Winter Work, page 23
“Of course.”
It was a juicy item of intelligence. Wolf’s little gift to Baucom, Claire supposed. The trick would be figuring out how to pass it along without admitting they’d participated in an unauthorized meeting. She certainly couldn’t be the conduit.
Wolf nodded at Andrea, who picked up the coffee tray and headed for the kitchen, an action that Claire read as a motion for adjournment. She looked at Baucom, who responded with a slight nod. Time to ask her question.
“Going back to that meeting you just mentioned, the one with Comrade Mielke.”
“Yes?”
“You said three of your colleagues were with you. Was one of them Lothar Fischer?”
The light went out in his eyes. Andrea went still in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes halting as if someone had flipped a switch.
“So. This terrible news has traveled quickly, I see.”
“Although we don’t yet know as much as we’d like to about how his death occurred.”
Wolf shifted uneasily on the couch, so Claire upped the ante.
“His murder, I mean.”
He sighed, as if to concede the point. Then he glanced toward Andrea, who stared back from the kitchen with a knowing look that said, See? I told you she was trouble.
“We don’t know as much as we’d like to, either. Or I don’t. The ministry is no longer functioning, not really. At first it looked like a suicide, but yesterday I learned that has been ruled out. Is this what you’re hearing as well?”
“We’re wondering if the Russians were involved.”
His eyes widened. It was clear that her remark had surprised him.
“I have no answer to that. Or none that I would be comfortable with. It occurred here, you know, not so far from that bench where Andrea came to fetch you.”
Claire tried to hide her surprise as Wolf kept talking.
“It’s the one reason I hesitated to invite you to the dacha, even though our home in Berlin would have been out of the question. Too many eyes and ears along the Spree. But I concluded that whoever came for poor Lothar must have completed their business and moved on. All the same, take care in your movements as you depart. If you were thinking of, well, exploring further in this neighborhood—because, believe me, I know all of the reasons you might want to—perhaps you should reconsider.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“I think all of us are tempted now to lower our guard, especially with so many checkpoints and barriers coming down. But perhaps the time is not yet right for that. We shall see.”
An awkward silence followed. Claire couldn’t help but recall the earlier moment outdoors, when she thought she had noticed something—or someone—moving through the trees as they’d climbed the hill from the lake.
The mood now was somber, but Wolf wasn’t finished.
“In a way I suppose it is a good thing that you brought up this sad subject of Lothar Fischer. Of all the people who I thought might betray our secrets to, well, people like you, he was high on the list. Or so I’ve been led to believe, by people who should know.”
“Based on what?” Baucom asked.
“His recent movements and activities. These are not things I know firsthand, so perhaps they are not completely reliable. But one thing I can tell you with certainty is this: Anyone promising to sell you a file containing the identities of our agents is offering you something they cannot actually deliver. Because such a file does not exist.”
His smile returned, this time with a hint of smugness.
“Surely you and your people didn’t keep all of that information in your heads?” Baucom said.
“Of course not. Let’s just say that the system I set up for these things, years ago, was far more complicated than that.”
Baucom seemed momentarily befuddled, but Claire knew what he was talking about because of what Lindsey Ward had told her, and she decided to let Baucom in on the secret.
“Because you set it up like pieces of a puzzle,” she said, “and you need every piece of it before you can actually identify the agents.”
Wolf seemed impressed, and a little of the smugness drained from his expression.
“Perhaps. And maybe some of the pieces of this puzzle have already been taken away or destroyed. So if anyone makes an offer to you, well, caveat emptor, as your consumer specialists like to say. Let the buyer beware.”
“We’ll certainly keep that in mind.”
Wolf then slapped his hands on his knees, his upbeat mood restored.
“Please. Before you go you must help us finish some of these wonderful foods Andrea prepared for us, so that at least you will leave with a full stomach.”
“Fattening us up for the kill, Mischa?”
Baucom said it with a jolly enough tone, but the ensuing laughter was forced. For decades they had been mortal enemies. Maybe in some ways they still were.
Wolf reached for a piece of bread and a slice of ham. He forked a slice of cheese on top, his appetite seemingly undiminished. Then again, he wasn’t the one facing a mile-long walk back to his car through what suddenly felt like hostile territory. Yes, Claire thought again, the Germans and their enchanted forests, populated by so many ghostly horrors.
She watched Wolf closely. He was four years into retirement, with only months remaining in the life of his country. Yet she supposed he might still be playing the oldest of games, unable to quit.
She pushed away her plate, her appetite gone.
32
Claire was reassured by the absence of any additional footprints as they hiked back through the trees to the car, although by then the sun was out and had melted most of the snow, so she couldn’t be sure.
Neither she nor Baucom said much until they climbed into the BMW. He collapsed into the driver’s seat with a wheeze and immediately fired up a cigarette.
“Well, that’s something to tell your grandchildren about. Not that I’m advising you to marry and have children, so don’t blow the whistle on me to HR.”
“Only if you don’t object to poking around the neighborhood a little more, now that we’re back in the safety of your chariot.”
Baucom snorted a laugh that sent smoke out his nostrils.
“You know, I guessed you were going to suggest that the moment Herr Wolf advised us not to linger.”
“He did seem a little too eager about that, didn’t he? Doesn’t want his Stasi neighbors knowing he’s meeting with the enemy, no doubt. Same reason he had us park way over here. Which means the least we can do is meander around the lake awhile longer. See what there is to see before heading back.”
“I was kind of hoping to stop off at the Waldsiedlung compound on the way home, the gated community for the party elite—Honecker, Mielke, more than twenty of them.”
“That would be fun, too.”
“Except Roman told me it’s been sealed up tight while a bunch of corruption investigations get under way. I suppose a bribe or two might get us through the gates for a little rubbernecking, but the last thing you should probably be risking is an arrest for trespassing by the Volkspolizei.”
“Lindsey Ward might frown on that. Especially if they found that gun in your glove compartment. Speaking of Roman, you said earlier he told you there were three HVA big wheels with dachas up here? Could he possibly get us the name of the third one?”
“You’re thinking that might be your contact?”
“Makes sense, especially now that all these guys seem to have gone to ground.”
“It does. I’ll ask him.”
He started the car.
“Which way, Fraulein?”
“Links, bitte. The lake is definitely in that direction. We’ll look for the road that runs by all the houses. If we pass Wolf’s place, we’ll wave to his birdhouse camera.”
Baucom gave another snort of dragon’s smoke as he backed the car into the gravel lane. A few minutes later they found the road that circled the upper end of the lake, and they soon came within sight of a cluster of houses set back in the trees, Wolf’s among them. Baucom slowed down and they crept by at walking speed. None of the others had any cars in the driveway until the last one, which had a mustard yellow Wartburg parked by a house that wasn’t nearly as big as Wolf’s. Smoke was coming from the chimney. Someone was home.
“Think that’s our third guy?” Claire asked.
“A Stasi poobah with a fucking Wartburg?”
“I know, but check out the birdhouse.”
“You’re right. It’s got a lens. And look, barbed wire on the fence. Good call.”
“Slow down. I want the tag number on that car.”
He obliged her. She committed it to memory, but did not write it down. Back here in the trees, the end of the Cold War didn’t feel quite as decisive, and she didn’t want to be pulled over by some cop who’d find the tag number of a ranking member of the Stasi among her belongings. They had already tossed the faxed directions to the rendezvous into the trash at Wolf’s dacha.
As if to confirm the need for caution, a hundred yards later they passed a turnout where a dark Citroën with smoked windows was parked. As soon as they passed, its engine cranked to life. It wheeled around on the gravel and smoothly closed the gap behind them.
“Well, that’s a surprise I wasn’t hoping for,” Baucom said, frowning into the rearview mirror.
“Friend of Wolf’s, you think?”
“That would certainly be preferable to an enemy of Lothar Fischer’s.”
“Unless those are one and the same.”
Baucom held his speed, not wanting to look panicky, but they were both aware of how much their West Berlin tags must stand out in this remote spot.
The Citroën inched closer, following about ten feet off their bumper. The only sound was the pop of gravel in the wheel wells. Claire checked the side mirror, not wanting to give their pursuers the pleasure of seeing her look over her shoulder. She committed its tag number to memory along with the one for the Wartburg.
Not long afterward they reached the paved road to Prenden. Baucom turned. The Citroën did not follow. Half an hour later they were back in West Berlin.
33
It was finally Monday, with zero hour approaching. Emil had never before been this nervous about an op. Then again, he had never played such a leading role, and Karola’s participation raised the stakes even higher.
They were in the Wartburg, a few miles from the target destination. Already there had been a complication—the dark Citroën had returned, and had tailed them out of Prenden. Emil, never an expert at crafty driving, had relied on Karola to direct him, and they had finally lost their pursuer in the streets of Pankow.
The need for evasive action had put them a few minutes behind, and Emil, a man of promptness who took comfort from sticking tightly to a schedule, had become uncharacteristically flustered, which led him to go over their plan for the third time since they’d left Prenden.
“Remember. If they insist on their own vehicle, refuse. It’s ours or nobody’s. We set the rules, and—”
“And we control the access. You don’t have to tell me again, Emil. You need to calm down. I’m ready. I’m up to the job.”
“But if—”
“We’ve covered all of the buts and contingencies. In fact, we’ve covered everything except what to do in case of a hailstorm, or the Second Coming, and if one of those happens, I’ll improvise.”
He went quiet for a second, then swerved to avoid a Trabi as it cut into his lane from the right. Emil shook his head and settled deeper into his seat, trying to calm himself.
“Sorry. I’m not usually such a micromanager. Or haven’t been till now.”
“I have been wondering how your agents must have put up with you.”
“Oh, I’d be a little on edge whenever a big moment was coming up, of course. I’d jump whenever the phone rang. But it was nothing like this.” A brief pause, then, “Of course, I was never so close personally with any of them, so…”
She gave his thigh a gentle squeeze.
“We’ll be all right. It’s a good plan, that’s what matters. And look out for that damn tram car.”
The tram driver rang his bell as he swerved the lumbering trolley in front of Emil. The Wartburg bumped and rattled across the rails in the pavement and tucked in behind.
“We’re back on schedule, or close enough. I’ll circle the block and let you out on Prenzlauer Allee. Then you’ll need to—”
“I know. I’ll need to pace myself so that I don’t arrive too soon.”
“Yes. Correct. I’ll watch from two blocks away to see who else they might have in the area, then I’ll get into position. I’ll be where I’m supposed to be by the time you’ve done what you need to do.”
“And you have the package?”
Emil patted the breast pocket of his jacket for at least the fourteenth time that morning.
“Yes. I have the package.”
“We’re good to go, then. You’ve done all you can do. And I know you hate to hear this, but the rest will depend on them.”
“I know. I know that.”
And, as he also knew, it would depend as well on whether any uninvited guests showed up—his greatest fear, and the item he had the least control over. As if reading his thoughts, Karola addressed the subject that neither of them had yet wanted to discuss.
“Those other people. If they come, they should at least be easy to spot, yes?”
His stomach went cold. He swallowed with difficulty.
“Yes.”
“Black leather jackets? Dressed like thugs, probably three of them?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“And abort if necessary.”
“But only if necessary.”
And that’s what worried him most, the idea that Karola would have a more daring idea of necessity than he would. She had only heard secondhand what Kolkachev, Volkov, and their people were capable of. Emil had seen it up close. He had touched it and smelled it. He had retched in its presence.
His foot tapped the brakes. One mile to go.
It was then Karola’s turn for doubts. Her hands were in her lap, and from a sidelong glance Emil saw that she was picking at her nails.
“It’s only a meeting, Karola, and it will be quick. I’ll give her the item and be gone.”
“It’s not that. It’s Bettina. We’re leaving her so much now in the care of Frau Adler.”
“Frau Adler is qualified.”
“But to her it’s only a job, and Bettina knows that. And if something should happen to both of us…”
“This was your choice, to help me.”
“I know, and it’s necessary. Still…”
He took his hand off the shifter and patted her thigh. She placed her hand over his and held it in place, a comfort to them both until he approached a stoplight.
“Karola, I have to downshift.”
“Yes, of course.”
She smiled nervously and removed her hand.
They were almost there.
34
Baucom wasn’t supposed to be there. Maybe that’s why he was enjoying himself so much, seated with a thermos of coffee in his chilly BMW, three blocks from Zum Goldbroiler, watchful and alert at the north end of what he once would have called the operational perimeter.
In the prime of his career a mere surveillance chore like this would’ve bored him to tears, and he might have laced his coffee with whisky to make things bearable. But this morning at thirty minutes before zero hour he was feeling alive and useful in a way that he hadn’t in months.
He had come here partly out of worry on Claire’s behalf. Not because she wasn’t up to the job, but because, well, it was clear from what he’d already heard and witnessed that Russians were involved.
Baucom had made one last contact with Claire, right around dawn, after his pal Roman had faxed him overnight a single name, that of the third Stasi officer who kept a dacha in the woods near Prenden. He phoned her room, told her the name, and wished her well. Moments after he hung up, he lit the day’s first cigarette while still in his PJs. That’s when he decided, what the hell, he would drive on over and serve as an extra set of eyes whether Claire wanted his help or not.
The visit to Markus Wolf’s dacha was also to blame. Meeting his old foe had made him realize that while East Germany was dead, the struggle wasn’t, not really, because in between their laughs and war stories both men had been probing for weaknesses, like old generals inspecting a battlefront. Baucom thought about it all through the evening and on into his dreams, and by sunrise he’d concluded that these were people who could never be trusted as long as they maintained their ties to Moscow.
Here he was, then, uninvited and probably unneeded, and already he had spotted something interesting. Only ten minutes earlier the mustard yellow Wartburg had crossed the intersection just to the south. Baucom, too, had memorized its tag numbers the day before, and these were a match.
He caught a glance of the driver as the car braked for a stoplight—no smoked glass in these cheap old Wartburgs, thank goodness—and from the shoulders up the fellow had matched Claire’s description of the fellow who’d handed her the note. A man in his late fifties with unruly gray hair poking out from beneath a wool flat cap.
Normally Baucom would have worried about being spotted, but the fellow was talking to someone, and when the car rolled forward through the intersection he had been surprised to see a passenger—a woman, no less. He debated for a moment whether to try to follow, then decided to sit tight. Five minutes later he saw the car again, turning back onto Prenzlauer Allee a little to the south. It rolled past the Zum Goldbroiler and pulled to the curb a few blocks later.
