Winter Work, page 14
Catching her breath and calming herself, she unfolded the bill. There was a note inside, handwritten in pencil, in English. The grammar was perfect. As she read it, the five-mark note fluttered to the floor.
Lothar is dead. Our offer is not. Details to follow are for you alone. 12:00 Monday, Gaststätte Zum Goldbroiler, Kanzowstrasse.
Claire refolded the note, then stooped to pick up the fallen money. She smiled, excited, as she pressed the button for Lehmann’s apartment and announced herself to the squawk box. The instant the buzzer sounded she shoved open the door.
Then she bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time all the way to the fourth floor.
19
They began speaking simultaneously, their words colliding like runaway trains.
“I just—”
“You won’t—”
Claire, breathless from the climb, still managed to beat Baucom to the punch on the second try.
“I just heard from our contact. Our new one, anyway. Not far from here, face-to-face. He made an approach, gave me this note wrapped inside an ostmark, and took off.”
She handed it to Baucom. His eyebrows arched as he read.
“Shit. And I thought my news was big.”
“Your news?”
“It’ll keep. Who knows, it might even be related. What did he look like?”
“Older guy, German. Midfifties, gray hair, alert. Played it like an amateur for a while, but knew what he was doing when I tried to lose him.”
“So he followed you?”
“From the moment I left Berlin base, and he let me know it.”
“You think he wanted you to feel threatened?”
“No. Totally different vibe from the Russians.”
“So we’re back in the game, then. Or you are.”
“Only if Ward says so. I should phone it in, even if all I get is the night duty officer.”
“Absolutely. But if this guy has decided you’re the preferred contact, she’ll have to keep you on this, especially if Lothar Fischer’s really dead. Any possibility Ward already knows that?”
“Only if she’s a better liar than I think.”
“Could this guy have killed him?”
That stopped her cold.
“I hadn’t even thought of that, not with those Russians out there. That would certainly complicate things.”
“I doubt he’s working with those three or he would’ve just showed up with them.”
“I guess I’d feel better about him if he’d at least offered the line about the footballer.”
“Sure. But Lothar Fischer might’ve kept that to himself. The higher the rank, the more obsessed you get about need to know, and he was way up the ladder. What next, then?”
“That’ll be Ward’s call, and Gentry’s. She did mention a Russian who might be a competitor. Leonid, probably a code name. But, yeah, I’m betting they’ll want me to follow up.”
“Maybe this time they’ll give you some support. If so, you won’t be needing my services any longer.”
“Well, look at it this way. Without you I might be in the back of a van right now.”
“And without me, you wouldn’t be privy to this other bit of news.”
Baucom grinned a bit wickedly and handed her a curled sheet of glossy paper, a fax. The printed time signature was from earlier that afternoon.
“Stopped at my apartment on the way over and it was down on the floor below the machine. Been so long since the last one I’m surprised the goddamn paper didn’t jam.”
Claire uncurled it to read the brief message:
Your Czech friend Otto wishes to meet on a matter of urgency concerning the mutual interests of your former employers. I can arrange.
Roman
“Who are Otto and Roman?”
“Roman is Rudolf Kolaschnik, a Pole with contacts on both sides of the fence. Sells East Bloc military uniforms to Western collectors. I once used him as a go-between for a contact in Dresden. He enjoyed it so much he turned it into a side business. Sort of a back-channel UPS man for the spook world.”
“And Otto, the Czech?”
Baucom smiled again.
“A German. You may have heard of him. Markus Wolf.”
Claire was speechless. Everyone at CIA had heard of Markus Wolf. Of all their Cold War adversaries, he may have been the most imposing. His spies had thoroughly penetrated NATO and the West German government, yet no one at the Agency had even known what he looked like until 1978, when he was secretly photographed during a visit to Sweden.
“You’re friends with Markus Wolf?”
“Not exactly. But we met once, way off the beaten path. It was only a month after that famous photo of him came in over the transom, or I never would’ve recognized him.” She could tell by the look in his eye that a story was coming. “But first you better phone in this contact. While you’re doing that, I’ll find us something to wet our whistles.”
She used the phone in the bedroom. The night duty officer patched her through to Bill Gentry, who sounded pleased to hear from her, more so once she told him the news.
“This is major, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Although I’m less than thrilled he was waiting for me right outside the gate in Dahlem.”
“Not the first time we’ve had lurkers from their side. Work here long enough and you get used to it. You in a safe place now?”
“Quite.”
“Well, I better kick this upstairs to Lindsey. She’ll want to start planning the next move first thing tomorrow. But, hey, any chance I could interest you in an informal debriefing tonight, while everything’s still fresh? We could meet at your hotel bar?”
A loaded invitation, Gentry back on the prowl. Then again, Gentry knew things that Ward would never be willing to tell her. If Claire hadn’t had work left to do here, she might have said yes.
“I’m pretty worn out from the whole day, Bill. But could I take a rain check on that offer? Tomorrow evening, maybe?”
“Absolutely. See you first thing tomorrow, then.”
“Yes, bright and early.”
When she returned to the other room, a frowning Baucom stood before a tall oak cabinet stocked top to bottom with wine.
“You’d think the son of Berlin’s best barkeep would have a better selection. Every goddamn one of these is from California. Must’ve been what killed his dad. Here, uncork this one.”
He handed her a Cabernet from Sonoma County. She did the honors, poured them both a glass, and sipped from hers. Perfectly acceptable. Baucom tried it and grimaced.
“I can already tell that working with you is going to mean one substandard tipple after another. Christ, I might as well be in Warsaw.”
He took another generous swallow and settled onto the couch.
“So, you actually met Markus Wolf. This was, what, twelve years ago?”
“Nearly. October of ’78. I got invited over to Prague for a weekend with our defense attaché, Tom Cofer. We were hoping to scope out a big Warsaw Pact military exercise they were running in the wilds of Czechoslovakia.”
“Surprised they’d let you.”
“They didn’t. But it was easy enough to pull off, if you had the right papers and didn’t wind up on the same road with a Soviet tank column. A little trickery didn’t hurt, either. All the Western attachés had Land Rovers that looked like Czech military staff cars. They were even painted with the same camouflage.”
“Cheeky.”
“Very. The Italian attaché came along for the ride. He sat up front while I called out directions from the back. So there we were, a few klicks north of some village with a castle out in the hops fields of Bohemia, trying to make heads or tails of the units we’d spotted, when we pulled over to plot our next move. Five seconds later this car pulls up on our left and swerves in front of us to block us in. Riding up front is a Soviet colonel with a ski-slope hat and a whole lot of ribbons.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Our words exactly. The Italian was a little excitable. He was sure they’d haul us off to some dungeon, so I hopped out to smooth things over. By the time I got to the passenger side, the colonel already had his window down. I saluted smartly and was about to introduce myself as an assistant to the attaché, but before I could get a word out, he starts griping like a lost tourist.
“ ‘You goddamn Czechs can’t mark your roads worth a shit! Maybe one of you could tell me where the hell we actually are.’ ”
“In Russian?”
“Oh yeah. He never would’ve stooped to the local language with an inferior. So I played along, the good Czech offering to help. My Russian must’ve sounded as bad as a local’s, so he hopped out with a big-ass map and spread it on the hood of his car. And damned if it wasn’t marked off with the whole plan of attack. Units, arrows, the works. So I said, ‘You know, sir, my colleague can clear this up,’ because Tom also spoke Russian, and I wanted him to see this. So I signaled for him to come join us.
“By then, of course, I’m studying the map like a kid cramming for exams, trying to memorize every item. It was like being handed your opponent’s playbook the night before the Super Bowl, and I had five minutes to get it down.”
Claire laughed. Even for Baucom, this was quite a tale.
“Well, Tom’s eyes got really big, and he gives me a look. He makes a show of puzzling over which roads are which, drawing it out as long as he can until, finally, he jabs his finger down and says, ‘Here, sir. This is where we are.’ By then I had pretty much stored away everything I could, and that might have been the happy ending if this other guy hadn’t climbed out to join us. ’Cause I could tell right away from the look on his face that he knew we weren’t Czech. Tom pokes me in the ribs to get moving, but by then I knew we weren’t leaving anytime soon, because, well, it was Markus Wolf, right there in the flesh.”
“Traveling with the colonel?”
“Probably as his honored guest. Which explains why the colonel was so pissed off, getting lost in front of the Great Spymaster from Berlin.”
“Jesus. Did they throw you in jail?”
“Wolf never blew the whistle on us. Maybe he figured it would only humiliate his host and fuck up the whole day. But he did fold up the map, quick as you please.”
“Did Tom recognize him?”
“No, no. The photo was still classified, and I was the only one of us who’d seen it. It would be another five months before the thing would end up on the cover of Der Spiegel, so Wolf didn’t know about it yet, either. And even I was starting to wonder if it was really him, until the Russian colonel helped me out. He said, ‘Time to go, Mischa,’ which clinched it, because Mischa was Wolf’s old nickname from his Moscow days. Of course, Tom didn’t know that, either, and by then he’s wondering why the hell I wasn’t getting back in the car, so we could make our escape.
“But, hey, for me this was a bigger deal than the map. Markus Wolf, live and in color. The big game animal we’d been stalking for twenty years, and he had just walked right into my clearing.”
“Did Wolf say anything?”
“Oh, yeah. In fact, he knew my fucking name.”
“Holy—!”
“Yeah. That certainly sent a message. He sidles up to me, smiles, and says, in perfect Russian, but in a real low voice so the colonel wouldn’t hear, ‘You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, Mr. Baucom?’ Which was a shock, of course, but I was fine with that, ’cause I was about to give him a bigger one. ’Cause I’m sure he didn’t know yet that I’d rumbled him.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, first I needed a second or two to recover my composure. He’s smiling the whole time, of course. Or was until I answered, in German, ‘And it’s a long way from Normanenstrasse, too, ja, Herr Wolf?’ ”
“That must have wiped the smile off his face.”
“Not really. His eyebrows went up. Then he put out his hand, and before you know it we’re shaking on it, like old pals who’d just finished a game of chess. He didn’t say another word, but he winked as he climbed back into the car.”
“What a moment.”
“And that wasn’t the last of it. A few weeks later I’m at home, sipping a whisky on one of those godawful Berliner nights with the rain sheeting against the windows, when my fax machine hums into action. Out rolls a message from a blocked number. In English, just like this one. All it said was, ‘Pleasure meeting you in Bohemia. Looking forward to the next time under more favorable circumstances. Otto.’ ”
“To show you he knew exactly where and how to reach you?”
“Probably. I didn’t know whether to laugh or go into hiding, but now I’m wondering if he wasn’t already planning for the possibility of some future rainy day.”
“And then, last November ninth, the skies opened up.”
“Exactly. And now he wants to meet.”
“You think it’s related to Lothar Fischer?”
“It certainly crossed my mind. Especially if Fischer’s dead.”
“Maybe I should go with you.”
“That crossed my mind, too.”
Baucom opened his mouth to say more, then frowned and looked toward the window. A car was passing in the street below, the engine sputtering with a noise that only Trabis made. He stepped to the window and peered out the side of the shuttered blinds. Then he stepped to the other side, tracking the car’s progress as it drove slowly away.
“Remember when I said the other night that I’ve noticed a few things lately? Well, I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve stirred up something in the zeitgeist.”
“What kind of things?”
“Some guy on the S-Bahn, same day you first got in touch, stalking me from train to train before he took off. And last night on my block, late, there was someone in the shadow of a doorway, still as can be. Then a day later this message from Wolf rolls in.”
“You think he sent someone to scout you out?”
“Or maybe Gentry did. Or Ward. Or maybe I’m just a paranoid old spook who’s lost his touch.”
“What’s your next move with Wolf, then? Can I really come along for the ride?”
“You’d be up for that?”
“Only if it happens soon. I have a feeling things are about to get pretty busy, and if that happens my leash will only get tighter.”
“I’m guessing he wants to meet as quickly as possible, but Roman will know for sure. I’ll plead old age, say you’re my academic assistant, helping with my memoirs or some bullshit. Being from Paris there’s a decent chance Wolf won’t make you.”
“Unless he’s working with the guy I just met.”
“In that case it won’t matter.”
All of it was risky, but Baucom needed only a few seconds to make up his mind.
“On one condition. That you keep me in the loop on this business with your contact. Even if Ward and Gentry decide to give you some backup.”
“That was already my plan. Within reason, of course.”
He smiled as she drained the last of her wine. She held out her glass for a refill. He spoke as he poured.
“This is all getting pretty complicated.”
“It is, isn’t it? And how lovely is that?”
All in all, not a bad evening. Not only did Claire still have her part in the final act of whatever drama she’d first entered, but her role was expanding, and now it was time to start writing her next lines.
They tapped their glasses, sipped, and settled down to work.
20
Karola came out the door of the dacha before Emil could even switch off the ignition. She folded her arms as she waited for him to climb out of the Wartburg. He could barely see her face in the darkness. He wanted to get indoors to warm up and relax, but Karola blocked his path, her breath misting in the glow from the front window.
“You went to Berlin, didn’t you? To do what?”
“Yes, I went to Berlin, but that’s all I can tell you.”
“I’ve been worried sick. We both have. You can’t keep doing things in secret like this, Emil. It isn’t safe.”
He stepped forward to offer a reassuring hug, but she took a step back, so instead he placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. A chill wind gusted through the space between them. The moon had yet to rise, but a frost pattern of stars coated the night sky.
“Secret work is what I’ve always done. Both of you know that. It isn’t something I have ever approached carelessly, or without caution.”
She held her ground.
If she had been a colleague on Normanenstrasse, or even a superior, he would have asserted himself and barked at her to step aside. But in any sort of standoff with Karola, Emil always felt a little humbled, lacking in authority. There was love to consider as well, he supposed.
“Can we please just go inside?”
She relented.
“Yes. You look cold.”
She turned toward the dacha. Emil followed, and Karola kept talking.
“What worries me is that now you’re doing this secret work on your own, without help or support from the ministry. I can help, you know.”
“You’re already helping, just by being here when I need you. When she needs you.”
“I mean with your work. I can help with whatever it is that you’re up to.”
She turned to face him again as they reached the door, pausing on the threshold.
“Who says that I’m up to anything, Karola?”
“That policeman, for one.”
“Lieutenant Dorn? Was he here again?” A shiver ran through him, head to toe.
“He’s been calling. Three times, as recently as half an hour ago. Said it was urgent. He wanted to know where you were, what you were doing.”
