Winter Work, page 26
It was all catching up to him, he supposed, all of his lies and misleading behavior with Dorn, Krauss, Wolf, and even the Americans—a tottering structure of deceptions that might collapse upon all of them at any moment. The path forward seemed narrower than at any other time in his life.
It brought home to him how his agents must have felt as they had lived their double lives on his orders, out there in the West for years. Such a strain to keep all of your fictions alive and in proper order.
Yet he felt a certain giddiness as well. Earlier with Dorn, for instance, he had mildly enjoyed yanking the man further along while still keeping him partly in the dark. So there was pleasure in this spying life, too. And now, at least, instead of having to be a good employer who kept other people’s secrets, he was working instead for his own Nation of Three. In retrospect, perhaps it was the only worthy cause he had ever served.
“I thought you were hungry?”
Karola was frowning at his plate.
“I thought so, too, but…”
“Yes. I know.”
She began clearing away the dishes. Emil stood to help. When he was halfway to the sink, someone began banging on the front door, loud and insistent—five knocks, then silence. Instantly alert, Emil switched off the kitchen light and looked out the window, but the porch was in darkness. The Wartburg was the only car he could see.
“Who is it?” Karola whispered. “How many?”
“I can’t tell.”
The banging began again. Five more rapid, heavy knocks.
“Go into Bettina’s room and lock the door,” he whispered. “Stay as quiet as you can!”
Emil looked for his coat, spotted it draped across the back of the couch, then hastily reached inside for the Pistol-M. He walked as quietly as he could to the door, but whoever was on the other side must have heard him approaching.
“Grimm, open up!”
A deep baritone. Not Dorn, and not Krauss. Was there an accent? He didn’t think so, but in his frazzled state of mind he couldn’t be sure. He took a deep breath, eased the gun behind his back, and used his left hand to turn the handle of the door.
39
Lindsey Ward paced like a caged panther, claws bared, irritable and impatient with what she was hearing from Claire about the meeting with the East German. She stopped, leveled her gaze, and pressed her question yet again.
“So he still hasn’t given us a name, not even a fake one?”
Claire, feeling like a slab of raw meat hanging just beyond the panther’s reach, held her ground and answered.
“He hasn’t.”
Technically, it was true. Emil Grimm hadn’t offered a name, even if Claire had figured it out for herself. But that was an item of intelligence she hadn’t revealed even to Ron Kent—it was the first thing he’d wanted to know as well, when they’d met at the fallback location—so she certainly wasn’t going to tell Ward, not with Kent sitting right beside her.
“And he didn’t offer any indication of what this upgrade to his offer was likely to involve?”
“None.”
“Well, then we certainly can’t yet assume it’s of any real value. And we definitely can’t yet extend our offer to cover two extra people.”
“Only one extra, actually, now that Lothar Fischer is off the board. That was his argument anyway.”
“Are you his contact or his advocate?”
“I’m a conduit, passing along what he said.”
True as well, although Claire couldn’t help but marvel at how protective she felt of the fellow. Someone in his position had undoubtedly authorized plenty of actions she would have considered abhorrent. The Stasi itself was abhorrent. Why, then, did she indeed feel more like his advocate than his adversary?
Her run-in with Grimm’s competitors—those tattooed thugs in black leather—was part of it. The KGB wasn’t a former enemy, they were the current one. Sacrificing anyone to that crowd seemed unforgivable.
Maybe she’d also been impressed by his apparent lack of greed, or the vibe of his chosen accomplice, the competent and calm woman at the wheel of that pathetic car. Claire was brokering a deal with the underdogs in this arrangement, there was no doubt of that. But it was also possible she was being played for a fool, especially if some fellow from the KGB, no matter how ruthless, or motivated by greed, was additionally offering genuine inside intelligence that, in the long term, would be far more valuable than what Grimm could give them.
Ward opened her mouth to speak again, so Claire preempted her. “Have our technical people said anything yet about his submission, the microfilm?”
“They say full verification will take at least a day, but their initial reaction was positive. They think it’s almost certainly a genuine piece of the puzzle we’re after, and in all probability a reliable indicator that he has every piece that we want.”
“Then why is his identity so important?”
Ward’s voice rose in volume, and she again bared her claws.
“We’re in a fast-moving marketplace for information, in case you haven’t noticed. The more of it we can acquire, the more leverage we’ll have with other possible contributors.”
“So you want his name as a bargaining chip for…” Claire paused, but only for a second. The name “Kolkachev” was on the tip of her tongue because she knew it would be an effective goad. But it would also be further evidence to Ward that she was withholding intelligence, and maybe also that she’d been venturing out on her own. So instead she concluded her question with the code name “Leonid.”
“Only because Leonid is offering the same product, plus future access to more and better information than what this old hack from the Stasi is offering. It’s a pragmatic calculation, and it’s a sound one. And, as I said, we certainly can’t offer any further assurances to your contact unless and until he can show tangible proof he can give us something better.”
Claire nodded and sighed. Ward’s point was valid. They were not in the business of choosing between personalities, or motives. It was all about information, intelligence. She felt some of the heat going out of her argument on Grimm’s behalf, and her next words emerged in a tone of resignation.
“I think he probably expects that kind of an answer for now. I got the impression he was mostly hoping to keep the channels of communication open.”
“So you think he might be blowing smoke about upgrading his offer?”
“I’ll have a better idea after I meet him tomorrow at Tacheles.”
“Then maybe you’re the one who’s buying time.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t meet him?”
“I’m saying it sounds like you’ve gone soft on him.”
Ward could be right. Hell, she was right. And Grimm might be playing her with his poor little underdog pose. Maybe he was already back in his dacha, laughing with his lady friend about how easily they’d just handled the naïve American.
As if sensing her doubt, Ward reached into a folder for a sheet of paper, which she handed to Claire.
“Here. Take a fresh look at this.”
It was the flow chart of HVA leadership that Ward had showed her the week before, except Lothar Fischer’s name had been crossed out in red ink, and each of the other names had been supplemented with further information about their operational duties.
Claire wondered who had provided the additional intelligence. Kolkachev? Someone in the Stasi? One of the other names on the chart, even? She supposed that even Markus Wolf could have supplied it, but only if someone at the Agency other than her and Baucom had been in touch with him during the past few days.
Claire made a show of carefully reading every thumbnail description. Emil Grimm’s name was right there at number six on the chart. He had run their ops at NATO. God knows how many of their vital military secrets he had uncovered. That alone was grounds to mistrust him, she supposed.
“Anything new in there that makes one of those names a better match for your contact?”
“Sorry. No.”
Ward narrowed her eyes, and they engaged for a moment in a ridiculous staredown. Ron Kent, who’d remained silent throughout, lowered his head and crossed his arms, as if not wanting to attract any crossfire. Ward gave him a sidelong glance and frowned, as if in disapproval of his show of neutrality.
He then spoke up.
“For all this talk of added value, these agent records by themselves would be a major acquisition. We’d know the identity of every East German asset who ever worked in West Germany, at NATO, and even in the United States. With hundreds, maybe even thousands of names, a lot of them still out there, still unknown. That’s huge. That’s as big as anything we’ve ever landed.”
“Are you saying I’ve lost sight of that?” Ward said.
Kent seemed taken aback.
“Not in the least.”
“Good. Because I haven’t. Yes, it’s vital material, all of it. But if we can get the same from Kolkachev, plus more, then we do that. Especially if the bonus information is about an adversary that’s still active and fully functional. Don’t lose sight of that.”
“I haven’t.”
“Good. See that you don’t. Both of you.”
Claire said nothing, content to let the tension between Kent and Ward take center stage for a moment.
Ward walked around to the other side of the table, where she opened another folder, glanced at some pages, and then, without looking up, said pointedly, “And how are things working out between you and Ron, Claire?”
“I suspect he has already given you a pretty good idea of that.”
“Yes, he has.”
So there was that issue out in the open. Kent again had his head down, although his ears were red, which Claire decided was a point in his favor.
“Well, if you’re going to go through with this meetup tomorrow, then the two of you had better start planning logistics.”
“Agreed. Absolutely.”
“This time don’t be such a pushover. Press him on every point, and make sure Ron is close at hand.”
Claire stood. Kent did the same. Ward wasn’t finished.
“Ron, I’d like you to stay behind for a minute or two. Some of your paperwork from Langley needs attending to.”
Another show of force, to put Claire on notice that Kent was still Ward’s preferred option, even though he didn’t seem pleased by the move.
“I’ll leave you two to your paperwork, then.”
And with that, Claire departed. The last sound she heard as she shut the door behind her was Ron Kent, clearing his throat.
40
When the door opened, Emil saw that it was Markus Wolf out there in the night. He felt like a fool for having panicked. He slid the gun out of sight on a table by the entrance and made way for his old boss to enter.
“Come in, Mischa. Sorry to make you wait.”
Wolf stepped gingerly across the threshold. He surveyed the room carefully, as if perplexed by all the darkness.
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, no. I’d just finished a late dinner.” The remark only seemed to perplex him more. Emil switched on a light and mustered a thin smile. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Actually, I was hoping to lure you out for a drink.”
“Oh, yes? At your dacha?”
“At a bar near here. A little place on the road into Bernau. But if you need to stay here with Bettina…”
“No. I have help.” He was reluctant to mention Karola’s name, worried he might shake loose Wolf’s memory of her brief period of employment with the HVA. “I just need to tell them I’m heading out, then I’ll join you.”
“I’ll wait for you in the lane.”
“Certainly.”
Wolf took a final look around and went outside.
Emil’s heart was beating at twice its normal rate. He put the gun back into his coat pocket, then thought better of it and took it to his bedroom, where he opened the top dresser drawer and slid the pistol beneath his socks. Stepping through the shared bathroom, he saw Karola at Bettina’s bedside. Both women were wide-eyed and silent in the dark.
“I heard,” Karola whispered, saving him an explanation. “So, then. I suppose that now the Wolf is at the door.”
He smiled weakly, wishing he could respond with a laugh.
“I need to calm down, or he’ll wonder what’s up. He always notices these things.”
“Do you think he wants to talk about Lothar, or, well, any of this?”
“I don’t know. But he must not want even Andrea to hear us, or we’d be going to his place. And from all I’ve heard he shares everything with her.”
“So it seems.”
She said it archly, Karola again expressing her disapproval of Wolf’s third wife. Their little lakeside community could be as gossipy as a rural village.
Wolf’s Volvo was parked down the lane instead of in the driveway, which explained why Emil hadn’t seen it earlier. Wolf had once had a driver to take him everywhere he needed to go. That perk had disappeared along with the Wall. Emil wondered who the chauffeur was working for now. Maybe he, too, was out of a job.
“Where’s this place you’re taking me?”
“Sort of a roadhouse tavern. I used to go there from time to time whenever I wanted to meet someone up this way and not be noticed. It’s almost never crowded, so any outsider stands out, and they’re usually playing music loud enough to talk without being overheard. Kitschy Bavarian schlock from the jukebox, but still. The liquor selection’s terrible, so I hope you’re in the mood for a beer.”
They arrived a few minutes later, and Wolf’s description was right on the mark. The lighting was dim, and the only other customer was an older fellow slumped over a whisky at the far end of the bar. Wolf led them to a table—one of only five—at the opposite end. The concrete floor was damp and littered with peanut shells. The walls were decorated with Dynamo Dresden football posters. Here, at least, Erich Honecker’s framed photo still had a place of honor, although it had been knocked askew.
Tonight a television up behind the bar was playing instead of the jukebox. It was showing an episode of Unser Sandmännchen, the nightly children’s bedtime tale starring a stop-action puppet with twinkly eyes, the face of a cherub, an elfin cap, and a pointy white beard. He was one of East Germany’s sweeter creations, with a calming theme song sung by a children’s choir and accompanied by a flute. Bettina had always gone quiet whenever Sandmann appeared on their screen, probably because he made her think of the child they never had.
The bartender, a big fellow with rolled-up sleeves, tattooed forearms, and a silver buzz cut, nodded familiarly to Wolf and brought over a pair of foaming glasses of Berliner Pils. He waved away Wolf’s ostmarks and retreated without a word. When he got back to the bar he reached up and switched the channel. The blare of a car chase across Turkey replaced Sandmann’s flute music. Wake up, boys and girls.
“He knows you,” Emil said.
“Rudi, you mean. Yes. I used to do business here from time to time. I once brought Gaby Gast. She loved the place.”
Gast was one of Wolf’s few female agents, and probably the most famous. She had infiltrated not only the West German government, but its spy agency, the BND.
“One of your favorites, wasn’t she?”
Wolf waggled his hand.
“Productive, but difficult. That tended to be the case with the women. Too much special care and handling.”
Yes, Emil thought, especially when you let their training officer prey on them like lambs in a meadow, and then fired any lamb who asked for help. He swallowed some beer to wash away that thought.
“Rudi’s a good man, but he’s in a bad place now. He’s worried he’ll lose the bar once the West begins selling state assets. So I put in a word for him, for whatever that’s worth anymore. Less than he thinks, probably.”
“But an effective way to continue buying his silence.”
“Please, Emil. His discretion. A more refined word.”
Wolf, who hadn’t yet touched his beer, then leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if to signal they had reached the main business of the evening.
“Our little visit the other night really got me thinking, Emil.”
“At Lothar’s dacha, you mean?”
“Yes. It stirred up all sorts of old memories, quite unbidden, and there was one in particular I wanted to ask you about.”
Wolf had always gotten straight to the point, but even for him this was quite direct, which put Emil on his guard.
“It’s about a matter you handled, if I’m remembering correctly, during that brief period when we were grooming you for the USA posting.”
“Things were pretty slow at that time on the American front, I seem to recall.”
“Well, of course. That’s why I wanted to send you over there, to stir things up. Maybe that’s why this case stood out to me, even though, on the face of it, it was the smallest of matters. A favor for our friends.”
“Favor?”
“Of a logistical nature. For our comrades in arms.”
The KGB, he meant. The reference stirred something vague at the corner of Emil’s memory, although any task they would have carried out for the Russians in the United States would have been of the most menial sort. Besides, all of Emil’s recollections from his brief stint on the America desk were still clouded by the event that had knocked him back into his old job—Bettina’s diagnosis of ALS.
“I like to think I have pretty good recall for operational detail, but this matter isn’t coming to mind.”
“Not at all surprising. In fact, I think it may have initially been handled by the weekend duty officer—the logistics of it, anyway. But there was a bit of housekeeping in the aftermath, something to do with the file, and I believe that fell into your lap. The only reason any of this came to mind is that Mielke took a personal interest.”
