Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  “Yes. As is the old gal in the home office who got in touch with both of us.”

  “I’ve never met her. Have you?”

  “No. Not sure I’d want to. Very formidable, even in print. Okay, down to business. A little post office has been set up for you, at some kiddie playground you’re supposedly already familiar with?”

  “Yes. But that seems sort of chancy. I think some of our people are already using that.”

  “This spot for us is along the back wall, beneath a corner brick by the drinking fountain. Same place?”

  “No. The usual operational location is over by the swing set.”

  “There you go. Same PO, different box. Here’s the protocol. Everything is to be typewritten. We’ll use our respective three-letter airport codes for identities, which means TXL for you, for Berlin Tegel. I’m CDG for Paris Charles de Gaulle. And it will be IAD, for Washington Dulles, for our mother ship. Got it?”

  “Got it. It occurs to me that here I am trusting you when I don’t even know your name.”

  “Same here.”

  Not that it would be all that hard figuring out either of their IDs, Helen thought. Neither Berlin nor Paris station was exactly overflowing with females, and she supposed her new ally was as aware of that as she was.

  “But we both know hers,” Helen said, “or at least I’m assuming you do, right?”

  “Yes. I was a little surprised she offered that. Speaks to her position of power, I suppose.”

  “Or maybe that’s wishful thinking on our part. It would be nice to know that someone with real clout was on our side.”

  “Definitely wishful thinking. Run aground on this and we’ll be swimming for the lifeboats. The key is to not run aground. Rely on what you’ve learned in the field, and I’ll do the same.”

  Helen didn’t have the heart to tell her that she had no experience in the field. And if Audra Vollmer had also never been a field operative, then they’d be relying on two pencil pushers. Meaning she had better let her new friend in Paris set the tone.

  “Where do we start?”

  “IAD briefed me on what you saw. I had a similar sighting. I didn’t file anything official, but I did include a version in my weekly report. Nothing came of it, of course. How she heard about it is beyond my clearance.”

  “Beyond mine, too. I still haven’t gotten around to putting anything on paper, and doubt I’d even be allowed to at this point.”

  “That bad?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Nasty piece of work, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. And the repercussions…” Helen’s words trailed off. She faltered for a moment. “The girl in question, well…I’ll fill you in soon enough.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “These dead drops, presumably you’re using one as well?”

  “She assigned me a location. Nothing from our usual assortment, as far as I could tell. I changed it to a location more to my liking.”

  “Who’s servicing them?”

  “That’s also her department. Madame X, as I’ve come to think of her. A very together lady. Or she’d better be. An hour ago I was starting to panic, wondering if we were both fools for trusting her. Then it occurred to me that maybe she’s the fool, for trusting us. All right, then. More to come. Send something tonight, if you can. Madame X promises pickup will be speedy and delivery prompt. She also wanted you to know that she’s at the hub of a lot of useful information, so if you have any requests then send them immediately. But to her only, and only through our channels.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I thought so, too. Then I started wondering, what happens if that channel goes silent?”

  “The one to the home office, you mean?”

  “Yes. She’ll have more at stake if things begin to fall apart. Which is why I think we need a contingency. One other channel, just between us, if you’re game.”

  Helen liked the idea. And then she didn’t. This woman was friendly, but maybe it was part of a ruse, an effort to make her expose herself more than she should.

  “Do you mind if I think about that?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve spooked you.”

  Something in her readiness to retreat restored Helen’s trust. And she had a point. Pinning all their hopes and logistics on a single network, run by a single friend in Langley, left few alternatives if that channel was cut.

  “No, you’re right. What would you suggest?”

  “Nothing fancy. Just remember this number. If you’re ever in a jam, and the usual channel isn’t an option, ring me at the same time as today. Twenty hours. I’ll make this phone box a regular stop at that hour until you tell me to stand down. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Great. Are we done, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Until the next time, then. Goodbye.”

  Helen hung up, and almost immediately felt lonely and isolated. The only sound was the buzz of the overhead light. She popped the door ajar to shut it off, and to allow for a moment of privacy in the dark before she ventured back into the streets. She smiled, feeling triumphant, a small victory to build on. Then she scanned her surroundings. For a brief panicky moment she half expected watchers to emerge from a listening van, or from the hedgerow across the street.

  But when she stepped from the phone booth, no one approached. No one stopped to stare, or to snap her photo. She walked briskly back toward the safe house, and upon arrival she got right down to business, typing out a message to IAD, putting it into an envelope, and then locking the house behind her. Walking to the playground, she carefully checked her flanks and then posted the message to the dead drop, where the brick came loose easily and then fit snugly back into place.

  She took a roundabout route home to shake any surveillance, and by the time she reached her apartment she had concluded that with the help of her new allies she might actually be able to do this. Step by step, and ever so carefully, she could succeed. They all could.

  23

  The dividends were immediate. By the following night, a fresh message was waiting for Helen behind the brick in the playground. She pried it loose after dark, when the only possible witness was an old drunk, a neighborhood regular she’d noticed on enough previous visits to have him vetted, just in case.

  She didn’t open it until reaching her apartment. It was typed on half a sheet of paper, double-folded, and was a reply to her request the night before to Audra Vollmer for more information about Kathrin, the cryptonym for the agent who’d warned Anneliese Kurz about Gilley.

  Magda Elisabeth Henkel (Kathrin), DOB July 8, 1959. Activated: May 12, 1978. Reports on leftist student groups. Case officer: Rick Ford (Linden)

  Rick Ford was fairly low on the pecking order of operatives at Berlin station, meaning Kathrin was probably a low-priority agent. If so, then why would she have ever worked with Gilley, the so-called high priest of the Agency’s darkest arts? From the way Baucom described him, Gilley was a professional of such exacting standards that he presumably had access to the most experienced and competent personnel the Agency could offer. Yet, from what Helen had seen he had recently employed two of their most inexperienced agents.

  Pasted below Kathrin’s name was a thumbnail photostat mug shot—narrow face, large eyes, dark spiky hair—next to a telephone number and an address in Kreuzberg. Helen decided to again use a phone booth. This time she chose one four blocks from her apartment.

  A young woman answered in a somewhat shy tone, but in the German fashion, by stating her last name.

  “Henkel.”

  “I am a friend of Mr. Linden. He suggested that we meet.”

  “We should not speak of this here.”

  “I understand, but this is somewhat urgent. We need to…to adjust your protocols.”

  “My what?�
��

  “Your protocols.”

  It was bullshit, of course, but during her time in Berlin Helen had learned that if there was one sure way to appeal to a German’s sense of duty, even one who ran with a crowd as supposedly countercultural as Kathrin’s, it was by citing some sort of bureaucratic necessity.

  The young woman sighed.

  “All right, then. Where, and at what hour?”

  Helen had previously decided that it would be best to meet at the scene of the original crime. She had already put in the proper forms to reserve a block of time, just in case.

  “Alt-Moabit, you know this location?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seven tomorrow night, then.”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Helen placed her fingertips against the chilly windowpane of the darkened room as she peered into the night. Outside, snowflakes fell from the late-October sky, drifting like ash through the beam of a street lamp.

  She spotted Kathrin approaching from around the corner, the young woman’s gestures giving her away—looking over her shoulder, quickening her pace, a bad actor trying too hard. The opposite of how an agent should deport herself on the way to a rendezvous. No wonder she’d been farmed out to Rick Ford, and even he probably thought of her as a throwaway. Helen moved away from the window and headed downstairs.

  The day had passed with agonizing slowness. Word had filtered through the office that Baucom was back in town, but he hadn’t yet been in touch. She supposed he was feeling awkward about his thievery. Just as well. If Helen were to meet him now, he’d probably sense within minutes that she was up to something.

  He might also ask about her progress in investigating Lewis and the wheezing man, and she had none to report. Her query for information on recent cable traffic involving “Lewis” had been returned with a terse, unsigned note informing her that such information was beyond her clearance. There was no longer any record of the requisition of the Macallan Scotch, so that was another dead end.

  She had arrived at the safe house an hour ahead of schedule to narrow her margin of error. She spent most of the extra time nervously tidying up. She also searched every room, half convinced she would discover someone in stocking feet preparing to turn the tables on her, the tape recorder already running.

  When she checked the liquor cabinet, she would have sworn that the Macallan was an inch or two lower than before, although her own records said there had been no official activity in the house since her last visit.

  Helen considered pouring some of the Scotch for herself before opting for the vodka, which made her think of her mother. In the fridge she found a carton of orange juice, which she poured atop the vodka. Her glass was empty, rinsed and drying on the draining board by the time Helen went upstairs to watch for Kathrin. She was standing by the front door for the first tentative knock.

  “You’re Kathrin,” she said, recognizing her from the photo—a frightened and ghostly face. A girl, really, cut from the same mold as Anneliese, in clothes that she might have picked up from a charity table at a homeless shelter.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Betty.” Helen had settled on her mother’s name for her cryptonym, since Herrington had never felt the need to assign her one. Having never run an agent before, she wasn’t sure how to begin, although at least her German was good.

  “Anything to drink?”

  “No, please.”

  Kathrin lit a cigarette and sat on the couch, the very one where Gilley had assaulted Anneliese a few nights ago. The thought was enough to keep Helen from sitting down. Instead she began pacing slowly back and forth. Kathrin spoke first.

  “You said something about my protocols?”

  “Yes.” Helen stopped and looked her in the eye. “That was for cover. What I really want to do is talk to you about Robert.”

  Kathrin emphatically shook her head.

  “I cannot speak with you about that.”

  “Kathrin, it’s all right.”

  “I cannot speak with you!”

  Helen sat next to her on the couch. Kathrin looked away until Helen touched her forearm.

  “The first thing you should know is that I am not a friend of Robert’s. The second is that your case officer, Mr. Linden, does not know of this meeting, nor should you ever tell him. But I am operating under the highest authority on behalf of Mr. Linden’s firm, and I will do what I can to keep you safe.”

  A couple of whoppers, but she needed to know Kathrin’s story. Kathrin looked away from her, drew a deep breath, and spoke toward the far wall.

  “If I speak with you of Robert, then you must supply me with an escape and evasion kit.”

  “With a what?”

  “A kit for leaving this place, with a new identity. Linden told me he had one for himself. For use in an emergency, he said. A passport from another country, and with another name. He said you have people who make these things for you. Cobblers, he called them.”

  Good lord. Linden had been showing off, puffing up his importance to this low-level agent, probably just to impress her, and in the process he’d revealed matters he should’ve kept to himself. It made her wonder what else he might have said.

  “Even if we could do that for you, Kathrin, it would take days, maybe weeks.”

  “Then I cannot speak. I will not.”

  “There are other ways of keeping you safe.”

  Were there? Not really. Not when you were up against someone with the purported skills of a Kevin Gilley. The only safe way forward was to keep this meeting a secret, so Helen would do her damnedest to ensure that.

  “I’m not asking just for me, Kathrin. This is for Anneliese. Frieda, I mean. You’ll be doing this for her.”

  “Why for Frieda?” Kathrin’s brow furrowed. “Has something happened to Frieda?”

  “Have you truly not heard?” The girl shook her head. “It was in the newspaper, just the other day.”

  Kathrin’s eyes widened at the mention of the newspaper. Helen gently took her hand.

  “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but she was killed.”

  Kathrin pushed her away. She looked down at the floor, gasping as if she’d just broken the surface from a deep dive into the ocean.

  “Was it him?” she said, looking up suddenly. “Was it Robert?”

  “The witness described someone else.” True, but misleading, and she hated herself for the deception.

  “But does this not mean that Robert’s people…? Well, you know what I am asking.”

  “I do. And that is why you must speak with me. So that this will not happen again. When I last saw Frieda, she said that you had warned her. About Robert, I mean.”

  Kathrin lowered her head and nodded slowly.

  “She said you had told her not to be alone with him. Had he tried something with you? Sexually, I mean.”

  Kathrin nodded again, still with her head lowered. Then she spoke, barely audible.

  “In a friend’s apartment, where he had arranged to meet me. He had business to do, a job to discuss, and that is what we did. Then, when that part was done…” She hesitated.

  “It’s all right. I am quite aware of what he’s like.”

  “He began trying to remove my clothes. I stood. I tried to push him away. But, well, he is very strong. He said he would report me, would tell the others.”

  “The others?”

  “His employer. Our employer. And the student groups, the ones I was reporting on. He would tell them all and then, well…” She shrugged. “So what could I do?”

  “I understand.”

  “And then…” Kathrin looked away.

  “And then what, Kathrin? What did he do?”

  “Do I really need to say it? Do I really need to describe it, moment by moment? It happen
ed for five minutes, maybe longer, and even then he kept laying on top of me, sweating on me, breathing into my face. And smiling, always smiling, like he thought that would make everything okay for me.”

  Then she seemed to deflate, folding in on herself at the end of the couch. Kathrin pulled up her knees and clasped them with her arms. Helen placed a hand on her back but Kathrin pushed it away.

  “Why were you meeting him, Kathrin? Had Linden arranged it?”

  “No, no. Robert called on the telephone. He said he had an operation to run, one that Linden should never be told about, the same as you said tonight. I was to help arrange it.”

  “What did he want you to do?”

  “A small thing. I was to obtain two keys. One to a garage, and one to a car inside of it. I was to steal them from a man’s coat pocket, a man who I would meet in a bar. I only had to keep them long enough to make wax impressions. The garage key would be red, he told me. The car key would be for a BMW.”

  “Did Robert arrange the meeting at the bar?”

  “No. The target was a regular at this bar on Tuesdays. We were to go there because Robert said that we were both ‘his type,’ and that if we approached him, he would want to talk with us.”

  “We?”

  “Frieda and I.”

  “You were working together?”

  “Yes. But only this one time. I had not met her before. I did not know her. You said her real name was Anneliese?”

  “Yes. Anneliese Kurz.”

  She nodded, but her expression did not change.

  “So the two of you went to the bar, then, on a Tuesday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Together, or did you meet her there?”

  “Together. Someone picked us up in a van, on two different corners.”

  “Robert?”

  “No. Someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “He did not say his name. He only said that he was working with Robert.”

  “Why two of you?”

  “To distract this man. Whichever one of us was closest to his coat would reach in for the keys and then make the impression, for copying, while the other one kept his attention.”