by J A Heaton
Something seemed funny to Daniel.
“Why do they care about the voluminous poetic ramblings of a murder victim in Berlin?” Daniel asked.
“This will interest you,” Max said. “As you might have guessed, these aren’t his published poetic works.”
“They found his personal journals?” Daniel asked.
“No,” Max said with a smirk. “Even better.”
Daniel had decided to take his lunch break in his cubicle after Max explained the history of the of Uzbek poetry. Daniel normally didn’t bother to stop working, but the Uzbek poetry fascinated him. It wasn’t top-priority, so he felt best if he only worked on it during his lunch break. His hunt for the .01% would resume after lunch.
“All these poems were dutifully transcribed by Stasi agents who watched the man before the Berlin Wall came down,” Max had explained. “Those German spies were diligent, if nothing else.”
Daniel decided to leaf through the poetry to get an idea of its scope. The poetry in the report was photocopies of hand-typed pages directly from the Stasi files. He pitied the linguist or translator who either had to listen to hours of this man orally composing verse or copy from his handwritten journal to include it all in his poetry journal.
The poetry and requisite translation engrossed Daniel, and three hours later, he looked up at the clock guiltily. This was too long for a lunch break. But Daniel had finished his initial assessment. The poetry began structured and well planned. By the end, apparently over a span of several years, from about 1984 until the fall of the Berlin Wall, the collapse of the Soviet Union, and the end of the Stasi, the poetry was much more ragged, and several parts were repeated. Daniel suspected the man was becoming mentally ill or possessed by something.
The poetry was punctuated by reports from the observing Stasi officers. They allowed him to obtain a false identity. They noted he was acting suspiciously, even telling a few close friends early on that he felt watched. Of course, he was right, but by the end of the Stasi, he had become mentally unstable.
After hours of hard work, Daniel felt he had nothing to show for it.
Daniel knew the Stasi surveillance of its own inhabitants was legendary, but he couldn’t fathom why they would bother wasting so much time and energy on this one man. They knew he came from elsewhere in the Soviet Union, and they allowed him to falsely change his identity. They were watching him and waiting for something.
But what?
This man didn’t seem like an ideal candidate for extensive surveillance.
What Daniel didn’t realize was that the poetry held the only clues about what Yuri Andropov had planned nearly twenty years beforehand.
Daniel rose to look out his cubicle, and Officer Carter’s icy glare greeted him.
For once, he might have something that piqued his curiosity enough that he should mention to her. Grabbing the file, Daniel went confidently into her office.
“Got something?” she asked, now focused on her own work in front of her.
“I got the rest of that poetry from Max,” Daniel said.
“Juicy intel?” she asked.
“Something curious,” Daniel said. “This Uzbek man in Berlin, oddly enough, had a Stasi file from the days of the Cold War.”
“So what?” Officer Carter asked. “Everybody had a Stasi file.”
“Search in your CIA database for his name, or similar names, his picture, and let’s see if he pops up,” Daniel said. “Something tells me there’s something more here. The Stasi must have had a reason for creating a file as thick as the phonebook.”
“And what does that have to do with the War on Terror?” Officer Carter demanded. The question doused Daniel’s curiosity, but for once, he stood his ground.
“My job is to translate that,” Daniel explained, “and any more information you can give me about the man who wrote it will make the translation more accurate and helpful.”
“Fine,” Officer Carter conceded. She began typing on her computer, glancing at the report to get the important information. “It won’t turn anything up. CIA sources in Berlin were rare, and ones from Central Asia, even more so. My guess would be so rare as to be non-existent.”
Daniel paced back and forth a few times as Officer Carter continued typing and searching on her computer.
After a few moments, Officer Carter stopped typing, looked at her computer and said, “Damn. I don’t believe it.”
Officer Carter granted Daniel the necessary security clearance and sent the reports to Daniel’s computer. She had other matters to tend to. Daniel felt he had plenty of time before he needed to leave for his date.
“Don’t take forever on it,” Officer Carter had said. “It’s interesting, it’s old news, but I trust you with this.”
Not only did Daniel have the digital files Carter sent to him, but he also waited for the non-digitized papers the CIA had on the murder victim in Berlin. Although the intelligence community had been digitizing for years, many dusty files hadn’t been touched, and so they received the lowest priority for digitization. Daniel was happy with this. Somehow, he felt he got a fuller story when he interacted with a physical file as opposed to a digital reproduction. The coffee stains, folds, old staple holes, and whiteout contributed to the story that a computer screen couldn’t do justice to.
When the courier arrived, she delivered the massive folder to Daniel’s desk. He looked at it greedily. She lingered a bit longer than necessary, but Daniel’s eyes remained focused on the file.
“Thanks,” Daniel said without a glance to the courier.
“Welcome,” she replied with a roll of her eyes and then left.
I can’t wait to find out what the CIA has on this guy, Daniel thought to himself as he opened the file.
Daniel was still surprised the murder victim even had a file, but he soon discovered why.
The man had walked into the US Embassy in Berlin in 1990, after the fall of the Berlin Wall. He claimed to have information vital to American interests against the Soviets. Obviously, this didn’t make a lot of sense to the embassy personnel because the Soviet threat was dwindling quickly. The report stated he was sent back out to the street. At that time, impoverished people from all over the former Soviet Union were claiming to have important information for the West—anything that could get them a ticket to a better future.
But a dutiful embassy worker not only logged the walk-in and took all the man’s details and photo, but he had also done some research. Daniel figured he must have been bored in his cubicle and looking to do something to keep himself occupied. The walk-in, a man who called himself “Rustam,” a common Uzbek name, had apparently tried to defect in 1984 in East Berlin. He had dropped a note into the open window of an American diplomatic vehicle. In the note, he said he could offer vital assistance. He claimed his information was too important for them to ignore.
Daniel flipped through the Stasi report. Somebody had seen Rustam drop the note and reported him. That’s why he was under Stasi surveillance. They saw him pass the note and thought he was a spy.
So that was the beginning of the Stasi reporting on him. But Rustam never risked his life to cross the Wall. At least no reports indicated he had attempted. The CIA file reported that his first attempt to pass information was deemed “superfluously inflammatory for little strategic value.” Daniel guessed the spooks had their own code for saying Rustam would have created a lot of heat but no light. They didn’t think a man from the backwaters of the Soviet Union could have anything of value, and it would probably anger or provoke the Soviets if they knew the Americans had a source in East Berlin.
So that explained why he waited until 1990. He waited until he felt safe enough to approach US officials without fear. But he was turned away, as were countless others claiming to have important intelligence for the West.
But if he hadn’t been turned away, what would he have reported?
Was he recently murdered for that, even though that was twelve years ago?
/> Perhaps somebody wanted him silenced, afraid of what Rustam could reveal.
Daniel wondered if the answer was in his poetry and ramblings, recorded by the Stasi. Curiosity propelled Daniel into more translation of Rustam’s poetry.
Much of it was dark and macabre, recording some positive glimpses of the man’s homeland. Fruitful valleys, hot summers, and delicious produce were all scattered throughout his poems.
Daniel slowed down over his poems about a woman he loved. Truth be told, the woman was probably only barely a woman, more of a girl. Rustam’s girl had been from his neighborhood. They had met secretly and plotted to have their parents arrange their marriage. But that never happened. His heart was broken for her because he had left and never returned.
When Rustam’s poetry turned dark, it focused on “hard and dark lands,” “soiled by blood,” and “beyond the river.” Daniel suspected he was referring to Afghanistan.
Getting an idea, Daniel checked what was known about Rustam’s service records. Rustam had not served the Soviets in the Soviet-Afghan War that started in 1979. Records did not indicate he was ever posted in East Berlin. Daniel thought maybe he had deserted and then hid in Berlin, but the Stasi file said Rustam had originally been in the military in Tashkent with an incomplete service. So how did this Uzbek man from Tashkent mysteriously end up so far away? No connection was given between his military time in Tashkent and then his non-military existence in Berlin. A known deserter would have been shot, but Rustam was watched. Perhaps the Stasi saw the disconnect as well and were content to wait and watch to see what it could lead to.
Daniel dove into more translation of Rustam’s poetry. He only came out of his work trance two hours later when Officer Carter interrupted him: “What’s your evaluation? Is it a goldmine, gold dust, or chicken feed? Or is it a dead end?”
Daniel looked up and saw that they were the only two in the office. The clock told him he had worked past six. His contract only paid him until five, but Daniel didn’t mind doing what it took. Terrorists were never off the clock.
“My gut tells me to keep digging,” Daniel said, “but I don’t know why. He knew something, or at least he believed he knew something. But despite all this information, it only confuses me more and more. I feel like I’m grasping at straws and trying to read tea leaves.”
“You feel like you’re looking so hard you’re starting to see things that aren’t there?” Officer Carter asked.
“Something like that. It’s just so confusing.”
“Start on a different report tomorrow,” Officer Carter said. “I think you’ve dug as much as possible on this one and you need to move on.”
Daniel didn’t like the idea, but he recognized that Officer Carter was right. She went back to her office while Daniel gathered his belongings.
Daniel wondered when, or if, she ever went home.
As Daniel pedaled to the coffee shop for his date, the lines of poetry and potential translations tumbled about in his head.
4
Daniel spotted Jenny from a block away, waiting in front of the coffee shop. The neon sign above the shop reflected off her glasses. A beige box was at her feet.
“Sorry I’m late,” Daniel said as he pulled up and dismounted from his bicycle.
“You know, you were a much more intimidating CIA guy when you rode a motorcycle,” Jenny joked. “What gives? Isn’t it a bit cold for a bicycle? And didn’t the motorcycle attract more ladies?”
“I sit in a cubicle and write reports, so a bicycle fits better,” Daniel joked in kind. “And no, the motorcycle attracted no ladies. With a coat and gloves, it’s not so cold. Besides,” Daniel said with a nod towards the box at Jenny’s feet, “a girl who carries around a desktop CPU shouldn’t make fun of somebody for riding a bicycle. What’s up?”
“I lost my job. Again,” Jenny said. “I’ve been at a LAN party all day, and I was not about to leave my computer behind. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s go on a walk. I’m tired of coffee, and it’s damned expensive. I calculated if I never went out for coffee, then I would be a millionaire in about five years.”
“I bet you’re right, but I bet two years would be more accurate,” Daniel said. “I got tired out from running this morning. I’ll buy the coffee if we sit.”
“Can’t say no to that,” Jenny conceded.
Minutes later they were sitting at their favorite table inside. Jenny’s CPU rested at their feet like an inanimate pet. They had known each other since college, and Daniel thought of Jenny as a younger sister. He had geeked out on obscure linguistics in college, and she had geeked out on computer science. After he left the military, he started his graduate research, and they worked together in a dot-com startup.
Risking a sore subject, Daniel asked, “Fired again, huh? Any job leads?”
“No,” she said with frustration. “And I’m getting sick of leeching off my dad. He’s so sweet about it, but I hate doing it. That’s why I didn’t want to get coffee. You know, to save money?” Jenny straightened her glasses and greedily took a sip.
“I’ll always buy you coffee,” Daniel said.
“It makes me feel bad,” Jenny said. “It’s not like you’re raking in the dough as a government contractor. You’ve moved back into your mom’s house, for crying out sideways.”
“It’s not the money. It’s part of simplifying and staying close to those I care about,” Daniel said. “Striking out on my own before was mostly so my dad wouldn’t judge me a sissy, if I’m honest with myself. But I’ve got money to afford an okay place. If I choose to. And coffee.”
“Then why do we always go to my place to watch DVDs?” Jenny asked.
“Fair enough,” Daniel said.
“So next time, can we save some money and go on a walk?”
Daniel didn’t know if all the secrets from work were getting to him and he just wanted to share something with Jenny, but he suddenly desired to be transparent with her. He decided to share something that only the IRS had previously known.
“I’ve got over two million dollars,” Daniel quickly said, as if it was a confession to a priest.
“What?” Jenny said.
“I took nearly all my money out of the stock after we IPO’d,” Daniel explained, referring to the dot-com they had worked on together before the dot-com bubble burst the previous year.
“And I kept it all in there until the stock went to zero,” Jenny said. She forced herself to say, “I’m happy for you. A little jealous, but happy.”
“So, I can buy coffee, if you let me,” Daniel said. “Besides, with your computer skills, you won’t have problems making money once the economy works out a little bit.”
“Please,” Jenny said, “a computer programmer with a specialization in computational linguistics and forensics plus a work history at a failed linguistics dot-com company doesn’t look good on a resume. Although my most recent firing was not my fault, it doesn’t help. After the dot-com bust and 9/11, no hiring managers understand what I do, let alone have positions for me.”
“It’s not your fault,” Daniel said. “Our bosses were losers and left so many employees with nothing while continuing to promote the stock. Of course, they were sure to pay themselves bonuses and salary.” Daniel spoke the last sentence with a hint of bitterness that matched the coffee he sipped.
“But I did get a little revenge on them,” Jenny said, perking back up. “The paperwork came through. Since I knew they didn’t have money for a severance package, I demanded the proprietary linguistic algorithms I worked on. They didn’t care. They were so crushed by their company going in the toilet, they just signed. They got their money, but I got my intellectual property.”
“Smart,” Daniel observed. “Hey, do you think you could use one of those algorithms for me?” he asked, struck by an idea.
“Like what?”
“Could you compare my field research with a large body of poetry?” Daniel asked. “I only have the text. And it’s a photocopy.�
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“That will take some time to digitize the text, but then it would be interesting to see what the program would tell us. You think the poetry is from the same place you did most of your field research?”
“No,” Daniel said, “But I figure it’s more data to add to the database, and I could see how close your algorithm gets to what I’m pretty sure is the truth.”
“Is this for your dissertation or your work?” Jenny asked. “I don’t want you to break your super-high-classified-secrets rule.”
“It’s just poetry,” Daniel said, justifying the potential leak in his mind. Besides, if the bad guys got ahold of Uzbek poetry, it would do nothing but bog them down.
Jenny switched the subject back to an uncomfortable one.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about the money?” Jenny asked.
“When I cashed out,” Daniel said, “it felt weird. Everybody else was keeping all their money in stock, but I just saw what it was worth, figured it was plenty of money, and I got out. Then when it crashed, I felt bad bragging that I had already cashed out.”
“So now I won’t feel like a loser leeching off my dad,” Jenny said. “Instead, I’ll be the loser friend, freeloading off my buddy.”
“At least let me buy you coffee,” Daniel said.
“If you’re always seen buying me coffee, no girl will ever want to go out with you, you realize?” Jenny said.
Daniel uncomfortably agreed.
“Wait,” Jenny said, “you didn’t tell your mom you were on a date just to get her off your back, did you? And then you go out with me and call it a date, did you?”
Unable to lie to Jenny’s face, Daniel shrugged and blushed.
“I’ve talked with your mom about this,” Jenny said. “And I’m on your mom’s side. You need to get out there and find a girl. You’ve got tons of money, apparently. It should be easy, no offense to my fellow females. Move on from that girl from over there.” Jenny chugged the last of her coffee and slammed the cup onto the table after her authoritative declaration.