Winter Work, page 25
Upping his price, then. Maybe, after all, he was just another grifter in the game of betrayal, cashing in while the market was hot.
“Why not just make it easy for both of us and give me a number.”
“A number?” He looked puzzled. Then her meaning seemed to dawn on him. “Ah, an amount, you mean, of money. No, that’s not what I’m seeking. Your people initially mentioned a figure, but that’s secondary to me. That was Lothar Fischer’s request, not mine. My primary interest is safe harbor, and now I want it for three people instead of two. Including one with, well, a medical condition. Someone who may need special assistance in…in going free.”
Her opinion shifted again. He came across now as more desperate than opportunistic. More of a refugee than a spy, although Claire knew that was likely naïve, given his longtime employer and his high rank. She wondered if the woman who had driven the Wartburg was one of the two additional people, and if so, who the third one could be.
“I’ll tell them. I know they’ll be surprised by one thing. Your use of a woman. Someone who supposedly knows the way your side does things had assured me that almost never happened.”
He shifted on the bench and withdrew the envelope, clearly troubled by what she’d said. The disadvantages for each of them had now accumulated to the point where neither could afford to violate the trust of the other. Maybe the deal was off.
“Are you ever going to give me that envelope, or have you changed your mind?”
He looked her in the eye. She stared back. He again held forward the envelope. “Here. But do not take it unless you are willing to meet me again, sooner rather than later, and no matter what your superiors say.”
Committing to that would be a leap beyond Ward’s supervision, but after what Claire had already done during the past few days it didn’t feel like much of one.
“I’m guessing you already have a time and place in mind.”
“Noon tomorrow. In Mitte, my side of the Wall. There’s a big vacant building on Oranienburger Strasse, a leftover ruin from the war that artists have begun moving into. They’re calling it Tacheles.”
“Tacheles?”
“I’m told it is a Yiddish word, meaning ‘straight talk.’ ”
“Perfect for us, then.”
She took the envelope and put it in her bag without averting her gaze.
“It’s a five-story building. There’s an arched passage that cuts through from the street to an empty lot. Look for me there, waiting in the passage. Squatters have been swarming to the place like termites to a rotting log, and a lot of them are foreigners, so nearly everyone there speaks English. We’ll do the same. If you want to fit in, don’t comb your hair, and dress to look careless and bohemian.”
“Meaning you’ll come as you are?”
He surprised her by breaking into a laugh, and this time his smile was mirthful. Then he stood. Claire did the same. She again noticed that he seemed to favor his right leg. He flexed the knee while checking in both directions, and turned to face her for a final word.
“I am probably a fool to do this, but I have decided to trust you. Three lives are now in your hands.”
A sober and even noble response seemed to be in order, but words failed her. Here was an adversary whom she now felt duty bound to protect, an unfamiliar position. Then again, she had never before dealt with an adversary whose side had already been defeated. Their employers were supposedly at peace, dickering only over the terms of surrender. It was his longtime ally, the KGB, that was still a threat to them both.
“I’ll keep your name to myself as long as I can. If this offering of yours passes inspection, you’ll be helping us both if you can come up with something more. The sooner, the better.”
He nodded.
“I’ll work on it.”
He turned and strolled away, limping then not limping. Claire saw that the yellow Wartburg was now waiting for him on the far side of the park, engine running. She headed in the opposite direction, already wondering how much she could or should reveal to Ron Kent. The concepts of duty and loyalty had never before felt so complicated.
36
Emil climbed into the Wartburg with a sinking feeling, knowing that now he’d have to look Karola in the eye.
She was bright-eyed, excited, pleased to have done her job well. He was heartsick that he had made her a part of this. He had put her in the line of fire, inexcusable, especially now when it seemed clear that his offer was going to fall short. Added value? What did that even mean when your competitor was a KGB man with access to all sorts of secrets beyond Emil’s reach? Anything that Emil could offer had an expiration date, and from this point onward its value would only begin to decline.
And while the American woman seemed to mean well, he doubted she could keep his identity secret forever. Inevitably, perhaps soon, he would become vulnerable.
“How did it go?”
Fortunately, Karola was checking the mirrors, alert to traffic and possible pursuers, which bought him time to muster a smile and inject a note of hope into his voice.
“As well as you could expect, I suppose.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the American had known his name.
“What did she say about Wolf?”
“That he had invited them, but that they didn’t talk about me. Wolf did mention Lothar, but she didn’t get the idea he knew for sure what Lothar had been up to.”
“Do you trust her?” Then, as if realizing that wasn’t ever really a question you could answer with much accuracy in this profession, “I guess what I really mean is, do you think she’s reliable?”
“As far as it goes. I do believe she wants this to work out safely for all parties, and she seems fully aware of the risks. So that’s a start.”
“And?”
Karola was watching him, so he turned toward her. He could only manage a shrug.
“She thinks our competition may outbid us. I’m inclined to agree.”
Karola was silent for a moment. When she next spoke she sounded more subdued. “A competitor.” She went silent for a moment. “The one who killed Lothar, then. And Plotz.”
“Probably a safe assumption.”
“Did she have a name for this competitor?”
“She did not, nor would I expect her to.” He was relieved he didn’t have to lie about that part, or even the next. “But I think we can safely assume it’s someone with the KGB.”
“Yes. Of course.”
There was still no way he was going to reveal Kolkachev’s and Volkov’s names to Karola.
“Is there anything we can do to improve our offer?”
He noted her use of “we” and “our.” He would never be able to convince her to withdraw from this, even though that was now his inclination. She’d be insulted if he even tried.
“I’m open to any and all suggestions.”
The answering silence was oppressive. Emil then decided that after tomorrow’s meetup at Tacheles he would limit Karola’s participation as much as possible. Now that the Americans had his sample, the odds would only increase that his name would leak to Kolkachev. The less exposure for her, the better. He still didn’t know what purpose the meeting would serve, except as a delaying action. But if he had nothing new to offer by then, well…
“What’s wrong. Emil?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like you think it’s hopeless.”
“No. I’m just thinking. We’re not out of the game yet.”
“Will you be meeting them again?”
“Yes. You’ll only need to drive me. We’ll discuss the arrangements later.”
She again looked over. Emil avoided her stare for as long as he could, and then managed a weak smile.
Karola shook her head, unconvinced.
They drove on in silence.
37
Baucom hung back in his old BMW as far as he could without losing contact with the Wartburg. He tracked its progress by the blue smoke from the tailpipe, although that advantage soon vanished in plumes of competing smoke from two intervening Trabants, so he accelerated to close the gap, weaving past a tram before settling in a block behind.
Fortunately his goal in this pursuit was limited. He only wanted to find out the old fellow’s preferred route to and from Prenden, in order to choose the best possible chokepoint for a future surveillance.
He doubted Claire would let him know if they planned to meet again, and she certainly wouldn’t tell him the time or place. But Baucom was betting that an old hand like Emil Grimm would plan his assignations with a certain regularity, and based on today midday seemed to be his preferred time.
Grimm would almost certainly change the location, and Baucom figured he could work around that gap by setting up shop at a traffic surveillance point at around 11 a.m., or maybe a little earlier—some spot where he’d be likely to see the Wartburg pass by on its way back into the city. He would do that every day for at least a week until he got a hit. But first he needed to determine the route and pick a vantage point.
Fortunately, Baucom had spotted Grimm on foot shortly after noon, not long after he had lost sight of the Wartburg. By moving his car down the block he had seen Grimm just as he’d entered the grounds of the Zeiss Planetarium. Baucom had decided to take up an observation post on the far side of Ernst-Thalmann Park, which proved fortuitous when, a few minutes later, the Wartburg rolled into view and dropped off Claire. It then returned to pick up Grimm, and Baucom had set off after them.
Now the Wartburg was heading out of the city on Greifswalder Strasse, which was part of northbound Highway 2. Baucom knew it went straight to the entrance of the Autobahn that led to Bernau and Prenden, so he began dropping back to let the Wartburg move out of range.
His BMW, even in its dilapidated state, stood out a bit among the East German cars, so Baucom decided that tomorrow he would borrow a friend’s car—a particular Opel compact came to mind—to blend in better.
He spotted the ideal vantage point a few minutes later, just past the tram stop for the bathing beach at the Weissensee, another of Berlin’s many small lakes. There was a gas station a couple of blocks farther along where he would have a full view of incoming traffic, with easy access to the road. He could give himself an excuse to linger by popping open the hood, like a motorist checking the engine. Doing that several days in a row would be suspicious, so he would employ other tactics as the days progressed, whether Claire wanted him to or not. Because if his many years of Berlin experience had taught him anything, it was that you could never have too many eyes and ears on your side.
In the meantime, he would keep digging with his old source for any further insights into the character of Lindsey Ward and her chosen operative, Ron Kent. Because the more information he could get for Claire, the better. And also because, well, Baucom was enjoying himself too much to quit.
His work done for the day, Baucom took the next left turn and headed for home.
38
By the time they reached the dirt road along the Bauersee, Emil was exhausted from trying to maintain an upbeat demeanor, and by his awareness that Karola wasn’t buying it. This made it all the more dispiriting when they rounded the final curve through the trees and saw a green-and-white Polizei car parked in the driveway behind Frau Adler’s brown Škoda. Although at least the Citroën was gone. He wondered if the two events were related.
“Is it that lieutenant again?” Karola asked.
“Yes. Dorn. He’s waiting by the door.”
“He doesn’t look pleased.”
“He almost never does. Here.” He pulled the Wartburg onto the shoulder and got out his wallet. “Go inside and pay Frau Adler. I’ll deal with him out here.”
She eyed him suspiciously, but he had to keep her from hearing the conversation, especially if Dorn started throwing around names of Russians.
Dorn nodded curtly as they approached the door.
“Frau Weber. Herr Grimm.”
He at least had the sense to wait until Karola was inside to get to the point of his visit.
“The evidence, Herr Grimm. Those strips of microfilm. You must return it to me this instant.” He held out his hand in an impatient manner.
“I have good news on that front, Lieutenant. Only this morning I was able to put it into the hands of archival experts who will be able to determine its provenance, and probably also its importance.”
Dorn sighed and dropped his hand.
“I was afraid you would say something like that.”
“Soon, Lieutenant, soon. And since there is no paperwork to link its disappearance to either you or me, we are both quite secure on that matter as long as no one begins asking about it. And, of course, as long as you don’t make an issue of it with your superiors.”
Dorn pressed his lips together in a seam of repressed anger, but did not answer. Emil changed the subject.
“Krauss’s people have been sniffing around here again, I’ll have you know. Posting a car, following me. Have you managed to have a word with him yet?”
Dorn beamed and rose up on his toes for a second. Obviously, Emil had chosen the right diversion.
“Krauss and his goons have been placed on notice, Grimm. I have seen to that.”
“So he talked?”
“No. I went to his new place of work, the address you gave me. Four of us, like you suggested, just this afternoon. When he came out for lunch, we pounced.”
“And?”
“He refused to be questioned, but he listened. Oh yes, he listened, and he was not at all pleased by what he heard.”
Emil wasn’t sure he was going to be pleased, either, especially since it had been his doing to send Dorn after Krauss. Maybe riling the man up wasn’t such a good idea, especially now that his own work had reached such a delicate moment.
“What did you say to him?”
“I flushed him from cover, him and his Russian friends, like a brace of partridges. I considered taking matters to their embassy, of course, but for that I would have had to ask my chief inspector, Bilke, and he would have then gone to the new interior minister, Diestel, and, well…”
“Yes, far too many ripples in the pond. Good decision. But what did you say to Krauss?”
“I told him that Lothar Fischer’s death was a murder, and that he was officially a suspect in either the commission or the cover-up of this crime. Further, I told him to inform Herr Volkov and Herr Kolkachev that these acts were committed on the soil of a sovereign nation, and that while actions like this might once have been overlooked or even tolerated before, under the old regime, they will not be tolerated now. So, even though I may not be able to arrest them directly due to diplomatic considerations, well, they have at least been put on notice.”
Yes, Emil thought, meaning now they would move deeper underground, and become stealthier and more careful in their actions. No more blunt force killings, perhaps, but they were certainly capable of more diabolical methods. But to lecture Dorn on this point would only reveal his own knowledge of the darker arts of his profession, the black bag capabilities that all of them—German, Russian, American—had sometimes employed during the Cold War. He sighed wearily.
“I see. You didn’t mention my name at any point, I hope.”
“Of course not. Not that you’ve done anything lately to earn such loyalty. Are you certain you’ll be able to return that evidence in a timely manner?”
“As I said, it is being examined by experts. They hope to return it to me in the next few days, but certainly no longer than a week.”
“A week? This isn’t permissible! That is far longer than what we agreed to.”
“Their work must be done properly, Lieutenant. And when you do get it back, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing its true nature and genuine provenance. It will be even more valuable as an evidentiary tool.”
“Evidentiary tool! Listen to your bullshit.” He sighed loudly. His hands were tied, and he knew it. “You are to inform me the moment it is back in your possession.”
“Of course.”
“And you might at least thank me for getting Krauss off your back. One of his men was parked here in the lane when I arrived. I gave them a long look, and they took off.”
“Very good. Thank you indeed, Lieutenant.”
Dorn nodded, but still looked upset about the microfilm. Then, without a further word, he pivoted on his heel and headed for his car. He left literally in a cloud of dust, with a sudden acceleration that sprayed gravel onto the parked Wartburg.
Emil watched until the police car was out of sight. He half expected to see a Citroën come creeping down the lane to replace it, but all was quiet. A few crows circled overhead, never a good omen, but he was relieved to finally have a moment of peace.
He reached into his coat pocket. The old pack of Juwel cigarettes was still there. Emil shook one out, fumbled for his lighter, then lit it. It went out almost as soon as he began to inhale. He tried once more, failed, then angrily tossed the cigarette onto the lane.
Frau Adler left shortly afterward. The mood in the dacha was subdued. Karola brought Bettina up to date, painting the rosiest possible picture, but he was certain that his wife saw through their optimistic words, if only by reading their faces.
He bathed her, fed her, and then read her another Stefan Heym short story while Karola cooked a rustic dinner for two of Spaetzle, pork, mushrooms and cream, which they washed down by splitting a liter of Pils.
Emil had little appetite, and his plate was still half-full when he pushed it away. Karola barely noticed, lost in her own thoughts.
