by Lee Jackson
“You know him?”
“A Washington Herald investigative reporter. One that won’t let go.”
The driver, who had not yet spoken, turned partway in his seat. “We’re almost there. I’ll let you out up ahead. Jeff, you know what to do?”
“Yeah. We’ll be out in ninety minutes. Meet us at the next corner.”
The driver nodded and pulled to the curb in front of a grocery store. A long, thick line of shoppers hung close to the edifice, waiting their turns to purchase scarce merchandise. Other pedestrians walked past in both directions, peering through the store window at the nearly empty shelves.
Jeff led Sofia through the crowded walkway and entered a five-story apartment building. It looked to have been built pre-war. The walls were a dreary pastel and peeling, the stairwell dark. On each landing were two apartments that faced each other. Sofia and Jeff climbed to the top of the stairs and entered one of the flats. “We occupy the top three floors,” Jeff muttered. “They’re cleared. We can talk here.”
The shallow foyer opened into a medium-sized living room with a dining area. Two men observed the street through the windows.
“Has he arrived yet?” Sofia asked.
“He’s running late,” one of the men replied. “He’ll be here in an hour.”
Sofia quashed her frustration. There was nothing to do but wait and fidget.
Collins’ annoyance mounted. He had no way to pursue, but that was the nature of his job. He shook off his irritation while he thought through his next step. Nothing more was to be gained by remaining on the east side of the Wall, and there was that fresh police situation at the Mövenpick. What a coincidence that the event happened in the same place where Atcho and Isabel stayed. I wonder what Atcho is doing now. He returned through the checkpoint into West Berlin and took a cab to the hotel. He had been gone less than an hour.
The police had set up a perimeter around the Mövenpick and were tightly controlling access. Collins gained entry with his press pass. A crowd of serious-looking officials swarmed the lobby. He returned to the check-in counter. The same clerk was still there and peered at him nervously. “I have friends staying here,” Collins told him. “Would you mind ringing the room? The guest’s name is Eduardo Xiquez.”
The clerk stared, befuddled. “Sir, I can’t ring that room.” He looked over his shoulder as if for help.
“Why not? They’re here. I saw his wife just a little while ago. Her name is Sofia Stahl-Xiquez.”
“But sir, I can’t.” He looked back and forth. “That’s the room. That’s where the attack…the kidnapping…” He stopped talking.
Stunned, Collins stared at the clerk. “You mean Mr. Xiquez? He was…”
The clerk backed off. “I can’t say any more, sir. The police...” He looked about again. “I have to go.”
Collins ambled back through the lobby, his mind in overdrive. To one side, a loose group of reporters focused attention eagerly toward an empty podium bedecked with microphones. My competition, waiting for a statement.
Nearby was a knot of serious-faced men deep in conversation. A younger man stood close by. He appeared to be part of the group, but junior to the extent that he was not yet allowed into the inner sanctum. Collins approached him.
“Quite a bit of excitement,” he said conversationally.
The man looked at him and nodded without reply.
“Are you with those detectives? That must be a complicated job in West Berlin.”
The young detective held back a smile, seemingly pleased with the implied compliment. “It has its challenges.”
“Will you be able to find him?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Xiquez, the kidnap victim.”
The man stared coldly. “We made no statement. Who told you that?”
Collins hurried away to call Jakes. “Have you heard about some kind of attack at the Mövenpick?”
“It came through on the wire about half an hour ago, but no details. We’re waiting for a statement now.”
“Get ready to copy.” In rapid time, Collins told him what he had learned, and about what he had seen with Sofia. “Get the story out that we believe Atcho has been kidnapped. Throw in that the motive is unknown. He had no known enemies in this area. Run with the fact that he’s married to the state department’s Sofia Stahl-Xiquez but leave out that I saw her in East Berlin. Hurry. I’m in the hotel, and the press briefing will start at any moment.”
Collins was about to hang up when he had a sudden thought. “Jakes, what did they do with Borya Yermolov last year? You remember, the rogue Russian general who tried to take over the Soviet Union. Atcho stopped him.”
“How could I forget, with you holed up there at Camp David posting stories in Pravda and Izvestia about fake Rasputin descendants? Anyway, I don’t know where they put the general. Are you thinking he’s involved?”
“Not necessarily. My mind was just running through Atcho’s possible enemies, and Yermolov popped to the top of the list.”
“Last I heard, the Marines took him into custody. I’ll get a researcher to check it out. Is that all? If I’m going to scoop this story on Atcho’s kidnapping, I’d better run.”
Sofia and Jeff continued to wait in the flat with other team members. Finally, the door opened, and a man walked in. He was husky, with blond hair tending to gray. Despite his furtive expression, he had a rugged air. When he saw Sofia, his face broke into a smile. “Sofia! How great to see you again.”
Sofia crossed the room, hugged him warmly, and then stood back. “Mr. Sacher. We don’t have much time. I’m happy you could make it.”
He drew away. “Please call me Wolfgang. We’ve known each other too long to be formal.”
Sofia smiled. “Wolfgang it is. Are you all set?”
Wolfgang’s expression turned to one of sadness. “A bit afraid, I’m afraid,” he quipped, “but I’m ready.” He gestured toward the other men in the room. “My biggest concern is getting my family out. Your team explained the plan in a previous meeting.” He peered at her. “What about your family?”
“I’m still working on that. The main thing is to be sure the press release is read, and the stand-down order gets issued to the border guards and passport control officers. If that works, we’ll have no worries.”
“And if it doesn’t,” Wolfgang said softly, “we could all wind up dead. Our families too.”
Sofia shot him a determined look. “That’s not going to happen. The crowds at Alexanderplatz are growing every night.” She eyed him roguishly. “They haven’t been very nice to you lately. I’ve seen the footage of them booing you.”
Wolfgang shrugged. “They see me as part of the ruling class.”
Sofia shook her head. “If they only knew. What date do you think will be set for the press release?”
“There’s been talk of November tenth.”
“So, you’ll preempt on the evening of the ninth? How will you bring that about?”
“The general secretary gives me notes with things to talk about before I go to each press conference. I’ve been holding one every night for a while, so that one won’t be out of the ordinary. On that evening, I’ll pretend I just got the release, and read it.”
“What if he doesn’t give you the announcement?”
Wolfgang drew in a deep breath. He smiled as though in a faraway place. “I have one made up.”
“How big are the press conferences?”
“Very large. I think every news outlet in the world sends a reporter. Tom Brokaw is there, and other leaders in the Western press.” He rolled back on his heels and indicated with his jaw the operatives in the room. “I understand they can assure the right questions are asked, with immediate transmission to the West.”
Sofia nodded. Then she hugged him spontaneously. “I’m glad this monstrosity of a government is about to end.” She stood back. “Remember, don’t do anything until you see me. If I don’t show up, it means something’s gone wrong.” She lock
ed her eyes on his. “In that case, pull back. We’ll have to wait to see if the declaration is executed at the scheduled time.”
“I understand.” He held her gaze, his fondness inescapable. “Your father must be so proud.”
“My father doesn’t know,” Sofia cautioned, “and you can never tell him.”
Wolfgang nodded sadly. “What a world we live in.” He sighed, and then another, sharper expression of concern crossed his face. “I heard the reports of the shooting two nights ago. The police questioned an American, and then he was abducted this morning. Was that your husband?”
Sofia’s mental warnings blared. “How did you know that?”
“I’m on the politburo.” Wolfgang chuckled. “I helped force Honecker out, remember. I sit in meetings with the director of the Stasi, Johann Baumann.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” She felt a pang of guilt at the rush of suspicion that had overtaken her.
“Besides,” Wolfgang added, “Atcho has already been identified in the Western press. The Washington Herald ran the story just before I came over here. It was picked up by the newswires. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.”
Sofia stared, stunned, recalling that Jeff had seen someone looking like Collins in the café. Then she gathered her wits, and once again forced calm on herself. “As you say,” she murmured, “what a world we live in.”
She focused back on the mission. “Yes, that’s my husband, but your concern is to be ready with that press release on the ninth. Let me worry about Atcho.” She looked at her watch. “Okay, you’ve seen me, you know the operation is legitimate. Unless you have questions, we’d better be going. The next time you see my face will be the signal to read the announcement.” She turned to Jeff. “Get me to the embassy, and then back to the hotel.”
Wolfgang tapped her. “To better times,” he said brusquely. He held her by the shoulders and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I’ll be ready.”
Collins sat in the foyer of the Mövenpick, reflecting on the events that had entangled him with Atcho last year. The reporter had gone to New York to cover the last meeting between President Ronald Reagan and the General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party, Mikhail Gorbachev. He had had no great expectations for the story, just routine coverage of the two leaders’ last official visit while both were still in office.
Then, as Collins had trailed behind them with the press gaggle at the Long Island estate, a door had opened, and Atcho had stepped through. He had stood there only momentarily with a Secret Service agent, and then had stepped back and closed the door. However, in that brief moment, Collins had seen Ronald Reagan make deliberate eye contact with Atcho, and then nudge Gorbachev. The Soviet leader had also made eye contact, nodded slightly, and moved on.
His curiosity piqued, Collins had pursued the lead and had subsequently become embroiled in one of the most intriguing episodes of his career. One piece of information Collins still did not know was what had happened with Yermolov, the rogue Soviet general who had mounted a coup attempt against Gorbachev. The newsman had followed up lightly and had been told that the information was classified. That had not been surprising. Other stories had taken his attention, so he had let the matter drop. Now he wondered. He hoped Jakes would turn up some answers.
Twelve hours later, Jakes called again. “Bull’s-eye!”
“Calm down,” Collins replied. “What are you talking about?”
“Your hunch. It was a good one.”
“That’s great to hear. Which one? Start over and explain slowly.”
“Sorry. I did as you asked and checked with Pentagon sources on the whereabouts of Yermolov. Recall that he spied for the Soviet Union as a US Air Force officer for thirty years.”
“I know all that. He was a lieutenant general, aka Paul Clary. What did they do with him?”
“Atcho turned him over to two US generals, one a Marine and one Air Force. In the Azores.”
“I remember that. Then what?”
“The helicopter that picked Yermolov up never made it to the USS Enterprise. It crashed on the way, with no survivors.”
Collins sat back, stunned. “So he’s dead? I guess that closes that possibility.”
“Wait. I had our researchers scan through any sources they could find about the crash. One of our bright guys found an article about it in the Air Force Times from nearly a year ago. It’s short.” He read it to Collins. “Here’s the important part: ‘A US Marine helicopter on a routine training mission crashed in the Atlantic Ocean four days ago near the Azores. No survivors were found. The identities of those missing are being withheld pending notification of the families. In a rare coincidence, a local fisherman identified as Gonçalo Alvarenga went missing. His dinghy was found listing in shallow waters off the east coast of Terceira, the main island in the same archipelago. He is overdue by four days. A search is underway but will soon turn into a recovery mission.’”
Collins sucked in his breath. “Are we saying that Yermolov could be alive?”
“That’s a possibility, and he could be free. The fisherman was in the area where the helicopter went down. We don’t know what happened to him.”
Both men were quiet, thinking. Then Collins broke in. “Jakes, get your assistant to order me a ticket for the fastest way to the Azores. I’ll head to my hotel to get my things and then go to the airport.”
11
Borya Yermolov stood in Stasi Director Johann Baumann’s office. He rubbed a scar on his chest under his shirt. It instantly refreshed a memory of hand-to-hand combat in Havana two years ago. He remembered vividly the searing pain when Atcho had turned his own knife on him and plunged it deep between his ribs. Those scars still ached occasionally, particularly in the bitterly cold weather of East Berlin, as did the scars on his leg. Atcho had shot him there last year, bringing to a dismal end Yermolov’s ambition of ruling over the Soviet Union with its nuclear arsenal.
They thought they were done with me. He had thought so too. The huge Antonov An-225 Mriya, the flying six-engine beast designed to ferry the Soviet space orbiter, was to have provided his triumphal passage to Moscow. Instead, it had become his mammoth detainment cell as Atcho and his team had commandeered the aircraft, subdued him, and flown him to Lajes Air Base in the Azores. They had not seen the fishing dinghy below where Gonçalo had watched the aircraft on its final descent.
Yermolov remembered being in a drugged state when he was taken from the Mriya on a gurney, his leg still swollen from where Atcho had shot him. Marine MPs had transferred him to a waiting helicopter. He did not remember much of the next several minutes except that he had heard a loud clanging noise, felt the sensation of dropping through the air, and then had been immersed in water. The next thing he remembered was lying in the bottom of a boat under a blanket.
The morphine must have been wearing off, because the agony had started up again. Then he had seen the fisherman staring at his handcuffed wrists, his bloody leg, and his Soviet uniform. His instincts had told him he had to act.
He did not wait. Ignoring pain and the effects of drugs, and when Gonçalo’s back was turned, Yermolov had struggled to his feet, lunged with the same pole used to save his life, and beat the fisherman’s head in with it. Then he had wrestled the lifeless body over the side and watched it disappear into the waves.
Yermolov had then checked the boat’s wake. It was straight, but a storm was moving in. His head had cleared from the adrenaline generated by his brief struggle. Surmising that the fisherman had been cruising toward shore and out of the way of the storm, he had stumbled to the cabin and checked the heading.
He had made landfall and beached in a secluded cove, sheltered from the wind. Then the storm had rolled in, bringing torrential rain.
That night had seemed endless. Throwing a blanket over his shoulders in the wheelhouse, he had worked by the light of a dim lantern to nurse his wounds with a first-aid kit rummaged from a cabinet. Then, he had filed off his handcuffs using a tool he found in Gonça
lo’s toolbox.
“Comrade Yermolov.” Stasi Director Baumann indicated another man entering the office. “You wanted to see Ranulf?”
Yermolov’s brow immediately creased with anger. “Yes.” His mood was dark. He turned to Ranulf. “How did you screw up this operation so royally?”
Ranulf’s anxiety took a leap. His options were limited. He could not blame someone else now, here in the office of the Stasi director. Baumann had issued the order. “My fault,” he said at last. His stomach churned. Making such an admission could invite his own demise. “I should have sent more men and planned more carefully.”
Yermolov’s fury was obvious in the bulging muscle between his eyes.
“Klaus called,” Baumann interceded. “He has Atcho. Here. In the East.”
Ranulf stared, dumbfounded. “Where?” That was all he could manage.
“He won’t say. He’s positive that you sent a hit squad after him and his brother.”
“I did,” Ranulf blurted. “They’re crazy. They killed eight of our men in one night.”
“Listen to me.” Yermolov moved between Ranulf and Baumann, his tone venomous. “I should shoot you myself. But we don’t have much time.”
Ranulf swallowed. Baumann threw a hard look at Yermolov. “I’ll deal with my men,” he said tersely.
Yermolov whirled on him. “The Wall is coming down. Unless we stop it. Do you understand? We’re talking days, not weeks.” He read Baumann’s anger. “You let Erik Honecker be driven from office. Your Stasi lost control of the people. Your men hovered around the demonstrators without lifting a finger.” Rage sparked in his eyes. “A million people marched in East Berlin, and your men stood by and watched.” Perspiration beaded on his forehead. “Why didn’t your men use their guns? You let the genie out. Only extreme measures can put it back.”
He stepped closer to the director. “Do you wish to continue your life under Soviet security?”
The director moved not an inch. His nostrils flared. The two men stood toe to toe, eye to eye.