Vortex- Berlin

by Lee Jackson

  “I’m not either,” Shelby interrupted, his voice steely. His expression did not change. He shifted his attention to Ivan, Rafael, and the Brigade 2506 veterans. “Is that why they’re here? Do they have clearances?”

  Sofia stood. “I’m responsible.” She directed her comment to Shelby. “I didn’t brief you. I apologize. They’re here because Atcho sent for them, to get my relatives out.”

  The general shot her a piercing glance. “I hadn’t heard about that.” He turned to Shelby. “Had you?”

  “Negative.”

  Marsh shifted his eyes back to Sofia. “Fill us in.”

  Sofia did, including who the men were and how they were connected to Atcho. “My husband called Burly a few hours before he was taken,” she concluded. “No one knew then about the bombs, or that Yermolov might have escaped. Atcho knew I couldn’t ask for Army, CIA, or state department support to get my family out. He sent for his own team.”

  The general listened thoughtfully. He conferred in hushed whispers with Shachnow, Shelby, Melger, and the brigade intelligence officer. When they were finished, he addressed Sofia.

  “I’ll tell you frankly, I don’t like operational surprises.” He shifted his attention to Burly. “We don’t have time for formalities. Are you vouching for these men? Including the Russian? I hear he’s former KGB.”

  Burly stood. “Yes sir, I am.” He gave a rapid rundown on each person.

  When he had finished, Atcho stood up next to him. He indicated Juan, Pepe, and Fernando. “Sir, I met these three men a few hours ago, but I fought alongside Rafael and Ivan. I’d trust my life to either of them. Rafael tells me these men are good. On his word, I’ll trust my life to them too.”

  The general sat quietly, and then turned his attention to Sofia. “Are you okay with that? Your mission is critical. You can’t afford to be distracted. Your husband will hunt down Yermolov and three suitcase nukes.” He paused, contemplating the gravity of what he had just said. “He’ll do that simultaneous with your mission, and it hinges on Wolfgang Sacher seeing you personally. That’s a lot of pressure. Can you handle it?”

  Sofia gestured toward her own team members. “They’ve proven themselves on other ops. I trust them. I can handle it.” Then she cast her eyes at her husband. “Atcho can handle his part. If he trusts these men, I do too.”

  All eyes were trained on Marsh and Sofia. Burly eased the tension by retaking his seat. Sofia followed suit. After a few moments, Atcho also sat down.

  Marsh looked across at Shelby. “What do you think?”

  The station chief took his time to answer. “I don’t like that I wasn’t clued in on the third mission earlier,” he began.

  Sofia held her breath.

  Shelby fiddled with a pen while he collected his thoughts. “Sofia.” His direct address startled her. “Do you understand that your primary mission is Wolfgang, his family, and his intended announcement? The stakes are high.” He tapped his pen while he leaned back in thought. “Substituting someone for you would spook Wolfgang, that’s for sure.

  “I don’t want to stand in the way of the Wall coming down, but I can’t have you going rogue to do something else mid-mission.” He frowned. “You’ve been known to go off on your own.”

  Sofia’s cheeks flamed. “I understand, sir. I have one mission. I won’t interfere in the others or fail to complete mine.”

  Shelby turned his attention to Marsh. “Can you get them all into East Berlin and provide the logistical support? And get them back out if things go wrong?”

  “I can,” Marsh said. “But I won’t take them in unless you approve the missions.” He looked through his notes. “To clarify, I’ll support only those missions you approve.”

  Shelby fiddled with his pen again. “I’m inclined to go with the first two,” he began. “That third one…” He started to shake his head.

  Rafael sprang to his feet. “Sir, may I speak?” Marsh consented with a nod. “These men and I,” he indicated Juan, Fernando, and Pepe, “we all have military backgrounds. Every operation we’ve been in was organized by the CIA. Ivan was KGB, but he’s proven himself and he’s also worked with the CIA.”

  He turned his attention to Shelby. “Sofia’s mission was planned with her in mind before she was even consulted. I’ve worked with her. She is one of the most effective officers in the CIA. You know that. She’ll give the mission her all. But how could you ask her to do this and not think about her loved ones living a short distance away? And her husband out chasing nukes? Yermolov is a sideshow.

  “If you want to give her the clearest mind possible, then support this third mission. She’s already factored in the dangers to Atcho, but when she knows that her family is being rescued, then the only mission for her to concentrate on is her own.”

  He searched Shelby’s immutable face. “Sir, I have only one thing left to say. Meaning no disrespect,” he gestured again toward Ivan, Juan, and the others, “we will complete the mission with your help or without it. We will rescue Sofia’s family.” He stopped talking and looked at the floor. When he looked up again, he grinned impudently, and his voice returned to its normal jocular tone. “But we sure could use your help.”

  Shelby felt a half smile slip onto his face. He surveyed Rafael’s group and saw five sets of determined eyes returning his scrutiny. Sofia looked straight ahead, professional. Atcho and Burly watched without expression.

  Shelby heaved a sigh. “I’ll approve…” he said. Seeing immediate reaction among the group, he held up a palm. “…with caveats.” He focused on Atcho. “The idea of you going out alone to do this thing is not realistic. You don’t know where Yermolov is, and neither do we. But we have a lot of resources. The president is personally interested.

  “You know this Yermolov better than anyone. We’ll support you with all the assets we can. That includes listening intel and human assets on the ground. If we see him first, we’ll nab him. If you hear something, you tell us. That goes for his cousin and the Chechen too. Is that understood?”

  “I don’t have a death wish.”

  Shelby half smiled again, looked across at Marsh, and heaved a sigh. “General, you have your answer. All three missions are a go.”

  Marsh leaned back in his chair. He took a deep breath and addressed the group. “Let’s be clear. The mission to get Yermolov and the nukes is primary. It requires irregular entry into East Berlin. We’ll add our assets to the CIA’s. If we see those SOBs first, we’ll haul them in, dead or alive.

  “If things go wrong and we can’t rescue you, all three missions will be disavowed. Do each of you understand what that means?”

  “We know the lay of the land,” Atcho said.

  Marsh sat quietly, his fingers drumming on the table. “What do you need from me?” he asked Burly.

  “Get our teams into East Berlin, and provide us with secure radios. Give me a secure room with radio and personnel support where I can coordinate mission execution.”

  Marsh leaned forward. “All right. We can do that. You can use this room.” He turned to Colonel Melger. “Get him set up.”

  He shifted his attention back to the full group. “Now, let me tell you what we know. The White House Situation Room is active and following the situation. I told them an attack could be imminent. We don’t have time for studies, commissions, specialists, etcetera. We’re going with what we have in this room to deal with the problem. That’s a go with POTUS.”

  Another layer of gravity seemed to descend on the participants. “The embassy is taking quiet action to safeguard our personnel,” Marsh continued. “The Soviets have been notified. I imagine they’re doing the same thing.

  “The KGB was already aware of Yermolov’s presence in Berlin. For reasons I don’t understand, Gorbachev seemed to have been left out of the loop until the president informed him.

  “Nestor Murin, the KGB chief, has a personal relationship with Johann Baumann, the Stasi director. That should have made Yermolov more visible, but it didn’t
. Both countries are in political turmoil, so it’s anyone’s guess what’s going on. My view: there’s an internal struggle for control of the KGB. Anyway, Gorbachev promised KGB cooperation on the ground here, but so far, we haven’t seen it.”

  The general looked down at his notes. “Veniamin Krivkov, the bomb maker, is on the move. With the information Collins gave, our people in France tracked down his house. He left a day ago. If he’s coming this way, he won’t drive up the corridor—too many checkpoints. We’ll monitor that route, but I’ll bet he comes through East Germany, under protection. Only one organization can pull that off.”

  “The Stasi.” The intelligence officer’s eyes narrowed as he spoke. “In which case, it’s cooperating with Yermolov. The East German government’s lost control of it. It’s operating on its own.”

  The general stood abruptly. “That makes sense. Baumann is the last hard-liner left in place. It stands to reason that he might bolt and try to take his organization with him. He could be harboring Yermolov. I’ll alert Washington about that possibility.”

  Marsh looked around at the concerned faces. “Colonel Melger will coordinate with the CIA and provide top priority support for the missions.” He turned to Atcho. “I have more questions about your piece of this. Let’s discuss in my office. Now. We’ll do everything we can to prevent use of the bombs.” His eyes narrowed. “The president was happy to hear that you’re safe and on the case.”

  He glanced around the room. “Thirty hours is not much time. That leaves no room for error.” Then, leaning toward Atcho, he pointed a finger. “You’re going to find that son-of-a-bitch Yermolov. Don’t walk away until you’ve confirmed he has no pulse.”

  24

  As soon as Tony Collins had left Burly at Atcho’s guest quarters, he had taken a flight to Paris and rented a car. That was yesterday. He had dispensed with caution when he decided on this trip to France. Feeling guilty about not having reported his contact with Veniamin Krivkov last winter, he hoped that intercepting the bomb maker might help defeat Yermolov.

  He spent that evening at a tavern in the village north of Paris where he had interviewed Veniamin all those months ago. There, he found members of the Rasputin group he had befriended. Through subtle questioning, he learned that Veniamin had gone to a weekend home several miles farther north.

  Collins drove out the next morning and located a barn that Veniamin had converted into a weekend getaway. He arrived just as Veniamin pulled out of the gravel driveway. Collins followed, hoping to catch him. After a few miles of back roads, Veniamin turned onto a highway headed northeast.

  Collins groaned. He’s headed to Berlin.

  He glanced at his fuel gauge and his dismay deepened: his gas tank was low. He followed as long as he dared, noting that Veniamin drove at a languid pace.

  They crossed into West Germany and entered the Autobahn, famous for unlimited speed limits, where Mercedes and Porsches whizzed by at more than a hundred miles per hour.

  Veniamin continued to poke along.

  Collins pulled even and glanced at him. Veniamin drove as if in a trance, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, seemingly oblivious to anything around him. His jaw was set, his shoulders slumped. To Collins, he looked like a man on his way to meet Fate.

  Collins’ stomach knotted. His fuel would run out soon. He watched in dismay as Veniamin continued down the Autobahn while Collins was forced to exit and fill up.

  A few minutes later, his fuel replenished, Collins pulled back into traffic and raced along the highway, watching for Veniamin’s car. Ten hours later, he entered a lot and parked near the border crossing into East Germany. He had not seen Veniamin along the way. He must have stopped somewhere.

  Collins peered at the cars lined up on the side of the border closest to him. The crossing took its name from the nearest village in West Germany, Helmstedt. The East German side was named for the corresponding closest village, Marienborn. Together they comprised Checkpoint Alpha, aka the Helmstedt–Marienborn checkpoint. It was the largest and busiest of the border crossings between the two halves of divided Germany, situated on the line separating the British and Soviet occupation zones.

  Another hour turned into two more, and still Collins saw no sight of Veniamin. He was about to give up and head back to Paris when he saw Veniamin’s car limp into the area. It seemed to slow further, as if Veniamin were taking stock of his surroundings. Then it entered the flow of traffic and headed toward the crossing point.

  Collins cranked up his engine, jammed the car into gear, and maneuvered to follow. The lines of cars converged and slowed to a crawl.

  Veniamin was several cars ahead of Collins. Closing the gap was impossible.

  Ahead, a British soldier stood beside each lane, clearing travelers to proceed into East Germany. Collins watched Veniamin drive up to one of them. Moments later, Veniamin had passed the British checkpoint and driven into East Germany.

  Collins hurried after him as quickly as traffic, prudence, and the East German machine gun–armed border guards allowed. By the time he caught up with Veniamin, the engineer had parked at a customs inspection station.

  Collins watched Veniamin climb out of the vehicle as if in a daze and walk to the back of his car under the vigilant eye of two border guards and a uniformed passport control officer. A man in plain clothes strode up behind them. From the way the others reacted to this official’s presence, the reporter could tell that the man exercised authority.

  Collins gulped. Stasi!

  He watched Veniamin, trembling visibly, lean down and open the trunk.

  25

  When Veniamin had driven into Helmstedt, he had looked about worriedly, taking in the mass of cars and trucks converging on the border crossing ahead. It terrified him. The prospect of entering East Germany struck fear to his core, more so now given his deadly cargo.

  Running off either side of the complex as far as Veniamin could see were two parallel razor-sharp fences with wide killing fields between them, and concrete watchtowers, guards with machine guns, minefields, hungry dogs, and motion-activated shotguns. Those fortifications were well lit at night and ran over eight hundred miles, from the Baltic Sea to the Czech border. They assured that the citizenry did not escape.

  After nearly fourteen hours of driving, Veniamin was almost sick with exhaustion. His stomach churned. He had barely paid attention to the scenic countryside on his five-hundred-mile drive from his town north of Paris. For the duration of the trip, Yermolov’s words uttered four days ago had replayed ceaselessly in his mind. I know you love your family. The materials will arrive tomorrow. Deliver the completed items personally in three days. Am I clear?

  You were all too clear, Cousin. He had no doubt about Yermolov’s willingness and ability to carry out the implied threat. To Veniamin’s chagrin, the delivery had indeed been ready. In the trunk of his car now were three small matching suitcases.

  Yermolov had been right about Veniamin’s family. Veniamin doted on a son and a daughter. Each had blessed him with three grandchildren, who now ranged in age from infancy to twelve years. He loved weekends when both families came to his house.

  He cursed the day he had learned of the existence of his distant cousin. He knew little of Yermolov’s background. They had almost nothing in common except that they both had descended from Grigori Rasputin, the Siberian mystic. The legendary political vagabond, known for an insatiable sexual appetite, had left behind an unknown number of bastards, including two sons who had sired the cousins.

  Yermolov had been born in the United States. He had spent his adult life there as a deep cover spy for the KGB, in the US Air Force. Veniamin, on the other hand, had escaped from Ukraine and had grown to maturity in France.

  Yermolov had found Veniamin through a group of Russian refugees in Paris. They belonged to an obscure sect of the Russian Orthodox Church that revered Rasputin. Oddly, despite their disparate backgrounds, both cousins had become nuclear engineers—the only other element common between t
hem.

  Yermolov had offered one million dollars for each nuke to tantalize Veniamin. Despite the sum, only the real threat to Veniamin’s family had motivated him to comply. Now, he found himself in the grip of unspeakable horror: Yermolov will set off three nuclear bombs that I made. He pictured cities in flames with radioactive fallout raining down from darkened skies on the skeletal remains of innocent humans. How will I live with that?

  He had aided Yermolov in the last conspiracy out of his desire to help strike a blow against the Soviet Union—against the Kremlin—the power that had destroyed his childhood home and murdered his parents. Yermolov had put him in direct contact with a black-market arms dealer who had provided required amounts of plutonium and other materials. Veniamin had never known the source or arrangements: he had not asked.

  He had brought the technical skill to design and build the bomb. Yermolov had assured him that he intended to use it as a last resort, to blackmail the Soviet regime into capitulation.

  Veniamin recalled his secret feelings at the time. I wanted him to bomb the Kremlin. Now the thought caused him shame. To his relief, the conspiracy seemed to have died, because he had heard nothing more about it. The Soviet government had continued about its business with no outward show of disruption.

  This time, though, Yermolov intended to detonate the bombs: he had made that clear.

  Veniamin recalled the moment that Yermolov had called from Lisbon, requesting funds to travel to France. Veniamin had felt suddenly nauseated. Two days later, Yermolov had arrived at the train station in his village. His cousin had looked thinner than when they had seen each other a few weeks earlier. He now walked with a limp. No explanation had been offered, and Veniamin had not inquired about the injured leg.

  Yermolov’s behavior had changed too. Whereas he had exuded confidence while organizing the conspiracy last year, now he seemed furtive, urgent, desperate—even more lethal.