Winter Work, page 22
Karola had aroused his curiosity after returning from a Saturday trip to the market in Bernau. She had brought back a canvas sack of groceries and a breathless bit of gossip.
“The Wolfs are expecting company.”
She had announced this even before setting down the bag.
“Company? Did you talk to them? Were they passing on the lane?”
“No, no. I saw that much younger wife of his, Andrea, in town while I was shopping.”
Her words amused him, because Bettina had also habitually referred to Wolf’s second wife, Christa, the same way. That much younger wife of his, and always with a note of scorn. Granted, Bettina was four years younger than him, and Karola seven. But the difference between Wolf and Christa had been at least twenty years, and Andrea was younger still. It was as if, four years ago, Wolf had traded in Christa for an updated and slightly more compact model, after an affair that had begun right here on the Bauersee, during a weekend visit by Andrea and her previous husband. The delicious little summer scandal had rippled across the lake like a thunderstorm, with repercussions reaching all the way to Normanenstrasse.
Wolf had to weather a scolding from Mielke, who, in a moment of rank hypocrisy, suggested that the ministry would be better off if Wolf remained married to Christa, who was also a Stasi employee, and simply set up Andrea as a kept woman in a Berlin love nest. Wolf refused, and once the divorce became final, Mielke put Christa under surveillance out of fear that she might defect and tell all.
“Andrea told you they were having visitors?” Emil asked.
“Oh, no. She’d never talk to me. I doubt she even knows my name, although she knows I’m someone who takes care of Bettina. She didn’t have to tell me, because she was ordering around the poor grocer’s boy like she was royalty, like she had just stepped into the kitchen at Charlottenburg Palace to boss the cooks. ‘We must have this, we must have that.’ Olives and crackers and cheese, slices of their best cured ham. Items they’ve only had in stock for a few weeks now, and she was practically cornering the market on them.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes, I thought you’d think so.”
“Are these visitors expected this evening?”
“I doubt it, because she was asking how well everything would keep overnight, the best way to wrap it in her fridge, that sort of thing. I guess with everything closed on Sundays she had no choice.”
So these visitors were coming Sunday, then. And with Wolf only just returned from Russia and supposedly lying low. Yes, this could be something—or someone—important.
“Very good, Karola. Nice work.”
Emil had then gone for a walk to consider the implications of this intelligence, and how he could best put it to use.
Who could it be? Emil quickly ruled out Dorn and Krauss. Wolf would never put on such a spread of hospitality for a mere policeman, and certainly not for a representative of the despised Spezialkommission.
One thing Emil knew for sure from years of working for the man was that, for Wolf, every professional relationship at some point became a courtship for one side or the other, a moment at which special care and handling were needed to keep everything in balance. Sometimes Wolf had to be wooed—by Emil, by others who worked for him, or even by Mielke. At other times he was the suitor, and he had tended to reserve his most aggressive tactics for weary or dispirited agents, to keep them productive and loyal.
He would treat them to meetings in exotic and sunny locales. Those he especially valued might even be invited to his apartment in Berlin, where he would turn on the charm and personally prepare for them his favorite traditional Russian dish, pelmeni dumplings stuffed with sausage.
Emil decided that if Wolf had visitors on a Sunday, they almost certainly wouldn’t be arriving until after noon. Germans simply didn’t have guests on Sunday mornings, and Wolf liked to sleep in on weekends. Early afternoon was certainly possible, given the items his wife had bought. In fact, that was a more probable time than the dinner hour, or else she would have bought a roast, or even the makings of pelmeni for him to prepare. The array of foods made him believe these were guests that he wished to make welcome, but not necessarily impress. Maybe, in Wolf’s eyes, they needed to make a better showing than he did.
In any event, Emil had decided to do some raking and clearing of brush on a portion of his lot with a vantage point of the approach to Wolf’s dacha, and with his trusty viewing scope in his pocket. And that was how he had first heard the door shut at Wolf’s house, and then saw Andrea moving into the front lane and around the far side of the lot, toward a trail that led downhill to the lake.
Emil had dropped his rake and stealthily gone out his back gate, heading through the trees until he spotted Andrea as she descended. He then hid behind a large beech, his nose running from the cold. A few minutes later he had watched through the scope as the American man and woman followed Andrea back up the hill. The woman had glanced in his direction, forcing him back into cover, but he was fairly certain the other two hadn’t seen him. He waited for them to disappear around the far side of Wolf’s dacha before heading back home. By then his feet were wet and numb from the last of the snow, but his mind was active, fully engaged in speculation on what his old boss could be seeking from the two Americans, or they from him.
Had the woman, possibly, told Wolf what he and Lothar had been up to? Or, alternately, had she offered enough hints for Wolf to figure it out on his own? Or maybe Wolf had invited his visitors for some other reason, completely unrelated to him or to Lothar. CIA people were now scurrying all over the Berlin area, seeking to make friends of their old enemies in hopes of prying loose their secrets.
But if that’s what this visit was about, why was Wolf laying on the charm and hospitality? Shouldn’t the Americans be the ones bearing gifts, the better to woo him?
Emil would never reach any conclusions by lingering out in the cold. And he was certainly not willing to hop the fence of Wolf’s compound to snoop around further, so he went back indoors, where Karola greeted him with a steaming mug of herbal tea and a burst of questions.
“Did you see them? Who was it? Did you recognize anyone?”
“One at a time, please.”
He took a swallow and felt the warmth reach his stomach, but not his toes. Then he led Karola back into Bettina’s bedroom, and briefed them on what he had just observed.
It was remarkable to him the change that had come over his wife since he had admitted her and Karola into his inner circle of secrecy only a day earlier. Her eyes sparkled with energy. Her skin had taken on some of its former glow. Obviously, she was thinking deeply about all of this. He saw that clearly, without having to rely on Karola to interpret it for him. In some elemental way, they were closer again. He took her hand and squeezed it, and she blinked up at him. Maybe he should have done this sooner.
“Well, what do you think, then?” Karola said. “Should we still go through with this?”
“We will keep the appointment. But we will change our plans. Or our plans for your role, anyway.”
She frowned. Bettina narrowed her eyes.
“Surely you need a lookout and backup more than ever now. I refuse to let you do this alone.”
Bettina blinked rapidly in emphatic agreement.
“I’m not canceling your role, Karola. I’m expanding it.”
Karola glanced at Bettina, who seemed to approve.
“All right, then. So tell us.”
Emil again got out his map of Berlin, and again spread it across the foot of the bed. Then, pointing as he progressed, he explained to them how everything was going to work.
31
From the moment they entered Wolf’s dacha, the encounter felt a bit surreal, and not just because of who they were there to see.
For starters there was the furniture. Not the rustic items Claire had expected in a country home, but a stylishly comfortable look, in a dated, mid-’60s sort of way, with couches and chairs that had obviously been imported. Large windows were built into the steeply slanted ceilings, giving the great room a light and open feel, even beneath a leaden sky. Covering one wall were abstract etchings and oils, which hung alongside the de rigueur photos of Wolf with celebrity leaders of the communist world. Brezhnev, Castro, Honecker. The other wall was filled with bookcases. At a glance Claire saw several titles that had almost certainly been banned in East Germany. Wedged between the spines were components of a state-of-the-art stereo system, which, it occurred to her, probably concealed a taping system that Wolf had switched on the moment she and Baucom stepped through the door.
Then there was his wife, Andrea. Claire had expected her to discreetly retire to a bedroom to let the spies go about their business. Instead she curled up on the couch next to Wolf, practically purring as she smiled at their apparent surprise. Not that Andrea had neglected her duties as a hostess. Laid out on a glass-top Noguchi coffee table was a tray with cups, saucers, and a thermal carafe of coffee.
“There is also herbal tea, if you prefer,” Andrea said.
Well, of course there was. And it was then that Claire realized what was causing her momentary buzz of cognitive dissonance. The whole setup felt more like the country getaway of a dissident playwright than of a spymaster for one of the world’s most oppressive regimes. If Wolf had a weakness, it was probably his desire to be seen as more enlightened than the people he had once worked for. Maybe they could use that.
“Coffee for me,” Claire said. “Black.”
“Same,” Baucom said, and with a glance Claire realized he was having a similar reaction. His observant eyes scanned the room in apparent wonder.
They made small talk for a minute or two, discussing the local scenery, the snow, and the recent avalanche of change that had overwhelmed their lives, his country.
Andrea leaned across the table and whispered to Claire.
“There are a few more items to bring out. Would you mind helping me?”
Ah, yes. The inevitable relegation to domestic servant. But to refuse would risk upsetting the social balance. Besides, Claire had already seen that, so far, Wolf only had eyes for Baucom. Perhaps he had bought into her cover as an academic researcher, who had come along only to listen and observe.
The adjoining kitchen had a wide opening that at least allowed her to keep an eye on the two men. Andrea had prepared another tray with pastries, crackers, bread, jam, cheeses, olives, and sliced ham. There was also a stack of small plates with cutlery and linen napkins.
The two men were leaning closer now, and they had both lit cigarettes. Claire couldn’t make out the words, but from their animated movements she guessed they were swapping old war stories, perhaps even the one of their initial meeting, when they had both fooled the pompous Russian general. They held crystal tumblers with some amber liquid that Wolf must have poured from his private supply. A dusty bottle sat on a side table, and a cloud of pale blue smoke was already forming above them.
She couldn’t help but smile, even as they excluded her. Claire had spent much of her early career battling this old boy mentality, fending off their affronts and their advances even as they had fended off her curiosity, keeping to themselves when it mattered most.
But apart from this reunion with Baucom, her only recent contact with the species had been her attendance at their boozy retirement send-offs, where she listened to their farewell speeches. Each one that fell by the wayside took a little knowledge with him, much of it invaluable. She couldn’t say she venerated what they’d accomplished—at best, a stalemate in which they’d never flinched from sacrificing any poor sap caught in the middle—but there were lessons to be learned from their successes, as well as their failures.
“Look at them,” she said to Andrea. “It’s like walking through your woods and coming across an endangered animal.”
“Or a wounded animal, maybe, in Mischa’s case. You’re not really an academic, are you?”
Claire could have easily parried the remark, maybe convincingly so. But having reached the epilogue of this competition, what would be the point?
“No. I’m not.”
“I told Mischa this, but he laughed me off. He said the Americans would never send a woman on such an important assignment. Maybe he was only projecting his own feelings.”
And his own vanity, she thought. But what she said was, “Shall we rejoin them?”
Andrea carried in the tray. Claire took the plates and cutlery. They reached the coffee table just as Wolf reared back with a roar of hearty laughter. Baucom joined in at an octave lower. They were a duo in concert, perfectly attuned. Wolf refilled Baucom’s glass with the bottle from the side table. He did not ask Claire or Andrea if they wanted any. Wolf then capped the moment by using the familiar du pronoun as he addressed Baucom, instead of the more formal Sie he had used earlier.
“It is too true, what you’re saying, my American friend. All of us shall be obsolete quite soon. And it’s not just the space satellites with their wondrous cameras. Not long ago I was talking to a colleague from our Technical Operations Sector.”
“The bunch that came up with all those great gadgets your people always had?”
“Yes! Cameras and microphones that would fit inside a fountain pen, or hide behind your necktie. And that spy dust, for tracking everyone who touched the doorknobs of your safe houses. But this fellow told me your people are developing unmanned aircraft that can be piloted from thousands of miles away, and will be able to transmit live images of all their surveillances.”
“Incredible.”
“And that’s nothing compared to the flood of information that’s coming. This World Wide Web, as he called it. Before long an office clerk in Shanghai will have more power to pry into your personal affairs than our ministry does today. Once that comes to pass, why even bother with a million informants?”
“Did you say a million?” Claire asked. “In your own country?”
Wolf seemed taken aback by the question, as if he had just become aware of Claire and Andrea’s return. But the number, if true, was shocking. East Germany’s population was sixteen million. Had one in every sixteen of them really reported to the Stasi?
“Well, not quite a million, but it was close, there at the end. Of course, that was the doing of the other side of the ministry, not ours. I remember a year or so before I quit, Comrade Mielke told a group of us with great pride that we had just surpassed 750,000 informants. I was there with three of my colleagues from the HVA. We were dumbfounded, even ashamed.”
There it was again, Wolf setting himself apart from the excesses of the people who had paid his salary. He then pivoted to the subject that he had supposedly summoned them here to discuss.
“But I doubt this is the sort of information your Director Webster is seeking from me, assuming I consent to meet his representative. Would you agree, Herr Baucom?”
“I would. Prost!”
They tapped glasses for another swallow.
“Any idea of what he wants? Because if his interest is the identities of our agents—my agents—he will be wasting his time. Those people entrusted their lives to me, and I won’t betray them. Not at any price, even that of my freedom.”
The words sounded rehearsed. Someday, Claire supposed, they would turn up in a Wolf memoir, for which he would almost certainly be richly rewarded by a Western publishing house.
“I’m told it’s a bit more complicated,” Baucom said. “It has more to do with your knowledge of your sister agency in Moscow.”
Baucom had worded the remark perfectly, Claire thought. By referring to the KGB as a “sister agency,” he had placed the Stasi on an equal footing, an appeal to Wolf’s ego, even though Moscow had never felt that way.
“All I know for sure on that score,” Wolf replied, “is that your own people have had a rather rough time in Moscow in recent years.”
It was an understatement. Claire, like most field operatives, had been vaguely aware of the scope of the calamity, but Baucom had filled her in on more of the details. In the past four years, CIA’s Moscow station had endured one blown agent after another, each of them brutally rounded up by the KGB—a level of betrayal that could only be explained by the presence of a mole.
“Yes, rather rough. And the high muckety-mucks have concluded that, in all likelihood, the problem lies very close to home.”
“I see. A mole within your headquarters. Well, what I would tell Mr. Webster is that, sister agency or not, that’s the sort of deeper secret the KGB would never share with anyone on Normanenstrasse. Not even Comrade Mielke.”
“Understood. But as you know, there are always other considerations. Shared intelligence which could have only come from a limited number of sources. Favors they might have asked in servicing or even vetting this person. Surely you must have seen items and requests that made you wonder. I doubt they’d ever expect you to give them a name, even if you knew it.”
“And I don’t.”
“Let’s assume that’s true. It’s those other items they’re after. Any hint or anomaly to help them narrow their search.”
Wolf nodded. A few seconds of silence followed. Baucom sipped again from his tumbler, but Wolf only stared at his, as if seeking counsel from a crystal ball.
“I’ll think about it. I suppose agreeing to meet won’t do any harm, provided the arrangements are circumspect. But I doubt I can help them.”
“Unable or unwilling?”
Wolf smiled.
“That’s a matter for further thought, too, even though our Russian friends have been, well…less than helpful in our hour of need.”
“They won’t intervene in Bonn on your behalf?”
“No. Although you didn’t hear that from me.”
