“Well, yes, but…” People were associating her with Anneliese because of that stupid trip. Not good.
“I thought maybe they got you too.”
“Wait, Karl, did the Stasi get Anneliese?”
“People talk, but you never know if what they say is true or not.”
“Why would they pick her up? She’s an East German theater darling from Dresden. Her mother’s a military border guard officer.”
“You’re right—it’s probably nothing. I just wanted you to know I’m here for you. If you needed help, or…” He lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. “I have friends.”
“Oh, Karl.” She wondered what kind of friends he had—ones that would turn her in, turn him in, or truly work to get her out. She wondered whether he even knew what kind of friends they were, or whether he himself would be the informant. If he was sincere about helping her, well, it was kind of sweet. If poor Karl only knew she could take him down in seconds flat, concoct half a dozen ways to poison him, or slip over the East-West border virtually unseen with an hour’s lead time…
But he didn’t know, and for his sake, she’d make sure he never would.
And yet, she worried. She could evade and elude the authorities pretty well, but all bets were off if the wrong government officials got suspicious and plucked her off the street or out of her flat without warning. Suddenly, Beth Steventon knew way too much for comfort. As soon as she could, Beth would check the drop for news from Anneliese—maybe check in with Darcy, or Fitz at the British Embassy. A sense of foreboding raced up and down her spine.
After Karl went off to check the lighting, Beth slipped out the back theater door, scanning for anyone tailing her. There was a Sunday matinee at two o’clock; she couldn’t be gone long. Satisfied that she wasn’t being followed, she rode her bike by Volkspark Friedrichshain. Sure enough, there was a chalk mark on the sidewalk, indicating a drop had been made. She walked up behind the fir trees and, bathed in their evergreen boughs, leaned down to lift the bottom layer and open the hollow stone.
Empty.
Empty?
Meaning someone had been there before her and retrieved the message but hadn’t erased the chalk signal. The message should have been coded, but if it wasn’t…
Her head began to pound as the possibilities poured through her mind like water over a dam.
She peered out of the boughs of the tree and headed down the back side and out the west entrance of the park, pedaling as fast as she could go.
Beth approached Darcy’s flat, slowing when she saw the suit standing outside.
“Not good, not good,” she muttered. If Anneliese was gone, a message was missing from the drop, and the Stasi were outside the flat, something must be going down. But she couldn’t rush in there or rush away. She veered smoothly across the street and ducked into the cafe without being noticed. She’d grab a seat and watch. Maybe Darcy wasn’t even in his flat. Maybe they were just searching it, and she could warn him in time. Or confront him. Catch him in the act of double espionage. She’d finally have the evidence Wickham was looking for.
And then what? If he were innocent, they’d both be in hot water, surrounded by East German secret police. If he were guilty, she’d go the way of the mysterious Jirina. Beth shivered. She’d wait it out and see what transpired.
She’d been idling at the outdoor cafe about five minutes when a shot rang out in the crisp morning air. The agent rushed into the apartment building, and Beth had to swallow her heart back down because it had leaped into her throat at the sound of more gunfire. Surreptitiously, she exited the cafe and, leaving her bike out front, began the four-block walk to the British Embassy. There, she’d find Fitz or use the embassy’s safe room to call Washington for further instructions. About a block away, at the sound of a siren, she turned around and saw a lone, tall figure make his run toward Brandenburg Gate. She recognized him at once. William Darcy had been compromised by either East or West and was on the move.
At the back of her mind, a niggling voice whispered. If he’s a double agent, why would he run?
***
Two blocks down, six to go, he thought, scanning left and right and taking a quick peek behind him. Two men stood at the street corner near his flat, smoke rolling out the window above their heads. The Stasi officers pointed in his direction, and as there was no need for secrecy now, Darcy kicked it into gear and took off up the street.
His heart raced with either adrenaline or the necessity of pumping the blood he still had to his vital organs. There was an old safe house in this area. Ducking around the corner of a building, he searched along the alley for the rowan tree above the door—an ancient symbol of protection, marking safe houses that had been in use long before Darcy had come to the divided city.
What would he do after he found the place? He had no mobile communication device on him to call for help.
Halfway down the alley, he found the safe house door. He made quick work of the nine-pane window above the doorknob, breaking the pane closest to the door handle with half a brick. Reaching inside, he unlocked the knob and winced as he cut his hand on the glass.
Wrenching the door open, he eased around the corner, making sure the dark room was empty. Apparently, the safe house had been a bakery at some time in the past; it still smelled faintly of dust and yeast. The flour had been swept up, however. No footprints in white powder would leave a trail for the Stasi to follow, although the blood dripping from his hand might. He stuffed his hand under the opposite sleeve to staunch the wound. He could hear his own harsh breathing in the still of the Sunday morning. Most people were sleeping in, although a few might be subverting the government by attending church services. Darcy tried to remember the last time he slept in or was in a church for that matter—to attend a service, not to drop off money, or instructions, or meet an asset or a defector—but the memory eluded him. Pulling aside the curtain hanging at the doorway of the pantry, he wriggled his way inside the small room. Beyond that back panel lay temporary living quarters. It was a tight fit, but hopefully, it would shield him from prying eyes and passersby until…
Until what? He was starting to become dizzy now, light-headed, cold, and clammy. “Hypovolemic shock.” He mumbled the textbook definition in an attempt to hold onto rational thought. “Symptoms are anxiety, confusion, weakness, pallor, rapid breathing, sweating, unconsciousness.” I wonder who will find me?
Given the day he’d had so far, she’d be a harsh, beautiful KGB officer—someone who’d kick his body where it lay.
Women—the bane of his existence in one way or another. From his cold, distant mother to the tempting blonde with the ice blue eyes who’d caused today’s disaster. They were all out to get him, or get something out of him.
“No,” he whispered to the silent room. Not fair—there was one. One who was innocent and trusting. One girl—he called her a girl, rather than a woman, because she was little more than a child—a little sprite with brains and kindness and bravery.
“Jirina,” he whispered softly and for the umpteenth time, “I’m so sorry.”
In many ways, she was the great regret of his life. Not because he’d never been her lover, because he didn’t care for her in that way. He had, however, let her get away. Or rather, Wickham had—the slimy bastard. It was Wickham who made the self-serving decision that cost the agency one of its most promising assets, and cost her…well, everything. And now the Amazing Jirina, as Darcy had once jokingly called her, was no more. Her joie de vivre, her brilliance, her life—forgotten by all but a few.
Pain roared through his brain and body with renewed vengeance, consuming his attention. His mind wandered, he realized. He began to see little spots behind his eyelids, and his breath came in shallow pants. He tried to swallow them back as he heard harsh German voices pass the front of the safe house. And he hid, desperately fighting
the oblivion threatening to overtake him.
Think! he demanded of himself and tried to remember his train of thought before he let the spirit of Jirina overtake him.
Women.
Not that Darcy didn’t like women. He did—very much so—which was probably part of the reason he was in his current predicament. Some of them were brainy, talented, or helpful in their own way. And some were all of the above. Like She, the new, little minion who turned up in Budapest. An accomplished woman in all the ways that mattered although she could certainly be an annoying little shrew.
That smart mouth of hers shouldn’t be so charming. However, she knew her languages like a native, and she’d gotten them out of a jam in Hungary when he couldn’t do a thing to help her. He hoped she could tap that quick-witted resourcefulness now. If she was going to make it out of East Berlin, she was definitely going to need it.
His vision began to darken. He heard shouts again, a man’s, no…there was a female voice in the mix…
Hate. My mind is filled with hate. You and your kind have taken everything from me. And now? Now, you’ve taken my love. Quite literally, taken her forever. Why did you do it? You didn’t have to do it. My handler has summoned me, but I’m not going to him. He says I’m still to bring you to him, but I don’t know if that’s possible anymore. I don’t know what to do with this rage inside me. But I swear on all that is holy, I will make you pay.
Chapter 14
West Berlin, twelve hours later
“Stupid, arrogant jerk!” Elizabeth Bennet muttered for the umpteenth time as she alternated between pacing the hallway outside the operating room and flopping into a chair and gnawing on the tip of her thumb, a childhood habit that reappeared under times of extreme duress.
Why didn’t he stay away from the drop like he was supposed to? Why didn’t he stay put in his apartment like Fitz said the deputy director told him? They had been less than five minutes away from him for Pete’s sake!
By a stroke of pure luck, she met up with Fitz barely a block from the little café across from Darcy’s flat. Somehow, he had obtained carte blanche from MI6 to provide Darcy assistance and rescue if need be. Fitz was the one who remembered the old safe house location, so thank God she had run into him. On her own, she might never have found Darcy in time. And who knows what would have happened to him? Or to her, for that matter.
Bottom line? He never should have gone to the drop in person. She could almost hear his haughty voice, “Spy Rule Number Eighteen: Let the cutouts do their work, and you do yours.” It was unlike him to make that kind of mistake. Unless, of course, it was no mistake.
This would be a black eye on the whole field office and taint her by association. She and Fitz had saved Darcy from the Stasi at least, but Fitz had to burn an asset, one of his precious border guards on the take, in order to do it. To add insult to injury, this particular border guard had been a Stasi-planted officer, put in the guard to spy on his comrades. That is, until Fitz had turned him into a British asset. It was a tremendous loss; that officer helped the British spirit a lot of people back and forth between East and West Berlin.
She put her hands on her knees and stood—resigned yet determined to face the music. It might not be her screw up, but she knew there would be consequences to this latest turn of events—significant repercussions on her career, regardless of what part she had or hadn’t played. She made her way to the elevator, descended to the lobby, and headed out into the night. After rounding the corner, she entered a public phone booth and made her call.
“Müller,” said a friendly female voice on the other end.
“Good evening. I need to speak with George Wickham,” Elizabeth said in German.
“Mr. Wickham is having his dinner,” the voice replied, considerably less friendly now.
“Well, tell him it’s urgent, will you?”
“Something wrong at the factory?”
“Fraulein, you can say that again.”
Elizabeth heard the woman cover the phone with her hand and call for George.
“Wickham.”
“George. I hope your pretty German mistress isn’t listening in on the line. She seemed none too pleased to call you to the phone.”
“Well, hello, darling. I thought I told you never to call me here,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.
“Ha-ha. Look—we have a problem.”
“Oh? A problem with what?”
“With the target.”
“Did he muss his tuxedo? Spill his martini? Lose his medal?”
Elizabeth ignored the sarcasm. “As we speak, Single Man is in a West Berlin hospital in critical condition because an asset tried to kill him this morning. Damn near succeeded too.”
“You don’t say?” Wickham actually sounded intrigued at the news.
“In addition, getting him out cost MI6 one of their best border guards.”
“Unfortunate, but it happens on occasion.”
“Don’t joke about this! I could have been arrested today!”
“You’re right.” Wickham lowered his voice in an attempt to soothe her. “You’re absolutely right. Now, tell me what happened.”
“Darcy told me there was a sniper waiting for him at the drop, but the shooter missed.”
“Why was he at the drop anyway?”
“Why?” Elizabeth paused. “Hell, I don’t know why!”
“Piss-poor sniper if you ask me. Then what?”
“He went to his flat. That’s where he was shot.”
“By who?”
“The asset, Anneliese Vandenburg. At least, I believe it was her. Darcy called her ‘Natalia’ but—”
“What makes you think it was Vandenburg?”
“She didn’t show up for work today. Believe me, it would take some earth-shattering event to keep her out of that theater when she was the star of the show. I knew something was up, so I went to look for him. I saw the goons outside his building. I heard the shots, for heaven’s sake!” Her voice began to wobble.
“Okay, okay. So then you went into the flat?”
“No, Fitz and I found him in a safe house a few blocks away. Before he lost consciousness, Darcy tried to tell me there’s a traitor on the loose. He said his assailant said a name—Wilhelm.”
Silence on the other end.
“Did you hear me?” Elizabeth asked with impatience.
“I did.”
“You know what that means don’t you?”
“What do you think it means?”
“That this whole line of internal investigation is for naught. We’ve been barking up the wrong tree all this time—since Budapest.” She kicked the wall of the phone booth.
“Did we recover this dead Natalia? Can we verify her identity?”
“No, we left her behind. Had to. We barely got him across the checkpoint still breathing.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Do you mean about the shooter left behind, the border guard lost, or about Darcy still breathing?”
“Tsk, tsk, Ms. Bennet. That’s no way to talk about our hero. Of course, I mean the girl. The border guard is MI6’s loss, not ours.”
“Just making sure I understand. Still not sure I believe you.”
“We still don’t have any information that would clear Darcy of suspicion.”
“Go on.”
“Here’s what I think really happened. I told you that day in West Berlin that Vandenburg was the one in danger, remember?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“So Darcy arrives in East Berlin and within days, he puts the Stasi on Vandenburg’s trail. She’s a traitor to her country, right? They’ll want her stopped. Over the next month or so, they plan to get rid of her, but then she gets wind that the Stasi are on to her—she thinks she’s
being followed, sees her place has been searched—and she contacts Darcy for help. After all he’s American, he’s her lover, and she thinks she can trust him.”
“Yes, okay.”
“Now the Stasi have to move immediately. She’s getting ready to flee the country. So Darcy gets his orders. He has to dispose of her before she goes to the West again.”
“I suppose it could have happened that way.”
“You’re the cutout, but Darcy knows where the drop is, right?”
“Right, but the sniper—”
“Damn it, Lizzy! He made up the story about the sniper! The sniper was for Anneliese; he set the whole thing up to ice her when she checked the drop. But then the stupid sniper missed her. She runs to Darcy’s place, so he has to do the dirty work and finish the job himself. He kills her in the end, but she goes down shooting and takes a piece of him before she goes.”
Elizabeth considered. It made a certain amount of sense, but something felt off—from the vehemence in Wickham’s tone to his unwillingness to consider any other scenario. “Again, George, why? The name she gave him was Wilhelm. He told us that. If Darcy’s the double agent, why would he give us his own name?”
“A diversion—to throw us off his trail.”
“You didn’t see him today. I doubt he had the wherewithal to even consider his trail. He was going into shock when we found him.”
“My opinion? The KGB told him to kill her, so he did. Darcy is ruthless. Don’t forget what he did to Jirina.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the story.”
“You know what she meant to me.”
“I’ve heard that too, several times—how wonderful she was, how brilliant, how you loved her.”
“Darcy may not have actually pulled the trigger, but he was responsible for Jirina’s death nonetheless. He led her on with misinformation designed to cover his own tracks. He sent her on a wild goose chase that got her killed.”
Undeceived Page 11