by Lee Jackson
“I regretted doing it the first time. I can’t do it again.”
“I know you love your family,” Yermolov replied with a menacing undertone. “I’ll get the materials to you. You build what I need and bring it to me in East Berlin. This is not a request.”
Taken aback by the implied threat, Veniamin understood for the first time the full nature of his distant cousin. He threw out a question, and immediately regretted it. “Did you know that a news reporter came to see me at the beginning of this year? Tony Collins. He traced the bomb to me and wanted to know where I got the plutonium.”
Startled, Yermolov hid his annoyance that he had not learned this before now. “I know Collins. He interviewed me as General Clary a few years ago. What did you tell him?”
“Only that we were distant cousins. He would have guessed anyway. We resemble each other.”
Yermolov was skeptical that Collins could have pieced that tidbit together, but he was not immediately worried. Collins would believe him to be either dead or incarcerated by the Marines. He pressed Veniamin on the issue of the new bomb, once again issuing a veiled threat. “I want only the best for your family.”
That conversation seemed to have resolved Yermolov’s problems with Veniamin, at least for the present. Handling him should not be difficult. Keep the vision of lots of money in front of him—and keep him afraid.
Baumann’s underling, Ranulf, also presented an obstacle. The fool’s failed mission to abduct Atcho had forced Yermolov into a more visible role.
Ranulf had balked when told that a second bomb was needed. That had been in Baumann’s office. “Who is this guy?” he had demanded, glaring at the Stasi director. Then he had turned to face Yermolov directly. “Do you think it’s easy to get two million dollars together? In East Germany? And do it so that no one knows? Can you even get the materials on that short notice?”
Baumann’s pointed reprimand had brought Ranulf to heel. Yermolov’s face had distorted with anger. “The materials are not the issue,” he had retorted. “They will be delivered to Veniamin. You don’t need to know how I do that. Let’s leave it that my network is stronger than yours. You just need to deliver the money to pay Veniamin.”
Ranulf had sat back with reluctance bordering on hostility as Yermolov and the director had continued talking. Then suddenly his eyes had narrowed, and he had leaned forward with interest. At the conclusion, he had seemed eager to proceed.
Yermolov had watched Ranulf closely, studying his changed expressions. With that much money, he might imagine himself in a chalet in the Swiss Alps.
Further complicating Yermolov’s situation was how to make all the pieces come together. He thought he understood the motivations of each person in his plan, starting with the Stasi director. Having planted the seed of ambition, he thought the man now aspired to East Germany’s highest leadership position.
Klaus and Etzel were more difficult to assess, but Yermolov believed he understood them as well. Their motivations sprang from religious and regional resentment against Russian rule. Yermolov had overheard the brothers conversing. They were both fluent in at least one Chechen dialect.
That region of the Soviet Union, Chechnya, had long writhed under the Communist yoke. It harbored a desire to be free of its godless masters. The tensions there against Russia stretched back into pre-Soviet history for centuries. During that time much of the population had converted to Sunni Islamism to resist Russian rule.
Throughout those centuries, Chechen history and culture had been inextricably linked to Persia, now modern-day Iran. When students in Tehran had occupied the US Embassy by force in 1979 and held it for 444 days, that action had sparked a movement beyond Iran’s national borders, and specifically into the heart of Chechnya.
Yermolov had overheard the brothers speak of jihad and refer to each other by different names. Etzel called Klaus “Sahab,” and apparently Etzel was known as “Alvi.” Their last name was Kadyrov. They could be counted on to strike at the US and the Soviet Union as long as they could hit a target of their own choosing.
The problem with the brothers was that they operated independently and had a network of their own. How else could they have gotten into and out of the hotel in West Berlin and spirited Atcho to the east side? And now they held Atcho—or said they did. Controlling them relies on meeting their ambitions, which cannot conflict with mine.
Then there’s Atcho. Yermolov realized he had made a mistake in ordering his abduction: killing Atcho outright could have been made to look like a random mugging gone bad. That would have solved the issue. The brothers could have done it easily. He heaved a sigh. Play the cards you’ve got. When it’s an empty hand, bluff.
The phone rang. Mindful of intelligence listening posts, Yermolov kept the call short, delivering a brutal message cloaked in a pleasant tone.
“You’ll be a rich man, Cousin,” Yermolov laughed. “I know you love your family. I need three of those items. The price is right. The materials will arrive tomorrow. Deliver them personally in three days. Am I clear?”
When Veniamin started to protest, Yermolov allowed an edge into his voice. “It’s difficult, but I have confidence in you. You’ll get it done because of what it means to your family. Call again tomorrow to report progress.” Having no doubt that Veniamin grasped the implied threat, he hung up.
His next phone call was to the Stasi director. “There’s been a new development. I need to see you and Ranulf at your office in one hour.” He waited only long enough to hear an affirmative response and hung up.
Command is never granted. It is taken.
16
Yermolov strode into Baumann’s office exactly one hour later. As he had expected, Baumann had alerted security to let him through. The rogue general took a position against the wall behind the desk. “Where is Ranulf?”
The director had been writing at his desk. He looked up, startled at Yermolov’s brusque demeanor.
Baumann stood, a look of consternation crossing his face. “What’s happened?” His voice wavered. He was not accustomed to such take-charge confidence in his presence, and he was not yet sure of Yermolov’s capabilities. He suddenly felt his age.
“Wait until Ranulf gets here. Is he on the way?”
At that moment, Ranulf entered.
“You’re late,” Yermolov snapped. The other two men were taken aback. The effrontery was obvious and deliberate. “Listen to me, gentlemen.” Yermolov spoke harshly. “We’ve played around long enough with this plan to save East Germany. It’s time to act.” He turned to the director. “Who assigned those men who first went after Atcho?”
Still struggling to conceal his shock at Yermolov’s brazen entry, the director gestured toward Ranulf. “He did. Naturally—"
“Exactly. And whose men got the job done?” Neither Ranulf nor the director could hide their unease. Yermolov answered his own question. “Mine. I brought them here. They got Atcho. I have a whole platoon just like them ready to come on my order. Let’s hope things don’t come to that.”
His hard eyes fastened on Baumann. “Do you want to save this country? Or are you hoping for the best when your trial takes place in The Hague?” The director’s eyes glittered. “Let me tell you,” Yermolov continued, “if we don’t act, East Germany is finished, within days.”
The director opened his mouth to speak, his expression ominous.
“Don’t,” Yermolov growled. “We don’t have time for histrionics. Your government is already irrelevant. The Stasi is the only remaining force capable of reversing course. As of this moment, I command the Stasi. It—you—report to me.” He cast a piercing glance at Ranulf. “You are at my personal disposal. Do you understand?”
Both men stared in shock. “I’ll be plain. Time is critical. If you do what I say, you will prosper.” He straightened to full height. “If you don’t, you won’t live out the day.”
They understood the direct threat. Yermolov indicated a sofa and chair in front of the desk. “Please, h
ave a seat.”
Baumann reached for his phone.
“Don’t,” Yermolov warned. “You’ll be dead before anyone comes through that door.”
Baumann hesitated. Yermolov strode to his desk and ripped open the middle drawer. “You’re old,” he said, jerking a pistol from the drawer. “Ranulf can’t help you.”
The two men stared at him. “I mean you no harm,” he said, “but I demand your cooperation.”
While Ranulf and the director sat down, Yermolov circled purposefully behind the desk and took the director’s chair. “You’ll get your office back,” he told Baumann. “For now, the Stasi will act at my direction to govern East Germany. When our plan is executed, you’ll become the Party general secretary, select your own Stasi director, and help me make my move on the Soviet Union. Do you understand?”
Baumann’s face had turned a ghostly white. He nodded.
“Good. Then you will now develop a plan to arrest the ministers, directors, and of course the general secretary. Make sure the army senior commanders and staff are under control at the outset. When the bomb goes off, you’ll round them up. Some might be allowed to keep their positions. We’ll see. Do you understand?” He did not wait for a reply. “This action will reinvigorate your officers. We need people who will not hesitate to shoot into crowds.”
Color had returned to the director’s face. “What happens if we have another mass exodus through Czechoslovakia? Honecker tried to stop it. He failed.”
Yermolov knew Baumann referred to the crowds that had traveled through Czechoslovakia to Hungary earlier in the year and then on to West Germany. Hungary had intended to facilitate East German tourist travel to West Germany. As word had spread, people had left their homes and belongings and flocked to Hungary. From there, they had crossed the border into West Germany by the tens of thousands, never to return.
Then General Secretary Erich Honecker had responded by closing East Germany’s Czech borders. The population had protested. Small demonstrations across the country had escalated into large ones, culminating in the huge protest in Leipzig that had been broadcast to the world and precipitated the current crisis.
“Honecker was no longer prepared to shoot people in masses,” Yermolov said. “I am. We’ll make sure the border with Czechoslovakia stays closed. The first person who resists will serve as a bloody example to everyone else.”
Baumann fought down his reaction to the menace in Yermolov’s voice. “What about my KGB liaison? He could be a problem? Let’s face it—the KGB still controls actions here. Gorbachev—”
“Forget Gorbachev. The Kremlin won’t know how to react. The people on this side of the Wall will stay in their houses. We’ll order a curfew and shoot anyone violating it or moving toward the Wall. We might throw a few people into the street and shoot them to make the point. Make sure they’re people without useful skills.” He smirked. “I like that idea.
“When the second bomb goes off in Chechnya, that will be the end for Gorbachev. Use discretion with your KGB liaison. If need be, shoot him.”
Baumann raised an eyebrow. “Why Chechnya?”
“Because the Chechens hate the Soviets. They would gladly blow up something belonging to Moscow. They’ll hope that will end Soviet rule.” He laughed. “It won’t. But the threat of the breakup of the Soviet Union will end Gorbachev and his silly policies. As soon as he’s gone, we’ll send troops to quell any revolt in Chechnya.”
Despite his years of practiced cruelty, Baumann was startled at Yermolov’s willingness to betray. He asked his next question cautiously. “Why will Soviet leadership turn to you?”
Yermolov smiled. “Because I’ll be in Moscow then. I’ll make the arrest and take charge of the politburo, by force if necessary. My team is there now. You’re familiar with how close we came last year?” He still doesn’t know I’m bluffing.
The director nodded. He said nothing.
“It’ll be a bloody day,” Yermolov said reflectively. “Do you have any questions?”
Ranulf had sat quietly, unnerved by the sheer audacity of what he heard. It was too big-picture for him to evaluate, but one thing he noted: Baumann accepted Yermolov as his direct superior, maybe even warming to the notion. “Sir.” He directed his question to Yermolov. “What do you need from me?”
In his practiced manner, Yermolov reverted to the amiable personality of Lieutenant General Paul Clary, US Air Force. “It’s good that you asked. You have a very important part to play. First of all, I need another bomb. Three, total.”
Ranulf sucked in his breath. “Three bombs? Do have any idea of the cost?”
“Yes.” Yermolov smiled agreeably. “And I have an idea that you wouldn’t mind living out your existence in Switzerland or one of the tax havens in the Caribbean. With such a large sum, no one would miss an extra million or so.”
Ranulf pulled back. “Please, sir. I never thought such a thing. I live to serve the East German state and the Communist Party.”
“I’m sure that’s true. I need three million dollars here in two days. I’ve studied your record enough to know that you’re the man to get it done. If you need to use extreme persuasion…” His voice took on dark overtones. “If you’re not up to the task, I’ll get someone else. I’m sure you’ve already started the process. And”—he feigned a friendlier tone— “if you want to take out a larger amount to reward yourself and your helpers and share in this office”—he cast a glance at the director—“I doubt you’ll find an objection.” He paused again in thought. “As we settle into this new world order, I’ll need someone to be my eyes and ears in other parts of the world. Will you be up to that?”
Ranulf could not believe his good fortune. “Yes, sir. Anything that serves the Party. I’ll get the money here. Anything else?”
“Yes. Call your hit squads off of Klaus and Etzel.”
Ranulf squirmed.
Yermolov glared at him. “I need the brothers to move about freely without getting shot.” He paused to reflect. “Who knows—when you go traveling, those squads might prove useful.” His voice turned deadly again. “Take care of that. Do it now.” He looked at his watch. “I want a report tomorrow morning by ten o’clock that you have corrected the situation.” He swung around to Baumann. “We’ll meet again here then for updates.”
Baumann acquiesced with a nod. Ranulf hurried from the office.
17
A gray overcast dawn broke over Berlin. Atcho stirred. He had walked for miles through the night, always staying in the darkest areas, with West Berlin at his back and ducking into hidden spaces when other people or a vehicle approached.
Around midnight, he had found shelter in an old shed at the back of an abandoned garden. Hungry and approaching exhaustion, he rested there. With winter cold setting in and just his sweaty jacket to provide warmth, he slept only intermittently.
He woke with a start, his mind numb, his body responding to survival instinct. He had to move before someone spotted him and reported a stranger in the neighborhood. The embassy was his objective, but without the ability to speak German, not knowing how many men Klaus had, or how omnipresent the Stasi and its informants were, he was in no position to stop strangers and ask for help. The best he could do was find the Wall and use it as a guide.
Scanning around before he made a move, he left his hideaway. The cold permeated down into his bones. He ducked his chin into his jacket and walked against the wind toward the sounds of a waking city.
Soon he turned onto a street with heavier traffic and pedestrians along the sidewalk. He watched for clusters of people walking by and gravitated into the center until they naturally dispersed. Then he waited for the next group in which he could hide in plain sight. He looked scruffy after his two-day ordeal, but, in a city of unhappy people, he did not stand out.
He had entered a main thoroughfare when he saw something unexpected: an olive-drab–colored sedan. It was noteworthy only in that it was larger than most of the few cars on the road, and it w
as American made. A Flag Tour sedan.
Sofia had told him about the elite intelligence teams whose attention concentrated on East Berlin. She explained that per an agreement signed in 1947, each of the Alliance members governing Germany could send small groups into each other’s sectors. “Their formal job is to assert our continued rights of travel and circulation in the other sectors. In reality, we all use our groups to collect intelligence. And we all follow each other’s cars in our own sectors. It’s a game, but it can be deadly.”
Sofia had said that each of the American sedans would carry a US decal and a US military license plate. Because they were designed to blend in, those items were difficult to spot.
A loose plan formed in Atcho’s mind, but it depended on being certain that the vehicle was one of the US Flag Tour cars. He moved to the edge of the sidewalk. Although traffic was sparse, detecting a tailing vehicle was difficult from street level. He would have only seconds to act.
The car moved closer. Atcho’s breath came in short, staggered gasps. He glanced around to see where policemen or other security personnel might be.
Two stood directly across the street. Another was off to his right and a fourth was close to his left rear. He slowed his pace and let a gaggle of pedestrians move ahead of him.
Edging closer to the street, he gauged the car’s speed and the distance between the point where it would pass and the closest policeman.
Then he spotted the flag decal. When the car was only ten feet to his left front, he darted in front of it and threw up his hands.
“I’m an American!” he yelled. “I’m an American. I was kidnapped.”
The car screeched to a halt. The men inside looked stricken. They stared at him, and then turned attention to their surroundings.