Winter Work, page 19
27
Claire’s “help” was going to be a thorn in her side. That was her initial assessment of Ron Kent, the new arrival from points unknown. She met him late Saturday morning in the conference room, a space that Lindsey Ward had now fully colonized with file boxes, a fax machine, and an encrypted phone line that a technician had wired up for her the day before. Plus a small refrigerator with a carton of milk for her coffee. It had the look of a personal command center, and Ward kept the door locked to everyone except those she summoned.
Gentry and Kent were already there when Claire arrived. The remains of a breakfast for three were at the far end of the conference table, which told her Kent had a head start on her in the morning’s proceedings, probably by design.
Baucom had warned her that Ward was likely to bring in one of her own once things began moving forward, or if they became more complicated. Baucom had called an Agency pal who he said had tracked Ward’s career ascent “the way a baseball scout follows a talented young center fielder’s rise to stardom,” and on her way up the ladder she had cultivated valuable allies at every step, both in the field and in the corridors of power. Kent was apparently one of the chosen. So naturally he had gotten a fuller briefing.
Far more dismaying to Claire was Ward’s choice of words in introducing them to each other.
“Claire, this is Ron Kent. From here onward you’ll be working this op as coequals. He’ll share fully in all decision making, and in case of any disagreement he’ll make the call.”
A demotion, then. Not unexpected, but still jarring.
Her second assessment, based more on Kent himself as the morning unfolded, was that he at least was intelligent, was not without charm, and might even be pleasant company if they ended up spending much time together.
Kent was fit and trim, late thirties, with an unadorned and somewhat preppy handsomeness that made her wonder if he hadn’t come to his career via one of the old Ivy League pipelines that had supplied the Agency with far too much of its personnel in the ’40s and ’50s. His close-cropped haircut wasn’t in style, nor was his plain wardrobe of uncreased khakis, white oxford shirt, and rumpled blue blazer. His manner was a finely balanced combination of relaxed and watchful, and he didn’t seem to care if you disapproved of him or not, an attitude that lent him an air of competence, or at least confidence. She supposed she could have done worse.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Kent said. “And, coequals or not, since you’ve already been on the ground a few days, and have actually met the contact, I’ll be deferring to your judgment in our initial approach.”
Claire was impressed he was willing to say that in front of Ward, although he’d certainly left himself an opening to call the shots once he got his bearings. They took seats around the table, Ward and Gentry on one side, her and Kent on the other.
“We’ve briefed Ron on the basics,” Ward said, “and also on your progress to date. Or lack of it.”
Kent had the grace to lower his head in response to that open rebuke. Gentry offered a nervous laugh but said nothing in Claire’s defense.
“I’ve also explained to him some of the dynamics with regard to your new contact’s competitor.”
“Great. Maybe you should bring me up to speed on that as well.”
Kent again lowered his head, although this time Claire could have sworn it was to hide a smile from Ward, who was not amused.
“Since you’ve chosen to press that point, I’ll observe that Ron’s security clearance on these matters is higher than yours. And that’s a decision that came straight from Langley.”
Or straight from Ward, as Claire suspected. Ward stood.
“I’m guessing the two of you will want to get better acquainted, and begin preparing for the next steps. Any further questions before you set off?”
Claire had several, but wasn’t in the mood to endure further humiliations.
Gentry stayed behind as Claire and Kent left together. The moment the door shut behind them, Kent turned to her and nodded toward the exit. He waited until they had left the building and passed through the security gate onto Saargemünder Strasse before speaking again.
“I’ve got a car around the corner if you want to start giving me the lay of the land.”
“Sure.”
There was a pregnant pause. He shifted his posture from one foot to the other and then looked off to the side, as if searching for the right words.
“Lindsey’s blunt like that sometimes, probably to a fault, but she knows what she’s doing, and, well, the stakes of this may be even higher than you think.”
“I’ll take that as an assessment of whatever the Russian, Leonid, must be offering.”
“Good. And for now I’ll leave it at that. Look, to clear the air a little, I know Lindsey wants me breathing down your neck with every move you make, but that’s never been my style. So don’t hesitate to tell me to back off whenever you need some space.”
She was already irritated by his familiar use of the name “Lindsey,” but at least he’d made a peace offering of sorts, so she reciprocated.
“I’m all for hearing your ideas as we move along. Especially since, so far on this op, everyone seems to be making it up as we go along. Ward and Gentry included.”
“Got it.”
She watched Kent closely. His answer was notably noncommittal with regard to her critique of management, but she supposed that wasn’t surprising. She also observed that it was impossible to look him in the eye for very long without your attention snagging on the arresting blue of his irises. They invited trust even as they fended off deeper inquiry—an observation that was probably behind her next remark.
“Maybe I’d feel even better about this arrangement if you at least told me the kind of work you normally do. All I know is that you’re not based here or in Paris, and I’m guessing you’ve been fully briefed about my particulars.”
“I’m based in Langley, but I work abroad on demand. Beyond that I’m not even authorized to tell Gentry, so don’t feel slighted.”
“All right. I won’t.” Even though she did.
“Look, we’re on the same side in this, and Lindsey wants us to succeed. I hope you’re not one of those Agency women who can’t stand to let another female outdo her.”
Whatever ground he’d gained began to crumble.
“I’m not. And I might be more open to that question if I thought you’d ever posed it to Ward. Or, excuse me, Lindsey, as you always call her.” He looked down for a second, but didn’t blush. Nor did he smile, thank God. “Also, I wasn’t aware this was a competition, at least not on our side. If it is, maybe you could tell me what Ward has ever done operationally to give herself a leg up.”
“Fair point. She’s a desk jockey, always has been. But her operational instincts are solid. I’ve seen that firsthand, and if she believes there’s something more to be had from one source than another—or, more to the point, more of a future in that relationship—then I’m inclined to trust her.”
“At any cost?”
“That’s her call, not ours.”
“Theoretically. But you know how it works. At some point, out in the wild, we may have to make that call on our own.”
“And if we do, your opinion will count as much as mine.”
The words were reassuring, but his eyes were still refusing full admission. She nodded, and they headed for his car.
Despite the trickiness of this new relationship, Claire was relieved to have an official partner. She hadn’t liked the look of those three Russians, and Lothar Fischer’s death had raised the threat level for everyone. As steadying as Baucom’s experience was, it was more practical to be paired with someone younger and fitter, not to mention fully authorized.
They decided to make a reconnaissance of the location of Monday’s rendezvous. Claire provided directions from a map, although he seemed to know his way once she gave him the address. His rental was a black Opel Vectra. It would be an obvious interloper among all the Trabis and Wartburgs, so they decided to park several blocks away and walk from there. All the better to let them assess the lay of the land at a leisurely pace, and from a pedestrian’s point of view.
“I’m still amazed you can just do this with a wave and a nod,” Kent said, as they rolled into East Berlin across a steel girder bridge at the Bornholmer Strasse checkpoint.
“I know that the Brandenburg Gate got all the attention the night of November ninth,” Claire asked, “but wasn’t this where the floodgates first opened?”
“It was. This whole bridge was wall-to-wall people. You should’ve seen how this worked even five months ago. These old checkpoints were such quaint exercises in hypocrisy for people like us. You’d sit in your car for an hour while they pretended to check you out. We didn’t let them touch or stamp our passports because we didn’t officially recognize the Wall’s existence, and they played along. But we played along, too, by holding up all our papers at the window for them to see as we drove by.”
“And how much experience of that sort of game-playing do you have?”
He smiled.
“That’s another item from the file that even Gentry can’t open.”
“I guess I should be reassured by that. Unless you’re bluffing, of course, to make me feel better.”
He smiled again, but wouldn’t be baited into offering more.
“How ’bout this, then. In all your briefings this morning with Ward—the ones before I showed up—I gather you discussed this Leonid fellow at some length.”
“Not at length, but his name came up. She also told me about the welcoming party of Russians you ran into the other day.”
“Gentle persuasion didn’t appear to be their preferred way of doing business.”
“Apparently that’s the new style in a certain reactionary corner of the KGB. The non-Glasnost crowd.”
“She told you that?”
“She didn’t need to. It’s a hot topic in the high corridors of Langley.”
“In your section?” A yes would have been as good as telling her he worked for the Soviet desk.
“In higher corridors generally. More implied than overt, but it’s there all the same.”
“How many floors do you have to climb from yours to hear this kind of chatter?”
He laughed and shook his head, which was fine. At least he took her probing in good humor. Some men would have just told her to fuck off.
“I’m not hearing it right outside my door, if that’s what you’re guessing. But I am invited up there from time to time. The day before I left for Berlin being the latest instance.”
So at least he doled out a few rewards for persistence. Smart, because it would make them better teammates, especially if the game turned against them. As if to confirm this judgment, he then offered a roundabout confession of the gaps Ward had left in his own briefing.
“Whoever this Leonid is, he’s the clear front-runner in the competition, as opposed to the shabby German who passed you that ostmark fiver the other night.”
“You think she’s hoping to turn him, this Russian?”
“He could certainly offer more value going forward than an unemployed Stasi man. Especially if he can deliver the same set of documents.”
“He’s also a higher risk, especially if he’s proffering himself at the KGB’s request.”
“High risk-reward scenarios have always appealed to Lindsey.”
“Did Ward”—Claire refused to call her Lindsey—“tell you any more about that trio of Leonid’s thugs?”
“No. But I got the feeling she knows the ID of at least one of them.”
“I’m not sure whether to feel good or bad about that.”
“Same here.”
“I’m beginning to see why you’re so willing to keep humoring all my questions.”
They said little more for the rest of the ride. A few minutes later he parked the Vectra on Eberswalder Strasse. Claire folded away the map, already suspecting he had never really needed it. Then Kent headed in one direction and Claire in the other, with plans to converge at the rendezvous point.
The Zum Goldbroiler restaurant was on the corner of narrow Kanzowstrasse and busy Prenzlauer Allee, a four-lane boulevard. The Goldbroiler chain had been one of East Germany’s few retail success stories. Modeled on West Germany’s Wienerwald rotisserie chicken joints, its fast-food outlets had catered to budget-minded families.
This location was already looking outdated. The yellow script lettering of its neon sign popped and buzzed on the façade. The droopy lace curtains in the plate glass window were dusty and yellowed. By the time Claire arrived, Kent was seated at a corner table for two, eating a greasy drumstick and licking his fingers. Claire ordered a Club Cola, another East German brand, and sat a few tables away. Each of them took note of the layout, plus the advantages and drawbacks of every table and doorway.
He finished his chicken and she her cola. Then she followed him outside, where they spent the next hour strolling the surrounding blocks. The only nearby place of particular interest was the Zeiss Planetarium, a massive silver orb a few blocks away. Customers were lined up outside for the next showing. A busy S-Bahn station was less than a block from the restaurant, with tracks running overhead, so they familiarized themselves with its entrances and exits.
It was certainly a more effective way to prepare than how she and Baucom had done it a few nights ago, by tracing their fingers along an old map while relying on Baucom’s memories, but Claire missed the old fellow and the comforts of his experience in this neck of the woods.
They agreed that Kent would arrive half an hour ahead of the scheduled time in order to set up inside the restaurant, preferably at a table by the window so he could observe the arrival of her and the German, or the German’s cutout. That would also give him a heads-up in case any leather-jacketed Russians crashed the party.
“If those goons show, we abort,” Claire said.
“If our contact decides to take you elsewhere, should I try to follow?”
“If we leave on foot, definitely. By car? Depends on where you park, I guess.”
“Ward said she would get a Trabi for us to use, so at least we’ll blend in a little better.”
“Assuming a Trabi can keep up with anything besides another Trabi.”
They laughed, but after what had happened at the first rendezvous Claire was a little on edge. She wished she had gotten a better look at the German in the darkened tunnel beneath the S-Bahn, although she was pretty sure she’d recognize him.
Their last chore was to choose a fallback location where they would meet later, in case they got separated. If Claire failed to arrive there, Kent would sound the alarm to Ward.
Fifteen minutes later they crossed back into West Berlin in the Vectra. They agreed to meet again early the next morning. Sundays were always quiet in Berlin, a conducive atmosphere for reviewing plans and contingencies. Kent suggested they also go for a Sunday afternoon outing, perhaps to a Bierstube, or, weather permitting, a stroll in the Tiergarten—the sort of experience that someone from human resources might have annoyingly described as a “team building” exercise. But Claire already had plans for the afternoon, her off-the-books meeting with Baucom and the exalted Markus Wolf.
“Thanks, but I tend to keep to myself the evening before something like this. I may go for a drive in the country to clear my head. Maybe visit some kitschy roadside attraction to watch the locals spend their welcome money.”
“Not a bad idea,” Kent answered pleasantly, doing his best not to sound snubbed. “Maybe I’ll do that as well. On my own, of course.”
He was appealing. She liked him. It was Ward, and his willingness to unquestioningly do her bidding, that still gave her pause. They parted cordially, with a promise to reconvene at Berlin station at eight the next morning.
When Claire got back to the hotel, she took a mini-bottle of bourbon from the mini-fridge and poured it into a tumbler. She sipped and thought things over while gazing out the window toward the bustle of the Ku-Damm, a block away. Given her current available resources, there was really no reason she needed to stay so much in the dark about Ron Kent, but she didn’t want to risk using the hotel phone. So she went downstairs, exited through the revolving doors, and used the nearest Telekom booth to dial Baucom’s number.
“Didn’t expect to hear from you today. Not getting cold feet about our trip tomorrow, I hope?”
“Wouldn’t dream of missing that. But I was wondering if I could interest you in some further employment. Still unofficial, of course.”
“What do you need?”
“A background check. One of ours.”
Baucom’s smoker’s chuckle wheezed through the receiver.
“Already doubting Ward’s choice for your partner?”
“Actually, I think she chose pretty well. But forewarned is forearmed.”
“Name?”
“Ron Kent. Although I have a hunch it’s not his real one. Probably her idea.”
“Based in?”
“Langley. Don’t know the desk, but he seems to be one of her regulars, just as your friend the ‘baseball scout’ predicted. Does covert stuff, seems to travel a fair amount with a wide portfolio, and he’s no stranger to East Berlin.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow, then.”
28
This plan of his wasn’t going to work. Emil reached that conclusion quickly as he made his way deeper into the woods. Even with two of them participating it had been a long shot. He and Lothar were too old, too inexperienced in the field, and, just maybe, too overconfident. What had ever made them think they could pull it off? Hubris, probably, from more than thirty years of working high up in a ministry where even their boldest official actions had always gone unchallenged, unquestioned. Maybe they were only getting what they deserved.
