by James Quinn
Ulrich Vogel had received two pieces of bad news that day. The first had come from one of his most trusted operatives, a brute of a man, but good at staying hidden and watching. It had been received in the Diplomatic bag from the Embassy and had contained a detailed surveillance report complete with several black and white photographs.
The report had listed the movements of Elisabeth Vogel and the children over the past few weeks. But it was the photograph showing her kissing an unnamed blond man in the Tiergarten that had sent him into a rage.
The second piece of intelligence had come directly from PATRICK and had arrived in the form of a letter that had been posted from his aunt and uncle in Leipzig. Of course there was no aunt and uncle. Instead, the real message, a hidden message, from PATRICK, was written in secret ink on the rear of the sheets of paper.
What it said disturbed him. PATRICK had been to lunch, really a liaison meeting, with the Head of the SIS Berlin Base recently. The question came around to co-operation between the BND and SIS in their Berlin operations. Perhaps PATRICK, as head of BND Counter-Intelligence, could assist with some playback operations against the SSD?
The SIS man had said that it was a possibility; they had many sources, some more than others that were suitable for double-agent projects. What about the source that went moribund, about eight months ago? PATRICK had heard that the source had possibilities. What had become of that operation?
The SIS man had remained coy about the source's identity, but had confirmed that the source had recently returned to Germany from overseas. PATRICK, ever the cunning deceiver, had suggested that he had heard a rumour – could have been from the French, the Americans, perhaps even the Dutch – that it had been in the Middle East? The BND was developing some useful agents in the region; perhaps there was an opportunity there?
The British spy had confirmed through a series of nods and winks, helped on by a generous serving of Chablis, that the source had indeed just returned from the desert regions. After that, the conversation had moved on to other, more pressing matters and it had been forgotten about.
PATRICK, as ever the consummate intelligence professional, had added an analysis of the information at the end of his secret message. Look for someone who fits the dates of leaving and returning to Germany from the Middle East. Not military, think civilian, diplomatic, trade, government.
Ulrich Vogel had spent his adult life entwined in conspiracies and deceit. He considered himself a master of his craft. He prided himself on being able to see the root of treason inside of his fellow human beings; after all, that is what made him such a good spymaster.
Looked at separately, these two pieces of intelligence would be just some random jigsaw puzzle pieces that were not connected in any way. But when added together… A source that randomly goes overseas at the exact same time as he was seconded over in Egypt? Someone who works for the British Secret Service? And now his wife, recently returned to Berlin, is seen having an emotional affair with an unknown blond man? That was just too coincidental and, as his mentors had taught him, there was no such thing as coincidences in the world of espionage – only enemy machinations.
And then there was the shooting of his men all those months ago in Berlin. The shooter, the assassin, had been a blond-haired man. In fact, the surviving SSD man had briefly seen him up close!
Was it all true?
His gut instincts told him that it all fitted into a neat parcel that filtered back to one source: Lisbeth.
How could he have been fooled all this time and by an amateur? There was only one way to confirm the link; the surviving SSD operative from the shooting. He would get Jurgen Lauder, the only man alive he trusted in SSD Headquarters at the moment, to show him the photograph and report back to him immediately. If it was confirmed that the blond was the British gunman, then it was highly likely that Elisabeth Vogel had been the mysterious British source all along.
He would be ruined. His career and possibly his life would be over. At most, he would be held as a co-conspirator, thrown together with his traitorous bitch of a wife into the interrogation cells, and at the very least he would be made to look like a weak fool who had been deceived by a woman of no importance, effectively ending his career at the SSD.
The rage inside Ulrich Vogel was rising again; he threw the Schnapps bottle against the wall and roared in anger. He would not allow that to happen, he would never allow that to happen, he had the skills to turn this situation around and to his own advantage.
And once he had definitive proof, he would also have a plan and then he would very slowly and painfully kill that little bitch.
The phone rang and, rather unusually, it was Lisbeth who picked it up. Normally, it was the ever present Frau Obermann, who was lightning fast during the day. But this time, not so much.
“Hello?”
“It is me, Lisbeth,” he said.
She frowned, recognising Ulrich's voice. He never called her Lisbeth, always Elisabeth, so the name jarred her.
“Hello, Ulrich. How are things?” she said, sounding composed, but feeling quite the opposite.
A silence and then: “Things are well. I've been keeping in touch with Berlin over the past few days. Some things are developing.”
“Well… That is good.”
“How are the children? I cannot wait to see them,” he said smoothly.
That, too, jarred her. In the very few times that he had called her at the farmhouse, he had never once he asked about the babies.
“I'm… I'm sure. Both Katherine and Peter are fine,” she said hesitantly. “It's nearly time for their afternoon feed, I shall have to…”
“And have you been out with them? Have you shown them our glorious city of Berlin yet?”
His tone was wrong, she recognised it instantly. The words were innocent enough, but there was underlying venom to them. She couldn't quite put her finger on it.
“No,” she said simply.
“Are you sure? No trips out? That doesn't seem like you, my darling. You do so like your exercise.”
“Ulrich, I have to feed the children in a moment and…”
He blasted over her, “We have an operation running against a British spy, you see. We hope very soon to be able to catch them…”
Her breath caught in her voice at the mention of a British spy. She thought he heard it down the telephone. No, it was just her imagination, nothing more. She had disguised it well enough, or so she hoped.
“… It's just that the British can be a ruthless enemy,” he continued, “and I don't want them taking my family hostage. Think of this as a friendly warning for one I hold dear.”
“Of… course. Thank you,” she said. “Ulrich, are you still in Cairo?”
A cold laugh. “For the moment, my dear, but I will be home very, very soon.”
The line went dead and when she replaced the receiver she noticed that her hand was shaking.
Something was wrong, something was seriously wrong.
Lisbeth took the little Fiat and drove into the centre of Magdeburg.
This was nothing out of the ordinary. At least once a week, she would leave the babies with Frau Obermann so that she could have a break and take a walk around the old town. So today was unremarkable and that was how she played it.
She had no faith in the telephone at the farmhouse and she suspected that it was bugged by the Stasi, so she decided that a 'clean' telephone was what was needed to make contact. The old town was busy midweek, market day always brought out the locals, and she used this to her advantage, melting into the crowds, running anti-surveillance drills until she was satisfied that, for now at least, she hadn't been followed.
She found a public payphone and dialled the number that was forged into her memory; her lifeline to SIS.
“Yes?” The voice was stern and no nonsense.
“I am enquiring about a new coat. A green coat, I believe. The Emerald one.”
“Thank you, caller.” There was a pause and then: “P
lease call back in twenty minutes.”
The phone was hung up.
So she walked, checking her back in case of surveillance once more, but in truth the streets were that busy that she couldn't have spotted anyone, anyway. She treated herself to a café crème at a little bistro, taking her time, watching the street through the window. A final check of her watch and then it was time to find another new payphone.
She dialled the number and repeated the procedure. She heard the line connect.
“It's me,” she said.
“It's good to hear from you. Is everything okay?” asked Jack Grant.
“I had a call from my husband.”
“And?”
“I don't know… It was unusual. I think he knows,” she said, her voice going an octave higher.
“Okay, tell me everything,” said Grant.
So she did, in clear and concise detail; the call, the use of her name, the mention of a British spy hunt. Grant listened patiently, making notes on the pad in front of him at the Gutterfighters' base.
“I think you are right,” he said. “I think your cover is blown.”
“So what happens now?”
“Now? Now we get you out as soon as possible,” he said. He was relieved, the situation had forced her hand.
“When?”
“Tonight. I will come and collect you at the farmhouse tonight. I want you to act like it's a normal day, so don't do anything out of the ordinary until I arrive. I'll be there by midnight, and I'll approach from the woods at the rear, we'll use the kitchen entrance. Have the children ready, but bring only what you need, travel light. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Jack, I understand.”
“Good. I'll clear it with Berlin Base and set everything in motion. Don't worry, by this time tomorrow you and the children will be out of this once and for all,” he said, hoping he was sounding reassuring.
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Jack?”
“Yes?”
“I… I love you. Tu me manques,” she said, and after so long of not saying it to him she felt finally at peace.
“I love you, too. Now go, I will be with you soon.”
Masterman was seated at his desk when Grant walked in. He looked exhausted after running an all-night surveillance operation on a couple of likely 'illegal' KGB agents. The moment he had returned to base, he had checked the Operational Orders direct from London.
“Boss, I need your permission for something.”
“New orders from SIS London! All cross-border operations are cancelled for the next few weeks, or at least until this political situation plays itself out,” said Masterman, holding up a sheet of paper.
“What political situation?” asked, Grant confused; his mind had been focused on the fine details of the Cold War, not the big picture of the political stage.
So Masterman educated him on current events.
“Well, after Ulbricht has spent months buggering around and ranting about the mass exodus from the GDR, it seems that the Russians have become involved. It's a power play for the Soviets. They are trying to throw their weight around, hoping to intimidate the West. Ulbricht seeing an opportunity seems to be encouraging their sabre-rattling. SIS London isn't taking any risks and neither, it seems, is Whitehall. We've been spiked, so take the next few days off. Go and get drunk!” laughed Masterman.
Jack Grant shook his head. “But I have an agent over there. I need to get her out!”
“EMERALD?”
“Yes.”
“Is she in the city?”
“No, she's in Magdeburg. It's about two hours' drive away,” replied Grant.
Masterman shook his head. “That's not going to happen. Not tonight.”
Grant frowned. “Boss, she's in imminent danger. There's a chance, a very good chance, that she's been blown. I have all the emergency extraction protocols in place. I can leave right now!”
“Sorry, Jack, you can read the Ops Orders if you like, but I don't think it's going to change a thing.”
“Sir, a Stasi team could be on their way there now!” pleaded Grant.
“I said no. It's out of my hands.”
“She's got two infants with her!”
Masterman sat up straight; all weariness had suddenly left him. “That's unfortunate, but it's still a no.”
Jack Grant leaned forward on Masterman's desk, his knuckles pressing down hard. “If we don't do something, she will be arrested, interrogated and shot.”
Masterman appraised him coolly. “I know how it works, Jack. Now, stand down. The moment that we get the go-ahead from London, then absolutely we can bring her over. But at the minute the politicians are calling the shots. Your agent will just have to sit tight, there is nothing operationally that we can do.”
Grant could feel the red mist coming down over him again. “And if I refuse?”
That raised an eyebrow from Masterman. “I'm sorry, what? Are you seriously refusing an order? That takes a lot of balls, young man!”
For the next few seconds it became a Mexican stand-off eyeballing contest. Neither man was willing to back down, both committed. Finally, it was Masterman that spoke. “You are relieved of your duties for the next week. Hand over your service firearm and turn in any cover ID that you are using. This is all with immediate effect.”
Grant stared back insolently for a few more seconds and then reached under his jacket and took out the Browning 9mm that he carried on operations. He firmly placed it down on the desk in front of him. Another pocket and he took out the identification papers and ID cards that he used, placing them next to the firearm.
Masterman reached over and made the weapon safe before locking it away in his desk drawer. He looked calmly at his protégé. “My advice it to go back to your apartment, get a decent bottle of Scotch and come back in a few days when you've cooled down. That's all, you can go now.”
Jack Grant gave one last glare at the man in front of him, a man he respected and admired. But this was Lisbeth. This was his children's lives in the balance. The irony was that Masterman knew none of that information, he merely viewed Lisbeth as 'just another East German agent'. They were ten-a-penny.
Grant turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
Masterman reflected for a moment. What in the hell had gotten into Jack Grant? He knew the Gorilla had a temper on him, but this? Refusing an order? What on earth was going on with him? Finally, he pressed the intercom buzzer for the Ops room.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Bob, I have a little job for yourself and Tiny, get your gear together. The Gorilla is being a tad rambunctious at the moment. I've placed him under house arrest. I want you two to keep a discreet eye on him and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid on the other side of the divide. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, boss,” said Bob, already on the move.
Masterman sat back in his chair, feeling the tiredness seeping back into his bones. He poured himself a large glass of whisky from his secret stash in his desk, took a sip and let the warm liquid trickle down inside his chest. It calmed him as he sat and thought about what was happening with one of his best men.
Who was this EMERALD, thought Masterman and, more importantly, was she something more than just an agent to Jack Grant?
Ulrich Vogel landed at Schonefeld Airport that afternoon from Cairo and was met off the plane by Lauder, who had a car waiting for him.
“Good flight?” asked Lauder, attempting to gauge what mood his senior officer was in.
Vogel, stern-faced, looked out of the window as they left the airport. “It took too long.”
The moment that he had put the pieces together about Elisabeth, he had begun to plan his speedy return to Berlin. In the end, it had been so simple – a request for a forty-eight hour pass to return to Germany to see his children. He would be back at the training centre in Cairo by Tuesday at the latest. It had been approved and rubber-stamped by SSD HQ accordingly and he had made the necessary fl
ight preparations.
If anyone was going to catch Elisabeth, it was going to be him! He would not be robbed of this opportunity.
He would catch her, interrogate her himself and then he would execute her. He already had a plot in the back of his mind. Blame the murder on her British agent lover! It was a perfect plan. And who would hold Ulrich Vogel to account for any of it? No one would. On the surface, he was a loyal party member, trusted secret policeman working overseas, betrayed husband, grieving widower and, best of all, a new father to two infants!
If he worked it well, both his reputation and his career would remain intact.
Playing it over in his mind, he suspected – no, he more than suspected – that the children probably weren't his. It was a simple case of the numbers not adding up. And what to do with the children once it was all over? Well… there were many options. He could smother them, abandon them in the forest for the wolves to have, or the more humane method was to place them in a state-run orphanage. Yes, perhaps he would do that. He would see how his mood took him nearer the time.
“Where to, Ulrich?” asked Lauder.
“Take me to Werner. I want to talk to him,” he said.
Thirty minutes later, they were sitting in the car, waiting for SSD officer Werner Muller to finish for lunch at SSD HQ on Normannenstrasse.
“They have him on light duties at the moment. Apparently, he still gets dizzy spells from the beating he took that night in the car,” said Lauder. “But don't worry. He knows we are waiting for him. He won't be long.”
At midday, short and stocky Werner Muller came over to the car. Vogel wound down the rear window and held out an enhanced black and white photograph of the man in the park.
“Is this him? Is this the man that you saw on the night of the shooting?” asked Vogel.
Muller took the photograph and looked closely. He nodded. “Yes, that is him. The clothes are different, he was dressed like street thug that night, he wasn't wearing a suit like this photo, but yes, that's definitely him. Stocky, fit-looking, blond hair.”
