Vortex- Berlin

by Lee Jackson

  Sofia struggled to remain placid. “Collins? What are you doing here?” She was fond of him, but he was an investigative reporter, and relentless.

  “Digging out news,” he said. “With the demonstrations in Leipzig last month and Gorbachev’s statement the other day, anything could happen. Where are you staying?”

  “Mr. Gorbachev does seem to have opened up possibilities,” Sofia replied, ignoring his question. “I think he surprised the world.” Collins always gets into the middle of things. Last year, he had pursued a story to Paris and Moscow that uncovered a coup attempt against the Soviet general secretary. Collins was a good man, though—he had subdued the story in the interest of national security, and he had even helped bring about a favorable conclusion and kept his participation quiet. “We’re staying at the Mövenpick Hotel.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Berger scrutinizing the newsman. She turned to the detective quickly. “This is Mr. Tony Collins. He writes for the Washington Herald.” She watched as Berger, still studying the reporter, changed his expression to mild skepticism. She turned back to Collins. “You must be referring to whatever happens with the Wall? Are you here to cover it?”

  “Yes. Isn’t it exciting? Do you think it’ll come down, or at least open up?”

  Berger interrupted, stepping between Collins and Sofia. “Nice to meet you. We have business to do.” He took Sofia’s arm and indicated for Brown and Fenns to walk ahead of him, leaving Collins behind.

  “We don’t need the press involved now,” Berger murmured. He directed them into a conference room and then addressed Sofia. “We require statements from you and Mr. Brown. We’ll question you separately. I’m finished with Atcho. The gun he was holding wasn’t fired—he says he took it from one of his attackers. Fingerprints on it matched those on one of the dead men. We need to find the three who got away. Now, tell me about the kidnap call.”

  In the early morning hours, Berger finished with Brown and Sofia. She and Atcho reunited in a conference room. Amid their embrace, Brown barged in. “They have a lead,” he announced. “A van that fits the description of the ambush vehicle was found close by in a parking garage. The kidnapping attempt looks like a Stasi operation. That brings in the West German federal government and German intelligence.”

  “I hate to show my ignorance,” Atcho commented, “but I’m not familiar with the term ‘Stasi.’”

  “That’s the East German State Security Service,” Brown explained. “Everyone refers to them as ‘Stasi,’ the most dreaded secret police in any Iron Curtain country. They’ve recruited over three hundred thousand internal spies and filled prisons with men, women, even children. Ya don’t like the quality of bread? Don’t mention it unless you don’t mind torture or execution.

  “Their formal job is internal security. Their real job is keeping the population docile. The Wall and the armed fence on the border prevent people from escaping. The Stasi discourages them from making any attempt. They quell uprisings before they start.

  “They’ll shoot you as fast as look at you, but first they want to torture whatever information they can get out of you. Does that answer your question?”

  Atcho nodded. “Sounds like Castro’s secret police.”

  “Yep. The Stasi. That’s whose bell you rang.”

  5

  Tony Collins had watched with curiosity as Detective Berger, Sofia, Brown, and Fenns disappeared down a corridor. He surveyed the work bay, noticing the short hall on the opposite side with regularly spaced doors and embedded small windows. The interrogation rooms.

  He went to speak with the desk sergeant. “Excuse me.” The policeman looked up with a tolerant, disinterested expression. Collins presented his credentials. “I heard about the shooting this evening. An American was arrested? Who is he?”

  The man looked at him blankly. “There’s no information we can release. If you want to stay, please have a seat.”

  “But he was an American?” Collins persisted. “The man you arrested.”

  The officer bristled. “I told you there is no information to release. When Detective Berger is ready to brief the press, ask him.”

  Collins sat down in the foyer and watched. After a while, one of the interrogation room doors opened. An officer stepped out. Another man followed, athletic, above medium height, striking good looks, and dark hair peppered with silver. Collins sucked in his breath. Atcho!

  Collins knew Atcho well. He had done background stories on him when Atcho was released from Cuba into Miami. Several years later, Collins had watched with interest when President Ronald Reagan honored Atcho in his State of the Union Address. The reporter had followed Atcho’s career ever since.

  “What have you got into this time?” Collins muttered. He obscured his face with a magazine and sank lower in his seat. Atcho followed the officer down the same hall where Berger had led Sofia and her colleagues.

  Hours passed. Then, the officer who had escorted Atcho re-emerged, this time with Brown and Fenns. He walked them to the foyer.

  Brown stopped in front of Collins. “How did you get this story so soon?”

  Collins stood. “Just lucky, I suppose. What can you tell me?”

  “Nothing, really. There was a shooting. Three men dead. Unidentified. You’ll get the specifics from Detective Berger.”

  “I saw Atcho coming out of one of the interrogation rooms. Is he involved?”

  The two state department men stared at him coldly. “You’ll get details from Berger,” Fenns replied.

  While Fenns spoke, Brown glanced back down the hall. He caught a high sign from Berger. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly at Fenns. “We have to be going.”

  Collins watched them leave the building.

  Their officer-escort went back to his duties.

  “Wait,” Collins called after him. “Can you tell me how your suspect is involved?”

  “We have no suspect,” the officer called over his shoulder.

  “But I saw you lead him from the interrogation room.”

  “You mean Mr. Xiquez? He’s not a suspect. He’s been cleared. He’s gone.”

  Collins fought down rising frustration. Obviously, Atcho and Sofia had been let out through a back way. He hurried out the glass door and into the street.

  A major hotel occupied the opposite side. Collins bobbed and weaved his way through traffic to safety and entered the lobby. He spotted a bank of telephones. At this hour, no one else was using them. He called his editor, Tom Jakes, in DC.

  “We heard about the shooting,” Jakes said in response to Collins’ greeting, “but no specifics yet. What have you got?”

  “It’s sketchy,” Collins told him. “The Polizei haven’t released details, and the state department is keeping mum, at least for the moment.” He filled Jakes in on what he had witnessed.

  “How did Atcho get in the middle of this?” Jakes exclaimed when Collins finished.

  “Good question, but we have enough for a semblance of a scoop. There was a shooting, leaving three men dead, and that’s confirmed, but we don’t know who did the shooting or why. Before going to the police station, I got eyewitness descriptions of a man handcuffed and taken away in the back seat of a police car. Atcho fits the description. I saw him, his wife, and three state department officials there.”

  “We can report all of that,” Jakes broke in, “and that we conclude without confirmation that state department officials intervened for Atcho. Initial reports are that he’s been cleared of wrongdoing. We don’t know how he became involved.”

  “That’s it. Have the story ready to run but hold it until right after the police press meeting. Don’t wait to hear back from me. The briefing will be televised. If Berger doesn’t contradict anything I’ve said, run with it. Throw in a couple of side stories about the political situation over here and the hope that the Wall is about to come down.”

  “Got it.”

  Dawn was only two hours away by the time Atcho and Sofia reached their suite at t
he Mövenpick Hotel. “Tony Collins saw me,” Sofia said. “He heard about the shooting and came to investigate. He saw me with Brown and Fenns and figured out that an American was involved in the shooting.”

  “Then he probably saw me too,” Atcho replied. “He’ll conclude that I’m the American.” He groaned. “He’s on the story, and he won’t get off.”

  Both were exhausted, but neither felt like going to bed. Atcho made drinks, and they sat on a sofa in the bedroom.

  “We have to talk about all this,” Atcho said after a few minutes.

  “I know, but this isn’t a secure location. Almost anything we say would be classified, or at least fall under operational security.”

  “Didn’t Brown have his guys sweep this room?”

  “That was hours ago.”

  “This can’t wait. Let’s go in the bathroom.”

  They did, and turned on the faucets, the fan, and a blow-dryer, and they spoke with their heads close together.

  “All right,” Sofia said, “tell me what you’re doing.”

  “What I’m doing? How about you tell me about your real reason for being here.”

  “I told you, the police, and Brown: I want to get my family out.”

  “Nope. There’s more to it than that. The man who called knew which hotel room you’re in. He knew our names, that you’re a state department official, and that you’re involved with the CIA. And all he wanted was for you to stop doing whatever you’re doing? If it were simply that you’re helping your family, the East Germans would haul them away. Something else is up. How did he get that call past the security intercept anyway?”

  “We don’t know for sure. He must have had inside help and called into a location that could detour around the intercept and place the call directly. But what about you?” Sofia’s voice became prickly. “You take a walk by those church ruins every night, and then tonight you almost get kidnapped, or worse. So much for being able to take care of yourself. Brown’s on my case about it.”

  “I’m a tourist.” Atcho’s exasperation showed. “I should be able to move about freely like a normal person.

  “The church is three and a half kilometers from here. That’s my normal distance for a walk, and there are three routes to get there. I’m in Berlin for the first time. I like history. Do you think I’m not going to get out and see the sights? I don’t need or want the entourage. I’ve also taken a walk by the Brandenburg Gate and Checkpoint Charlie. Not everything I do is secret squirrel. But that kidnapping attempt was to stop you. So, what are you doing?”

  Chastened, Sofia wrapped her arms around his neck. “I can’t say, darling. You know that. It’s classified.” She reached up and kissed him lightly.

  “Forget that,” Atcho retorted angrily. He reached behind his neck and unclasped her hands. “You know my clearance is high enough. Under the circumstances, I have a need to know.”

  “You’re not working for any agency needing a clearance, so technically, your clearance is void.”

  “You forget that I’m an officer and a major stockholder involved in daily operations of a company that produces classified technology. I’m cleared, and those were real bullets they shot at me. I need to know. Now tell me.”

  Sofia stared at him. “All right. You know about the demonstrations last month in Leipzig, and the video that appeared all over the world. Lots of people say that footage will bring about the end of the Wall, maybe of East Germany.”

  Atcho nodded. “Particularly after Gorbachev’s statement.”

  “Exactly. But there’s huge hard-line opposition to allowing such radical change. If the Wall comes down, their power is over. Some elements will do anything to stop it.”

  “I see that.”

  “The East German government is drafting a change to its travel law. They have attorneys working on it now. The leader is a young guy. We know him. He’ll only make two changes in the wording, but the effect will be to open the gates for free passage between East and West Germany. We don’t know when it will be enacted.”

  “It’s good that they’re working on it.”

  “Yes, but the law can be sabotaged, delayed, not signed, not implemented, discarded. I’m here to make sure that it goes into effect. A press release will announce it regardless of what the hard-liners do. That will at least create the illusion of law, and once acted upon, it will be almost impossible to retract.”

  Atcho looked at her, speechless. “How are you supposed to do that?” he said skeptically.

  Sofia sighed. “You lived under Communism.” Atcho nodded. Sofia went on. “Family and friends don’t forget each other, even when some live in captivity. You find ways to communicate to the other side.”

  Atcho nodded again. “Are you telling me that your family in East Berlin is helping with this?”

  “No, but don’t forget, my father was stationed here with the state department when the Wall went up. He had close contacts stranded on the wrong side. He maintained some of them. A few rose in government without losing their desire to be free. You had friends like that in Cuba.”

  “Yeah. I knew a guy whose family owned the Bank of Havana. When Castro took over, the bank was confiscated. My friend went to selling ice-cream cones on the streets. A few weeks after the coup, Castro’s officials came looking for him because they didn’t know anything about banking, international finance, or foreign exchange. They were losing millions of dollars on lost sugarcane contracts. They wanted him to fix the situation.

  “He did, and Castro kept him there on the board of the bank. His office was right next to Che Guevara’s, and Fidel had one across the hall. Despite that, the banker’s old friends came in and begged for help to get out of Cuba. That was dangerous for him. He did what he could. After a few months, Castro and Che felt confident enough to send him to Canada on a trade mission. As soon as he stepped off the plane, he took a taxi to the US Embassy and requested asylum.”

  “That’s the same situation,” Sofia exclaimed. “People do what they must to survive until they can do something better. There are people like that in the East German government, some of them very high up. And some of them knew my father.”

  Atcho looked keenly into her eyes. “How high?”

  “One of the men helped force Erich Honecker out of power last month. He’s a politburo member of the Social Unity Party.”

  Atcho whistled. “That’s who’s supposed to read that press release?” He looked around as if to assure himself that no one could overhear their conversation. “And what are you supposed to do?”

  “Make sure it happens. Once those crowds start tromping across that border, the East German government will be powerless to stop them.”

  6

  Ranulf slammed his hand down on his desk. He turned off the ancient black-and-white television on a table close to him. “How could they screw this up so bad?” He was alone, his eyes dark and hard, his lips drawn taut. “I sent six of them.”

  He had just watched a news report from the American Sector about a shooting in which three men had been killed. A US citizen was being questioned. Ranulf knew the description of the van was accurate. Nothing was said about those who had escaped.

  The phone rang. He answered sharply. “I saw the report. I haven’t heard from them yet.” He listened. “Don’t push me,” he growled, and hung up. He was a brute of a man with a thick neck and a heavy rounded jaw. He was nearly bald at the top of his head, with long dark hair on the sides that hung over his ears.

  He rose from his desk, tramped to the door, and called out, “Sergeant, have you seen Klaus and his brother?” He received a negative reply. “Send them to me as soon as they come in.” He thought a moment longer. “Send in Uri too.”

  He closed the door and took his seat, lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair. Then, as if resolved, he snuffed out the cigarette and made another phone call. He spoke briefly and hung up.

  Moments later, a small, oily man with wicked eyes entered. “Do you know Klaus,
Etzel, and Uri?” The man nodded. Ranulf continued. “They’ll be in my office soon. When they leave, take them out. Let me know when it’s done. Any questions?”

  Oily shook his head.

  “Uri will be easy but be careful with Klaus and Etzel. Get it done tonight.”

  Oily nodded and left.

  Klaus and Etzel walked into Ranulf’s office and stood in front of his desk. Both managed to look outwardly calm. They had left their MP5s in the car, hidden several blocks away in the ruins of an abandoned war-era building.

  Ranulf smoked another cigarette. For a time, he sat, his eyes shifting alternately between the brothers, looking them up and down. “Where’s Uri?” he rumbled at last.

  Klaus drew himself up. “Dead.”

  Ranulf’s expression did not change. He puffed on his cigarette. “How did that happen?”

  “I shot him. He blew the mission and turned on us.”

  Ranulf inhaled another puff and watched the smoke as it circled overhead. “How did he blow the mission? I sent six of you.”

  “Uri came too fast,” Klaus said. “The other three men had Atcho. Uri drove in fast and too close. Geiss had Atcho’s right arm. Uri mashed the brakes but couldn’t stop. Geiss went under.” Klaus shrugged. “Etzel and I were thrown out. The other two comrades lost their hold on Atcho. He ran for cover and I shot them.”

  Ranulf contemplated. “Why?”

  “Someone must have called the police. They came our way almost instantly. Atcho put your goons on the ground. We couldn’t leave them to be interrogated.”

  Ranulf bristled at the jabbing remark. “So Atcho was the only one who could run or walk?” His eyes glowered. “How did Uri turn on you? Where is he?”

  “He was a coward,” Etzel broke in. “We took him to the morgue.”