by Fox J Wilde
Finally, she made it out of the residential area into a commercial zone with shops she could wander into. It felt good to be able to window-shop for clothing or musical instruments, instead of having to feign interest in weeds or the color of the sky. The first chance she could, she wandered over to a clothing-shop and began studying the mannequins with extreme interest. Of course, she could care less about the mannequins—she was looking at the reflection in the window. In it, she saw Red-hat pause as well, and begin window-shopping at the blank wall of a dry-cleaning store. Sure, it didn’t make a lot of sense, but Lena realized how few people would actually put that together. When she first entered this world, she was amazed at how oblivious people truly were in their day-to-day lives. No matter how interesting her conversations in cafes were, no one cued in. No matter how obviously clandestine her actions on the streets were, no one seemed to be any the wiser, or even care for that matter.
“The art of being anything,” Patrick had told her, “Is what you are trained to notice, and your confidence in that ability. A fireman is trained to notice the smell of a fuel leak, or an uncovered electrical outlet; a police officer is trained to notice lumps in a jacket, or a hand shifting into a pocket; a carpenter is trained to notice crooked cupboards and the hinges on doors; a tax-person is trained to notice digits on a piece of paper, and the blocks they are adjoined to.
“Surveillance teams, whether working for an insurance company or intelligence agency, are trained to notice a great many things. But like any other job, all of these things fall under a single category: that which is out of place. Normal people always act predictably. They take familiar paths and knock before entering houses that don’t belong to them. They rarely initiate conversations with strangers on the street, and offer gestures with friends commiserate with the level of intimacy.
“You will learn to pick up on these things.” Patrick had assured her, “You will notice friends who ‘aren’t just friends’ giving long hugs. You will notice people quickly changing direction, or crossing the street suddenly. You will pick up on folks staring at things for no reason, or looking over their shoulder frequently. Just know that you notice these things because you are trained in surveillance…no one else does, and no one else cares.” Then, with a sardonic wink, he had added, “Unless one is as bad at it as you are.” much to the annoyance of Lena, who was trying really hard.
After a few minutes of desperately trying to notice things, she realized that Brown-jacket still wouldn’t appear that easily. So, frustrated, she started down a slightly less busy street, “Remember!” Patrick had yelled at her, “Take busy streets to lose them, and take quieter streets to spot them! You have to include both areas in any pre-planned path!” She walked for a few more minutes, failing to make any real headway. The calmer street helped her see Wart-face and Red-hat, of course, but Brown-jacket was still nowhere to be seen. Eventually, she began to realize that they were absolutely in control of the situation, which was something Patrick had told her specifically not to allow.
“They are following you; not corralling you.” he had told her after a particularly botched training mission, “First and foremost, if you allow them to force your movements, then it tells them you know you are being followed. Normal people who are doing normal-people things don’t think about being followed. Second, it allows them to move you into a position to kidnap you if they so choose. Which,” he added with a dire tone, “if you are acting so neurotic as to allow them to control the movements, they may feel you are so inept at your job so as to be unable to prevent a kidnapping.”
Lena’s heart-rate was thumping profoundly in her chest, and she realized that she was quickly losing control. It was far too easy for them to follow her on the open street like this, and she was wasting precious time that she would need to get to the Metropol. Thus, she hatched a particularly brilliant plan: she would grab a bite.
Walking into a little cafe just a block away, and looking around for a seat that would give her the best view, she settled on one at the back of the establishment where she could easily see anyone who entered. Satisfied at her plan, and looking forward to re-balancing the caffeine level of her blood, she sat down, motioned for the waitress, and ordered coffee.
As she waited, she noticed Wart-face sitting across the street, reading his newspaper and idly checking to make sure the sidewalks outside the cafe were still grey. She also noticed Red-hat taking a slow stroll in no direction in particular. No doubt, he would soon be inspecting meters, or observing a particularly lumpy length of pavement. As dumb as it looked, Lena was quite glad that they were taking it so easy on her by televising what they were looking at. She knew her real goal was Brown-jacket, and apparently, so did they.
Yet by the time her coffee had arrived and been drank (along with a second round that been ordered and drank as well), Lena decided to order food. Once that arrived, she ate it. Eventually, she paid for it. Then, she contemplated buying another cup of coffee at the expense of her waitress’s patience, which by now was beginning to wane. Yet still nothing changed. Wart-face was re-reading the same five pages over and over, flipping back and forth, back and forth. Red-hat was in a store across the street awaiting the word from Wart-face to step out, and Brown-jacket was still nowhere to be seen. Honestly, Lena was beginning to wonder if perhaps Brown-jacket wasn’t actually following her. After all, she had no proof that he was. Yet neither Wart-face nor Red-hat showed even the slightest amount of consternation. Indeed, they seemed perfectly content to just relax, awaiting her inevitable failure.
She didn’t feel the same at all. It was now eight and she had precisely one hour to get 45-minutes away—meaning she had ten minutes to find Brown-jacket, five minutes to lose all of them, and…well, that would have to be enough. Soon, a red-flush of embarrassment began to spread across her face, followed by the tale-tale sweat in her palms that only confirmed the level of stress she was experiencing. She really wanted to pass this test. She really, really did. But she also didn’t want to be late—that would actually be worse. Her brain was racing a million-miles a minute, and she realized that she needed to calm herself down.
Searching desperately for distraction, she began looking around the cafe and studying the patrons. A man with a brown jacket, another man with a brown jacket, another man with a brown jacket...“How easy they have it!” she whined her many woes inside her head, “All they have to do is sit there, drinking their stupid coffee, enjoying their stupid life, and just being…stupid!” Every one of them was a terrible person, completely ignoring how horrible her life was right now. It was all their fault, Lena whined. Even the lone woman sitting at the counter who had been flipping through the menu for the last thirty minutes was personally to blame for all of this.
Lena looked at this lone woman, hating her profusely. She just sat there in her gray pants, with her bulky leather jacket, slowly sipping coffee that had to be cold by now, refusing to order anything, “Who does that?!” Lena shouted inside her head as she stared daggers, “Who comes into a cafe, barely drinks her coffee, and then spends thirty minutes not ordering anything?!?” The woman seemed not the least bit interested in anything, least of all Lena. The only thing she seemed to care about at all was checking her makeup every now and then, and checking to make sure her tight bun was still in place. This was silly, by the way, as both her hair and makeup were fabulous. Lena could tell, because every time the woman raised her makeup mirror to check her face, it reflected back at Lena perfectly.
Then it dawned on her.
Oh, she had never considered this at all. Why, oh why had she never even considered that Brown-jacket was a Woman?! Why, oh why didn’t Lena ever think?!
Oh sure, she didn’t know that the woman was, in fact, the third member of the surveillance crew. You could only tell that for sure if they followed you through a particularly windy path, or one-direction path (Like a pedestrian bridge—Patrick called these ‘choke points’) and kept
a reasonably particular distance. But there were always signs—particularly in her dour (and masculine) clothing, tight bun and lack of earrings.
Any good super-spy kept a rolling list of strikes against someone. Many were benign, and only helped to build a case. Still others were major signs. Makeup-lady was alone; Minor check, but a check, nonetheless. She wouldn’t order anything; slightly less minor check, but again, still a check. Wearing that clothing; well, maybe she was just jumping to conclusions, but hey, it didn’t hurt—especially in conjunction with that tight bun she had, and those work shoes Lena had just noticed. Her body facing completely away from Lena’s direction; take one check off. But her makeup mirror; well, that was a major check if you factored in that the woman had just winked at her through the mirror. That was all the proof she needed.
Lena mouthed an almost imperceptible “thank you!” towards the woman who almost imperceptibly winked back, and then quickly tapped her wrist, as if checking a nonexistent watch to see if it was still working—the signal for ‘spy stuff is afoot’.
Lena had to now formulate a plan to lose them all. Every place had an advantage. The streets had many avenues of escape, for instance. Little shops like this were a major choke-point, but almost all restaurants had multiple points of entry and egress. This didn’t help with Red-hat and Wart-face, but most restaurants also had a rear loading/storage area. Sometimes these areas had back entrances themselves, and sometimes you got lucky and they were located near the bathrooms.
Unfortunately, this one looked to be accessible only by the kitchen—a kitchen she could see into, by way of a portal where chefs placed the completed food. Lena was an excellent liar when she wanted to be, but there was no easy way to lie yourself into a kitchen, “Think, think, think!” Lena demanded at herself. This was how this had to happen. She was already going to be a minute or two late, so she had to lose them now, and this was the best plan that she had.
She thought about it for a few moments. She studied the kitchen, and she studied the cook. She noticed that the cook was young, slightly overweight, and had a cigarette tucked into the top of his ear at the ready for his next chance at a smoke break. Then she decided. Yes, she knew the perfect way to make it happen. Standing up, and walking as non-briskly as she could with the excitement she was desperately trying to suppress, she walked directly into the doorway of the kitchen and said, “Excuse me, uh, Sir?”
“Yeah.” he replied grufly. As soon as he looked at her, though, and noticed that Lena was a girl and was dressed the way she was, his eyes popped open (as men’s eyes often do) and his tone became much more interested, “Uh, yes ma’am?”
“Yeah, uh,” she started (noticing the ever-so-slight flexing of his biceps), trying to keep her voice down, “I noticed that you smoke. I was wondering if you wanted some company?”
You’ve never seen a man more interested in having a cigarette right then and there than this poor, rotund specimen was at that very moment. With an exuberant, “Uh, yes ma’am!” he motioned for her to follow and led her right through the kitchen.
“Sorry about it back here,” he said nervously as he pushed a few boxes out of the way, “but this is the quickest way back. We’re not normally supposed to have people back through here, but you don’t look like you’re about to steal something!”
“Oh, you never know.” Lena said, pleasantly, as he led her into the back storage rooms.
“I was almost on my break anyway!” he continued, before blathering off into the distance. “Yeah, today has been a busy day! Started out work by...”
As soon as Lena saw the back exit, the excitement of success overwhelmed her. Quickly, she leaned over to the pudgy man and kissed him on the cheek with a “You’re a lifesaver, handsome!” She left him standing confused, surprised and rather pleased with himself, as she inelegantly bolted out the back door. Checking to make sure that Wart-face, Red-hat and Makeup-lady (aka Brown-jacket) weren’t following her, she ran the next two blocks as quickly as her fancy boots would allow.
The Metropol Interhostel stood enormous the way a palace or a cathedral would. It also inspired much the same feelings: awe, wonder, reverence, and the slightest bit of disgust. While the GDR had its share of nice 4-star hotels, the Metropol was Berlin’s only 5-star, and it very much looked the part. It was black as night, ensconced in granite and marble pillars, and dressed in fountains. She had never been inside it, but she knew from reputation and rumor that it had more to offer than anything in West Berlin. Diplomat-level lounges that put most embassies to shame, filled with designer bars serving strong, fruity drinks. Female companions would likely be found for the visiting businessman, along with concierge services that lauded only the best that East Berlin had to show.
It was internationally recognized as the very definition of ‘swank’, and well it should be—not only was it designed for folks visiting from the West, it was the only hotel that folks from the West were allowed to stay at. If you were from the GDR, you didn’t even think about booking a room. Not just because you wouldn’t even be considered for attendance, but because the entire hotel was run by the Stasi.
The rooms were filled with the finest mattresses and the softest silks, just as they were the most sophisticated bugs and phone taps. The mirrors in the bathroom were one-way glass, and the peep-holes in the doors went both ways. The female companions were no doubt Stasi assets that were as skilled at picking pockets as they were picking ties for a night out. And the concierge services were more than happy to book you an entire trip, along with a private town-car and chauffeur—anything to know where you were and what you were doing at all times. This was not only the worst hotel for a traveling consular or dignitary to stay in, but the only one made available to them. Lucky for the Stasi, no one had ever seemed to catch on to the game. The sex and booze had made sure of that.
As she stood admiring this monolith, she thanked the gods for Vivika and her secret stash of stolen chic. Whatever Lena imagined would pass off for ‘fancy’ here, she was clearly incorrect. Despite her fabulous boots, the designer label on her skirt (which fit like a glove by the way) and the fair amount of shoulder on display, she knew her attire just didn’t make the grade here. It was the best she could manage under the circumstances, though. So, with a pensive “ugh”, she tromped herself into the lion’s den.
As much as the outside of this structure impressed her, the interior simply overwhelmed. The best way of describing the effects of the large, ivy-clad pillars and gilded glass panels on her senses was…well, there probably wasn’t a way of really doing it much justice, but her head ached. It was the same feeling she would get standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking a city: vertigo, and the inability to truly gauge the size or complexity with her eyes alone.
While her punk-rock roots tried to tell her she should hate all of this, her flush told both her and any potential onlooker different: she was in awe and she was envious—envious of everyone that got to experience this sort of abject finery regularly. She immediately questioned what she was doing with her life, and then decided to hate herself for the impossibility of attaining the level of prestige required.
She realized that she needed a drink very quickly, so she wandered over to the closest lounge-area she could find. The very second she rested her hands on the richly-lacquered mahogany and the gold dressing, however, she realized she could never afford anything here. Not in a million years. She resigned herself to ordering a water, and hoped the wait staff wouldn’t make a big deal about her actual (and obviously limited) net worth. However, when a gorgeous woman in picture-perfect makeup and an incredibly fancy dress approached from behind the counter, smiling pleasantly, Lena felt a small amount of acceptance.
“What’ll it be, my dear?” the bartender asked.
“I…I…uh...”
“One Diamond Cosmo?” the bartender asked knowingly before whisking off, “Great choice! Coming right up!”
“Don’t worry, my dear,” the bartender interrupted with a wink, “we’ll have it out for you in short order.”
“So, this is what it feels like to be important.” Lena mused to herself. It was absolutely incredible. Especially when the bartender poured many richly-colored liquids into a very fancy glass that contained a glittering ring too small for anyone to actually wear, and then set the whole thing on fire, “My god…a girl could get use to this.”
It was 9 o’clock on the dot—Lena had run, after all—and she was realizing why she was supposed to get here when she did. Fancy folks in fancier clothing were beginning to funnel in to the hotel. They all looked to be in the same party, she noticed; both their social decorum and ethnicity seemed to have the same bent. They were thin, yet impressively athletic; feminine yet handsome features for most of the men; fragility bordering on fine porcelain for the women; and absolutely immaculate hair for the lot.
As a larger group walked in, however, the stench walked in as well. Vast clouds of perfume and cologne utterly swamped the place in a manner reminiscent of a WWI mustard gas attack, and Lena suddenly realized that she hated having a sense of smell. Alone, each individual scent may have been exceptionally expensive and tasteful; but together, they smelled as if the four horsemen of the apocalypse’s steeds were all taking a shit simultaneously.
“Ah, the French.” the bartender sighed knowingly, “The only thing that smells more overpowering is their egos. Trust me, you’ll see.”
