by Lee Jackson
Burly leaned over her, his face somber. “Take it easy. You’re in the Army emergency room. Your arm took a serious shot. The doc patched an artery.”
Sofia tried to speak. Her words came out in hoarse gasps. “Atcho? My family? Wolfgang?”
“Wolfgang’s family made it through in great shape, thanks to you. He carried you out of East Berlin. Your family’s fine. They’re at the embassy. The worst that could happen to them now is that they spend some time in that bomb shelter. I promised to get you on the phone to them as soon as you’re strong enough.”
“And Atcho? Where’s Atcho?”
Burly grimaced. “We lost contact,” he said slowly. “We don’t know where he is.”
Sofia stared. She took a deep breath against a chaotic lurch of emotion. “Give me a few minutes. Coffee would help. I’ll call my cousin. Where’s the phone?” It was on a side table. Burly dialed the number and pressed the receiver to her ear. She held it with the hand of her healthy arm, and he left the room.
“Miriam, is that really you?” She spoke almost in a whisper, choking back tears. “How are Uncle and Auntie?”
They spoke for a few minutes, switching between English and German.
“We saw TV reports,” Miriam said. “People are dancing on top of the Wall. They’re using sledgehammers and picks to tear it down by the Brandenburg Gate. Can you believe it? The border guards are just standing around. They don’t know what to do.
“Mom and Dad are watching. They’re determined to walk through that gate as soon as it clears.”
“Make certain it’s safe,” Sofia murmured. The bombs are still out there. “I’ll come to meet you. Call me before you head over.”
Miriam’s voice suddenly took on a note of concern. “The team that helped us was incredible. They carried Mom and Dad, and our son. My husband carried our daughter. Everyone’s worried about your husband. They want to help him, but they don’t know where he is. Do you know?”
Sofia’s throat constricted. “No,” she rasped. She murmured goodbye and hung up, burying her head in the crook of her good arm.
Back in the car, Atcho found his radio on the floor and called Burly.
“Where’ve you been? We’ve—”
“I dropped my radio,” Atcho interrupted. “Horton’s wounded. We’re taking him to the embassy. That’s the fastest place we can get to. Also, I’ve got one of these suitcases. Something failed. Yermolov tried to detonate but it didn’t work. What should I do with it?”
“Only one?”
“Klaus got away with one. The third one must be someplace at the embassy.”
The radio was silent a moment. “All right. Take it on into the embassy. It’ll be all right. I’ll explain later. What about—?”
“Tell General Marsh, mission accomplished. Yermolov has no pulse.”
“You’re sure?”
“Checked, double-checked, and triple-checked. He won’t bother us again. How about our people? Everyone OK?”
An interval passed before Burly responded. “Everybody’s fine. Sofia’s arm took a bullet, but she’s out of danger.”
Atcho felt like an abyss had opened beneath him. “Are you sure?” His voice caught.
“I’m sure. Don’t come this way tonight. It’ll take hours. Go to the embassy. Sofia’s asleep now, under heavy sedation. Get some rest. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Atcho leaned back in the front seat, all his thoughts and emotion concentrated on Sofia. He pictured their first meeting all those years ago at the Swiss Embassy in Havana. He had been a dirty, smelly political prisoner just released from Castro’s dungeons. She had been there on assignment at the US Interests Section.
She had seen a noble man whose face bore the sorrow of a life destroyed by totalitarian thugs. He had seen a beautiful woman who had gone out of her way to be kind. Berlin was the third covert operation they had worked together. We came so close to losing each other, again.
Lying propped along the back seat in the half-light, Horton sensed Atcho’s change of mood. “Hey, sir. Next time we do this, would you mind standing maybe two feet to your right?” He chuckled. “I’d have had a clear shot, but I had to shoot past your buttocks, an’ if you don’t know what that word means, I’ll tell ya.”
Atcho turned around in the front seat. “Out of curiosity, Joe,” he emphasized the major’s name with a trace of mock sarcasm, “how did you end up unconscious? You hadn’t lost that much blood when I got to you. The pressure of the floor slowed the bleeding until I turned you over.”
“Thanks a lot,” Horton remarked, wearing his most serious face. He could not hold the expression and broke into laughter. Then he groaned from a jab of pain. “That was the damndest thing. The bullet hit. I got off two shots and dove for cover. I forgot it was a narrow hall. I guess my head hit the wall and I knocked myself out.”
Atcho could only shake his head.
As soon as Burly finished speaking with Atcho, he turned to the others in the room. With him were Ivan, Veniamin, the two generals, and the intelligence and operations officers. Burly looked at Marsh and arched his eyebrows.
“I heard,” Marsh said. “Next time you see Atcho, give him an attaboy for me. Same for you, Ivan, and everyone else on those teams. I’ll get my adjutant to develop appropriate recognition. That reporter, Collins, too. Let’s get back to business.”
Veniamin sat across from them at the conference table. He was much less frantic than when he had arrived, but still showed some anxiety.
“Let’s go through this again more slowly,” Burly told him. “I need to understand the part about the bombs. You told me they wouldn’t detonate. Why not?”
“I’ll explain, but what about my family? Can you please make sure they are protected? Those are bad men.”
“We alerted the French government. They put a watch on your family. If everything checks out about the bombs, the US government will provide greater protection and even move you, if you like.”
“Yes. Please. The arms dealers know what I can do. They will never leave me alone. They’ll keep threatening my family.”
“Tell me again why the bombs didn’t work. You said they were viable.”
Veniamin sighed. “I had two wiring systems. One was a dummy. The other was hidden inside the dummy. The hidden line supplied electricity, but only enough to test positive for individual components and the overall system. The battery was large enough, but the hidden system stepped the current down to a fraction of what was needed to detonate the bomb.
“I was worried when Yermolov had two nuclear engineers inspect them. If they had looked any deeper, they would have seen what I did. But they were so scared…”
Burly scratched the back of his neck. “So, are they real bombs?”
“Yes.”
“But they can’t be set off?”
“They can be set off, but they would have to be completely rewired.”
Burly contemplated that. “What about the fail-safe system?”
Veniamin grinned in spite of his nervousness. “That was always a fake. It was never active, even when I set the switches. But who was going to try it?” The others around the table exchanged relieved glances and raised their eyebrows.
“Did I hear Atcho say that he was bringing one in?” Marsh asked.
“That’s right,” Burly replied.
A knock on the door interrupted the discussion. A soldier stuck his head in and addressed the intelligence officer. “Sorry to break in, sir. You told me to go over that Stasi car with a fine-toothed comb for intel before we give it back.”
“Right. Anything worthwhile?”
“I’m not sure. I thought I’d better show you this. It was in the trunk.” He held up a suitcase.
“That’s one of mine,” Veniamin burst out. “Yermolov sent Klaus to plant it at the embassy. Now I can show you.”
Ivan groaned audibly. “That was in the trunk?”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier replied.
Ivan slapped
his hand to his forehead. “And I brought it here. I even had to hotwire the car. Klaus must have had the key.”
When the soldier left, General Marsh sidled up next to Burly. “You know what this means?”
Burly looked grim. “Yes, General. There’s a Chechen terrorist out there with a violent history. He detests both the US and the Soviet Union. In particular, he hates Atcho. And he has a viable nuclear bomb.”
Epilogue
Dawn burst over Berlin, turning the skies the color of flame. Collins had remained all night at his position on the border at Checkpoint Charlie watching the human drama unfold. People kept coming. On crossing into West Berlin, some dropped down and kissed the ground.
Many stopped at the museum. They gazed through the plate-glass window in wonder at the photos of successful escapes—and tragic deaths. Quiet grief over those who had not made it all the way across followed recognition of people and scenes remembered. East Berliners filed in and out and went to reacquaint themselves with old friends and family and learn what their new reality meant to their lives.
Collins interviewed hundreds throughout the night, beaming his live reports to a breathless world. Some people did not care to be interviewed, but the vast majority waved and called to him when they saw him with his cameraman and bright lights. However, he had been unable to see what was happening along other parts of the Wall.
One man passed by, whom, at first, Collins barely noticed. He had a medium build and wore a thickly padded jacket, and his dark hair was unkempt. He seemed to make a beeline toward Collins and his cameraman. As he approached, he waved and called to them. “Thank you, America. I love America. I am going to America.”
Collins smiled and waved back. “Would you like to speak to the camera?” The man grinned and kept walking. He seemed to be alone. Watching him go, Collins wondered what life the man had come from and what life he would now lead.
The reporter watched until the man disappeared into the crowd. Nothing about him distinguished him from any other East German, except that he carried two duffle bags, one slung over each shoulder. Maybe his life’s possessions.
When Collins turned back to the east, another man caught his attention. He seemed to avoid not only the camera, but the lights themselves. He was nondescript except that he looked to be in remarkable physical shape. He walked rapidly compared to the rest of the crowd. However, his expression showed that he was trying to hide extreme pain.
He shot Collins a contemptuous look. Then his pain seemed to surge. He stopped and set down a suitcase. Oblivious to Collins’ curious scrutiny, he reached inside his jacket and nursed his right shoulder. It looked heavily bandaged. Then he picked up the suitcase again, recommenced his trek, and disappeared into the crowd.
Collins sighed. Another new beginning. The radio in his pocket vibrated. He put it to his ear.
“All’s well that ends well,” Burly told him. “No more bomb threat. We have Veniamin here. Everyone got out safely. History is sealed. Good job.”
Collins thanked him. “What about Yermolov?”
“Gone. Permanently. Listen, a tip for you. People on both sides of the Wall are tearing it down all through the city, including at Brandenburg Gate. You might want to get over there. I think you’ll see something personally gratifying.”
Collins grabbed his cameraman. Together they walked along next to the Wall, toward the iconic monument. They broadcast live video of everyday citizens taking picks and hammers to the hated partition, chiseling holes through it, beating the reinforcing steel into useless fragments. More intrepid people brought ladders, climbed the Wall, and proceeded to take it down from the top. In some places, whole sections had been knocked down and lay in what had been, only a few hours ago, the kill zone.
Finally, they arrived at the west side of the Brandenburg Gate. They gaped at what they saw. Berliners on both sides had brought the Wall down to half its height along the length of the monument. In a few places, it had been hammered to the ground. People streamed through. On the opposite side, East German border guards and police mingled with East and West Berliners, smiling and laughing.
Collins spotted Burly, Sofia, and Ivan standing together in the middle of the parking lot on the west side of the Gate, observing the crowds moving through. Sofia’s right arm was bandaged and in a sling. He started toward them.
Later, when Collins spoke by phone with Jakes, his editor was ecstatic. “Great reporting, Tony. You scooped your competition again.”
Collins’ thoughts went to his part in the averted global calamity. “Believe me, Jakes, the achievements of the last twenty-four hours are not mine.”
Sofia observed the magnificent Brandenburg Gate, the most iconic site in all of Germany, East or West. It was now a symbol of unity. Despite the years of poor maintenance under the East German regime, it stood proud and tall, complete with its Quadriga, the stately statue of four horses abreast pulling a chariot with a winged Victory Angel holding a Roman-style banner. Although it had not originally been intended as a triumphal arch, Napoleon had first used it for that purpose after defeating Germany.
This morning, it served as a fitting tribute to the indomitable spirit of the East German people. They had defeated the totalitarian regime that had subjugated them for forty-four years. For them, World War II ended last night.
Sofia felt weak. She had cleaned up as best she could, but her sunken eyes over dark circles and pallid skin gave away her exhaustion. The doctors had objected to her going out with insufficient rest, but she had stubbornly refused to stay in bed. “My husband and my family are coming through that gate. Try to stop me.”
An hour earlier, Sofia’s cousin Miriam had called. “Mom and Dad are rested. They insist on walking through the Gate.” Her voice was full of excitement. “The whole team is coming with us—Rafael, Juan, Fernando, and Pepe. Atcho is here with us too. We love them all.”
Sofia’s eyes moistened. “I can’t wait to see you.” She choked back joyous tears.
“Oh, and there’s this other man.” Miriam laughed. “Major Horton? He is so funny. He told Atcho,” she dropped her voice into a husky imitation of Horton, “‘You ain’t takin’ that trek without me, sir.’” She brought her tone back to normal. “His leg got shot. He’s on crutches, but he won’t stay down.”
Sofia had to laugh. “I’ll see you soon. We’re leaving now.”
Burly nudged Sofia. “There they are.” He pointed. Ivan also followed where he indicated.
They recognized Rafael, Juan, Fernando, and Pepe, escorting her uncle and aunt. The old coupled walked with their canes under the Brandenburg canopy. Next to them, Miriam held her son’s hand, and her husband carried the little girl.
Sofia looked past them, searching deeper. Major Horton hobbled along on crutches, obviously in pain but struggling to keep up.
Her heart leaped. Atcho attended to Horton, which seemed to exasperate the major. The two were engaged in an animated exchange. Sofia smiled. I’ve never seen Atcho be so expressive.
Off to one side, Collins spotted the two converging groups. He edged closer. His cameraman lifted his equipment to shoot video. Collins waved him off. “Let them have their private moment. They’ve earned it.”
“I can film it. They can have it as a keepsake. If they don’t want it, we’ll toss it.”
“Good idea.” Collins started to turn back, then hesitated. “Great job last night.”
Sofia pushed through the crowd. When she was close enough, she waved and called to Miriam. They ran to each other and clung together, sobbing, replicating countless similar poignant scenes played out throughout the city.
Miriam’s mother and father caught up to them. Tears streaming, Sofia embraced them. “I knew this day had to come,” she breathed. “I never gave up hope.” Miriam and her family joined around them while the rest held back.
After several minutes, Sofia felt something push against her shoulder. She ignored it, but it persisted. Finally, she turned.
Hor
ton leaned on one of his crutches, grinning. He had used the other one to prod her.
His face morphed to deadpan. He cocked his head, rolled his eyes toward Atcho standing next to him, and broke into an involuntary laugh. “Hey, someone else would like some attention.” Atcho shook his head in humorous disbelief at the effrontery.
Horton looked up at the Brandenburg Gate towering over them. Then he scanned the multitude of reuniting friends and family. His chest swelled with exaggerated contentment. “Well, you did it,” he told Sofia. “You pulled it off. Little lady.” He gave a solemn half bow.
Sofia had stepped close to Atcho. She whirled and gave Horton a look of mock indignation. “I did it? Anyone else?”
Horton bobbed his head back and forth, his face sheepish. “Well, I helped a little. Nice of you to mention it.”
Sofia laughed. “Anyone else?” she said again.
Horton glanced around at Atcho. “You mean him? He’s the reason we got in this fix in the first place. If he weren’t so damned ornery…” He peered deliberately at the sling on Sofia’s arm, and then pointed at his own leg. “Look who’s wearing the bandages. You and me.”
“What about Burly? Or Wolfgang? Or Ivan and Rafael? The others?”
“Why hell, all Wolfgang did was read from a slip of paper. Prob’ly a sticky note. Burly sat in the office drinking coffee the whole time. As for Ivan, he strutted around shoving that KGB ID in people’s faces like a peacock showin’ off its tail feathers.” He gestured at the remaining members of the team. “All those others was here for a Sunday after-church walk.”
“What about the German people—all of them?”
Horton brought a forefinger under his chin as if in thought. “Okay,” he said with a grudging tone, “I’ll give ya that one. Maybe they had a bit to do with it.” He tossed his head, glared at her in mock seriousness, and pointed at the gaping break where the Wall had been. “But I’ll tell you, ma’am, if it hadn’t been for you and me, that Wall would still be right there.”