by Alex Carlson
Stirewalt did not verbally assent, and her nod was so slight it was barely perceptible. Still, Rhys thought he saw something, and that was all he needed.
He rose to leave.
“There’s one more thing,” said Lucinda. Rhys sat back down.
“McClellum has been on the phone with Washington since last night. First with the SecState, then with the president.”
“Big donors will get the president’s ear.”
“He seems to be trying to make up for the situation he got himself into last night. He’s come up with a plan for a joint American-Russian action to ferret out Islamic radicals who came into Germany.”
“Maybe that’s our answer. Bring in the Germans to make it trilateral. Then we can hand over the Berlitec stuff in that context.”
“Unfortunately, the president loved the idea and told McClellum to sketch out a plan. The two of them see this as the first step in a larger process that will address the civil war in Syria. The president doesn’t want the Germans or the EU involved. He wants a major foreign policy victory to win him a second term. SecState sees some good in this, too. Both the US and Russia could reassert themselves in the region and provide some order, maybe the first time since the end of the Cold War.”
“At the risk of starting a new one?”
“The Cold War provided geopolitical stability.”
“And it almost got us all killed.”
“That’s the strategic thinking,” said Stirewalt. “I’m more worried about tactics. There’s something you don’t know about McClellum.” She paused and shook her head incredulously. “The ambassador is obsessed with espionage. He and the president are on the same page on this project, but for different reasons. The president wants a second term, which he would get if he brought peace to Syria; the ambassador wants to make Berlin a personal playground, a return to the day when agents crossed borders with sexy women and code names.”
“Doesn’t he know the borders are gone and the NSA gets all the information?”
“He’s an idiot. He doesn’t know anything.”
“Can we throw him a bone? Let him in on something that seems much more interesting than it is?”
“I’m working on it.”
Chapter Thirteen
It was less than twenty-four hours since McClellum’s dinner at the Russian embassy and McClellum feared a certain awkwardness. It helped that they now met in neutral territory, at a reception in the French Embassy. The wine glass in his hand also helped. It gave him confidence as he acknowledged Petrov’s presence with a nod from across the room. He approached the Russian without hesitating.
“Terry, good to see you again,” said the Russian Ambassador.
“Dmitri,” McClellum said in reply.
McClellum detected a suppressed smile on the Russian’s face, but nothing was said of the events of the previous night. Each knew that the other had tried, and failed, to set a trap, and that pretty much wiped the slate clean. Perhaps Stirewalt was wrong and the Russians were in no way involved with Maxime’s. Regardless, it would soon be spilled milk under the bridge.
McClellum was a master bullshitter, a glad-hander, a friend to all. It was the foundation of his success and he knew how to pull strings and work people, usually to his advantage and without them realizing it. His current topic was the presidential inauguration. He did not pontificate on the new president’s new foreign policy, but rather on the difficulty of fitting three balls into one evening and the hoops he had to jump through in order to get his network of donors to fund them. He spoke at length, fully aware that Sophia Venegas was monitoring him from across the room. He hadn’t quite earned that one’s trust, McClellum knew, but he was her boss, so how much did it really matter? Let her watch. From her vantage he could have been engaging in a meaningful conversation about policy. His confidence and body language would show her that he intended to have a serious presence in Berlin’s diplomatic community.
McClellum deftly turned the conversation to his proposal, which he fleshed out, claiming his idea built on Petrov’s comments about how Islamic radicals were the mutual enemy of both countries.
“Can we make this work, Dmitri?” he asked when he was done.
“We can,” said Petrov. His eyes were deep in thought. “In fact, we are working on something that we can bring to the table. Can we begin immediately? Maybe set up a meeting for tomorrow? Exchange ideas, sketch out a tentative plan?”
“The way I see it, we’ll use our intelligence services to penetrate the routes and mechanisms radicals are using to get into Germany. Together, we can probably put together the full extent and execution of the routes. We’ll tie it up with a bow, give it to the Germans, and make a real contribution.”
“And take the credit.”
“Of course,” laughed McClellum.
“We are working on something that can ensure it makes a splash. It is still unfolding, but quickly. You’ll be interested in it.”
A waiter came over with a tray full of crab cakes with a dollop of crème frâiche and two delicately placed stalks of lemon grass. Delicious, thought McClellum. Light, fluffy, with a hint of lemon. He complimented the waiter and returned his attention to Dmitri.
“You know, Terry, this can be the beginning of something big.”
“I’ve thought so also.”
“We have stood by Assad, but the Kremlin is reconsidering what it has gotten us. Moscow might be willing to assume a more helpful position in the greater issue of the conflict in Syria. If you and I succeed here in Berlin, we would be well positioned to negotiate the greater issues in Syria. Think you would be up for that?”
“Absolutely,” said McClellum, always willing to take on more responsibility, knowing he could delegate the work to others. Petrov kept talking but already McClellum’s mind was elsewhere. Working on Syria from Berlin would solidify his position in the State Department as well as his relationship with the president. Just think where this could lead. Moving from Ambassador in Berlin to Secretary State would not be far fetched if he and Dmitri solved the conflict in Syria. And he was young enough to be able to look beyond Secretary of State.
McClellum looked the Russian Ambassador in the eye. “I can bring the president on board, Dmitri. Let’s make this work and the world will be open to us.”
Chapter Fourteen
Petrov’s schedule permitted a meeting the very next day and McClellum jumped at the opportunity. Since McClellum had been to the Russian embassy, he insisted on hosting this time. Just four people would be present in the ambassador’s office: Ambassadors McClellum and Petrov, Lucinda Stirewalt, and Stirewalt’s equivalent, Piotr Krymov. Inevitably, information discussed would be highly classified, so no one else would be in the room.
Before Petrov and his rezident arrived, Stirewalt spoke frankly to McClellum.
“Don’t be offended if I take the lead in this meeting,” said Stirewalt. Her voice was cold and she was in no mood to humor the ambassador. “I’ve dealt with the Russians quite a few times and I know their diplomatic style. I don’t need to tell you that I’m skeptical of this project. I’m attending because Langley has ordered me to, but you know where I stand.”
The mere suggestion of taking a passive role did, in fact, offend McClellum, but didn’t let it show.
“Having my station chief speak for me would be a breach of protocol,” he said through a practiced smile. “I know you view me as an interloper, but despite what happened the other day, I have established a good relationship with Dmitri.” Using the Russian ambassador’s given name was a nice touch, McClellum thought. “And keep in mind the president of the United States is on board. But don’t worry, I’ll know when I’m in over my head and you’ll have the opportunity to come to my rescue.”
Petrov and Krymov arrived and they got down to business soon after helping themselves to a tray of coffee and tea that had been set up for them. There were the obligatory pleasantries but they soon sat down at a small, round conference table in th
e corner of the office. The table’s shape implied equality, exactly the message McClellum had wanted to send.
“We are strong in Syria itself, the origin of the Balkan Route,” said Krymov. Krymov was a little man with a bald head and a thick, dark mustache. “And if my information is correct,” he continued, “you have capable assets in Turkey and in the Balkans. I know the borders have been sealed, but the most determined are still getting through. It might be advisable to monitor those who make it through rather than closing up the holes. That way we can gather information for later use. Once we get to the EU border, national police forces will share information. The challenge is in Germany. Radicals tend to disappear.”
“The BND knows more than they share,” said Stirewalt. “It’s their country. I can understand that.”
Petrov chimed in: “I don’t think Piotr would object to me revealing that we have collected intelligence on some Islamists here in Berlin.” He looked directly at McClellum as he spoke. “If the information is solid, together we can put together an attractive package for the Germans. We provide the origins and the endgame, you provide the middle route.”
“Tell us more about what you have going on here in Berlin,” said McClellum.
Idiot, thought Stirewalt. He doesn’t even know enough to know what is not to be discussed.
“We will when the time is right, Terry. We have top people working on it.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be sharing intelligence?” asked McClellum. “If there is an operation going on, it should be on the table. I’m sure Lucinda will share from our side. Out of principle. It’s not like we would be giving away any national secrets.”
“Thank you, Terry. That’s appreciated,” said Petrov. “It’s nothing terribly exciting, nothing to compare to the old days, but maybe we can pretend we are recreating the mystique of the Cold War. But this time we would be fighting on the same side.” He smiled.
“That certainly was an exciting time,” said McClellum.
McClellum was indeed in over his head. Stirewalt sensed he was eager to move from the actual agenda, of which he had little knowledge and was utterly incapable of bullshitting.
“Just think what Lucinda and Piotr here know about what happened back in the day. But they tell us nothing!” He was joking, of course, but only partly. He desperately wanted to know.
“Much of it is already known,” said Petrov. “Once you get to know the city, you’ll learn that.” He paused a moment, then looked as though he had come to an idea. Stirewalt got the impression it was forced, somehow disingenuous. “Terry,” Petrov continued, “if you have time this afternoon, we can take a tour of the city, visit all the places where things went down during the Cold War.”
“I would love that,” said McClellum. “I had suggested a similar tour to Lucinda, but we haven’t found the time yet. I know lots of the key locations, just from reading the classics. How wonderful a thought: the two of us visiting them together.”
Stirewalt smiled and one could interpret it as one of those pained, forced smiles that communicated her horror with the idea. She and Piotr made eye contact, an admission that the rezident knew her hands were full. They respected each other enough to stay out of each other’s way. Piotr had his sphere of influence, Lucinda had hers.
“I knew you would like the idea,” said Petrov.
“I think that should wrap it up for now,” said Stirewalt, desperately wanting to end the meeting before McClellum did any damage. She knew the Russians were playing him. Everyone but the McClellum knew it. And Petrov and Krymov knew that Stirewalt knew it, which meant they were playing some game that they were communicating to her in front of the ambassador.
That didn’t fit into her plans at all.
Chapter Fifteen
They decided to call it the Ambassadorial Tour of Cold War Berlin and then immediately amended the title to the First Annual Ambassadorial Tour of Cold War Berlin. Next year, they’d invite the British and French ambassadors and make a party of it.
They started at the Reichstag, just over a stone’s throw from the Brandenburg Gate. Petrov pulled up on his smartphone the iconic photograph of Red Army soldiers raising the Soviet flag on the building’s roof during the last days of World War II. McClellum knew the photo, and even had something to say about it.
“It’s doctored,” McClellum said. “Look at the soldier’s wrist. His skin is so clean that it is practically white—and no one in May of 1945 was that clean. They touched up the photo to hide the fact that he was wearing multiple watches, booty he’d collected from German civilians after the Red Army captured the city.”
“You know your history, Terry.”
McClellum was pleased he’d paid attention in Euro Civ back in college.
The Reichstag had largely been dormant during the Cold War. The Federal Republic chose Bonn as their capital and the Democratic Republic, while maintaining Berlin as the capital, built the Palast der Republik on the site of the demolished Prussian palace to perform their form of “democracy.” The Palast der Republik, filled with asbestos, had been subsequently torn down—and the Stadtschloß rebuilt—after the two Germanies unified, so there was no reason for the ambassadors to go there.
Instead they went to Tempelhof Airport, which was one of the primary landing sites during the Berlin Airlift, when the United States and Great Britain fed and fueled an entire city after the Soviet Union cut off access during the Berlin crisis in 1948. In a fifteen-month operation, Western flight crews flew over 200,000 flights and delivered close to 9,000 tons of food and fuel. It was among the most impressive humanitarian operations in the history of the world. The pilots even pleased the children of Berlin by dropping candy—with little parachutes—from their planes.
Tempelhof ceased normal operations in 2002 and today you can tour the ghost terminal—at least the part without the refugee center. Outside, the two parallel runways are still there and the entire area is used as a park. On weekends, joggers, Spaziergänger, bikers, and gardeners use the grounds.
Petrov never ceased to amaze. He had somehow managed to gain access through a locked gate and his driver drove the sedan around the terminal to the tarmac. The ambassadors got out of the car where planes used to park at the gates and looked around at the airport, which was eerily quiet without the bustle of planes and ground crews. The terminal looked dated, architecturally, and weeds had begun to grow through the cracks in the concrete.
“This is where it all started, isn’t it?” said McClellum.”
“Where what all started?”
“The Cold War. It started with the Berlin blockade that led to the airlift.”
“You forget what prompted the blockade.”
McClellum probably hadn’t been listening in Euro Civ on that day and he couldn’t remember what had caused it. He winged it. “You wanted all of Berlin, hoped to starve the Berliners out of the western zones.” It didn’t faze McClellum that not only had Petrov not yet been born in 1948, but that he had conflated the Soviet Union and the subsequent Russian Federation, whom Petrov represented in Berlin.
“It could also be said that the Western Allies unilaterally introduced the deutsche Mark, which made the existing currency useless. It produced an economic crisis.”
“Still, that’s no reason to starve a city.”
Petrov let it pass. “Even so,” he said, “that was temporary. The Cold War was not yet irreversible in 1948.”
“When was it?”
“Probably when the Wall went up, in ’61.” It was an invitation to the next stop on the tour.
The vast majority of the Wall had been removed, first by Germans who chipped away at it with chisels and hammers, then by machinery hired by the government. The pieces of the wall, complete with faux spray paint, that are still hawked at flea markets have no connection to the Berlin Wall. They were probably ripped from some demolition site in Brandenburg. Most tourists know this, but they bring them home anyway.
But a stretch of the Wall was
preserved at Bernauer Strasse, where the ambassadors again stepped out of the car.
“This must be where Alec Leamus climbed the Wall,” McClellum said.
“Who?”
“Or tried to anyway.”
Petrov had no idea what McClellum was talking about. He let it pass. “It’s ironic, you know, the Wall was torn down for the same reason it had been built: to try to stop Germans from feeling to the West.”
“A horrible thing, the wall,” said McClellum.
“Indeed,” said Petrov. “They thought it necessary. The best German minds in the Soviet zone were fleeing. They had to stop it.”
“It symbolized the Cold War. It was barbaric.” McClellum looked angry about it, as though he were thinking of the pain it had caused. In truth, he loved the Wall. It represented in concrete form—literally—the border that was so central in the thrillers and spy books he loved so much. The plots always revolved around the ideologies on each side of the Wall and invariably the climax included getting something or someone over or under it. The Wall also allowed American presidents to project western moral superiority during the Cold War, whether through “Ich bin ein Berliner” or “Tear down this wall.” God, I love my country, thought McClellum, as he suddenly felt quite patriotic.
McClellum insisted they end the tour at the Glienicke Bridge. It was way out in Wannsee, spanning the Havel River, which had been a border between East and West. Known as the Bridge of Spies, the bridge served as a transfer point for captured spies. Francis Gary Powers, the captured American U-2 pilot crossed the bridge in 1962 in exchange for Soviet spy Colonel Rudolf Abel. There were countless others and McClellum tried to convey the brilliance of Le Carré and Deighton.
“A trade would be arranged and a spy would walk to the center of the bridge, give a polite nod, a wink, maybe share a joke or a pat on the back, and then they’d continue on to their own side—where they’d immediately jump back into the game. It was all so cool,” McClellum explained. “So professional. I always imagined it was foggy and dark when the exchanges were made.”
