Winter Work, page 24
The passenger door opened and the woman got out, but she walked away from the restaurant. The car pulled off and took the next right, and he had not seen it or the woman since.
Baucom poured more coffee and checked his watch. It was ten minutes before noon.
A little earlier he had gotten his first look at Claire’s new operational partner, Ron Kent, who had arrived on foot and entered the Zum Goldbroiler at about 11:30 a.m. Baucom still had no further word from his source on Kent’s reputation, or why Lindsey Ward would have selected him for this role.
But it wasn’t all that hard to see how Ward must view this op—not as an entity unto itself, but as part of a tandem with the competing offer, which supposedly involved a Russian. He knew from experience the temptations involved once a supervisor got the idea they might be able to reel in someone from the KGB. Even with the Cold War on the wane, that would still have plenty of allure, a temptation great enough to make any manager get a little fast and loose operationally. And the Russians, for their part, had always been masterful at exploiting these kinds of hopes and ambitions.
A couple of hours ago Baucom had again phoned his old colleague—the baseball scout, as Claire had called him—to chat further about Ward. His friend had described her as the single most competent boss he’d ever worked for. Once she settled on a goal, she became utterly focused, perhaps to the point of ruthlessness. And unlike many males with those traits, she was quite deft at attuning her own wants and desires with those of the Agency, so that her own successes made those above her look good as well. While that was great for advancement, it could be dangerous for anyone ranked beneath her, since they were more subject to risk.
As someone who had run a few agents of his own on the other side of the Iron Curtain, Baucom couldn’t help but sympathize with Ward’s dilemma. Yes, the CIA had been duped before by fellows like Leonid—tasty offers that had turned into poisoned apples. But the Agency also had a history of turning away—or even jailing—KGB defectors who had turned out to be the genuine article. And at this early point who was to say whether Leonid was the former or the latter? Ward would be remiss if she didn’t at least try to find out, and she could only do that by playing his game awhile longer.
Would she consider an obsolete old East German to be expendable in order to do that? Absolutely. Two Germans, even? Probably. Would this cavalier attitude also apply to her own people? No, because that could ruin her career. But in her zeal to land the big prize, or at least to thoroughly vet its potential, she might lose focus on their safety long enough for terrible accidents to happen. And that, too, was why Baucom was here, as a self-appointed safety valve for his friend and colleague.
The good news was that, so far, he’d seen no sign of any Russians. Whoever had leaked the news of the first rendezvous had either been silenced or shut out of the loop for this one.
And now, a few minutes before the appointed hour, there was Claire, approaching the destination on foot from the south. In through the door she went, the trigger event that would set others in motion.
Baucom kept watching, as alert as he had been in ages.
35
Claire spotted Ron Kent at a table by the window the moment she walked into the Zum Goldbroiler, exactly at noon. He opened a newspaper, the signal that he had not yet seen any sign of their contact. The place wasn’t even half full, so she sat at a corner table and opened a menu.
The place smelled a little bit like her mom’s kitchen on Thanksgiving morning—the aroma of a roasting bird with its juices smoldering in the pan. In glass cases behind the counter, plump browned chickens were lined up on rotating rods, turning slowly as they dripped and glistened.
The employees looked listless, as if sensing their days might be numbered. A lot of places on this side of the Wall had that feel now. As the euphoria from November 9 wore off, people had begun to worry about what would become of their apartments, their jobs, their neighborhoods. The only people who still seemed excited were the squatters, pouring in now not only from West Berlin but from the bohemian pockets of Western Europe and beyond.
The door squealed open. A woman, late forties, maybe older, walked in and eyed the counter, then scanned the room as if looking for someone she had come there to meet. Her eyes settled on Claire. She approached the table, leaned closer, and in a lowered tone said, “That grandchild of mine you wanted to see is waiting. Shall we go?”
It was an unexpected turn, but not all that surprising. Their contact was bound to be taking extra precautions after Lothar Fischer’s death.
“Certainly.”
“And your handsome friend by the window needn’t come with us. My grandchild is still a little frightened by too many visitors at once. Unless of course you’d like to postpone to another day?”
The woman smiled, quite relaxed. If anything she seemed to be enjoying herself, and she had certainly spotted Ron Kent right away.
“No. I’m fine with today. Let’s go.”
Claire glanced at Kent and gave a slight shake of her head, and when she rose to leave, he remained in his seat, although she knew that after a decent interval he would still try to follow.
They headed out the door and turned right, south on Prenzlauer Allee, which took them beneath the overhead S-Bahn tracks. The walk gave Claire time to take the measure of this attractive older woman who was leading the way.
She realized that, up to then, her idea of East German womanhood had been unduly shaped by the country’s Olympic swimmers, fearsome specimens with massive shoulders and bulging eyes. This woman certainly had an air of capability, but her grooming, her plain but neat clothing, and the laugh lines around her eyes suggested more brains than brawn.
They continued for two more blocks and turned right onto Stargarder Strasse. Claire glanced behind her as they turned, but saw no sign of Kent, although he was probably back there somewhere. Her escort looked that way, too, so it was just as well that he was out of sight.
They picked up the pace and turned right on a side street among battered, drab apartment buildings. The woman pulled a set of car keys from her coat pocket, and half a block later they stopped by a mustard yellow Wartburg. Claire checked the tag. It was the car that had been parked at the dacha, Wolf’s neighbor. She felt like she had just gained a small advantage.
“Sit up front, where I can keep an eye on you.”
The passenger door was unlocked. Claire angled a backward glance as she climbed in, and her escort noticed.
“Oh, he’s back there, but he won’t be able to keep up with us now.” She started the car.
The car rumbled like the banged-up old Chevelle Claire’s younger brother had driven as a teen in north Georgia. Out the back window she saw blue smoke drifting into the breeze.
“See that ticket on the dashboard in front of you?”
“Yes.”
“Take it. You’ll need it soon.”
The ticket was for a show at the Zeiss-Grossplanetarium, the big globe-shaped building only a few blocks away. So at least they wouldn’t be going far. Why the car, then?
She got her answer soon enough. The woman headed directly south, accelerating quickly away from the restaurant and the planetarium. Kent had parked in the opposite direction. There was no way he’d be able to keep up. The Wartburg traveled about a quarter mile before turning east on Danziger Strasse. They then made a wide circuit around Ernst-Thälman Park, heading north and then west as they doubled back toward the grounds of the planetarium, on the opposite side of where Ron Kent was probably still looking for Claire.
The Wartburg pulled to the curb.
“Your ticket is for the 12:30 show. They’ve already opened the doors, so you’ll be able to go straight in. Don’t linger outside, or the meeting is off. When you enter, take the left aisle and look toward the section to your right. Third row from the back, two seats in. There will be a gray wool coat holding the seat for you.”
Claire climbed out. The door slammed behind her, and the car rattled away in another burst of smoke. The planetarium loomed like a gigantic silver ball a few hundred yards across a grassy expanse of parkland. She did as she was told and made a beeline for the entrance, where patrons were lined up for tickets and filing in for the show.
Inside, the place was already about half full. Eight rows of seating curved in both directions, forming almost a full circle around the star projector, a buglike contraption mounted in the middle. Claire headed left. She took the first aisle, sloping downhill, and spotted a gray wool coat draped on the second seat of the third row down.
She wasn’t sure what to do with the coat, so she set it onto the aisle seat and eased into place. Most everyone else was staring up at the domed ceiling, lit to resemble twilight, so she did the same. Only seconds later, the old fellow from the previous Thursday evening grabbed up the coat and settled into the aisle seat. He was wearing the same wool hat, and smelled like the outdoors, an essence of loam and wet leaves. Claire flashed to her memory of the darting, watchful presence among the beeches and pines as she and Baucom had climbed the hill to Wolf’s dacha.
She did not turn to acknowledge his presence, and he, too, looked up at the man-made sky. The lights dimmed further, and a hush fell over the room. He leaned closer and whispered, his earthy scent even stronger.
“It occurs to me that I have seen this particular show, so why don’t we take a walk.”
“After you.”
She expected him to head back up the aisle. Instead he went farther downhill and cut left toward the red-lighted “Ausfahrt” sign above an emergency exit, which led into a concrete stairwell with a fire door on the opposite side. He pushed through it, back into the outdoors, and she followed.
He turned and watched her as he put on his overcoat. The same fellow for sure, but daylight offered a clearer look. He was about six feet tall, thin and in decent shape. Mid- to late fifties, which meant he would have come of age in a time of postwar deprivation, in rubble and ruin, and probably in the Soviet sector of occupation. His mother and any sisters would have been targets for rape. Odds were that his father had been a combat casualty, either physically or emotionally.
But unlike many East Berliners, who seemed overly pale or, if more privileged, flabby from the perks of their party status, his skin was ruddy, his features toned.
“Let’s walk,” he said, pointing across the grounds in the direction Claire had come from.
They fell into step, side by side. At first he seemed to have a slight limp, but his stride quickly loosened. He then surprised her by gripping her arm with what felt like a little too much force, maybe even a touch of anger. His next words were insistent and carried some heat.
“I have a sample I’d like to give you, to convince your people of the authenticity of what I’m offering, but I will do so only if you fully and honestly answer one question.”
“Maybe you could start by letting go of my arm.”
“That, too, will depend on your answer.”
“Ask me, then.”
“Why were you and your friend meeting yesterday with Markus Wolf?”
It threw her, but only for a second.
“So that was you, then, watching us from up there in the trees.”
His grip loosened, as if she had knocked him off balance. She spoke again while she still held the advantage.
“Which means you must be Emil Grimm.”
He released her arm, and she dared a sidelong glance. He wore a worried frown, and his breathing was uneven.
“Let’s find somewhere to sit. This is going to be more complicated than I thought.”
“I quite agree.”
He glanced back at her, then quickened his pace toward a bench fifty feet farther along. He sagged onto it with a sigh, and Claire sat to his right. She surveyed the landscape. Ron Kent was nowhere to be seen. The Wartburg that had dropped her off was also gone. The only other people in the park were mothers and children, a few shoppers strolling home with their bags. The sun poked through the clouds, casting long shadows even at this hour, although she was grateful for the extra warmth.
She turned to see Grimm staring at her. Then he broke into a rueful smile and shook his head.
“We appear to have arrived at the unlikely destination where both of us know too much about each other—or more than either of us is probably comfortable with.”
She couldn’t help but smile back. This was indeed one of the oddest operational moments of her career. Encounters like this were usually brisk and businesslike, with few words spoken before both parties exchanged whatever needed to be exchanged and melted back into their surroundings. This time it already felt like they were trying to reach an accommodation beyond the usual rules; perhaps also beyond the usual supervision. The latter aspect would be easier for him to manage since, presumably, he was no longer reporting to anyone. As for Claire, well, she had been straying from her tether from day one of this op, first by bringing Baucom into the mix, and then by visiting Wolf. And now it was clear that this fellow, Grimm, her presumptive adversary, already knew more about both of those moves than either Lindsey Ward or Bill Gentry. While Claire, in turn, knew Emil Grimm’s name and where he lived, and she had spent part of the previous day with his longtime boss.
“You’re right. We’re both at a disadvantage.”
“And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“We went at Wolf’s invitation. It was unofficial. Apparently, someone higher up in my chain of command is seeking a formal meeting with him, and he wanted to know why.”
“And?”
“The reason isn’t relevant to you.”
“Did Wolf give you my name?”
“No. He didn’t mention you, not even in passing.”
He paused to digest this and gave her a long look, as if to assess her honesty. Claire looked right back. It was another unlikely moment—two people trained to mistrust, searching for any sign that it might be safe to do otherwise. She spoke again.
“Maybe if you came here to give me something, you should just do it.”
“Even though someone else is offering your people the same goods?”
“That’s not for me to say or to judge.”
“I am pretty sure his name is Gregor Kolkachev, in case your superiors don’t know, or haven’t told you. And the name of his chief thug, the one who came after you on Frankfurter Allee, is Yuri Volkov. Kolkachev is in charge of KGB counterintelligence for this district, based in Karlshorst. I suspect he is playing your people, because that has always been a part of his job description. Tell them that.”
“I will. But of course you’d say that, wouldn’t you, because otherwise it’s pretty clear how he’d be able to make his offer more attractive than yours.”
“Yes. Attractive enough for them to look the other way while he arranges for all his competitors to be killed.”
“Risk isn’t something I can manage for you. Except when you’re with me.”
He glanced around, as if risk was suddenly his top concern. Claire did the same. The mix of people in the park hadn’t changed. No one seemed to be paying them undue attention, although there was also no sign of his backup, or of hers.
“Considering your evident lack of resources in these encounters, I’m not so sure you can manage it even when we’re together. And if I am in danger, then so are you. Although I suspect you’re already aware of that, after your near miss.”
So he must have watched the whole thing, yet had lived to tell her about it.
“I’m impressed. And I’m guessing that Kolkachev—if he’s indeed your competitor—doesn’t yet know your name.”
“I doubt I would be alive if he did, and I’d like to keep it that way. Does everyone on your side know my name now?”
She debated whether to level with him, then decided to do so.
“No. Just me.”
He sighed, seemingly in relief.
“Then perhaps you could wait awhile longer before telling them, because, well…”
“You think we have a leak?”
“Oh, you have always had leaks. Wolf would have happily told you that, if he had been in the mood to boast.”
With each such prod and response they moved deeper into the underbrush. Claire suspected they would soon reach a point from which neither of them would be able to return without being compromised or badly hurt.
“I’ll do what I can, but I can’t offer any guarantees.”
He nodded, reached into his coat pocket, and withdrew a sealed envelope. He started to hand it over, then hesitated.
“I’m offering you this. Your people will know what it means, based on information contained in previous communications.”
“From Lothar Fischer?”
He sagged a bit at the mention of the name. His eyes looked weary, a little sad. “Yes. I will proceed based on how they respond. Unless, of course, you believe my case is so hopeless that I should bow out while I still can. If so, tell me now.”
Claire wasn’t sure how to answer. At the very least, she supposed Ward would want to keep Grimm on the line if only as leverage for dealing with Kolkachev. Not that he would want to hear that. She had come here to retrieve what he was offering, but she didn’t want to get the man killed.
“My advice, since you asked, is that you find some way to add value to your offer.”
“I see.”
He nodded and thought it over as he continued to hold the envelope between them.
“And if I manage to do that, what will be the added value of my compensation?”
“Impossible for me to say, even if I knew what was already on the table. Which I don’t.”
“Tell them this, then. In addition to what I’ve already requested, any ‘added value’ will require similar considerations for two additional people. And since my original partner is now…gone, we’re really only talking about compensation for one additional person. Three of us, instead of two.”
