Winter Work, page 28
“I don’t intend to.”
“That isn’t exactly a promise.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Then, as if to at least acknowledge her honesty, he tilted his head and gestured with his hand as if tipping a cap, before turning to walk away, off toward the archway where she had first seen him. Thirty yards to her right, Claire now saw Ron Kent standing behind the buried car, pretending to admire it even as he watched Grimm intently, as if memorizing every feature.
42
Once Baucom determined that the area was free of any dangerous interlopers, he eased into his chosen hiding place and waited for the main characters to assemble on the stage. Following Emil Grimm to the scene had been a snap once he spotted the incoming Wartburg, again driven by the woman, although he was pretty sure Grimm had spotted him once they were on foot. No matter, he supposed. It hadn’t seemed to have scared the fellow away.
Already he had enjoyed a chuckle or two about this strange and wondrous place called Tacheles. Indeed, the whole neighborhood had been a pleasant surprise. It was being colonized by young people of all ilks, chatty and on the make. Just across the street, an opportunistic tavernkeeper had taken possession of a vacant fruit and vegetable market, with its old name still displayed on the faded sign, Obst und Gemüse. Spartan furnishings but plenty of customers, and not one of them looked over thirty. The atmosphere reminded him fondly of a trip to Greenwich Village in the late ’50s, when he was in his twenties and the Beatniks ruled the streets, enlivening every block with their music, their lingo, their quirky little bars and coffeehouses. This had a similar vibe, full of promise and pretension. Maybe the Germans would finally get it right. God knows they were long overdue.
He climbed the crumbling stairway toward a higher vantage point. A waif of a girl on her way downstairs, not even twenty, eyed him curiously as he approached. And why not, because he was the oddball here. His overcoat and gray flannel trousers marked him as a stuffy leftover of the establishment, whether East or West. Although his French cigarettes fit right in, so he offered one in passing.
“Danke,” she said, then quickly added, “Thank you.”
He grunted in reply, climbed two floors, and stepped out onto a ragged precipice of dusty concrete, into a room that had probably been exposed to the elements since some horrible night of bombing in 1945.
Scanning the grounds, he quickly spotted Claire, already in conversation with Grimm. No goons in sight, but Ron Kent was almost directly below, lagging back to observe. Only a few hours ago Baucom had again heard from his old colleague, the baseball scout, who’d offered a full report on Kent. The results were reassuring. Claire had a competent partner, high marks across the board. Perhaps, then, it was time for Baucom to let go. Maybe he was only still in it for the fun, the cheap thrill of lurking on the fringes of something secretive, and possibly quite important.
Then he contemplated the ease with which a trio of KGB thugs, mobbed up or not, could bring trouble and mayhem to a placid field of play like this one, and decided he’d stick with it for another day or two. Then he’d quit the game for good. Scout’s honor.
He smiled, lit another cigarette, and eased back into the shadows.
43
Claire did the driving on the way back. The mood in their borrowed Trabant was upbeat. She and Ron Kent had agreed that this was a potentially exciting breakthrough, not just for them but for the Agency. Better still, to Claire’s mind, Ron seemed fully on board with the need to sell Lindsey Ward on the idea of following Emil Grimm’s instructions for a wee-hours rendezvous on hostile ground. Because without his endorsement, Claire doubted Ward would ever go along with it.
But she was not naïve enough to believe he had shifted his loyalty. It still annoyed her that he continued to refer to Ward as “Lindsey,” like they were old buddies. He’d also been taking notes after they got back into the car, and the few words she’d seen were descriptive terms that applied to Grimm. Even if she continued to hoard the German’s identity, Kent’s work might yet unveil it.
He was a little too silent for comfort as they headed back to Berlin base.
“What’s wrong, Ron? You seem preoccupied.”
“Oh. Well.” He hesitated. “Tell me, did you, or maybe even Lindsey, arrange for any, well, extra help back there?”
Had he, too, seen Baucom? Would he even have known who Baucom was? If so, was she now in trouble? At least this time, she didn’t have to lie about it.
“Absolutely not. And I doubt Ward would have done it without telling you. Why?”
He shook his head.
“Just a feeling. Probably nothing.”
“Grimm definitely saw you, if that’s what you mean.”
“No. Someone who looked American. A man.”
Claire suppressed a smile. Naughty Baucom. She almost wished that she had asked him to keep working on her behalf. The idea of Ron and her waiting for hours in the woods of East Germany for a delivery that might never happen was a little daunting.
She suspected that Grimm and his driver, the woman, were also on their own. Why else would he need their help tonight? The man was shorthanded. They were, too. The Russian had more resources, and perhaps a genuinely better offer. Why, then, did it still feel imperative that she and her contact win? She had personalized the fight, which could be dangerous in itself.
Kent was now looking at the two passport-sized photos Grimm had given her. One of them was of the woman who had driven the Wartburg, so obviously there was a personal connection. The second photo was also of a woman. Their last names—obvious fakes—were different.
“Too bad he didn’t include one of himself,” Kent said.
“You think Ward has someone who could identify him from a photo?”
Kent shrugged. She suspected he knew more than he was willing to say. He again lapsed into silence. Maybe he, too, was worried about tonight.
“What do you think of these instructions?” she asked. “This map he drew for us?”
“Risky. A little slapdash. I get the idea he’s smart, but that he’s always been a desk man. And now he’s having to do everything himself and plan it on the fly.”
“Yeah. Same here.”
She was about to add that his title and previous duties certainly supported that assessment, but that would show she knew his name. She hoped she wasn’t letting the German play her. Or not inadvisedly so. But, more so, she hoped that he and the two women would at least manage to survive this affair, and she wasn’t at all sure she could help him with that. Officially, it wasn’t even her role to try. Unofficially? She would do her best, even if his offer fell short.
To her right, Kent was again scribbling notes, this time with the pages angled so that she couldn’t see them.
44
Emil hiked slowly through the woods. Soon he would commence his long night of darkness and confinement—ten hours without light, fresh air, or freedom of movement—so he wasn’t in a hurry to get under way. He was also worried about what the morning would bring. Capture and arrest? A violent and agonizing end, like the ones that had befallen Lothar Fischer and Andreas Plotz?
But what was the alternative? Wait for Volkov to come for him? Or, even if that threat passed, the federal prosecutors from Bonn? He trudged onward.
Emil had set his plan in motion the night before, on the way home from the bar, when he had asked Wolf to drop him off shortly after the Volvo turned onto the dirt lane by the Bauersee.
“Let me out here, if you don’t mind.”
“Here? It’s at least another four hundred meters to your dacha.”
“I need the exercise after all that beer, or I’ll never sleep properly.”
Wolf sighed and braked the car.
“Very well. Age does it to all of us, I suppose.”
Emil climbed out and waved farewell. Wolf eyed him curiously before shutting the door, as if certain that there had to be more to this than a need for exercise.
“Goodbye, then, Emil.”
The words had a ring of finality. Or maybe Emil only felt that way because he knew what he was about to do next.
“Goodbye, Mischa.”
As soon as Wolf’s taillights winked out of sight, he turned in the opposite direction. Fifteen minutes later he reached Prenden, where he took the spare key from beneath a flowerpot and let himself into Karola’s empty house. He made his way carefully to the kitchen without turning on a single light, located the telephone, and felt his way around the rotary dial until his forefinger reached the right slots. Karola would not begrudge him this clandestine use of her house, but she certainly would object to his reason for doing so. Emil was here because he needed to make a call that would not be overheard by either of the two women in his life. The hiss and click of the turning dial were the only sounds in the house until someone picked up at the other end.
“Hallo?”
“Moritz? Grimm here. Hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No, no. My wife is out with her sewing circle, which means what they’re really doing is drinking a lot of wine. So I’m having a rare night of controlling the television. Let me turn it down.”
Emil heard the blare of a car chase. It was a scene from the same cheesy movie that had been playing in the bar.
“There. What can I do for you, Emil?”
“A big favor, actually, so it’s probably good your wife isn’t there to listen.”
“I see.” A long pause. “Well, if it weren’t for you…”
Emil had known that would be his reaction, because Moritz Waldman was that kind of fellow, one who never forgot a favor—or, in this case, a break that had gone his way after Emil had helped him. Long ago he had been the handyman at Emil’s apartment building on Frankfurter Allee. For any kind of problem—plumbing, wiring, heating, television repair, even carpet cleaning and upholstery—Moritz solved it, quickly and competently. So when Emil heard that the powers-that-be at Waldsiedlung, the party elite’s wooded refuge north of the city, were looking for just such a person, he had recommended Moritz without reservation, even though it was a loss for him and his neighbors. Moritz got a hefty raise and all sorts of new privileges, and Emil got a reliable source for the doings at the compound. In the waning years of the regime, Emil had begun to feel like that was almost as important as having a good source at NATO. Had that been prescience? No, more like disillusionment, he supposed.
“You can still say no if you like, Moritz, I hope you know that.”
Emil said it because he knew it would only add to Moritz’s sense of obligation.
“I understand, Emil. That’s one reason I always liked working for you. Maybe you should just tell me what you need.”
So Emil did.
Moritz asked a few questions and concluded that his role wasn’t all that difficult, mostly because Emil would be taking the bigger risks, and by that time Moritz would be safely in his bed. He agreed to do it.
Now, twenty hours later, Emil was on his way to the parking turnout a mile from his dacha, heading down the trail at dusk after having sent Karola to the market. When she returned, she wouldn’t know where he had gone.
He also hadn’t told Bettina about his plans or his destination. He had kissed her and said, “I am leaving the house for a while. I will be gone for most of the night, maybe all of it. I haven’t told Karola about this either, because matters have progressed to the point where it has become too risky to involve her further. She’ll be back from the market in half an hour. I am not taking the car, so if anyone comes later to watch the house, they will believe I am here, which will be safer for you. All right?”
Bettina blinked once, but her eyes widened in alarm. He took her hand.
“I will return by morning. Even though I just mentioned risk, nothing that I will be doing tonight is inherently dangerous. Nor will I be crossing paths with any of the Russians. I am confident things will go well.”
He kissed her again, then exited through his own room, where he took his coat from the hook and the Pistol-M from the sock drawer before leaving the house. He was relieved to see that there was still no Citroën parked along the lane. Maybe Dorn’s lecture to Krauss, no matter how ill-advised, had helped.
Now Emil was approaching the place where Moritz was supposed to be waiting. His biggest worry was that Moritz wouldn’t show. That would be the end of things, he supposed. And the Americans would never forgive him, because they’d wait for him until dawn, and go home empty-handed.
Then his heart lifted, because up through the pines he saw the blue-and-white panels of Moritz’s repair van parked at the turnout, and then Moritz himself, smoking as he stood beneath the trees.
The van was a Barkas B 1000, of course, because that was pretty much the only van an East German could get. It was an unfortunate choice for Emil, all the same, because the Stasi had used a modified Barkas as a collection vehicle to round up troublesome citizens for interrogation, detention, or worse—something he would prefer to forget.
“Moritz. Right on time as always. Thank you for doing this.”
Moritz shrugged and tossed aside his cigarette. Emil climbed in. He felt a little awkward because the man hadn’t yet spoken. They looked at each other as Moritz slid the key into the ignition.
“I assure you, Moritz, that after tonight I will never again mention this episode. To you or to anyone.”
“I know, boss. You’re a man of your word, so I’m not worried. Really. And I didn’t tell my wife, of course.”
“Good man.”
“Like I said on the phone, the whole place has pretty much emptied out, what with all the bad press it’s been getting, and, well, all the rest.”
“Yes. All the rest.”
The bad press was a reference to newspaper stories that began appearing only a few weeks after the Wall came down, breathless exposés about the untold luxuries of the hideaway homes of Waldsiedlung, with their sleek bathroom fixtures, modernized kitchens, priceless art plundered from national museums, and—gasp!—cable television hookups with access to all channels from the West.
Emil found it a bit laughable. Waldsiedlung had twenty-three houses in all, and nearly all of them looked the same—plain, two-story stucco homes on half-acre lots, lined up neatly on three wooded lanes. But even that could seem quite regal, he supposed, if you and your neighbors were crammed into bleak apartments that were too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer, and you had to wait years just to buy a crappy Trabant.
There were also plenty of perks—a health spa with tennis courts and a swimming pool, a private restaurant, a shooting range, a movie theater, a hotel for honored guests, and barracks for all of the maids, cooks, and servants, although Moritz had kept his old apartment in Pankow. Surrounding the ample acreage was an inner fence that kept out even the residents of the barracks. On a wider perimeter there was an outer wall topped with barbed wire, set well off into the trees.
Emil had been there for a few party cookouts, official gatherings where you were supposed to relax, even though the laughter was always an octave higher than normal. He always woke up the next morning with a headache, and not from a hangover. But to his mind, the most distasteful aspect of the place was its origins. Party officials had built it in 1953, well before the Wall went up, after riots by dissatisfied workers that year in Berlin had convinced them of the need for their own Winter Palace in the woods, a refuge where they’d be able to ride out any future insurrection. A lot of good that had done them.
“Anyone still living there?” Emil asked. “I know Mielke is in jail, and Honecker is holed up in some vicarage in Bernau. But what about the party chiefs, the heads of the ministries, the leaders of the Politburo?”
“All gone except for one or two, and even they’re under house arrest, so I hardly ever see anyone unless they call me to make a repair. You should be fine. Almost all of the guards are gone now that there’s no one left to protect. The security people still have me checking on everything, of course. They don’t want any frozen pipes ruining the houses, or leaky roofs or any of that. There’s been talk about turning the place into a recovery campus for the disabled.”
“Well, I hope you’ll still have a job, at least.”
Moritz shrugged, his future as uncertain as everyone else’s.
“I tell you one thing that’s a shame.”
“Yes?”
“All of that choice wine and liquor that’s impounded in those houses. So if you’re going to take something out of there tonight, get some for me.”
Moritz laughed uneasily, as if only now he was realizing that he might be abetting an act of grand larceny against the state.
“I’m not doing this for personal enrichment, Moritz. I can assure you of that. But that does remind me, did you bring the tools I needed?”
“They’re in the back, under the tarp. There’s also an extension cord. I didn’t have the right blade, so I bought one and installed it. Twenty West German marks.”
“I’ll reimburse you for it, of course.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have it on you now, would you?”
The message was clear: Pay now, in case you’re caught. Emil got out his wallet and handed over twenty D-marks, some of the last of his welcome money.
“Have you decided how you’ll explain leaving behind the van?”
“Relax, Emil. These people trust me. They also know this Barkas is a piece of shit that is always breaking down from one thing or another, and they know I don’t even have a spare. It will all seem perfectly normal. I’ll leave it parked exactly where you asked, and I’ll walk to the guardhouse, where I’ll use the phone to call my wife for a ride.”
“Yes. That’s good. And now I’ll forget you ever told me that.”
