Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

  *******

  During the interim when Eric Brennar was waiting for extraction from East Berlin, he made contact with Von Wenzel regularly. Even though the scientist was unaware of Brennar being CIA, he had taken him into his confidence, freely discussing possible methods for escaping to the West. Brennar reassured Von Wenzel that if they were ever in a situation where face-to-face contact was no longer possible, the scientist could count on correspondence becoming their means of staying in touch. Brennar knew the risk he'd be taking in contacting Von Wenzel.

  The sudden disappearance of Brennar had left Von Wenzel shaken, fearing some terrible harm had come to him. But beyond that, a bone-chilling thought shook him to his very core. He'd been so free with his words while talking to Brennar. Could it be that Brennar was STASI? Did Von Wenzel now have to worry that he and his family would be arrested? But then, one afternoon, a great sense of relief came over him when he received Brennar's one and only note.

  In the assumed safety of his own home, and with his wife and children finishing dinner in the kitchen, Von Wenzel excused himself and retreated to the bedroom. When he opened the envelope, all he removed was a single, standard-size white, cotton handkerchief. After unfolding the handkerchief, he held it above the flame of a lighted candle, staring impatiently as the letters slowly appeared. Brennar had used one of the simplest methods known as 'secret' writing. The message had been written with a matchstick dipped in lemon juice. Heat from the candle's flame turned the dried juice brown, revealing Brennar’s words. The message had been brief. Brennar appealed to Von Wenzel to contact him with any news on Greta. He only gave a phone number as a point of contact, feeling more secure with that than having to reveal Marie's address.

  Later that evening Von Wenzel received a frenzied call from Herman Schmitt at the university. A number of students had organized what was scheduled to be a peaceful demonstration, but everyone was fully aware those often turned violent. As a precautionary measure, Schmitt requested Von Wenzel come to the university to assist him in collecting and securing valuable data from the law library. In his haste to leave, Von Wenzel absent-mindedly tucked the handkerchief into his overcoat pocket. For all the months Von Wenzel and Heisen had worked in the lab, not once had they even imagined that someone could be searching their apartments, clothes, or belongings while they worked.

  *******

  Steiner's thoughts once again turned to his missing men. An unfamiliar, icy chill suddenly gripped him. He moved his feet from the bench to the floor, then leaned forward. Could it be that his men’s possible disappearance had to do with the same men who extracted Brennar from the East? Steiner's contact had little to say about the two, only that they were both with the American Navy. Brennar must have told them about the drug and perhaps even our plans. He couldn’t delay any further.

  Engels appeared from the kitchen, standing in the shadows between Steiner and the front door. A knuckle knife was in his hand, so named because one side of the handle resembled a set of metal knuckles. He stood there quietly polishing the 5-1/2” blade with a ragged cloth. He finally asked, "Aren't they back yet?"

  The sound of Engels' voice shook Steiner from his deliberations. He picked up the handgun before he stood up. "Nein." He slipped the gun into his back waistband then went toward the front door. As he turned the lock, he motioned with his head toward the kitchen and said, "Keep an eye on them. I'm going down to the lab."

  The wooden banisters in the stairwells were rough and splintered; many support spindles were either broken or completely missing. On each landing one light socket was positioned in the middle of the ceiling. Steiner had seen to it that all the bulbs were removed.

  His footsteps echoed as he stepped heavily going down to the first floor. Even though he'd been up and down these same steps hundreds of times, he ran a hand along the wall as he descended the last flight, being cautious with his footing as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He stopped momentarily, then pulled a key from his pants pocket, the only key that unlocked the door leading to the basement. No one entered or left without his knowledge. Opening the door, he stood at the top of the steps and lit a kerosene lamp hanging from a hook.

  It was time to put the final phase of his plan into action. Whether Brennar was brought back, or even if he was already dead, no longer mattered. Once Steiner was on his way to Moscow, the woman and twins would be disposed of. They had already outlived their original purpose. The question of why he allowed them to survive this long passed briefly through his mind but he didn't linger on it. There wasn't any need at this point in time.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto solid concrete, then he turned up the light on the lamp. His nostrils flared as putrid smells buffeted his senses. More goddamn dead rats, he thought disgustedly.

  He stopped and turned, hearing a faint sound somewhere behind him. He held the kerosene lamp high as he took a few steps. The light extended enough for him to see water leaking from a section of pipe. He turned back around and let the light cascade down on a rectangular wooden box, about five feet long, three feet wide, six inches high. He walked to it then set the lamp on the floor. Reaching down, he lifted one end. A shaft of light erupted through the opening. He raised the lid on its hinges, locked it into place at a ninety degree angle, then flipped a switch inside the opening with his thumb, energizing a small motor. The steps began unfolding as they lowered into the lab. He left the kerosene lamp burning, then climbed down the stairs.

  Josef Von Wenzel looked up at him through the steps, then walked away. Flecks of gray were disbursed throughout Von Wenzel's dark brown hair. He wore black horn-rimmed glasses. A white lab coat covered dark gray slacks and shirt. He stood bent over a worktable, listening as Steiner's footsteps came closer. All the months he'd worked at this place, the scientist constantly worried about his family, about his own life. When Brennar disappeared and after he received his note, he prayed that someone would find the lab and destroy it. If that meant he and the others died, so be it. Even though he'd been coerced into fabricating the potentially lethal drug, whatever Steiner's final plans were, he, Josef Von Wenzel, and even Heisen, would be equally responsible.

  "We've let this process go on too long, Herr Von Wenzel." His voice purposely sounded intimidating. "I know you've finished."

  Von Wenzel turned, looking at Steiner with a questioning stare. "Finished? We still have..."

  Steiner grabbed hold of a thin, frail forearm, squeezing it till Von Wenzel winced. "I said I know you're finished."

  Von Wenzel seemed astonished. "But, how...? Oh, my God! Heisen--you got to Heisen."

  "It seems Herr Heisen was more concerned for his family than you." Steiner gave Von Wenzel's arm a final twist, then released it. He took a step then reached behind his back, touching the Walther, but then left it alone. "While we talk, why don't you prepare some of the drug for me. I should think that two of those tubes should be enough." Steiner leaned against the table, watching every move the scientist made.

  Von Wenzel transferred the clear liquid into two, four inch glass tubes, then pushed a cork securely into the top of each. He prepared himself for the worst. "And now?" he asked with a trembling voice, as he handed the glass containers to Steiner one at a time.

  "Now? Now I'll leave you to clean up in here. Then, why don't you go home to your family?" Von Wenzel's knees nearly gave way beneath him as he closed his eyes in relief. Steiner reminded him, "When you leave, be sure to go out through the rear door in the basement. I'll unlock it for you. Remember, it's still daylight, and we wouldn't want you to be seen, would we?" Von Wenzel shook his head. Steiner walked by him and climbed the stairs.

  Von Wenzel kept an eye on his tormentor, then, once Steiner disappeared from sight, he began wondering. Steiner seemed...rushed. Could it be possible that the lab has been discovered by the authorities? He mumbled softly, “I've got to do something.” He spun around to the table, grabbed a pen, and scribbled a brief note on a scrap of paper. He reached for a sma
ll white envelope, dumping out loose paperclips. Quickly addressing the envelope to the Chief of Police in East Berlin, he folded the paper in half and shoved it into the envelope, thinking he’d post it on the way home.

  A single shot rang out. The bullet struck the scientist at the base of his skull. A reflex action caused his hand to curl around the envelope, then his body slid down the edge of the countertop. He collapsed on the floor, falling face first, with his arm outstretched under the counter. His fingers twitched, gradually uncurling, and the envelope fell from his grasp.

  Steiner stood momentarily on the top step, first looking at Von Wenzel, then glancing down at the glass tubes in his own palm. He finally climbed up into the basement, leaving the trapdoor open.

  Once back in the apartment, he ordered Engles to dispose of Von Wenzel's body. The procedure was simple. It was just a matter of carrying and dragging the body through the tunnel, then dumping it through the open hatch. The water flowing through the pipe was being fed by the Spree. From that point, the body would be carried along a series of pipes that formed the tunnel. They were set at different levels, each one slightly lower than the previous. Eventually, the water and Von Wenzel's body would exit at a fifty foot waterfall, emptying into a lake formed by the Muritz Dam.

  Steiner opened a closet door in the hall. Hanging from a wire coat hanger was an East German military officer's uniform, bearing the insignia of a major. He pulled the uniform jacket from the hanger and carried it into the living room. He stood by the window, glancing at two rows of medals hanging above the left jacket pocket.

  He pressed the cork into each of the glass tubes, ensuring they were secure. Then he placed them in an eyeglass case before slipping it inside the breast pocket. He carried the uniform back to the closet.

  Engels walked through the front door, seeing Steiner leaning up against the closet door deep in thought. Engels was unable to interpret Steiner's expression, thinking perhaps it concerned Von Wenzel. "Don't worry, Klaus. It's all taken care of."

  Steiner gestured with his hand. "Good. Good."

  "Do you have something on your mind? Anything else I can do?"

  Steiner shook his head. "I was just remembering something I read one time that suits what I am trying to accomplish. 'To choose one's victim, to prepare one's plan minutely, to slake an implacable vengeance, and then go to bed...there is nothing sweeter in the world.'"

  "Hitler?"

  "No. Stalin."

  Chapter Thirteen

  West Berlin - U.S. Embassy

  A cigarette dangled from the right corner of Matt Wharton's mouth. Hazy, weightless gray smoke hung close to the ceiling. He sat behind his desk reviewing the report word for word. The outside of the folder was stamped with the words: TOP SECRET.

  His private line rang. He gave the phone a disgusted glance then returned his eyes to the pile of paper. On the third ring he angrily grabbed the receiver. "Wharton!"

  "Grant Stevens, sir. You alone?"

  "Well, Captain! Yes, as a matter of fact, I am." He pulled off his reading glasses and flipped them onto the desk then squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

  "Can we talk?" Grant asked.

  Wharton leaned forward, tensing instinctively. "Sure, sure. This line's secure and most of the staff's gone to lunch. What's the problem?"

  "I know Admiral Torrinson's filled you in on our upcoming activities."

  "Yeah, we've discussed it." Wharton heard something that sounded like a long breath being exhaled, unsure of what he was going to hear but positive it wasn't going to be to his liking.

  "I'll cut right to the chase, sir. I've got every reason to believe somebody there at the Embassy is playing double duty with you."

  Wharton blinked. It felt like every ounce of blood in his body had just been shot through a cannon, firing against the inside of his skull. His head pounded. "Oh, Christ!"

  "Look, I think we need to talk face-to-face. We're gonna need your help. Can you come out to Tegel?"

  "Hell, yes. Name the time." Grant responded with time and place, and then Wharton said, "I'm on my way."

  Activity in the outer office alerted him to the fact that his staff was returning from lunch. It was a perfect time for him to leave without any questions being asked.

  Not longer after his conversation with Grant, he walked three blocks before ducking into a side street then hailed a cab. Handing a couple of extra Deutsche Marks to the cabby would ensure his swift arrival at Tegel Airport.

  Wharton pushed himself back against the seat. Nervous tremors in his right foot started his heel pounding involuntarily against the floorboard. Images of faces flashed through his mind as if he was thumbing through a loose-leaf binder filled with portraits. Employees in the Embassy had worked for him anywhere from six months to the longest, two years. He swore to himself: Jesus Christ! How the hell could this happen on my watch?

  He reflected back on the number of times he had observed, with mixed feelings, the exchange of spies at the Glienicke Bridge. How the hell long had the fuckin' shitbird been making a fool out of him, out of all of them?

  Suddenly, a white Mercedes shot past the cab, its tires screeching as it cut in front to make a right-hand turn. The cabby leaned on his horn and hit the brakes. Wharton's head snapped forward and he grabbed hold of the armrest out of instinct, because his mind continued spinning on another matter. First, it was shock that held him firmly in its grasp. Now it was complete, unadulterated fury.

  The cabby glanced in his rearview mirror, seeing his passenger's face change from white to a shade close to purple. Terrified the man was having a heart attack, he slowed the vehicle and nervously shouted, "Are you sick?"

  The sound of the voice startled Wharton, shaking him out of his stupor. "Nein!" He motioned with his hand for the driver to keep going, saying, "Faster!"

  Within twelve minutes the cab pulled in front of the Kummel Cafe. Wharton handed the cabby his fare. "Danke." The confused cabby could only watch as Wharton jumped out of the cab, slamming the door behind him.

  He stormed into the noisy cafe, then stood just inside the entryway. Several men stood around a billiard table as they anticipated the next shot by a portly man, leaning over the table with his cue stick poised. A crack of a cue ball striking another one on the green felt tabletop caused Wharton to jerk his head toward the source of the noise. He stretched his neck, trying to see above the heads of patrons milling around the bar, trying to tune out other sounds of silverware, clanking glasses and a steady hum of chatter. Finally, near the far wall, he noticed Grant looking in his direction. Wharton bulldozed his way through a throng of boisterous patrons.

  Grant sat down as soon as Wharton spotted him. He picked up his coffee cup and looked at Adler. "Batten down the hatches, Joe."

  Adler swished a mouthful of Coke back and forth between his cheeks, finally swallowing it as he answered, "Aye, aye, Skipper."

  Wharton paused at the bar to order a beer. A young female, with short blond hair, poured a deep gold-colored beer into a tall beer glass. He ignored her smile, dropped money on the bar, and with the stein gripped in his hand, made his way over to the two Americans.

  He took a swig of the warm ale as he got to the table. "Gentlemen," he said as he nodded, then pulled a chair out and sat down heavily. The stein rapped against the tabletop. He rubbed his hands together then reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to the two men, who both declined. He took a deep drag, then let the smoke stream out of both nostrils. "Before we get started, are you gonna tell me what the fuck you've done with my favorite boy?"

  "Uh, I'd prefer just to tell you that he's safe and in good hands, sir," Grant responded, shooting a quick glance at Adler.

  "That's all I get?" Wharton asked with a rising voice, showing his obvious annoyance.

  "I'm afraid for now, that's it."

  "Listen, you know that if I hadn't already talked with Torrinson we wouldn't be having this goddamn
conversation." Grant gave a slight nod, then Wharton added, "But since I did, I assured him I'd give you any assistance you needed, and that was after his shorthand overview of your upcoming operation. All I can say is that you'd better make damn well sure that I get my merchandise back in excellent working condition," he declared gruffly, pounding the tip of his index finger continuously on the table. "Do I make myself clear, Captain?"

  Grant nodded, then replied, "Perfectly." He scooted himself forward on the chair. "Look, we did what was necessary to protect Rick. And by the way, one attempt was already made on his life not long ago."

  "Don't be fuckin' with me, Captain."

  "Wouldn't think of it, sir," Grant shot back.

  Adler just listened to the banter, as he thought: This is certainly going so much damn better than expected! Shit!

  "Yeah, right," Wharton responded before taking a swig of beer. "Let's get this show on the road. Who do you have under the microscope?"

  Noise in the cafe continued at a fever pitch. A thick layer of cigar and cigarette smoke filled the cafe like an early morning fog. Grant took a quick look around, then leaned closer, rolling the coffee cup between his palms. "I can't give you a single name, but I've got it narrowed down to three."

  "Just how'd you come up with those three names?" Wharton asked skeptically.

  "Part what Joe and I observed after we got back with Lampson, and part from my instincts."

  Wharton nearly choked on a mouthful of beer. "Your instincts? Your damn instincts?"

  Adler quickly interjected, "You gotta go with his instincts, sir, believe me. You gotta believe in 'em."

  "Why should I?"

  Adler knew he was going to be up shitcreek but he went with it anyway. He lowered his voice. "Does the USS Bronson ring a bell, sir?" Grant flashed an 'I don't believe you said that' look. Adler ignored him.