Tom Clancy Red Winter, page 17
He took her to a restaurant called Alter Kurg—the Old Jug—near Free University Berlin. It was an old place, and like many businesses in Berlin, looked as if it had been dropped in the middle of a neighborhood garden. The trees were bare now and the cobblestone walks covered with a skiff of fresh snow, but in the summer the place must have been a jungle.
The restaurant itself looked like something out of a Grimms’ fairy tale. Picket fence, whitewashed walls, and woodsy gingerbread trim.
Ruby’s mouth began to water the moment they stepped inside, further warmed by the way Sergeant Peña’s hand brushed the small of her back as the hostess showed them to their table.
It really had been a long time, and she promised herself this evening was going to be awesome.
* * *
—
Outside the restaurant, Colonel Rolfe Schneider of the East German Ministry for State Security stood in the shadows of trees and shrubs across Königin-Luise-Strasse. He watched Keller and her date go in. The Stasi man was patient if he was anything, and waited a full half-hour to allow the Rohypnol he’d paid the cooperative waitress to put into the girl’s wine to take effect. The normal form of the powerful sedative turned drinks blue when mixed, making it imperative to mix it with a red wine or some other dark-colored beverage. Stasi chemists had come up with generic concoctions that were colorless and tasteless.
When Keller had time to be well into her cups, Schneider pointed a flashlight at a windowless van half a block down the street and flashed it on and off three times. The van’s brake lights flashed twice.
At the same moment, a beat-up Mercedes sedan that had seen better days rolled to a stop in front of the garden center across the street from the restaurant. The driver, a young man with a balaclava covering his face, got out of the car. Smoke began to pour from under the hood as he trotted down the street, away from the van. The silhouette of a woman was visible in the passenger seat and a child’s face pressed against the rear window.
Schneider flashed his light again, twice this time. A small explosive charge detonated in the bushes near the Mercedes, the blast strong enough to rattle the restaurant windows and get everyone’s attention without destroying the car.
Patrons rushed from the building to investigate what they probably believed to be a car crash. Who, Schneider thought, did not become mesmerized by blood and mangled steel?
The windowless van disappeared around the block as Keller’s date ran out to help. He was a soldier, after all, and surely wanted to play the hero in front of his girl.
Schneider’s team had been careful not to set the Mercedes on fire. He wanted smoke, not flames—not because he cared about the welfare of the woman in the front seat, but because the rescuers needed to be able to save someone. A woman burning to death inside a car would not last nearly long enough to keep the crowd busy.
* * *
—
Inside Alter Kurg, Ruby Keller had to keep both hands flat on the table so she didn’t slide out of her chair. She’d heard a noise. Glass breaking . . . and then Tony had run off. Just left her sitting there . . . Why had he done that? She swayed in place, squinting to make sense of her surroundings. Except for one old man in the back corner, every seat in the place was empty. They’d all run off . . . What in the hell was going on here?
Ruby tried to stand, wobbled, then the waitress appeared out of nowhere to help. At least she hadn’t run off like Tony. That was good.
Then two men came in from the kitchen, beelining straight at her. Even groggy, she could tell something was off. She tried to stand, but one of the men grabbed her by the arms. The other man stooped low, grabbing her by the ankles. A hand snaked over her mouth, stifling a scream, clamping hard, a finger jammed against her nose so she couldn’t breathe.
She threw her head back, like she’d been taught in church self-defense classes, but smashed against her own chair. One of the men laughed as they heaved her upward, one holding her under the arms, the other at her feet. The waitress got the doors. She wanted to fight, to rip these men’s faces off with her fingernails, but her entire body felt impossibly heavy. Her arms refused to obey. Abject panic caused her to gag. The man at her arms cursed, jerking her shoulders sideways to twist her face away, trying and failing to steer clear of the eruption of vomit. She was vaguely aware of him ripping a cloth napkin off a nearby table as they passed and shoving it into her mouth.
“Choke on this!” he hissed.
The waitress protested. “You’re going to kill her!”
The man shoved the cloth deeper. “If she dies, she dies . . .”
They took her straight out the kitchen doors and tossed her into the back of a waiting van.
The man covered in her vomit peeled off his sweater and threw it in the corner of the van. He loomed over the top of her, spewing curses and threats. Flat on her back, Ruby managed to work her jaw enough to spit out the napkin, gagging again.
“Oh, no you don’t!” the man roared, red eyes glaring down at her—and then stomped her square in the face.
* * *
—
Across the street, Colonel Schneider watched Ruby Keller’s soldier date assist four others to rescue the drugged woman and her child from the smoke-filled Mercedes. The group cheered when the child sputtered and coughed.
She lived, Schneider thought. That is good. Now they can all feel like heroes.
The dark van emerged from the alley behind the restaurant and turned, speeding east.
27
The manager at the Imperial, a dinner club in the Mitte District not far from the Brandenburg Gate, provided Elke Hauptman with a chair when she sang, but she rarely used it. She had to be able to move. Dressed in faded high-waisted Levi’s—her only pair, worth over two hundred American dollars—a white T-shirt, and a fake leather motorcycle jacket, Elke sang everything imaginable, from “Lili Marleen,” a favorite of soldiers East and West, to Aretha Franklin’s “Respect.”
Despite living under a surveillance state, or maybe because of it, East Germans were a convivial lot when among people they knew well, given to fondue parties and socializing in groups. The Imperial was full of three such work clubs made up of a half-dozen or so couples each. There were more than a few unattached patrons, who’d come to drown their sorrow in watered-down alcohol or sour Berliner Weisse beer.
Most people paid little attention to the newspaper, knowing it was a propaganda arm of the DDR. Hollywood movies were deemed decadent in general, harmful to the well-being of the state. It was possible to get Western television—Dallas was a popular program. But you had to point your antennas in that direction, leading the Stasi to believe your heart and mind were pointed west as well.
It was much easier for couples to fill their time with card games and clubs, dancing, drinking—and coming to hear Elke Hauptman sing.
Some performers played to the audience, but Elke, caressing the mic, swaying her hips, sang for herself. For the most part, she ignored the crowds. Tonight, she forced herself to look at the others who were trapped in the East with her. The DDR liked to show off her talent and periodically sent her to sing in the West—always holding Uwe and Hans hostage so she wouldn’t be tempted to stay. The money was good, but the people were too well dressed, too fat, too . . . happy.
Shared misery brought with it a perverse sense of peace. Swine going to slaughter were calmer when they went as a group.
Blinding stage lights made it impossible to see faces beyond a few tables away, but she finished her set with a cover of Pat Benatar’s new single, “Invincible,” for them, her fellow prisoners. Everyone in the club clapped or rapped feverishly on their tables with their knuckles, everyone, that is, except Kurt Pfeiffer, who slumped sullenly by himself at a table to the right of the stage, where he could see both the entrance and the exits. The gunman seat, he called it.
The stage lights dimmed, leaving her in the glare of Pfeiffer’s hateful gaze. Elke shuddered when she saw him, as if an adder had slithered across her path.
She stripped off the faux-leather jacket and took a long drink of water from a glass on the stool beside her. The darkness of his approach was palpable and she had to will her hand not to shake.
Several audience members gathered around to greet her and compliment her on her singing. It didn’t take long for them to recognize Pfeiffer for what he was and they parted like a biblical sea, scattering to give him a wide berth. Having a Stasi friend was akin to having the plague, and Elke wondered if anyone would ever come hear her sing again.
As always, Pfeiffer was dressed impeccably. A gold bar kept his tie and the collar of his starched shirt in perfect alignment. Matching gold cuff links glinted in the houselights as he clapped, slowly, bitterly, as if he were anything but amused.
Elke pulled a towel off the stool by her water glass and dabbed at her forehead. Her white T-shirt was soaked with sweat, rendering it virtually transparent. She regretted taking off the jacket but didn’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing her put it back on.
She forced a smile. “What are you doing here?”
“The question,” Pfeiffer said, menacing with his eyes, “is what are you doing here?”
Taken aback, she shrugged. “What does it look like I am doing here, Major? I am working.”
“Is that so?” He sniffed the air, leering at her shirt. “Places of this nature often attract a vile sort of person—”
Elke nodded to a couple at a nearby table. “I will be sure to point that out to Herr Schuman, a general prosecutor for the Ministry of Justice. Herr Schuman is here with his wife, Christina. Or perhaps Herr Lutz, who is at the bar. I understand he is married to the general secretary’s cousin.”
Pfeiffer’s lip began to twitch, but he regained his composure quickly. “Not the clientele,” he said. “I’m speaking of those who prey on the clientele. Let me be blunt. HwG.”
HwG was shorthand for häufig wechselndem Geschlechtsverkehr—roughly, one who has sex with frequently changing partners. A prostitute.
Pfeiffer licked his lips and then lit a cigarette. “How much money might a girl make while lying on her back, I wonder.”
“You bastard,” Elke said, unable to contain herself.
It was all she could do to keep from gouging his eyes out.
Pfeiffer took a drag from his cigarette, still eyeing her breasts through the T-shirt. “I have to say, your presence here, the whorish manner of your dress . . . It gives one pause—”
“You are the expert!” She leaned toward him, fuming, spittle flying with each word. “If anyone has turned me into a whore it is you!”
“Be still!” Pfeiffer hissed. “I promise you—”
“Promise me what? That you’ll ruin my family, my husband’s career? It seems to me that the DDR needs my husband’s work.”
Several patrons looked up from their tables, unable to hear the conversation, but clearly aware there was a juicy altercation going on.
“You need to calm down,” Pfeiffer whispered. He forced a smile, patting her on the shoulder to demonstrate to those around them that everything was all right. He took a beat to study her through a blossom of cigarette smoke, then, to show he was still in charge, said, “Your last song was shamefully subversive.”
Elke folded her arms across her chest, disgusted and chilled by the clamminess of her T-shirt.
“The audience seemed to like it.” She needed a drink of water but her hands shook too badly to lift the glass.
“Audiences love to wallow in Western bourgeois decadence. It is the instigator who bears the responsibility. I am telling you to stay away from that Benatar song.” He blew smoke in her face. “The songs you sing make you sound like a whore.”
She dug in. “ ‘Invincible’ is on the charts right here in the DDR! Your government has not stopped it.”
A low growl rumbled from Pfeiffer’s chest. “My government? Let me ask you, my dear. Just who is this enemy in the song? Who do you want to defy . . . to stand against? Is it me? The state?”
“It is a song, nothing more.”
“And a joke is a joke,” he said. “But jokes and songs tend to reveal one’s true nature, they tend to, as they say, peel back the skin and show what is beneath.”
She turned and grabbed her jacket off the edge of the stage. “I need to go home.”
Pfeiffer leaned closer, pinning her. The cigarette dangled from his crooked lips. The French cologne he bathed himself in every morning pecked at her eyes like a stinking bird.
“I will ask you this one time,” he said. “Are you following me?”
“What?”
He grabbed her brutally by the forearm, jerking her closer.
Elke yelped, tried to pull away, but his fingers dug in. The inevitable bruises would be difficult to explain to her husband.
The manager of the club started toward them, but she waved him off with her free hand.
“No,” she said. “I am not following you. I told you. I am working. My performance here has been scheduled for months. Check with the office if you do not believe me.”
“I will tell you what I think,” he said. “I think all the applause and adoring fans have given you a counterfeit sense of your own power.” He drew her to him as if to say good night. “If the Imperial is such a wholesome place, then why is sweet little Hansie not here to watch his mummy sing? I suppose it is past his bedtime. He must be asleep in his little wooden bed below the window with the latch that is not quite secure from the ledge of the fire escape . . .”
“Stop it!”
Pfeiffer put a hand flat over his heart. “Oh,” he said, dripping with condescension. “I would never harm little Hans. We are such good friends. I often visit with him at his school. But I have to tell you, Elke Hauptman, there are many evil men in this world, horrible, depraved men who hunt for unlocked windows. So long as we are friends, then I simply offer you my protection. The safety of our sweet boy is entirely in your hands, my dear.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, stopped by her quivering lip.
He frowned, mocking her. “Oh, my,” he said. “We are not so invincible now, are we?” He stubbed his cigarette out on the edge of the stage. A malignant smile spread across his face. “Now, I have a room next door. Since you are already in the neighborhood, you may come up and sing to me.”
28
Mary Pat Foley arrived at U.S. Mission Berlin off Clayallee well before she was supposed to meet Jack Ryan. A youthful CIA operations officer who introduced himself as Billy Dunn ushered her straight to the conference room. Case officers from the Agency station in Bonn had steered clear of USBER for this exercise, not wanting to alert the Germans that there was anything out of the ordinary going on.
Foley acknowledged Skip Hulse with a smile and a nod as she peeled off her coat and dropped it in a chair near the head of a long oval conference table. She and Ed had had Hulse and his wife to dinner many times over the years. Skip was a smart guy, the kind you wanted to have watching your back—even if he did look like he slept in his clothes. Other than Hulse, Foley counted seven others in the room, and she didn’t really know any of them. She found herself marveling at how young the other case officers were. This new crop of college kids made her feel like part of the old guard, though she was still in her thirties.
“I’m glad they sent you,” North said, mouth pinched, nose crinkled like she was on the perpetual verge of a sneeze.
“You don’t look especially glad,” Foley joked.
“Sorry,” North said, shaking Foley’s hand. “It’s just that . . . I was the one who received this information. It gets old having Langley shove seventh-floor assholes down our throats when we are plenty capable of handling things ourselves.”
“Ryan’s stationed in London,” Foley said. “Liaison to MI6.”
“That’s not exactly any better,” North said, making a point Foley couldn’t argue with. “They send a liaison analyst to show a base full of operations officers how we’re supposed to get a read on a would-be defector.”
“I hear you,” Foley said. “I really do, loud and clear. But we all shoot where we’re aimed. Believe me, I did some checking into the man’s hall file as soon as I got the cable with this assignment.”
A hall file was the watercooler talk, the down-low, the unofficial reputation that didn’t go into a formal personnel record.
“And?” North asked. “What’s the scoop?”
“Family man,” Foley said. “I’ve met his wife. She’s a doc of some sort. Eyes, I think. Anyway, he doesn’t strike me as a guy who has something to prove. Maybe a bit of a blue flamer, but I’m not sure that’s his fault.”
“We’ve known a few of those,” North grumbled, arms folded so tightly across her chest her knuckles turned white. Foley was beginning to wonder if North knew something about Jack Ryan that she did not.
“Greer trusts him,” Foley said. “That’s enough for me.”
Hulse rapped on the conference table with his coffee mug, getting everyone’s attention. The six-person team from Helsinki had made it past the Army guards downstairs and were now filing in, still dressed for the winter weather in hats and scarves.
Hulse looked at his watch, shuffled his feet in place like an impatient horse in the gates before a big race, and then addressed the room.
“We’re waiting on one more and then we’ll start with introductions. I want everyone to know all the players before we begin. Too easy to start killing each other if this thing turns to shit.”
