Best Man

by Doug Raber

  When I said this to Dieter and Vasili, they insisted it wasn’t possible.

  “You must be looking at an incorrect translation,” Vasili said.

  “It is the original,” I responded. “It uses the word Beitritt.”

  Dieter was looking over my shoulder.

  “He is correct. That is what it says. Could this be an incorrect copy of the document, Timothy?”

  “It is correct. Moreover, it has been used previously. Everyone has forgotten since it was used more than forty years ago. It is how the Saarland again became part of Germany.”

  “Then all that is needed …” Vasili started.

  “Yes,” Dieter continued. “Our parliament will vote to accede. It is already determined that the vote will succeed. And then it will be over.”

  “Not completely finished,” I said. “The Four Powers must still give approval, since Germany has not been a sovereign state since the end of the war. But they will have no choice, and it will only be a question of details.”

  Indeed, the two-plus-four negotiations continued for most of the year. The Soviets made concessions that would allow the new Germany to join NATO, and the Americans agreed to provide financial assistance to the Soviets, whose economy was by then in a desperate condition. Each of the participants won concessions, and each made compromises. In October of 1990, reunification became official,* and I had made it happen.

  * * *

  29

  Vienna

  Everything I have described up to this point has been a series of triumphs. There were no obstacles I had been unable to overcome, and I had met continued success in my academic career, in athletics, and with women. My business career was unsurpassed, and my work in the intelligence field was beyond comparison. The pinnacle of my life to that point was my role in bringing about the end of the Cold War.

  The apex of my career, however, also stood as my potential downfall. Everything I had done was based on the Cold War, from negotiations and treaties between the East and West, to the international talks on arms control, and to German reunification.

  I was always in control. I was fluent in the multiple languages, and I knew how to use their words to propel events in my preferred direction. Sometimes my energies drove an outcome that favored one country, and other times they were to the advantage of an adversary. But always they worked in support of my personal objectives, and almost always they involved secrets. Frequently, these would be secrets that I shared with another person, thus becoming shared secrets. Occasionally, they were secrets that were made public and were no longer secret. And other times, I was able to hide information from others, thereby retaining it as my own secret.

  Always, I was safe. I was good at my tradecraft, and no one ever suspected duplicity in my actions. I was never in danger of discovery and never the target of any threats, whether from friend or foe. I was a master of manipulation and a doyen of deceit. In the early 1990s, everything changed.

  • • • • •

  As I continue with my narrative, I must digress to give you some background information. During a visit to Berlin for negotiations on reunification, I joined a group of negotiators on a day trip to Dresden. It was not a formal working day, and the trip had been organized as a sober reminder of the devastation of war. The bombing of Dresden in World War II and the nearly complete destruction of its inner city made it an important place. I think the organizers of that round of talks hoped to accentuate the disastrous consequences of war and propel the participants toward a conclusion that would ensure a continuing peace.

  On that day, we all boarded a train from Berlin to Dresden, with an entire rail car assigned to our use. We left early in the morning and arrived in time for a brief look at the largely reconstructed city before noon. Another, more detailed tour was arranged for the afternoon before we returned to Berlin that evening.

  The highlight of the day was a formal luncheon organized by the city leaders with illustrated lectures presented under the auspices of the East German Ministry of Culture. Our group included representation from both East and West, and one of them was Dieter Volkmann.

  Dieter and I were assigned to the same table, and we had the opportunity to exchange pleasantries. At one point, he leaned toward me and discreetly indicated a man seated at the head table with government dignitaries.

  “You should learn that man’s face, Timothy. He is KGB, and he is a rising star. He will be important someday. His name is Putin. Vladimir Putin.”*

  At the time, the statement did not make a big impact on me. I might have met the man in a receiving line subsequently, but no more than that. I do not actually recall.

  • • • • •

  Now I must return to my narrative and the time after reunification, after triumph had been achieved and my career was being propelled inexorably toward a more perilous and precarious state.

  In the hectic year of 1991, I was in Vienna to assist with the CFE talks between NATO and Warsaw Pact nations on Conventional Forces in Europe. Those negotiations have become a lesser known, if not forgotten, facet of the Cold War.* Nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons seemed far more dangerous to those living across the Atlantic, but the residents of Europe, who had witnessed tanks rolling down their streets in recent decades, were far less sanguine about the threat from conventional armaments.

  Europeans understood the lethal power of artillery, machine guns, mortars, and hand grenades. And they were well aware of the massive armies that stood on each side of the Iron Curtain. As the precipitous march toward reunification took place, the new Germany threatened to destroy the equilibrium that had been so carefully maintained since the end of the Second World War. The goal of the CFE discussions was to provide the framework for a new equilibrium by the time the German reunification was completed. Agreement had been reached, and a treaty was signed, but implementation was difficult in the political upheaval of the East bloc in those times. So, discussions continued, and my presence was needed.

  Late one summer afternoon, I was walking across the Ringstrasse, the circular boulevard that surrounds the old city. This was the day before the formal talks would begin, and a reception for the participants and local dignitaries had been arranged for that evening. As I looked down the street, I saw a familiar figure near the next intersection. It was the dark hair that triggered my recognition. Long, dark, silky. And the shape of her body, also. Slim yet full. I was certain, since there could not be another woman like her. It was Pamela.

  My first reaction was to call out, but I realized in time that it would be totally inappropriate, breaking protocol and breaching every principle of tradecraft. As I stopped in my tracks, the man who was walking with her stopped to tell her something, and when he did so, he turned in my direction, although I do not believe he saw me as I ducked behind a lamppost. A second bolt of recognition struck me, and this time, it was much more than a mere hypothesis. That face was clearly embedded in my memory. It belonged to the man Dieter Volkmann had pointed out to me in Dresden. There was no doubt that I was looking at the man named Vladimir Putin.

  I was dumbfounded. Why was Pamela walking with a KGB agent? Why was she even in Vienna? She had told me that someone else would provide me with the new briefing documents, and she should have been at the State Department, back in Washington, D.C. It made no sense.

  My mind was reeling as I watched them continue down the street and enter the Hotel Imperial. It would make sense for him to be staying there. At the end of the war, it had become the Soviet headquarters, and it remained one of the finest hotels in the city. But why was Pamela with him? I didn’t know what to say, nor what to think. Nor did I know to whom I might say it. If I raised any question whatsoever, I might blow an important mission. One that did not concern me.

  I turned and walked toward my hotel. I was staying at the Hotel Bristol, which had long been associated with the United States, even housing as the American Embassy for five years in the 1950s. It too, was one of the most luxurious hote
ls in Vienna.

  As much as I attempted to put the incident out of mind, I could not stop thinking about Pamela. I had been with her only weeks before, at one of our pre-operation meetings. We shared a long afternoon in a hotel room in Washington, a location that offered the anonymity that would have been unavailable to us in either her office or mine. We spent most of the afternoon in bed, and as always, it required nearly all my energy to satisfy her needs.

  Afterward, when we were dressed, she gave me an envelope with my travel documents. As usual, I would serve as a technical advisor for the discussions, and I would be there for several weeks. The envelope contained a preliminary agenda and a plane ticket. I was scheduled to arrive in Vienna several days early, so I would have ample time to recover from jet lag before the meetings began.

  Prague was only a short trip by rail, so I could leave at about eight and arrive by noon. I could relax and even nap if necessary. And I would be able to arrange a meeting with Josef.

  “My firm is negotiating a new trade deal with a firm in Prague,” I said to her. “I could use those days for a quick visit, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course, Timothy. Combining these trips is always a good idea.”

  “What about talking points?” I asked. “There’s nothing here that specifies the U.S. positions.”

  “They’re still being developed. It looks like they won’t be finalized until the day before your meetings start, so I’ve made arrangements for someone to deliver them to you. We’ll get you the official negotiating strategy, including the limits on how much we’d be willing to compromise. We’re bringing in someone who can handle that task. Her name is Monika Treska. From Romania. She’ll contact you in Vienna.”

  I was disappointed.

  “You won’t be bringing the documents yourself?”

  “Afraid not. There are other things going on. I’ll be tied up.”

  She looked over at the bed with its disheveled linens. Then she smiled at me seductively.

  “There’s still enough time today, Tim. I have another hour.”

  • • • • •

  When I finally calmed my nerves after the unexpected sighting of Pamela, I showered and dressed for the reception scheduled for that evening. I realized that I was also somewhat unsettled by the absence of any contact from the person who would be delivering information on the American negotiating stance.

  The reception was an elegant affair, and it provided ample opportunity for the negotiators, staffers, and advisors to engage in polite conversation before getting down to serious issues the next day. I was pleasantly surprised to see many unfamiliar faces in the room, and I made several new acquaintances among the Viennese business and government leaders who had been invited. The canapés and hors d’oeuvres were delicious, and the drinks were plentiful.

  At one point during the evening, I was conversing with a small group of local officials when a stunningly beautiful woman joined us. Her dress and makeup were conservative, which I decided at the time was the only reason that every man in the room was not following in her wake. When I looked at her face, I recognized what clearly was her most striking feature. Her eyes were a brilliant green, with a color so intense that they seemed to radiate their own energy rather than reflect the ambient light of the reception hall.

  She smiled at me and spoke with slightly accented words as she looked at the nametag on my lapel.

  “Good evening, Mr. O’Connor. I am very pleased to meet you. My name is Treska.”

  Her beauty threw me off track for a moment, but I recovered quickly. I glanced at the lapel of her jacket and nodded. The color of her nametag identified her as a guest for the evening, rather than one of the official participants in the negotiations.

  “Yes, of course. Treska. Monika Treska. It is nice to meet you, as well. I’m Timothy O’Connor.”

  We shook hands formally, and then she took a canapé from the small plate she held in her left hand.

  “Have you tried these appetizers, Timothy? They are completely delicious. Smoked salmon from Norway, crème fraiche from a Czech dairy farm, all on a biscuit from the best bakery in Vienna. What more could we ask to bring about good will among people from West and East?”

  She used a small paper napkin to pick up another of the treats from her plate and hand it to me. She placed it in my hand, and I immediately realized how deftly she had accomplished the task. I forced myself to slow down and not eat the tidbit in a single bite, and I waited until I had placed the remainder in my mouth before cautiously folding the small napkin and placing it in the pocket of my suit coat.

  “Very good,” I said to her. “Your choice was excellent. Thank you.”

  She nodded, smiling.

  “I am pleased to be of service, Timothy. This entire reception is a lovely affair. Yesterday, I was no more than a tourist. When I stopped to check on my visa at the embassy, a kind gentleman offered me a ticket to this event. He said it was all for the purposes of good will.”

  “Then I am happy that you needed to check your visa, because it provided the opportunity to meet you this evening, Miss Treska.”

  We chatted for another minute or so, and she then moved on to meet and talk with another cluster of people. It had been an impressive performance on her part. I resisted the temptation to check my pocket, but there was no question of what was there. The napkin she had used to hand me the appetizer contained another piece of paper folded inside. It was nothing that an observer would have seen, and I was aware only because of the way it felt in my hand. The next time I saw Pamela, I would tell her that Monika Treska earned high marks.

  The remainder of the reception proceeded agreeably. Afterward, I joined several of the Viennese businessmen I had met for a light supper at a small restaurant. These were contacts that I believed might be useful for Biggers & Hayes.

  I returned to my hotel room and read through the official negotiating points I was given so discreetly at the reception. I understood perfectly what I would need to do, so any anxiety I may have felt was fully dispelled. I was looking forward to an early bedtime, and I had just laid out the clothing I would wear for the opening session of formal talks the next afternoon, when the telephone rang. The call would launch the new, thrilling, and dangerous phase of my secret career.

  • • • • •

  I answered in the normal European fashion, speaking in German.

  “Here is O’Connor.”

  “Timothy!”

  My facility with languages enabled me to place the accent immediately, but even had I been unable to identify its Romanian origins, I would nevertheless have recognized the voice at once. I had been speaking with her less than two hours earlier. I was careful not to speak her name aloud.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I am in trouble, Timothy. Bad trouble. They are after me. I may have been shot.”

  I took a deep breath but maintained my calm.

  “Are you badly injured?”

  “I don’t think so. I think mostly they missed.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In the lobby. Downstairs in your hotel.”

  “Did your assailants follow you into the hotel?”

  “No. They know I do not stay at the Bristol. I believe they remain outside in the street. They are waiting for me there.”

  I had never faced an operational crisis such as this. I thought of calling the security chief at the embassy, but that could be done only as a last resort. It would blow everything we were doing in our Vienna operation, and it might even undermine all my other activity as a technical advisor for international negotiations. I realized at once that my first step must be an effort to solve the problem on my own.

  “Come up to my room at once. Room two thirty-one. That’s two three one. Take the elevator to floor three and then use the stairway to walk back down one level. I’ll meet you in the hallway.”

  I heard the elevator go past my floor and come to a stop above. Shortly after, I heard footsteps in the
stairwell. She emerged looking much as she had earlier in the evening, except that she was wearing a light coat over her summer dress, and both her hair and clothing were in disarray. I put an arm around her shoulder and steered her quickly, if a bit unsteadily, to my room.

  I gave her a glass of water, not wanting to affect her emotional state with anything stronger.

  “Tell me what happened. I need to know everything since we spoke earlier. Don’t leave anything out.”

  She nodded and began hesitantly.

  “I stayed at the party somewhat longer. Perhaps one half hour. Then I went to have my evening meal, at the Café Anzeiger, near the technical university. Maybe you know it. It is not so expensive. My appearance is that of a student on holiday.”

  I smiled at her.

  “Next, I returned to my hotel. A hostel, actually. The Bausteiner. Mostly young people no more than age thirty. It seemed like rain, so I retrieved my coat. My plan was to see the nightlife in Old City. A glass of wine, or perhaps a beer.”

  “But something happened?”

  “Yes. As I walked north toward the Ringstrasse, I felt that I was being followed. I paused to look into the window of a shop, and I saw two men in the reflection. This was quite near the Hotel Imperial. The men were about fifty meters behind me, and they quickly moved into the entryway of a business that was closed. They were clumsy. I confirmed this by crossing the Ringstrasse. They crossed also.”

  I was disconcerted by her mention the Hotel Imperial. It was where I had seen Pamela that same afternoon. With the man named Putin. In the excitement of the moment, it seemed like it had been months earlier, but it was only hours. Was she there to meet Pamela? I fought to maintain my composure. What was happening?

  “How did you know my hotel?” I asked.