ll talk to him,” said Venegas. “I’m sure State tried, but he probably wasn’t listening.”
The meeting was over. Lucinda laid her razor-sharp yellow no. 2 pencil on the legal pad balanced on her crossed legs. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the post, Sophia. Everyone knows you deserved it.”
“It wasn’t my call.”
“He probably won’t last. Politicals just want the title and to go to a few parties. After a year or two he’ll grow bored. Hang in there, Sarge.”
Venegas smiled in appreciation. “Speaking of parties,” she said, inhaling before continuing, “McClellum has a busy social calendar. He’s having dinner at the Russian embassy tonight. They want to get to know him. Then there’s a reception across the Platz at the French Embassy tomorrow.”
Stirewalt was delighted that he was having dinner with the Russians, but didn’t let it show.
“Will he embarrass us?” she asked.
“Probably. He’s green. I just hope he knows enough to be diplomatic.”
“The Russians are good,” Stirewalt said. “They’ll look for anything they can exploit. In general, though, I think McClellum’s harmless and he’s more likely to embarrass himself than the country. I can live with that.”
Chapter Three
Rhys didn’t put his bike back together right away. Instead, he discretely inquired about Lucinda A. Stirewalt, who publicly claimed to be the information officer for the embassy’s economic section, but was actually the CIA’s Berlin station chief. He did so by texting an old Agency buddy on a cell phone that was different from the one he had provided Stirewalt for future contact.
“She’s the real deal,” the friend said, starting a series of short texts that were purposely vague and provided no concrete information that might get his ass sent to prison. His next three messages each contained just a single word: “Competent.” “Loyal.” “Smart.” His last text was the longest: “Healthy skepticism of HQ though she’ll probably be running it someday.”
Rhys felt better. She hadn’t earned his trust, but he’d do the job, if only to see if he had been right to leave and possibly to right a wrong that had left him bitter and despondent. His mind tickled a bit when he considered arrangements, planning, and execution. Mental stimulation was a good feeling. He knew he couldn’t keep tinkering with motorcycles all day and drinking beer all night. Well, maybe in Berlin he could. You could get away with a lot in Berlin.
He had no regrets about leaving the Agency, but wandering aimlessly along Berlin’s streets and playing with bikes didn’t provide much meaning to his life. He controlled his drinking but had grown accustomed to the little tingle in his brain that usually came in the first sips of the second beer. On bad nights, he let the tingle develop into a buzz and further into sloppiness. It didn’t help him forget but it somehow detached him from the scars that had left him drifting.
The memory hurt and usually came jarringly fast, out of nowhere. The remembered the blood the most, the copious amounts of blood that flowed after the knife was pulled across her neck. There was nothing he could do and the assailant scurried away, almost casually, knowing Rhys would tend to the dying station chief rather than chase him down. After Karen bled out, her open eyes lost life, and her body became impossibly heavy as the tension left it. He had no choice but to leave her there, behind Zoo Station, the train station infamous for drugs, muggings, punks, and teenage prostitution. Hours later she was found under a graffiti-sprayed wall among overflowing trash bins. The thought of such an accomplished woman found like one of the Kinder vom Bahnhof Zoo made him sick. He had cared for her intensely. Did he love her? At some level, sure, but not romantically. She had left behind a decent husband and a teenage daughter. If Rhys loved her, it was more out of respect, almost a respect you’d give a mother. She deserved to be loved.
You don’t forget stuff like that, even if the passage of time and the placing of context helps you sleep without nightmar
es and gets you out of bed the next morning.
He also remembered the lives he’d taken. The Islamist in the suicide vest. The crooked German cop who got rich greasing the paths for human traffickers who smuggled extremists into Europe. The NSA analyst about to hop a flight with a flash drive full of files on Agency informants, some of whom had been Rhys’ friends. Karen had authorized that and cleaned it up so Rhys wouldn’t be prosecuted. Those memories never went away, either.
Putting his R75/5 back together took an hour. He hadn’t fixed it or even diagnosed the problem, but when he kicked the starter it fired up without complaint. The power-loss riddle would remain a mystery. He’d have to ride his other bike for the time being.
Chapter Four
Ambassador Terry McClellum was fifty-eight years old. He looked in the mirror every morning and asked what he could do to stretch the remaining years of his good looks to the point that people discussed his age-defying longevity. Sure, his hairline had receded a bit, but he colored all but a splash of gray at his temples. His teeth were straight and his last bout of whitening made his smile a personal tool of diplomacy. Botox around the eyes, of course, and he already had penciled into his calendar an appointment with a well-regarded doctor in Germany. It seemed silly to fly back to the United States for Botox. He drank too much, but no one saw his liver, so it was of little concern. He was trim and his posture was erect.
As the new American ambassador in Berlin, he was in his prime. He had already spent hours gazing out of his office’s window to the Brandenburg Gate, view that brought history to life and awakened thoughts of the future. His future. A stint as ambassador, if he worked it right, would be a mere stepping stone.
McClellum made his fortune first in construction, then in real estate, and finally in a combination of the two. He had handed off day-to-day operations of his company years ago and began to dabble in politics. He never ran for office himself, but he enjoyed the way politicians genuflected toward him and his generosity. He had a stable of politicians, all well funded, and one of them had miraculously risen to the Oval Office. The new president’s gratitude manifested in McClellum’s appointment to the highest cadre of the diplomatic corps. The Federal Republic of Germany, McClellum knew, was a plumb assignment, and it testified to his potential as a major player in the world.
McClellum had raised the soundproof window between the driver and the back seat, so that he and his companion could have some privacy.
“Can we go over it one more time?” he asked.
If she was annoyed, she didn’t show it. She was lovely, really, far more than he had hoped. She was petite, like a little doll. Her tight dress, while revealing the tops of two round breasts, was tasteful, and her thin legs were toned and smooth. Dark East European eyes seduced him, though her attention was elsewhere. She was concentrating on not spilling her champagne with each turn and bump of the street.
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
“Of course not, my dear,” said McClellum. “I just like hearing your accent.” He couldn’t place it exactly, but all those East European accents sounded the same. He knew she wasn’t Russian. He explicitly asked that the girl not be Russian.
“At dinner I should flirt with the head Russian guy, get him to notice me. Not too much, but enough to get him interested. If alone with him, I tell him how much of a bore you are, how stupid and loud Americans are. After dinner, when we have drinks, I get close to him, try to sit next to him, and make it seem like I have had too much to drink, which might be true by the way. I do that sometimes. Then you will get out your phone out and say you want to take some photographs. When you are ready, I’m supposed to grab his hand and put on my leg, maybe see if I can I sit on his lap. Then that’s it. Then back to normal but I can keep flirting with him.”
“Tereza, you are wonderful. When this is over, we are going to have fun. Real fun. You’ll enjoy it. Everything is big in America.”
McClellum was excited, maybe even a little anxious. That was normal, he told himself. Big gains require big risks. A few compromising pictures of the Russian ambassador with a prostitute and the Russians will be eating out of my hand. I’ll probably need to share it with that frosty Stirewalt woman, but that too will play dividends. She might just be a good ally to have. If this goes well, then my next move might be to a more interesting part of the government.
The Russian Embassy was located on Unter den Linden, a block east of Pariser Platz. Considering the Soviet Union had controlled East Berlin, McClellum wondered why they hadn’t moved the embassy next to the Brandenburg Gate, to show the world their control over Germany, or at least East Germany. Nonetheless, he had to admit that the building was impressive, in a Russian Darth Vader kind of way. It intimidated, with high gates around it and columns above the entrance that made the building seem to stretch to the sky. Horizontal lines on the embassy’s wings made it seem as though its tentacles stretched throughout the city. One looked at it and felt fear.
The car turned off Unter den Linden onto Glinkastrasse and made another right onto to Behrenstrasse, where the ambassador’s residence had its entrance. The driver got out, opened the rear door, and Tereza emerged, followed by McClellum. As they approached the door, it opened, and a tuxedoed butler welcomed them and escorted them inside. He led them up a set of stairs where Ambassador Dmitri Petrov was waiting for them in front of a tall doorway.
Dmitri Petrov was a tall, thin man, his height accentuated by long legs and the fact that he wore his pants high around the waist. His face was serious, but his smile was natural and sincere. McClellum guessed Petrov was capable of wild fits of rage or laughter. Petrov’s piercing blue eyes were sunken in deep wells of exhaustion and crow’s feet lined an otherwise youthful appearance. His thinning hair had receded to give him a prominent brow and both his nose and chin were pointy.
When he spoke, his deep, loud voice belied his thin frame and overall appearance. “Ambassador, nice to finally meet you.” McClellum loved the Russian accent.
“Ambassador, thank you for the invitation. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Please, if you do not mind, call me Dmitri. This is a social occasion and I hope we are able to work closely together.”
“Thank you, Dmitri. Please call me Terry. All my friends do.”
“And who have you brought?”
“May I introduce Tereza, my companion.” McClellum knew Tereza would make an impression and he was not disappointed. Petrov’s eyes ate her up and he smiled lasciviously as he took her hand.
“It is a pleasure, my dear.”
Tereza held his gaze and smiled like a purring kitten. She will be wonderful, thought McClellum.
“Please come in,” said Dmitri. “The others have arrived.” He led his guests through a large foyer into a parlor.
McClellum had to bottle his rage. The residence was far nicer than his in sleepy Dahlem. How was he to impress when other ambassadors lived like this? Dark paneled walls and high ceilings played with the sense of space and the carpeting was plush and without blemish. The decoration was not without problem, however. The decor was gaudy, even ostentatious. It recalled the tsars, with oversized, gold-plated chairs and overly decorated furnishings. McClellum realized that the decoration was forced to adhere to the lines established by renovations made during the Soviet period, which featured a smooth, functional ceiling and walls that were impossible to break up, regardless of the paintings on them. He smiled inwardly when he realized that the final product was completely out of proportion. Still, McClellum was impressed. He would have to inquire about remodeling possibilities in Dahlem.
Three woman and two men sat comfortably on sofas and plush armchairs. Dmitri introduced Pavel Nikolaev, the Russian Deputy chief of station (mine is hotter, thought McClellum, thinking of Sophia Venegas) and Alexei Kamenev, a cultural attaché. Both were gregarious and laughed freely and easily. The women were stunning, comparable in demeanor and station to Tereza, but in typical Russian
fashion, they wore far too much makeup and had spent too much time on their appearance by half. Their cleavage overflowed and their skirts were too short. They were, like Tereza, mere dates. They would be fucked soundly at the end of the evening.
Vodka was served to all and McClellum had never tasted better. It was cold and crisp and clean and he eagerly accepted a second before he remembered not to try to keep up with Russians. Tereza also had a second and McClellum worried about her tolerance; she couldn’t weigh much more than one hundred pounds. Tonight was not the time to get sloppy.
The conversation was relaxed. They talked about life in Berlin—Petrov had been in the city for six years—and they agreed that the city was more exciting than both Washington and Moscow.
“Germany’s role in the international community is admirable,” said Petrov. “Our countries bluster while the Germans get things done. It’s in both our interests to listen to them.”
Shit, thought McClellum, the conversation had turned and I was ogling the women. “Yes,” he responded, “I have always been impressed with their ability to hammer through a problem.”
Dmitri smiled and McClellum felt patronized. “I realize your background isn’t in diplomacy,” Petrov said, “but these international ties really do keep the world safe. There may be tension between our two countries, but that doesn’t mean American and Russian diplomats couldn’t have a constructive relationship in a third country.”
Dinner was served in the residence’s formal dining room at a polished table on gold trimmed plates. Caviar was placed in front of him, and then more vodka, and then a delicious Spätburgunder was served with Norwegian salmon. McClellum made a mental note to serve German wine while entertaining rather than to pull from the cases of Californian wines he had brought to Germany.
