by Joseph Kanon
“No. The Russians don’t always share such information. Not at such an early stage. So think how valuable, if we could help them in this matter. Our new German organization. Not K-5 anymore. A certain level of respect—”
“Are you asking me if I know where he is? We had a drink at the Möwe. That’s the last I saw of him. What makes anybody think he’s missing?”
“He didn’t sleep at Karlshorst.”
“Is that unusual?” Alex said, looking away, pretending to be embarrassed.
“No. But he didn’t return either.”
“And?”
“And so he is missing. A man in his position, you see, it’s a serious matter.”
“He said he was going back to Moscow. Maybe he already—”
“No,” Markus said, almost smiling. “That would be known. Your evening, it was pleasant?”
“I suppose. There was a lot to drink. He seemed—”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Worried about something. Ivan got on his nerves, I think. But maybe that’s the way he always is. I don’t know him.”
“He talked about returning to Moscow?”
“That’s why the drink. To celebrate.”
“So he was pleased?”
“Yes and no. Pleased about going home—” He hesitated, as if trying to get the description right. “But, well, antsy too. Ivan said something about the old Comintern days, how they tricked people home, and that set him off. Is any of this really useful? It was just the drink.”
“Oh yes, very. It’s as I thought. And all this time Irene—what did she say?”
“Not much. How she’ll miss him. The usual. What you say when somebody’s leaving.”
“If he’s leaving,” Markus said.
“What do you mean?”
“Comintern days,” he said, his mouth twitching. “Who talks about such things anymore? Ivan. Maybe a loyal Russian, but also a fool. You think Markovsky is afraid to go to Moscow? Everyone wants to go there. Afraid of his wife maybe, yes. Afraid to lose the easy life here. His—what does he call her? When they’re together.” Markus looked over at him. “She knows. A woman like that—you think she’s so eager to see her man go? Stay with me. Don’t go. I’ll help you. Karlshorst, they don’t understand this. They don’t know her. So it’s an advantage we have. An opportunity.”
“An opportunity,” Alex said dully.
“Stay close to her. Wait for her to give herself away. And when she does, you’ll be there. Someone working with us. Let the Russians look wherever they want. We’re the ones who find him. Right where she leads us.”
“Us,” Alex repeated. “You’re asking me to—report on her?” he said, almost dizzy. “No.”
“You’re so fond of that family?”
“Her father saved my life. I’m not going to—what would I do? Follow her around? Like a detective?”
“You’re an old friend. It’s perfectly natural to see her. Talk to her. The more she talks, the sooner she slips. That’s all. Something easy for you to do. Not so easy for the Russians. Or me. So, an opportunity.” He paused. “And a great service. The kind of thing that would be noticed.”
“Maybe even a promotion for you.”
“I was thinking about you, your position here. A grateful Party—it’s a very useful thing.”
“But why would she do it? What good is he to her if he’s hiding? What kind of meal ticket is that? If that’s what you think he is.”
“Who knows with her? Look at Kurt. So hysterical when he’s killed. The love of her life. Until the next one.”
“Was she? Hysterical?” Caught suddenly, trying to imagine it.
“Dramatics. Who knows what she’s thinking? She has a sister in the West. Maybe—”
“He’d never do that. Go to the West. Would he?”
“Who knows what he does for that woman? All we know now is that he’s gone. The Russians think, a political act, but they always think that. They don’t know her, what she can do to a man.”
“Markovsky? He can look out for himself.”
“You think so? All right. Prove me wrong. Let me know what she says. If there’s nothing, my apologies. But if she’s helping him, we have something for the Russians. Both of us. You can’t refuse this. To have this opportunity and not—” He stopped, letting the words hang in the air.
“Why would she tell me anything?” Alex said, running out of cards.
“She trusts you,” Markus said. “You know, sometimes you work months, years for that and here it is, right in your lap. Well, I should go. Someone sees the car there so long—a visit between friends, that’s one thing, but then why so long? Oh, and this, I brought this for you to sign.” He put a folder on the table.
“What is it?”
“I took the liberty. Of writing it out. Your report on Aaron Stein.”
“My what?”
“Just what you told me. You can read it for yourself. Nothing very important. Background.”
“Then why file a report about it?”
“Sometimes we bring these things on ourselves. Resign from the Central Committee, of course it’s necessary to look at the political file. It’s only natural. Here, you can read it,” he said, opening the folder and handing Alex the report. “No surprises. What we said. I wrote it up for you, but please feel free to change it or add something.”
“GI,” Alex said, looking at the boxes on the bottom. Ivan’s joke. “Secret informer. That’s what I am?”
“It means your work is not public, that’s all. An internal matter.”
“And this?” He pointed to another box.
“Method of recruitment. You volunteered cooperation—that’s the best, of course. I made sure you had that designation.”
“What are the other methods?”
Markus looked at him, not saying anything.
“Am I supposed to write these up for you?”
“No, I can write them. Just come and talk to me. As old friends do. Have coffee. You can read this before you sign, there’s no hurry. Just bring it with you when you come to tell me how it is with her. Maybe another drink at the Möwe. Do you know what I think is possible?”
Alex looked up.
“She may ask you to help her. With Markovsky. It’s hard to do this alone. And who else can she trust?” His face smooth, without irony.
Alex looked down again at the report. “What’s K?”
“Your code name. So no one knows your identity.”
Willy’s voice. A protected source.
“What is it?”
Markus glanced to the side, flushing, oddly embarrassed. “Kurt,” he said. “You don’t mind? You remind me of him sometimes. So I thought—” He paused. “Maybe it brings us luck. In our friendship. Imagine, if we find Markovsky. What it would mean for us.”
* * *
Surprisingly, there was mail waiting at the Adlon.
“Fräulein Berlau left these for you,” Peter said.
An envelope with two tickets to Mother Courage. Compliments of Bert, the note read, but it was practical Ruth who’d probably remembered. January 11. Opening night, gold, worth cartons of cigarettes to someone.
“And this,” Peter said, handing over a postcard.
Everything seemed to stop for a second. The Santa Monica Pier, his Peter’s scrawl on the back. He looked at the postmark. The day he’d left. How many hands had it passed through since? Wondering if “see you soon” was code, not just what you said on cards. He read it twice: “Hope everything is ok, I went fishing but didn’t catch anything, see you soon.” An ordinary card but with his voice, flooding into Alex’s head, then the sound of the gulls, the rides farther down the pier, the sun flashing on the water, his voice asking for ice cream, like some bright vision you saw the moment before you died, a moment of perfect life.
“Would it be possible, do you think, for me to have the stamps?” Tentative, formally polite.
Alex looked up.
“Stamps from Amer
ica,” Peter said, a complete explanation.
Alex nodded, an automatic response, still clutching the card. Could they steam them off, pry them away somehow? His thumb brushed across the glossy front, touching the sunny day, all he had.
But this Peter was waiting, eyes shiny with anticipation. Alex tore off the stamp corner and handed it across, then glanced down again at the card. The perfect day with a jagged edge.
“News from home?”
Alex turned to the voice at his side.
“Ernst Ferber, Herr Meier. We met at the Kulturbund.”
“Yes, of course. RIAS. I’ve been thinking about—but you’re here? In the East?”
Ferber smiled. “Oh, don’t believe all the stories. Berlin is still Berlin. And people still have birthdays.” He nodded toward the dining room. “But special occasions only. I try not to wear out my welcome. The police have better things to do than watch dangerous characters like me. And of course I bring friends with me.” For the first time Alex noticed a cluster of men farther back in the lobby. “Safety in numbers, yes?” Ferber said, almost winking, his rimless glasses catching the light. “And you, are you brave enough to cross over? It’s very interesting now. A city under siege. But the spirit is remarkable. Seventeen hundred calories a day. Do you know what that means? How many tablespoons? Electricity for two hours only. And yet—” He stopped. “It’s a great story. And no one knows how it ends. You should see it while it’s happening. Before it’s history.”
“I can hear it,” Alex said, raising his eyes. “Do you really think it can work?”
“Frankly? I don’t know. Dropping candy for children, it’s one thing. Coal—” He opened his hands, a question mark gesture. “But come see for yourself.”
“I’d like that,” Alex said carefully. “You gave me your card. I’ve been meaning to—” A social call, in case he had to explain anything later. “You understand, a private visit. I won’t do anything on the radio.”
“No, no, nothing like that. Just coffee.” He held up a finger. “Ersatz coffee, of course, not like here. No Adlon cabbage soup either. But conversation—”
“Yes, we’ll have interesting things to talk about,” Alex said, his voice flat but pointed, so that Ferber looked up, alert to shifts in tone. “How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Ferber said, not expecting this, now all attention, an animal listening for snapping twigs. “Yes, of course. Excellent.”
“Good. I’ll call your secretary, fix a time? I should tell you, I don’t have any West marks.”
Ferber made a half bow. “My invitation, my pleasure. Anyway, you know it’s not so much, ersatz. But the chance to talk—”
“I’ll try to make it worth your while,” Alex said, obvious code now.
Ferber looked at him, not sure where to take this.
“We can take a walk. See history in the making,” Alex said.
Ferber waited for a minute, as if he were listening to this again. “Yes, a walk,” he said finally. “That would be pleasant. Well, till tomorrow then.” He glanced down, noticing the card. “Ah, it was ripped in the post? A clumsy censor perhaps.”
“No, for the stamps,” Alex said, nodding toward Peter. “A collector.”
“It’s from America?” Ferber said, curious.
“My son. He went fishing,” Alex said, a wry smile.
“May I see?” He turned the message over to the picture. “This is where they fish?” He shook his head. “What a place. He’s coming here?”
“Soon, I hope. When things are better.”
“In Berlin? You’re an optimist, Herr Meier. Well, here’s Franz,” he said as a man approached them. “Tomorrow then. Kufsteiner Strasse. In Schöneberg.”
Ferber left with his group but stopped at the door, looking back for a second, as if he were still not sure what had been said.
“Anything else for me?” Alex asked Peter.
“That’s all the mail. It’s still light out, if you want to go for a walk.”
“A walk?”
“Have you been to the Reichstag? Many people find it interesting.”
“Your uncle?”
“No. Someone else. The best view is from the Spreebogen side. You could go there now, before it gets dark.” He nodded his head, a kind of dismissal. “Thank you for the stamps.”
Outside, the misty afternoon was thickening. One of Berlin’s winter fogs, the only thing the airlift pilots couldn’t outmaneuver. He crossed Pariser Platz in the fading light and went through the sector control at the Brandenburg Gate. They were checking cars, not as casual as that first morning, but he walked through unquestioned, then up past the back of the Reichstag.
The neck of land on the river bend was mostly open space now, littered with fallen beams and chunks of concrete, barely visible in the dense white air. He waited near the Reichstag wall, covered with Cyrillic graffiti, looking across the water to where Markovsky was lying with stones in his pockets. Unless he had somehow broken loose and floated away, his coat snagged on a piece of debris in Moabit or still drifting toward the lakes. Where he’d be found. How much time did they have? He looked around, hunching his shoulders against the damp. No one. But Peter was never wrong. There’d be a car any minute, headlights barreling across the Tiergarten.
Instead there was a workman, blue coverall and woolen cap, shuffling toward him out of the fog like a ghost.
“Been waiting long?” The voice as American as his haircut. Campbell himself.
“What’s this?” Alex said, nodding to his clothes. “Something for Halloween?”
“Very funny.”
“They’ll spot the hair a mile away.”
“In this?” Campbell said to the fog, but pulled down the hat. “Christ, look at it. Nobody flies though this.” He turned to Alex. “How are you? Dieter said it was an SOS.”
“Where do you want to start? How about Willy? I left three people dead in the street.”
“But no one saw you.”
“There was a woman. If they ever match us up, I’ll be facing a murder charge.”
Campbell drew out a cigarette and lit it, a studied casualness. “But they haven’t. Nobody knows.”
“I know. I killed a man.”
“You knew what this was.”
“No. I didn’t. You never said. Not that part.”
“You’re doing a great job. Stop worrying. Nobody knows.”
“Somebody must. Whoever tipped them off that I’d be there.”
Campbell looked at him for a minute, assessing. “That was Willy.”
“Willy?”
“It wasn’t supposed to go that way. They fucked up.” He nodded. “It had to be him, the way it was set up. This is only for you. It’s useful, looking for a mole. Keeps people on their toes. But it was Willy. We know.”
“No witnesses, he said,” Alex said, trying to piece this together.
“Against him. He couldn’t risk that.”
“But he was dying.”
“Nobody believes that until it happens.” He looked over. “It was him. But you were lucky, the way it happened. They still don’t know about you.”
“How can you be sure?”
“We have ears,” Campbell said simply. “Look, I know, it’s a test of fire, something like that, but you’re sitting pretty. You’re getting great stuff. We’ve been waiting for someone to confirm Leuna, not just rumors, and there you are. Saratov. That’s coin of the realm. You’re Dieter’s favorite person of the week. And he doesn’t have many.”
“Really,” Alex said, deadpan, but oddly pleased. “Now let’s talk about how I got it.”
“Your old friend? Well, that was lucky too.”
“No it wasn’t. You knew she’d be the target when you asked me to do this. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have come?” He dropped the cigarette, grinding it out. “You never know how people are going to react to something like that.”
“Spying on friends.”
�
��It’s easier when they’re in place. When they see what’s at stake.”
“When it’s too late.”
“Don’t think that. Look, your stuff is coming from Markovsky, not her. She’s just the intro. She’s a friend you haven’t seen in—what? Fifteen years? It’s not as if you’re sleeping with her or—” He looked up. “You’re not, are you? That’d be fast work. Even for a busy girl. It’s never a good idea, though. Complicates things. And now she’s a source. You don’t want to get between her and the comrade.”
“There is no more comrade. He’s gone.”
Campbell nodded. “They’re burning up the wires, down at Karlshorst. Interesting, when people panic. They say things.”
“Good. Then you don’t need Irene anymore. Or me.”
“What are you talking about? She’s the key.”
“To what?”
“Finding him first. You’re right. She’s finished as a source—unless she picks up a new friend. But he’s not. He’d have a lot of interesting things to say. If we can find him.”
Alex looked toward the river, invisible now in the fog.
“So you want to stay close. Closer.” Markus’s words, just as insinuating in English.
“I can’t. I want out.”
Campbell looked over. “That’s not possible. Not now.”
“You don’t understand. That’s why the SOS. Something’s happened.”
Campbell waited.
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“I’ve been recruited. To work for the Germans. They want me to do what you want me to do. For them. I have to get out. Now. Before it starts.”
Campbell said nothing, turning this over.
“What Germans?” he said, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
“They have their own service now. The old K-5. I’m a Geheimer Informator.” He looked over. “A protected source. Both ways. It’s a game of mirrors. I can’t do this.”
“Smoke and mirrors.”
“I’m not good enough, not for this.”
Campbell just stared, thinking, his hand over his chin, a smile beginning to crease his face. “You don’t have to be good. Not when you’re lucky. Don’t you see what a chance this is?”
“To get killed. One slip and they know. One slip.”
