Puzzle People (9781613280126)

by Peterson, Doug

  “Did it really mean something?”

  “It did to me.” He looked down, obviously stung by her flippancy. “I thought it might mean something to you.”

  She couldn’t lie. “It did mean something, Peter. But now is not the time to talk about it.”

  “I tried to talk about it last night.”

  “But you’re engaged.”

  “Engagements can be broken.”

  “But she’s risking her life to be with you.”

  She could see that those words hit the mark, a bulls-eye on his conscience.

  “Surely Elsa would prefer to live in the West, even if she couldn’t be with me,” Peter suggested.

  “Do you really know that?”

  “The way the Stasi treated her . . . she would be insane to want to stay there.”

  Katarina had no words with which to respond. Where were Alexander and Maria? She needed to be rescued from this conversation.

  “So tell me, do you have feelings for me?”

  Katarina was getting irritated. “Can we talk about this later?”

  “Just answer one question. Do you care for me?”

  She rubbed the dirt from her hands and then raised her eyes to meet his.

  “I do.”

  He didn’t respond. He just smiled, obviously satisfied with her answer. Then he reached out and lifted her chin.

  “Are you two ready to go?”

  It was Alexander’s voice. Katarina and Peter turned and found him, Wolfgang, Jürgen, and Maria staring at them. Wolfgang, with a cigarette hanging limply from the right corner of his mouth, scowled. The others just looked on with disapproving stares. Here they were, about to bring Peter’s fiancée across the border, and he had his hand on Katarina’s chin, an obvious romantic gesture. The prelude to a kiss.

  “Are you really up for this?” Wolfgang asked Peter, and Katarina had to admit it was a fair question.

  “Of course.” Peter didn’t hide the scorn in his voice.

  “And you?” Wolfgang shifted his eyes to Katarina. “I’m thinking Maria should keep watch from the roof this time.”

  Katarina’s eyes flashed. “That’s my job.”

  Wolfgang scratched at his close-cropped beard. “I think you’re a little too close on this one—with Frau Krauss being the one coming through.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jürgen took control, as he usually did. “We have only a half hour before Frau Krauss reaches the cemetery. We don’t have time to change our system now.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Then say it to me later.” Jürgen had made his decision. “Katarina, time to get to your post.”

  “Gladly,” Katarina muttered, squeezing past Wolfgang, banging into his shoulder. She didn’t look at him, and she didn’t bat an eye at Peter either. She made her way toward the damp wooden staircase leading up and out of the basement. She paused to toss aside a piece of rotten wood, which had a nail protruding upward. She had already stepped on a nail two weeks ago, and the wound was not quite healed. The soft steps bent under her feet as she made her way up the staircase, angry that Peter had put her in such an awkward position. A few days ago, Wolfgang had complained again about her role on the team, in light of her relationship with Stefan, a known informer. Now Peter had handed Wolfgang one more reason to question her suitability on the team. She was involved with the fiancé of one of the escapers. It didn’t look good.

  Katarina climbed to the very top of the four-story factory, slipping out the door and onto the roof. She checked for signs of border guard movement on the other side of the Wall. Seeing none, she crouched low and scurried forward toward the edge of the roof, the binoculars around her neck swinging like a pendulum and hitting her in the chest. She was wearing brown pants and a reddish brown shirt to blend in with the brickwork of the building. Down on her belly, she positioned herself next to a small smokestack and put the binoculars up to her eyes.

  The cemetery was empty. Just as she had hoped. Once Elsa reached the cemetery, their man, Matthias, who was hidden in a cluster of trees just inside of the graveyard gate, would approach; he would tell her which grave to visit with her change of flowers and supply her with a grave pass in case she was challenged.

  There was still time before Elsa appeared, so Katarina let her binoculars drift across the cemetery until it landed on the large walking angel—the one holding out a stone feather. Gazing at this angel on the day of an escape had almost become something of a superstition for her—a bit of good luck—although she hoped it gave her something much more substantial than luck. With every tunnel dug across the border by the various escape groups, it was usually a matter of time until the Vopos discovered the passageway and they had to dig again. For their tunnel to have succeeded this long, they had to have had more than blind luck on their side.

  Katarina waited, keeping her binoculars trained on the angel. She also prayed.

  East Berlin

  Who had died?

  Stefan kept a safe distance from the mourner, following her down the quiet street.

  He had spent the past twenty minutes walking around Elsa’s neighborhood, trying to work up the courage to talk to her, trying to think of what he could say to keep her in the East. He had to keep moving because loitering on an East Berlin street corner was the best way to draw the attention of a dozen sets of eyes. So he walked for several blocks before swinging back around. That was when he saw Elsa emerge from her building, dressed in black. Her veil was drawn away from her face, or he might not have even realized that the woman in black was her. He fell into step behind her, putting enough distance between them to avoid detection.

  He still wasn’t sure what he was going to say to her. He certainly couldn’t give away that he knew she was plotting an escape soon. If she guessed he had been spying on her, whatever relationship they had would go up in smoke. But he had to find a way to convince her to stay in the East. For one wild moment, he actually considered proposing marriage, but that could be just as effective in ending their relationship. She would think him insane.

  Stefan passed by a mother walking hand in hand with a small boy clutching a balloon in his other hand. He smiled at the boy, who glared back at him as if to warn him to stay away from his balloon. Stefan dug his hands in his pocket and kept walking. Up ahead, Elsa took a right turn around the corner of a building, and he picked up his pace, afraid of losing her. She might duck into a store, and then she would be gone.

  Stopping at the edge of the building, Stefan shot a quick look around the corner, and he spotted her waving down a taxi. He watched, wondering if he should talk to her before she hopped into the vehicle. But he still had no idea what he could say to convince her to stay east with him. A gray Trabant, a taxi, pulled up to the curb, wheezing like an emphysema patient. If he was going to do something, he had to do it now. Quickly.

  The door was open, and Elsa was getting in. He bolted around the corner, sprinted down the sidewalk, and caught the door before she could pull it closed.

  “Elsa! I thought that was you.”

  She stared out of the car, obviously shocked. She didn’t say a word.

  “Can I share the taxi with you?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer immediately. That alone raised suspicions in Stefan’s mind. Finally: “Oh yes, by all means.”

  He climbed in—a snug fit in the back of a Trabant. He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Her face felt cold to his lips. Clearly, she was not happy to see him.

  24

  Berlin

  July 2003

  Annie was back inside the car again, upside down and crying for help. She looked across the vehicle, past the blue twist of metal, and saw Jack, motionless, almost as if he was asleep. But she knew he had gone beyond unconsciousness. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was sure he was gone. It was surreal, seeing Jack lying there and knowing that he wasn’t really there anymore. Only an hour ago, he had been laughing at something he
read in the newspaper and talking about grilling hamburgers; it was such a fine day. But now? Where was he? His face had already taken on a waxy aspect, a body without a life inside. She tried to reach out to him, but the seat belt held her back, and the slight movement sent a blaze of pain across her shoulders. He was gone, and sirens were blaring. She smelled gasoline in the air, but she didn’t care if everything went up in flames. If this car became a funeral pyre, maybe she and Jack could continue their day together somewhere better. But if she survived, how long would they be apart? Ten years, twenty, thirty?

  Annie shouted herself awake.

  After devouring a bowl of chocolate ice cream for breakfast, she dressed quickly, not taking the same care she usually did on her makeup or dress selection. Why bother? She didn’t think she had much of a future with Kurt. Not now. Too much suspicion, too much past to make much of a future.

  Kurt had been snooping in her desk. She was sure of it. And if he had been snooping, that meant Frau Holtzmann was right. He was no better than a spy.

  “You feeling all right?” he asked as she flung her purse on her desk. Her lip gloss popped out, rolled across her desk, and she tossed it back inside with obvious disregard.

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “I’m sorry. Can I get you something from the break room? A Pepsi to keep you alert?”

  “No, thank you.” She surveyed the field of white scraps all across her desk, and then she looked down at the big brown sack, still overflowing with the past. It seemed so fruitless. She opened her center drawer and pulled out her double-stick tape. Then she opened the main drawer.

  Inside was a gift: a small box, neatly wrapped in gold paper and a red ribbon. Stunned, she looked up. Kurt was pretending to be absorbed in his work, smiling to himself.

  Annie reached in and plucked out the gift. A small card read, “To my Annie Oakley.”

  Her mouth hung open. “From you?”

  Kurt grinned. “Who else? You almost caught me, you know.”

  Almost caught him? Did he mean she almost caught him slipping this gift into her desk?

  “Did you suspect me?” he asked.

  Annie couldn’t help but notice the irony of his phrasing. “No, I had no idea.” She had to lean on her desk to keep her balance.

  “I’m glad. I really wanted it to be a surprise. Aren’t you going to open it?”

  The gift was wrapped with precision, with edges so sharp you could cut yourself on them. She tugged at the ribbon and carefully peeled away the wrapping paper. Her mother had taught her to preserve wrapping paper, not rip it.

  She opened the box, and nested inside was a small silver cross—Southwestern-style—with a round turquoise stone in the center.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s Navajo. You said you misplaced your other cross.”

  “Yes. Always losing things. But I won’t lose this. I promise.”

  She pulled it out, dangled it in the air, and Kurt came around from his desk. “Here, let me.” She pulled her hair away from her neck while he clasped the necklace from behind. His hands settled on her shoulders for a moment before she turned to display the gift.

  “I love it,” he said.

  The way that he looked at her, she was suddenly afraid he might say something about loving her.

  He didn’t.

  She was so confused. Only a half hour ago, she was afraid that Frau Holtzmann was right and that Kurt had a Stasi past. And now this. The turnaround was blinding and disorienting, and Frau Holtzmann’s rumor suddenly seemed so blatantly ugly and false.

  She could sense that Kurt was expecting a physical form of thank-you, so she got up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. Still nothing on the lips. She couldn’t go there. But Kurt seemed content with that.

  Knowing that he hadn’t been snooping lifted her spirits, and the day moved along with a greater degree of normalcy. Annie even considered mentioning Frau Holtzmann’s Stasi gossip to Kurt, just to be completely honest about everything, but she couldn’t work up the nerve. Instead, she brought out Frau Holtzmann’s other pet theory.

  “I was talking to Frau Holtzmann the other day,” she began. “She was talking to me about Frau Kortig.”

  “Frau Holtzmann is still very upset, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, but it’s not just that. She thinks maybe . . .” She played with her new cross as she thought about how to say what she had to say. Just be direct. “She thinks Frau Kortig was murdered.”

  Kurt jerked his head up from his work. “Murdered? Why would she think such a thing?”

  “No suicide note, for one.”

  “But not all jumpers leave notes. Especially not someone like Frau Kortig, who didn’t have many people close to her.”

  “That’s just it. Frau Holtzmann said she did. She said Frau Kortig was in love, the happiest she had ever seen her.”

  “But why would anybody want to kill her?”

  Annie shrugged. “That’s what I asked. Frau Holtzmann said strange things had been going on in the office, but she didn’t say what.”

  Kurt bit his lip as he processed this information. “Right before Frau Kortig died, you said she seemed worried and upset. And she wanted to talk to you about something important. Maybe she carried deadly information.”

  “But what could she want to tell me that might’ve led to her murder?”

  He motioned toward the scraps of paper all over his desk. “These puzzles contain the kind of information that some might kill for.”

  “You think Frau Kortig knew something from these files—something that got her murdered?”

  “I have no idea. But it’s a possibility.”

  “Then . . . do you think she could have been pushed to her death?”

  “We can’t rule it out,” said Kurt, his voice traveling directly into the earphones of the large man in the brown suit. The man clutched a half-eaten hard-boiled egg in his left hand and a pen in the other, scribbling with speed and jotting down select sentences.

  The man listened as Kurt and Annie’s conversation meandered around the subject of murder, throwing out possible scenarios of what might have happened on the sixth floor. When they finally went quiet and returned to their work, the large man in the brown suit popped the rest of the egg into his mouth, picked up his cell phone, and speed-dialed.

  “Ostermann here.” As he spoke, flecks of egg landed on his jacket. “You aren’t going to believe this. They’re talking murder now.”

  He listened for about twenty seconds as the voice on the other end poured anger out in large doses. Then the large man nodded and said, “I agree. We may have to do something soon.”

  25

  East Berlin

  June 1962

  “Where to?”

  The taxi driver, a man much too large for this compact Trabant, craned his thick neck around and tossed the question to his two passengers in the backseat. His breath smelled of onions, and his breathing was as labored as the car’s exhaust system.

  “St. Boniface Cemetery,” Elsa said. Her voice cracked, as it often did when she was nervous. She couldn’t believe that Stefan had chosen this very moment to appear out of nowhere and jump into her taxi. Coincidence? Not likely, but she couldn’t back out now.

  “And you?” The taxi driver cast his rheumy eyes on Stefan.

  “Could you take me to Paul-Robeson-Strasse near Schönfliesser Strasse?”

  Good. At least Stefan wasn’t getting out at the same place. She was afraid he was going to suggest that he accompany her to the cemetery and spend the afternoon together. They were shoulder to shoulder in the backseat. She didn’t say a word as the Trabant wheeled away from the curb, kicking out a belch from the exhaust system that was so loud she felt the vibration through the floor. As the taxi made a sharp left turn, Stefan leaned in to her, and his eyes landed on the bouquet of flowers in her lap.

  “I’m sorry. Did a relative of yours pass away?”

  She stared down at the flowers, as if the
y had suddenly sprouted from her hands. What’s my story? Her mind went blank—for a few seconds.

  “My cousin. He passed on a year ago today. I go to St. Boniface and leave flowers every few months.”

  Stefan nodded silently.

  “What do you have planned for today?” she asked. But the moment she said the words, she wished she could snatch them back. She didn’t want to talk about his plans for the day. He might ask her to spend time together.

  Which he did.

  “Just visiting an aunt,” he said. “But I have time to spare. Would you care for company at the cemetery?”

  Her mouth went dry. She licked her lips. “That is very considerate of you, Stefan. But I’m sorry, I need to be alone when I go to the cemetery. I hope you understand.”

  His eyebrows went up in resignation. He put a hand on hers. “I do. I just want you to know that I’m always here for you.”

  She nodded and gave him a quick kiss. “Thank you.”

  He would always be there for me. In less than an hour, she would no longer be there for him. She would be long gone. She had no choice.

  Stefan stroked Elsa’s hand and peered out the taxi window. He smiled, trying to hide his nervousness as the taxi drove up to the vine-entangled wrought-iron gate leading into St. Boniface Cemetery. The car sounded as though it was going to pass out, choking on its own exhaust as it chugged to a stop.

  Elsa started to dig through her purse, but he waved her off.

  “No. Let me take care of this.”

  She didn’t protest as he extracted several marks from his wallet and handed them over to the taxi driver.

  “Thank you, Stefan,” she said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  She had been acting very strange, very awkward during the entire taxi ride, and he was getting increasingly suspicious. He knew she had been making contacts with runners from the West. Something was in the works, but he had no idea what. This could very well be the day of her escape, and he felt a rising panic. He couldn’t lose her like he had lost Katarina. He wouldn’t let it happen.