Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  He abruptly released her hand and stood from the table. He reached for his wallet and put a wad of bills onto the table. Then he nodded, as if to say goodbye.

  “Your brandy,” she said, hoping to lure him back. Half a glass remained.

  “Take it. You’ll need it more.” Baucom turned and, with a knowing glance at Lehmann, strolled off toward the door, departing like a film star toward his golden years, or a once great athlete toward retirement. It was an exit of such grace and quiet drama that Helen almost immediately felt wistful. She even wondered if it might be the last time she’d see him.

  A few minutes later, having finished her own drink but leaving his untouched, she stood. Lehmann walked over with the towel across his arm.

  “May I call you a taxi?”

  “Thank you, Lehmann.” She paused, then took the plunge. “Tell me, how long have you two known each other?”

  “Oh, quite a while. From the worst and earliest days. The winter of ’46.”

  “And how long have you worked together?”

  “Worked?” A puzzled expression, very convincing. He was quite good. “We are friends, Fräulein. Old friends, yes, but that is all.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Cliques and factions and all that.”

  He frowned uncertainly, which left her feeling that she had at least given him something to think about, one small puzzle as a counterpoint to the three or four whirling in her own head.

  28

  Since her arrival in Berlin, Helen had almost never been homesick. Wixville was barren ground for nostalgia. As a preacher’s daughter she had been hounded at every turn by classmates who maligned her for her brains, and for her penchant for solitude. The surrounding countryside had only added to her misery. It was flat and unforgiving, a tangle of scrub oak and poison ivy. The forests were mostly tree farms, endless pines lined up like bowling pins. The few stands of natural woodland were almost invariably infested by briars that tore at your jeans and bloodied your arms. Even a ride into town offered scant relief—a dreary promenade of strip malls, billboards, car lots, trailer parks, and discount stores with parking lots bigger than football fields. Crossing their blacktops on a hot summer day was like tiptoeing through a lava flow.

  She did miss America from time to time, if only for that feeling of limitless joy she used to get whenever she eased free of the flatland clutter, driving into green hills with a friend at her side and good tunes on the cassette deck, lured toward adventure by the promise of the open road. So many Germans that she’d met since coming to Berlin were enchanted by the American West, less for its cowboy mythology than for the spacious vistas they’d seen in the Technicolor of films and dreams. She’d always found that a bit amusing.

  But now, surrounded on the S-Bahn by silent, unsmiling commuters—most of them dressed in black and smelling of the damp and the cold—Helen felt overwhelmed by a deepening sense of Eurogloom. She was out of place and out of sorts, a naive American in over her head among secretive, violent people. Out the window, lengthening shadows announced the approach of winter, and the usual three layers of clouds were closing in from the west. This was the time of year when the sulfurous smell of coal smoke began to haunt every street in Berlin.

  Take me back to the States for just one deep breath, she thought, back to a land where history was only a matter of a few hundred years, and its more fractious moments could be patched over by unstinting optimism and the heroics of Lincoln and MLK, by baseball every summer and by football in the fall. A place where, rightly or wrongly, even the most complex problems were routinely summed up by bumper stickers. She was not at all religious, this preacher’s daughter, yet she offered up a silent prayer all the same: Deliver me from these pale and earnest strangers, among whom my worst enemies may be lurking. Or, if that’s not feasible, God, then simply leave me in peace and safety until I’ve had more time to think.

  If Baucom’s intent had been to buck her up, or put her on high alert, then he had failed. She instead felt only burdened—by the weight of her struggles, by this city’s grim history. What was the Cold War to her, really, other than the means to a job? A job going poorly, by any measurement. She again scanned the faces on the crowded S-Bahn car, everyone swaying and bouncing as the train rounded a curve. In doing so she locked on to a teenage girl reading a book. Raven hair, skin as white as talcum. A younger version of Frieda. Helen pictured the girl’s dead face laid out against the cobbles of an alley, collecting raindrops in its creases and divots. Anneliese, she reminded herself. Not Frieda. Stay in this business a few years and you didn’t even recall people by their real names. There was Frieda, Robert, Beetle. Masks, each and every one. And now she had her own mask snug in her purse, the Canadian passport issued to Elizabeth Waring Hart. She wondered how Baucom had chosen the name. From an old girlfriend, perhaps? For her health and well-being, he’d said, even as he’d gently urged her to pursue matters that might get her fired, or worse.

  If this was what it meant to learn the deeper secrets of the trade, then why had she yearned for so long to be admitted to the club? Even now she was still only a gate-crasher, an unauthorized entry caught in a place she’d rather not be.

  The train car rattled onward, everyone silent beneath the noise of the tracks until finally, mercifully, it screeched to a halt at Helen’s stop. She stood, jelly-legged, as the sliding doors thundered open.

  Then, in spite of every dragging counterweight, she hauled herself off to begin completing the necessary chores. It was time to buy a wig—blond, to match her hair in the passport photo. Time to gather cash in several currencies. Time to select a new and safer mail drop and then notify the Sisterhood of the change. Time to fire off a discreet inquiry with regard to Edward Stone, aka Beetle. Only when all of that was done would Helen allow herself the luxuries of food and further medication. Only then, she vowed, would she deem it permissible to drift away to that distant refuge of sleep. Gate-crasher or not, she was a professional now, and had better start acting like one.

  29

  In the morning, calmer, Helen considered blowing off Baucom’s request entirely. Why should she stick her neck out to find out more about this “Beetle” fellow? But by the time she was halfway through her first cup of coffee, she’d reconsidered.

  Baucom was not a man who did things offhandedly. If he could have pursued the matter himself, he would have done so. If he had deemed it unworthy of pursuit, he never would have mentioned it to her. And while, to her, the more pressing interest was still Kevin Gilley—a rapist and probably a murderer—she was undeniably curious about the strange conversation she’d overhead between Edward Stone, aka Beetle, and the younger man, Lewis.

  Was it part of some conspiracy? Toward what end? And for which masters? To help the Soviets? To help themselves? And who, she wondered, stood to be eliminated as part of their plans? At the very least, she ought to do some poking around at the fringes.

  She settled on the records room as the best starting point, if only because she had Eileen Walters on her side. Cryptonyms. There must be a file somewhere containing all the cryptonyms in current use by operatives and sources for Berlin station.

  Not long after she reached the office, Helen popped into the records room and loitered toward the back of the filing cabinets while Walters conversed with a field man named Haller about a new restaurant that had just opened in Steglitz. By the time Haller left, she had settled on an approach.

  “What is it, Helen?” Walters said, looking up from her desk. “Is there something I can find for you?”

  “Oh, probably not. I’m just a little confused at the moment.”

  “Over what, may I ask?”

  “A stray cryptonym that popped up in one of my usage requests. ‘Beetle,’ like the bug.”

  The words sounded forced the moment they left her mouth, and she was about to blush when Walters, not seeming to notice her discomfort, ch
eerfully said, “Oh, you must mean Eddie Stone.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Has to be.”

  “He works here?”

  “Goodness, no. Vienna. And not for years. Not surprised you haven’t heard of him. He was well before your time. Whenever he came to Germany it was usually to Bonn.”

  “So you know him?”

  “Knew. I was posted to Vienna then. Still remember the send-off they gave him when he retired in ’73.”

  “He’s retired?”

  “Yes. And quite the bash it was. I was the only decently dressed female in the room, apart from the chief of station’s secretary. Like something out of Cabaret. All very louche.” She laughed and covered her mouth. “I’m afraid I only lasted half an hour, but of course by then most of them were three sheets to the wind. Boys and their libidos, you know.”

  “All too well. Where did he go after hanging it up?”

  “Now, that’s a very good question. I seem to recall he found a soft landing with some multinational. That was around the time that hiring international security consultants was all the rage in the corporate world, what with the Red Guards kidnapping business executives and that sort of thing.”

  “Ah. So he went back to the States?”

  “No, I think he stayed over here. London, maybe? With Philips, the electronics firm. Or, no, I think it might have been Uniroyal, the tire maker. Why, is one of his old contacts looking for him?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Langley would know his current whereabouts. Would you like me to put a trace on him for you? I could send out a request on your behalf and probably have an answer by tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Thank you. Thank you very much, Eileen.”

  Well, that was easy. Helen practically floated back to her office.

  For the rest of the morning she worked quietly at her desk, and by early afternoon she’d caught up on her administrative chores. That evening, she activated the new mail drop she’d selected the night before by sending off a test message to her two allies, CDG in Paris and IAD in Washington.

  That night she slept soundly. Maybe this wasn’t going to be impossible, after all.

  30

  Helen arrived at Berlin station early the next morning in hopes of finding a reply to her query on the whereabouts of Edward Stone. Instead, she encountered Herrington prowling the hallway outside her office. It was an uncharacteristically early hour for him, and he already looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept. His tie was loosened and his face was unshaven.

  “In my office,” he said.

  Helen put down her purse and began taking off her coat. Before she could finish, Herrington moved up in her face and put a hand on her arm.

  “Now,” he said. “As in, right this moment.”

  So much for everything going smoothly. Had someone spilled the beans on her work over Gilley? Had her new mail drop been discovered?

  There was an unmistakable air of crisis outside Herrington’s office. A younger man, unfamiliar to her, stood in a pose of readiness, with arms folded and rolled-up sleeves. He looked up as she approached but wouldn’t meet her gaze. Neither he nor Herrington spoke to each other as the station chief passed by on his way to his desk.

  Herrington shut the door behind her as she entered. He gestured to a chair, where she seated herself as meekly as possible. This time he did not bother to rub Lenin’s head for luck, nor did he even glance at her chest. He locked his fingers in a prayerful pose atop his blotter, looked her straight in the eye, and delivered the blow.

  “We’re letting you go.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “As of when?”

  “As of now. That gentleman you saw outside will be escorting you from the premises.”

  “I have to at least clean out my desk.”

  “You’ll take nothing from this office.”

  “Not even my purse?”

  “He’ll collect that for you. Along with your official ID.”

  “But—”

  “There will be no discussion. You will contact no one, here or at Langley or anywhere else. Failure to heed this order will result in prosecution, and we’ll spare no expense in pursuing charges. Do you understand?”

  “What charges? What have I done?”

  “As if you needed to ask.”

  “But—”

  “I told you. There’s nothing to discuss.” Then he raised his voice to shout to the man outside. “Allen?”

  The door opened immediately. The fellow with rolled-up sleeves stepped inside.

  “She’s all yours.” Herrington stood. “Allen here will escort you home to gather your belongings. You’re allowed a single suitcase. Anything that doesn’t fit will be shipped to you later, and be advised that whatever you do take will be thoroughly searched upon arrival.”

  “Arrival where?”

  “Allen will drive you to Templehof for a military flight back to the States. Any further word on the plane, Allen?”

  “Gassed up and waiting on the tarmac, sir.”

  “Good.” He turned back to Helen. “You’ll be landing in about nine hours. Someone from Langley will be waiting, and they’ll sort it out from there.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but the only thought that came to mind was that it was over—everything, and on every front. Not just her investigations but her career, her life, her hopes, her great European adventure—all of it was ashes, emptiness. She wanted to vomit.

  Allen gripped her arm, a bit roughly at first, and then with a gentle nudge as he seemed to realize how stunned she was.

  “Miss?”

  She turned to face him. He was about her age, probably an ex-jock, but his eyes showed intelligence, maybe even compassion.

  “We have a plane to catch. Come with me.”

  He made it sound like he was taking her on a date, and her first impulse was to laugh. Then she noticed Herrington’s look of triumph—the smug set of his mouth, the gleam in his eyes, and she wanted to lash out. But an outburst was probably what he was hoping for, something to share later with the others over celebratory drinks. So she turned away from him, shook off Allen’s grip on her arm, and walked out of the office with as much fortitude as she could muster.

  A car from the consular section was waiting outside at the curb. A Marine guard in full dress uniform was at the wheel, which made it look like she was a government big shot, a visiting celebrity here to toss a bouquet of roses at the base of the Wall. She swallowed hard, still feeling nauseated as she slid onto the seat with Allen close in her wake. In the confined space of the car she could smell his cologne, a brand she detested, so she pressed the button on the armrest to open her window. It would only lower by a few inches, just enough to allow the raw dampness of a Berlin morning, which usually made her bones ache, to pour in.

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t do that.” Allen said.

  “I’d prefer if you hadn’t doused yourself in a quart of English Leather. I can’t exactly climb out the opening. It stays.”

  Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride, and she left the window open even after she had to hold herself rigid to keep from shivering.

  31

  What did you pack for a journey of exile, a deportation from your life? More to the point, what sort of clothes and belongings did you throw into a bag when you knew that some snoop in gloved hands was going to toss all of it onto a table for close inspection almost the moment you landed?

  Helen stood with hands on hips as she stared at her suitcase, opened on the bed like an empty clamshell, a beige Samsonite, her mother’s going-away gift from the day she’d left for college. Up to now it had represented freedom. From here on out it would remind her of disgrace. She sighed, and then she got angry at herself.

  “Buck up, Abe
ll!” she said.

  “What was that? Are you talking to someone?”

  The voice of Allen, who was waiting in the living room. They’d trudged up the stairs in silence. He’d still seemed to be smarting from her crack about his cologne. Now his face appeared in the bedroom doorway, head swiveling from side to side as if searching for infiltrators, a communist conspiracy.

  “I was just talking to myself while I pack.”

  He left without a word. She heard him switch on the television, an outburst of loud voices and canned laughter. Yet another American rerun, expertly dubbed by the Germans. Hogan’s Heroes, of all things. Fat and jolly Sergeant Schultz, proclaiming in a doltish Schwabian accent that he knew nothing. What a comfort it must be for Berliners to view Wehrmacht officers and Gestapo men as ineffectual boobs. Courtesy of the Americans, no less.

  Helen walked over to her window and pulled open the blinds. Gray upon gray, with trailing wisps of coal smoke thrown in for good measure. But she would miss it. She would miss these rooftops with their pigeons and their chimneys and their Old World gloom.

  Glancing to the right, she noticed something outside her bathroom window that had never seemed significant until now. An idea took root. Somewhat foolish, but an idea all the same. Heart beating a little faster, she walked to her closet, got out an overnight bag, and began filling it with underwear and clothes. And, then, from the very back of a dresser drawer, from where she’d stowed it the other night, she took out the escape and evasion kit that Baucom had given her. Fortunately she had already stocked it with currency, just as he’d advised—D-Marks and French francs, enough for at least a week.

  From another drawer she withdrew the blond wig and the sunglasses and dropped them on the bed. She turned and walked to the door, poking her head out just enough to see Allen laughing at something Colonel Klink had just said.

  “If that flight’s going to be nine hours then I’ll need a shower before we go.” She kept her voice neutral, calm. “How much time do we have?”