Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  Driving close to the middle of the road, he let a Ford overtake. There was nothing behind him as he slowed down to a crawl halfway into the curve. Without taking his eyes off the road he leaned over, opened the passenger door, and pushed Andrea out.

  “Goodbye, bitch!” he said vehemently.

  He slammed the door shut and drove off just as a set of headlights rounded the corner. Moments later, he heard the screech of tyres followed by a muffled thud as the vehicle ran into Andrea’s body. He drove on another hundred yards, slewed to a halt, and picked up the Harley he had stowed out of sight. Within five minutes he was roaring down the highway towards Santa Cruz.

  Two days later he reported his ‘wife’s’ disappearance to the police after seeing a report on the accident at Valley Surprise Curve. Santa Clara County Police found traces of Andrea’s blood in her car. The medical examiner’s report confirmed that blood found on her sweatshirt matched that found in her car and the body found in Palo Alto. They brought Ralph Wilson in for questioning.

  “Can you tell us why your wife would have been in the Santa Cruz Mountains in the early hours of the morning?” Detective Bacanora asked.

  “I don’t know. She went out about ten o’clock and didn’t come back. She was a bit quieter than usual during dinner, but otherwise she seemed all right. We’d had a silly argument about a trip to Miami. It was all planned then suddenly she decided she didn’t want to go.”

  “Did you know about her relationship with Jodie Reynolds, a colleague in the bank?”

  Wilson looked stunned by the news of his wife’s death. He looked uncomprehendingly at the detective.

  “She mentioned her once or twice, but I never met her.”

  “So, you weren’t aware that they were having a relationship.”

  “A relationship? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “That they were having an affair. A bit of the old rumpy pumpy. Do I have to spell it out?”

  “Why are you saying such terrible things? We loved each other! She wouldn’t; not with a woman!”

  Poor sucker, Bacanora thought. Wilson looked confused, completely out of it.

  “A clerk from the bank told us he had witnessed several arguments between Andrea and Jodie, but they weren’t about work. Their body language suggested something more than mere friendship. He guessed there was something going on between them, but kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to get involved.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Wilson shouted, covering his ears.

  “They had a massive row in the car park,” Baconara continued. “Jodie got into her car and roared off. It was the last time he saw either of them.”

  They didn’t have a trace of evidence, either physical or circumstantial, to charge him.

  “Okay, you’re free to go, Wilson, but we may want to speak to you again.” Ralph felt a rush of satisfaction. It couldn’t have worked out better.

  “Everything points to the wife, Lieutenant,” Baconara said. “I think she killed her girlfriend in a fit of jealous rage after they had a row. Jodie’s blood was all over the sweatshirt Andrea was wearing. She probably couldn’t cope with what she’d done, drove to Patchen Pass and deliberately walked into oncoming traffic. That’s it; it’s all we’ve got.”

  “It fits with the medical examiner’s report. Suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed. Wrap it up Baconara,” Lieutenant Kowalski said. “I need more men out on that missing kid case.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Santa Cruz,California

  Ralph reported the deaths to Moscow. They had no truck with her lifestyle, but it was tolerated, even encouraged while she was actively spying in the United States. The KGB conducted its own investigation. Grigory, an undercover agent living in San Fransisco, arrived one night without warning. Ralph admitted killing Andrea and her girlfriend.

  “She got involved with a woman in the bank where she worked,” he explained. “I had no choice. My cover was being compromised.”

  “She would have answered for her behaviour when she returned to Moscow, but her decadent lifestyle was useful to us here,” the agent said.

  “I couldn’t risk being exposed now when I was on the brink of intelligence that could prove very useful to us. The research project I’m involved with allows me to collect extensive data on computing, telecommunication and instrumentation.”

  Playing on the importance of his new research into computer architecture and networking, which could be used by the military, he convinced the agent to recommend he be allowed to remain in California.

  “Very well.” The agent nodded in agreement. “I’ll send my report to Moscow. They will make a decision.”

  “Moscow was delighted with the official police verdict,” Grigory told him a week later. “You are still very useful to them. You must make friends. Scientists talk together; argue the finer points of their research. Let them talk, Ralph.”

  His job was to listen, to gather intelligence; but scientists were reticent with newcomers. He had to find a way to get close to them.

  A few weeks after Andrea’s funeral one of his colleagues stopped at his desk. “How ya doing?” Ralph looked up, his face etched with misery. “How about joining the guys for a drink after work?” The poor guy needed to get out. “A couple of beers will do you good.”

  Ralph feigned reluctance, but his heart thudded with anticipation. Until now he had been outside the group. “I haven’t been out much since, you know.”

  “Come on, no sense in stewing on your own.” This was the opening he desperately needed.

  After a hard week, copious amounts of bourbon loosened their tongues. They were the crème de la crème in their fields; their own exclusive clique. Ralph was delighted to be part of it. He played the grieving widower, exploiting it to be invited to the homes of scientists, physicists and engineers for parties and barbecues. He had been accepted. Looking lonely and depressed he sat quietly in a corner; all the while listening, gleaning as much information as possible.

  Wives neglected by men wrapped up in their work offered him sympathy and friendship. They went round to his home with apple pie and a shoulder to cry on. His first encounter was with Darlene after a Christmas Eve party at her home.

  “Hi, Ralph, having a good time?”

  “I guess so.”

  She leaned over with the tray of canapés, almost brushing his face with her breasts. Neglected by her workaholic physicist husband, Arthur, she was an easy conquest. Poor Darlene; a science graduate herself, she was bored and housebound with three young children. It was surprising how much he learned from her about Arthur’s projects.

  Soon he instigated a number of illicit relationships, playing off one woman against the other. Starved of attention, they responded to flattery, soft music and the promise of illicit sex. Ralph was very careful to treat them with the utmost tenderness and consideration, unlike the prostitutes he picked up on his trips to Los Angeles. They were left battered and bruised, if they were lucky to be still alive when he had finished with them.

  Darlene became increasingly possessive, demanding more and more of his time. When she started talking about leaving her husband, he knew he would have to get rid of her. He had his chance when Arthur flew to Philadelphia to attend a conference in late March. After dinner at his house in Santa Cruz they headed to the beach near 26th Avenue. Hand in hand, they walked along the shoreline in the dark, away from prying eyes. Suddenly, Ralph took off his shoes and ran into the sea.

  “The water must be freezing!” Darlene yelled.

  “Come on in, it’s invigorating!”

  “You crazy fool!”

  Laughing, she kicked off her shoes and ran after him. He was smiling when he caught her in his arms and pushed her head under the water. It was all over in a few minutes. He dragged her body as far out into the surf as he dared and waded back to shore. Next morning a man walking his dog spotted her sodden body washed up on the beach.

  Arthur blamed himself for Darlene’s ‘suici
de’. “She had been depressed for a long time. I shouldn’t have left her alone so much,” he said at her funeral. “I should have taken her to Philadelphia with me instead of leaving her here to brood.” If only he knew.

  Ralph spent another three productive years in California until he was ordered to resign his position at the university and return to Moscow.

  *

  Colonel Petrov studied his protégé. He was an exceptional agent. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he sat down behind his desk. For a full three minutes he said nothing, watching for any signs of anxiety or discomfort. It was a senior position in the KGB, but he was certain he was up to the job.

  Finally he said, “Congratulations, your work in America has been noted by the Politburo.”

  “I’m flattered they have so much faith in me, Colonel.”

  “Make sure their faith is justified,” Petrov said. “From now on you will be known by your new codename, ‘Nobeca’. We expect absolute loyalty from you. You are being rewarded for your excellence. Remember, there is no margin for failure.”

  Within weeks he was in Berlin taking charge of KGB activities in the Eastern Sector. His star was in the ascendancy. His future was secure. Nothing could touch him now.

  Devastatingly handsome, impeccable manners; he was a magnet for women. He played his image up to the hilt, but his vanity made him careless. Nobeca thought he was untouchable; too clever to be caught at his favourite pastime, seducing the wives of his colleagues. He never risked harming them physically: that part of his life was reserved for whores he picked up on assignments in the West.

  His star exploded on a visit to Moscow. He was caught in bed with the daughter of a government minister. Only her pleading and threat of humiliation stopped the minister from having him arrested on trumped-up charges. He went back to East Berlin satisfied that he had wheedled his way out of it. After that his sexual exploits were confined to pickups in West Berlin. Whenever he was summoned to Moscow his behaviour was beyond reproach. Nobeca promised himself he would not be so stupid a second time. His downfall came when he tangled with Valentina.

  CHAPTER THREE

  West Berlin, July 1989

  Nobeca and the woman wandered off the path crowded with walkers and cyclists deep into the darkness of the Grünewald. Holding hands, like a pair of teenagers on a first date, they settled down under a large tree. As soon as Linda lay down Nobeca fell on top of her. Giggling girlishly at his impatience she tried to push him off. She wanted to be in control, to watch him so filled with desire for her that he would beg.

  He pinned her arms up behind her head while she pretended to struggle. She quite liked playing games with him. Her struggling seemed to excite him even more, but when she looked into his eyes her smile froze. They were full of hate.

  “Stop it! You’re hurting me!” she cried, trying to push him away. Suddenly, he released one hand and punched her in the face. Blood poured from her broken nose onto her lips and down the back of her throat. She tried to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth until she could hardly breathe.

  “Bitch! You’re like all the others.”

  Eyes full of hate, he drew his fingernails down her cheek until he drew blood then straddled her until he satisfied his lust.

  When Linda stirred and tried to sit up he landed another vicious blow to the side of her head. Hauling her up into a sitting position, he shook her violently until she opened her eyes.

  “Please, don’t hurt me anymore,” she moaned. “Please, you can do whatever you want, but don’t hurt me.”

  He would have to kill her, but he wanted her to know she was about to die. Putting his hands around her slender neck he squeezed hard, relishing the abject terror in her eyes.

  It was pitch-dark when he carried her body to an isolated part of the lake and pushed it into the black waters. If and when the body was discovered by the West Berlin Polizei, he would be back in East Berlin. Nobody would question him if he was discovered near the Wall on ‘official’ business. It was part of his job to infiltrate the West.

  “Collaboration with the Stasi is important,” Colonel Sidirov had insisted when he had taken up the post. “Erich Meikle, the Minister of State security, has granted KGB officers in East Germany the same rights and powers they have in the Soviet Union. This is to our advantage. Don’t compromise your position. Is that understood?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Nobeca replied.

  He wasn’t compromising his position. This one didn’t count. He was just ridding the world of another slut. He had the perfect cover, always restricting his exploits to the West. No sense in taking unnecessary risks.

  *

  From his vantage point in a goon tower overlooking the Wall in Glienicke, Nobeca surveyed the main road. It was usually deserted in the dead of night. He nodded at the Grepos as he descended the wooden ladder. His route under the Wall led through a narrow tunnel with just enough space to crawl on hands and knees into the woods opposite. After hauling himself out at the other end, he carefully replaced the camouflage around the exit. Making his way through the damp undergrowth, he listened for the sound of an engine. Once he reached the drop-off point, his false identity papers would enable him to move freely around the city.

  The tip of a cigarette glowed near the goon tower. Captain Yuri Morozov of the KGB watched Nobeca creep to the edge of the trees as a motorcycle approached. His orders were to keep him under surveillance.

  “He has disregarded authority on more than one occasion, but managed to talk his way out of it,” he said to the junior officer at his side. “Sooner or later he’ll slip up. His code name has turned out to be prophetic.” The young officer looked at him quizzically. “It means ‘Lothario’. He’s a serial seducer, particularly with wives of senior officers.” Fury consumed Morozov like a raging fire. This time he had gone too far. He had put his filthy hands on his beloved Valentina.

  Morozov wasn’t the only one watching Nobeca. His every move was being monitored by the Stasi, as well as the KGB. Questions were being asked about his lifestyle. How could he entertain so extravagantly on a captain’s salary? There were rumours that he was spying for the West and that he planned to defect for the right price. He had wriggled out of the accusations, claiming that he was being targeted, because of his affairs.

  His conquests remained loyally silent, for their own sakes as much as his. He had made a big mistake with Valentina. She was young and naive: an easy target. When Nobeca had finished with her, he cast her off like an old coat. She was killed instantly after jumping in front of a train in the Ubahn. Morozov wanted revenge.

  *

  The Mitte, East Berlin, August 1989

  The headline jumped out at him as he passed a group of men idling near a newspaper stand. Nobeca pushed through the crowd, bought copies of Berliner Zeitung and Neues Deutschland, folded them under his arm and headed down the road to Augustiner’s in the Gendarmenmarkt.

  “Bitte,” the waiter asked.

  “Pigs’ knuckles, potatoes, cabbage and a stein of beer.” He could afford caviar and champagne, but he had never lost his taste for the simple food of his childhood. It reminded him of his beloved mother.

  Most of the newspapers were running with the same banner headline.

  ‘Body Found in Schlachtensee’.

  Casually, he read through the article. The partially decomposed body of a woman had been discovered by a couple of students in a lake in the Grünewald. She had been identified as Linda Jaeger, wife of Hans Jaeger, a senior member of the Federal German Government.

  A rage coursed through him. The bitch hadn’t told him she was married to a high-profile politician when he offered to take her to dinner. His fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. Linda was like all the others, a whore. He had to get back into East Berlin before the Polizei started asking questions about her movements on the night of the murder. He wasn’t due to be picked up for another fourteen hours. He couldn’t risk staying on the streets. He would have to ho
le up in a hotel room for the rest of the day.

  Fortunately, he was close to the Hilton built on the site of the old Soviet Domhotel in the Gendarmenmarkt.

  “Would you like to book dinner this evening?” the receptionist asked.

  “No thanks. I’ll have something light in my room. I have a very early meeting tomorrow morning.”

  Shortly after midnight, he left the hotel and took a taxi to a bar in the Heerstrasse where he had arranged to be picked up. A real dive. Even at this late hour it was crowded, which suited his purpose. He ordered a schnapps and carried it to a dimly lit corner near a window where he could observe the road. His contact should have been here by now. About twenty minutes later he spotted a motorcycle sliding between the cars. He gulped down the dregs of his drink, casually walked out into the car park and mounted the pillion.

  “Where the hell have you been? You’ll answer for this. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Once out of the city the motorcycle gathered speed. Nobeca breathed a sigh of satisfaction when they hit the Kladow-to-Glienicke road. The sooner he crossed over into the Soviet Sector, the better.

  The area near the woods in Glienicke was very quiet at night. It consisted mainly of expensive homes where wealthy Berliners escaped for peace and quiet. A few residents used the narrow path through the woods as a shortcut to the bus stop, but never at night, especially since a woman had been attacked.

  The motorcycle eased to a stop and dropped him off just inside the trees. Stealthily, he made his way to a large rock hidden deep in the undergrowth. He rolled it aside and lowered himself into the tunnel. With the flat of his hands he eased it back into place. It was just after 3:00 a.m. by the time he struggled out of the tunnel near the goon tower.