by Eddy Shah
'Where are you going?' asked the uniformed policeman at the entrance to the stairs.
'There's a riot started outside.' he replied. 'I've been told to double check no troublemakers have slipped in upstairs,' he replied.
The policeman nodded and let him pass.
The stairway led onto the first floor gallery. Behind the gallery there was a walled corridor with doors that led to offices and storage areas. The corridor was empty and Adam crossed it to the far side of the gallery. He opened the door carefully and looked out. The people in front of him were craning over the balcony, looking down on the Chamber and trying to catch a glimpse of the welcoming ceremonies going on below them.
One of the two Russian security men saw the gap in the door and nudged his partner. They were some twenty metres away and they pushed their way through the small crowd towards Adam. The sudden movement attracted his eye and he quickly let the door close and ran down the corridor, trying each door as he did. The fourth one along was unlocked, a small broom cupboard, and he slid into it. As he did so, he tripped over something on the floor, but caught his balance and quickly closed the door behind him. Then he felt for the lock in the darkness, found a bolt and turned it. He stepped back and waited for the searchers.
The security men tried each door in the corridor, looked through the keyholes and worked their way down. They rattled the door of the cupboard, then moved past. Adam heard them talking in Russian. One of the men laughed. From their tone he gathered that it wasn't an incident they were taking that seriously, but one they had to investigate. A minute after silence had returned, and knowing he was short on time, he ran his hand along the wall, feeling for a light switch.
When he found it, he eased it on so as to avoid the click of the switch being heard.
The Stermabeitalung lay slumped in the corner, his right leg folded under his left, his head slumped sideways and down. Adam didn't need to see the red hole in the side of his head to know the man was already dead. He still clutched a revolver in his death grip.
Adam knew he was a storm trooper, had recognised him immediately as one of Kaas' Stermabeitalung, brought here to wreak destruction on the politicians of the world. Except someone else had wreaked destruction on him.
Adam searched through his pockets and found a press-pass for the Frankfurter Daily News. He recalled that Kaas had also been with a team of journalists. So that's how they got in. There was nothing else, no further ID, no tags on the clothes. Kaas' men had come in prepared for the worst.
Three left. Including Kaas. Unless one of the others had come to the same fate.
No time to work out why. Got to keep moving, Marcus. Ducking and diving. It's the only way out of trouble.
He listened at the door, and when satisfied there was no-one there, he softly unlocked it and let himself back into the corridor.
There were cheers now from the Chamber. The leaders had entered and were getting the applause of the Bundestag members and the collected guests. Adam went to the end of the corridor and opened the door at the eastern end. Nobody saw him as he slipped onto the viewing gallery. The small crowd was leaning over the balcony, clapping and cheering with those below. Adam stood on tiptoe and looked down. The members of the Bundestag were standing and cheering the two Presidents. In their midst, leading them towards the podium and the two lecterns, was the President of the Bundestag and the German Chancellor. The other leaders of the European nations had moved forward and now stood on the podium behind the two lecterns.
Adam stepped back and looked round the gallery. There was nothing unusual there. He turned to go back into the corridor and take the stairs to the second floor. One of the guests at the far end pulled back from the balcony and turned towards him. He recognised Kragan at the same time that the Nazi saw him.
So the big boys were here. Adam didn't wait, just entered the corridor and climbed up to the second floor. Kragan would have to come after him; Adam knew the real danger came from Curly Top and his men. Except one of them was dead.
The scene on the second floor gallery was a repeat of that of the floor below. He walked behind the crowds, moving fast, checking it out. Nothing unusual, nothing to alarm him. It was too high up anyway. He looked down on the scene again. The two Presidents were taking their places at their individual lecterns. The Bundestag members were in their seats, as were those on the first floor. Up here, this high up, the guests didn't return to their seats. They stayed at the balcony; it was the only way they could watch the ceremony.
Adam heard the President of the Bundestag start to speak, to ask for quiet, to introduce the two most powerful men in the world.
'It is a time of peace,' he said as he opened his introduction. 'A time when people are beginning to come together. When the people of Germany pulled the Wall down with their own hands, they unleashed on the world a glimpse of the future. But the future has to be fought for. It has to be won. Our Germany, this one Germany, can be the symbol of that future. A vision of hope risen from the ashes of the bombs. Sworn enemies, bitter enemies, reaching out to each other as friends. That is our legacy. Our duty. And those gathered in this room will rise to that task.'
Like hell, thought Adam as he looked over the edge, trying to see where the destruction would come from. Wipe this lot out and it's back to the barricades.
The President of the United States walked the final steps to his lectern; the Soviet leader keeping abreast of him to his left. When they had reached their lecterns, the Soviet President sat in the red leathered chair next to his whilst the American leader stood.
Cameras popped, the applause started again and the President of the Bundestag, smiling as a parent with unruly children, waved the gathering quiet once again.
'Two men of destiny,' he continued. 'First, the President of the United States of America.'
The cheers started again, and finally, nearly two minutes later, the American leader started to speak.
Adam had to get down, had to find where they would come from. He left the gallery and went down the stairs at the back, two at a time. If the rehearsal room was anything to go by, it had to be the ground floor, had to be as it was set up at the chalet.
He hit the bottom floor when he heard the first shot. It was distant, through the closed door, but he knew where it had been aimed. Two more shots rang out before he could open the door and enter the Great Hall.
It was pandemonium. Screams, panic, people trampling everywhere. A policeman, his automatic drawn, was shouting at him, ordering him to help control the crowd. Adam ignored him and looked round the Chamber. The shots had stopped. The Presidents were safe, both on the ground with security men on top of them, shielding them from the attackers. One of the officials lay dead behind them, his mouth open in permanent surprise.
Adam looked up and saw a red flag hanging from the top balcony, fluttering its red hammer and sickle at the assembly. As he looked down, he saw Kaas, his face half hidden behind the long lens press camera he had been operating on the first floor. Adam sprinted back to the door and climbed the stairs.
As he came out on the corridor he saw one of the storm troopers at the other end, a gun in his hand. A shot whistled by him as he drew his own automatic and rolled onto the floor, firing as he did so. His second shot knocked the Stermabeitalung down, slicing his face in half.
Still two left, Marcus. Who killed the first one?
He came to his feet quickly and moved down the corridor. He couldn't hear any more shooting, just the distant shouts and panic. Then the door opened at the end and the crowd rushed in, stampeded down the corridor as they fled in terror. Adam stepped back, fought to keep his balance against the rushing tide. Then he saw what had terrified them. The last of the Stermabeitalung appeared at the door, his gun waving in his hand. But he wasn't firing, just fighting to keep on his feet, swaying out of balance. Adam lifted his gun, which further panicked the crowd, and he was knocked down. Then they were past him.
Adam raised his gun again, but never pu
lled the trigger. The Stermabeitalung suddenly burst forward, as if some giant hand had slammed into his back, and crashed onto the floor. He was dead before he hit it.
Then he felt the cold steel barrel against his temple.
'Drop it,' he heard Kragan say. The bastard had been amongst the fleeing crowd and then had come up behind Adam. And he was suddenly frightened. For the first time in his life the rush of fear coursed through his body. No, Marcus. Not now. And he saw his reason for living. Billie, Billie's sweet face before his eyes.
Kaas came in with two others, rushing through the door where the storm-trooper had just been killed. He'd seen the smaller one before. It was Frick, their leader. The other he didn't recognise. Kaas turned and quickly shut the door into the corridor, locked it with a key he carried.
Adam felt Kragan's gun ease the pressure on his temple.
'We've got to get out of here now,' shouted the one he didn't know.'
'Schiller, control yourself!' screamed Frick. He turned to Kaas. 'You failed. They're all alive.'
Kaas ignored him and came level with Adam. Kaas grinned at him, then shook his head. He pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and lifted it slowly, pointing it at Adam's head. 'Goodbye, Englishman.'
Then he turned his hand and shot Kragan dead, just blew his face away.
Frick was screaming behind him as Kaas turned and the next bullet buried itself in his skull. Before his head had exploded with the impact, Schiller was shot in the back of his neck as he turned and tried to run away.
Then there were no more booms, no more noise, just the resonance of quiet returning. Someone started to hammer on the locked door. As Kaas turned, he saw Adam lift his gun towards him. 'Don't be stupid,' he said. 'Just go home, Englishman. And next time, don't play in someone else's game.'
Adam pulled himself to his feet as Kaas threw his gun down and walked to open the door. Adam was on his feet when the door was opened and the young policeman burst through.
'Everything's okay, it's....' Kaas started to explain.
'He's armed!' The policeman panicked, raising his HK 54 sub machine gun towards Adam.
'No!' screamed Kaas, trying to knock the policeman's weapon away.
But the bullets exploded from the barrel, triggered by the policeman's jumpy finger; they sliced through Adam's waist, punctured him, threw him backwards with their impact.
'No!' yelled Kaas once more.
Marcus. Billie. Please, Marcus. Not now. I want to live. I want Billie. Not now, Marcus. There's got to be something more.
Then the shooting stopped and the corridor was silent once again for the second time in two minutes.
The face that Kaas saw looking back at him was still alive, a permanent question formed on Adam's lips as he tried to comprehend what had happened. It was always the same when those who didn't fear death finally died. The coming of death was real, yet so unexpected that it was beyond realisation.
Kaas knelt down next to Adam and held his hand under the Englishman's head, tried to ease the pain of it with a look of warmth and understanding.
He heard Adam speak, but couldn't make it out. He leant forward, tried to hear the words. But they were less than a whisper, blurred in the last few gasped breaths.
He saw the blackness of death sweep over as Adam was lost forever.
Kaas laid the Englishman's head gently on the floor and closed Adam's eyelids and took off his own coat and laid it over his head.
Pandemonium broke behind him as others burst into the small corridor.
He squeezed Adam's hand.
He hoped, one day, someone would do that to him, if he was ever to die in such an awful way.
A warrior deserved better.
Then he slid Adam's hand under the coat, got up and walked away.
They took Adam away in a black plastic body bag.
The stretcher squealed in protest down the corridor as the paramedics wheeled him away.
She saw the body bag being carried down the steps of the Reichstag.
She didn't know it was him.
She had waited for two hours watching the television, watching the scenes at the Reichstag. Then the DDI came and told her what had happened. She remembered the body bag and wondered if it had been him.
Then he told her the rest, and when he had finished, reminded her that she was still an operative in the CIA and that what she now knew was for her ears only.
'They're closing down your section in California. No point anymore,' the DDI finished. 'But we're transferring you. More responsibility.'
She didn't reply. Somehow, her job didn't seem that important any longer.
The next day, Billie Knutsford flew home to California and the divorce lawyers who were waiting for her.
No mention was made on her record of her flight with the Englishman from New Orleans to Berlin.
That, as the DDI reminded her, was classified information.
Ch. 82
The Church of Maria Regina Martyrum
Heckerdamm
Berlin
The crowds had long since drifted away. The traffic jams were everyday jams, going nowhere, clearing up as quickly and as mysteriously as they had started.
Berlin, long used to the abnormal, had quickly returned to normal.
The Director felt uncomfortable as he entered the modern, rectangular church. He'd never trusted religion, always felt that a man's destiny lay in his own hands. That, after all, was the core of his communist beliefs. He smiled to himself. He'd almost meant communist religion.
Rostov was kneeling at the at the end of a long line of pews, his head bowed in prayer. The Director crossed the stone floor and slid into the seat next to him. He leant back and waited for his deputy to finish. As he did so, he looked round the simple, undecorated church. A concrete memorial, not at all pretty. Not at all what he expected. They sat in the lower church, to the front and above them was the church proper, with the whole of the chancel wall covered with a fresco of an apocalyptic vision by Georg Meistermann.
Most of the worshippers and tourists were in the upper church; back here it was quiet, a place of peace.
Rostov finished his prayers, sat up and turned to his superior.
'I thought it wiser that we meet here, rather than at the embassy,' he said.
'I enjoyed the walk,' smiled the Director. 'The last time I was here we had that bloody great wall up. Was always a mistake. Nobody understood that we weren't just keeping their schpion out, we were keeping ours locked in. It made espionage very difficult. No, it was strange. To just walk in to West Berlin. No guards, nothing. Very strange.'
'This church was built in 1960.'
'Very symbolic.' He suddenly recalled where he had been when the Wall went up. It was like people always remembered where they were when Kennedy was assassinated.
'It was built in memory of those who were killed by Hitler when he came to power in 1933, and to the rest of the German dead up to 1945.'
'Even more symbolic.'
'This church is roman catholic. A place of confession.'
'Am I to be your priest?'
'A priest is bound by his vows never to disclose what he learns in the confessional.'
'Do they pass judgement?'
'If they do, they keep it to themselves.'
The Director laughed. 'Then I'll be a good priest. Too curious, my mother always said. I've always loved the intrigue.'
'You said I was to deal with it in my own way. That I stood alone.'
'It goes with the responsibility.' He didn't need to add that he himself had often stood alone, had risked all to carry out the unsaid orders of his superiors.
Rostov sighed deeply as he collected himself. Finally, with his head now facing the front, he started. 'When I was on the Washington Desk, a long time ago, I decided to understand my enemy. So I went out to the social functions, and, in time, got to know people who worked for western intelligence. Two of them, one American and one British, became good friends. We never
crossed the lines of loyalty, but we often shared our hopes, our visions. Usually over a bottle of scotch, or vodka or a Jack Daniels.' He smiled. 'Even our drinking habits were of a partisan nature.'
'I, to my shame, have always preferred their beer to ours,' the old man said lightly.
Rostov continued. 'I learnt a lot in those years. Because I understood them, it was easier to take them on when I came back to Moscow.'
'You stayed friends since?'
'The odd letter. The occasional Christmas card. That is, until this thing broke. I couldn't see what the Americans, or the British, could gain by attacking our sleeper agents. They're foolhardy, but they don't go out looking for trouble. Not their way.'
'When did you find out who it was?'
'When I interrogated Ivana Volkov.'
'The cypher clerk.'
'Yes. After the War she remained in Germany. Never wanted to come home. She fell in love with a German, a soldier. Worse, a Nazi. To save him from deportation, she managed to destroy his records. It was easy. She spoke German and she was in charge of the files. They lived together for years before he died of cancer. That's when she decided to return. But her ties had been forged. He, in his time, had been a high-ranking Nazi, I think at one of the concentration camps. She refused to say anything about that. But, like many of them in East Germany, he kept the Hitler dream alive. One of his closest friends was Grob Mitzer, the industrialist. Through her, and her occasional visits to Moscow, Mitzer and her lover kept their links with those over here, with the Lucy Ghosts. After all, they were after the same thing. To get back home and make Germany one again.'
'Who ordered her to burn the files?'
'Probably someone in Dresden. She wouldn't say. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that she was working for them, not for us.'
The Director didn't ask what had happened to the woman. It would have been a harsh sentence; treason had never been dealt with lightly in Russia.
'With the troubles going on in Germany,' continued Rostov, 'there's suddenly a real possibility that a strong, nationalistic political party could emerge once again. We knew there were neo Nazi groups, but nothing as organised as this. So I went through our records, tried to find whose loyalty we could count on. I picked a young Stasi officer who had a tremendous reputation and had always kept in touch with us after reunification. His name was Kaas. Luckily for us, the Nazi group he was involved with also thought highly of him. It was he who told me of the reign of terror they were unleashing, he who told me of their plans.'