by Joseph Kanon
“But you won’t.” A full grin now. “You’re the best idea I ever had. For chrissake, don’t you get it? We’ve never had one.”
“What?”
“A double. Their recruit. Now all you have to do is tell them exactly what I tell you to tell them.”
“And how long do you think I can carry that off? Playing both sides.”
“You’re only playing one. Don’t worry, if things get sticky, we’ll get you out.”
“Get me out now. I mean it. I’ve done everything you wanted. But I didn’t sign on for this. Get me out.”
“I can’t. Not yet. You’re a unique source. And now this. You can see that, can’t you? Just keep your shirt on. A set-up like this—”
“With me taking the risk.”
Campbell looked at him. “Well, that was the arrangement, wasn’t it?”
“No. Chitchat at the Kulturbund. That was the arrangement.”
“So it got better. Much better. You’ve got a chance to really do something for your country now.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Then when can I go back?”
Campbell turned away.
“We’re in the British sector now. I’m already out. Why not just keep going? Just put me on a plane. I’ve killed a man for you. So when do I get my end?”
“Not yet.”
“When? After they find out? I mean it. Put me on a plane.”
“Going where?” Campbell said, facing him.
Alex looked away, into the fog, everything now just wisps of vaporous cloud, no visible markers.
“Look,” Campbell said, his most reasonable voice. “You’ve been doing a hell of a job. Now you have to hang on. See this through. If we’re going to file an appeal, we need—”
“What appeal?” Alex said, dread rushing through him.
“For you.” He hesitated. “There’s some news you’re not going to like.”
Alex turned to him.
“The divorce papers came through. The final ones.”
“And?”
“It’s hard to control these things. She was lucky, she got a hard-assed judge. Old school. Said when you left, you abandoned the kid. So you forfeit all rights. He awarded her full custody.”
“We expected that,” Alex said.
“And no visiting rights either. You didn’t just leave—you went to the Communists. That makes you an unfit parent in his book. Your kid would need a court order to see you.”
“She agreed to this? Marjorie?” His voice tight, a whisper.
“It wasn’t up to her. Like I said, this judge—”
“But she didn’t protest.”
“She was advised not to.”
“Advised by whom?”
“Her lawyer. Don’t look at me. We had nothing to do with this. We’re the good guys here. The judge thinks you’re a traitor. So we tell him you’re not, that you were working for us all along. We appeal.”
Alex looked over at him, the smooth shave, the implausible worker’s cap. “But you’re not going to.”
“Not yet. We need to have you here longer if we want to make this convincing. We’re telling him he wasn’t playing with a full deck. No one likes to hear that. He has to think you’re a goddam patriot.” He paused. “You need to put in some time.”
“How much?” Alex said quietly, but he already knew. They were never going to send him back. They’d keep him here, where he could be useful. Until he wasn’t.
When he turned to face Campbell, right next to him, a patch of fog seemed to make him disappear. There wasn’t anybody else, not here, not at the other end. He was on his own.
“How much?” he said again. “What do I have to do?”
“What you’ve been doing.”
“But that’s not enough. To get me out. What would be?”
Campbell met his gaze. “Find Markovsky.”
“Find Markovsky,” Alex said, an echo, not turning his head to the river, the air like gauze. “What makes you think I can do that?”
Campbell shrugged. “I don’t have anyone else with access. You know—”
“Her,” Alex finished. “I use her.”
Campbell shrugged again.
“And then you appeal.”
“You have my word.”
“Your word.”
“He’s a big fish. We could go to the judge with that.” His voice smooth as his chin.
No one else, either end. On your own.
“I don’t have a choice then.”
“I don’t see it that way. I think it’s something you’d want to do. You’ve been here long enough to see what they’re up to.”
“And this will stop them.”
“It’s a move.”
“And what if it doesn’t work? What if she doesn’t know?”
“I’ll know you tried.”
Alex took a step back, looking down, as if he were thinking it out. Yards away a body might be floating to the surface of the water. A phantom, like the judge. There wouldn’t be any appeal, just its dangling promise. And knowing this, he felt the dread seep out of him, his body almost weightless now, suddenly free. No one else. No sides.
“I need you to help,” he said finally.
“Anything,” Campbell said, a sense of relief at the back of it. “What?”
“Put out the word—use your ears over there, however you do it. We have him. A man like Markovsky can’t just stay in limbo somewhere, he’d have to defect. So he has, and you’re the lucky guy.”
“What good would that do?”
“It’ll call the dogs off her. You think you’re the only one who thinks she knows? They’ll think it too and they don’t like to take no for an answer. They’ll try to beat it out of her and then she’s no good to anybody. But do it quick. Today. Let them intercept something—make them think they’re clever. Then back it up with a leak. Whatever you have to do. They’ve already talked to her and they’ll talk to her again. But if they know where he is, then all they want to know is, did she help? That’s a lot easier for her to deal with. And now they’ve got bigger things on their minds—what he’s saying to you.”
“Not bad,” Campbell said, nodding. “Unless he turns up back in Karlshorst.”
“He won’t.”
Campbell raised his head.
“Would you? That’s a one-way trip.” Alex looked at him. “No appeal. He’d have to defect. Sooner or later. So let’s make it sooner. And get him out of Berlin—Wiesbaden, wherever the planes go—so they think he’s out of reach. Otherwise they’ll think they can use her to get to him.” He glanced up. “We want her to ourselves.”
Campbell stared at him for a minute, a cool appraisal. “Good. So we’re back in business?”
“Look at the cards you’re holding.”
“Don’t think like that. We’re doing something here.” He paused. “You have my word.”
Alex ignored this. “There’s more. I need an authorization to fly out of Berlin. Not for me. Someone else. I assume you can do this with a phone call?”
“I can call Howley, yes. Who?”
“An old friend. German POW. He’s like Markovsky—he has to come over or they’ll lock him up. Worse. So we need to get him out.”
“We don’t fly Germans back and forth.”
“He’s paying his way. Radio interview about the mine conditions in the Erzgebirge. They had him working there.”
“The Erzgebirge? That’s nothing new.”
“Maybe not. But it’s the best propaganda story we’ve got. The SED sending its own people to slave labor? Hard to top. And he can throw in an escape story if people start nodding off. RIAS will love it. And after we fly him out, he’ll have a nice long talk with your people. Is that enough for the fare?”
“Where is he?”
“Hiding. Safe. I’ll set it up with RIAS, get Ferber to do the interview. Then we get him out.”
“You’ll set it up? You don’t want to expose yourself like that.”
“Nobody’ll
know except Ferber. Isn’t he one of ours?”
Campbell peered at him. “No. But he’s done us a favor from time to time.”
“Well, now we can do him one. But how do we work it? I’ll get him to RIAS. But then we’ll need to move. Fast. Before anyone can grab him. And we don’t want him waiting around Tempelhof for a go.”
Campbell thought for a minute. “I’ll have Howley call the dispatcher. Clear him for any plane going out that night. What’s the name?”
“Von Bernuth.”
Campbell looked up.
“You want her cooperation, this is the way to do it. I save her brother, she owes me. Not to mention trusts. And you get a big story on the radio. And somebody who can tell you all about the mines. You’ll be flavor of the month.”
“After we find Markovsky,” Campbell said evenly.
“Set this up, we at least have a shot. In fact,” he said, pausing, as if it had just occurred to him, “clear two places. Same name. I might need that kind of leverage. People will do a lot if you promise to get them out of Berlin.”
“She’d leave Markovsky behind?”
Alex took a breath, thinking fast. Sasha alive, not in the Spree.
“He has to go to the West eventually. He’s a dead man here,” he said. “She might give him to us if we guaranteed getting him out too.” He paused. “Assuming she trusts us.”
“Which brings everything back to you,” Campbell said slowly.
Alex met his eyes. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“What if the Soviets pick her up?”
“You forget. Markovsky’s already with you. You’re going to say so. They’ll want me to find out what she knows. Just like you.”
“I thought you said it was the Germans who recruited you.”
“They work with Karlshorst, don’t they? And now they’ll have something to make themselves look good. I’ll be considered a catch.”
Campbell considered this for a moment, then grinned, a flash of teeth. “But we caught you first.”
“Yeah.”
“All right, we square here?”
“You’ll set it up? How do I contact you?”
“You don’t. Unless you’ve got a fire alarm. Use Dieter. He’ll tell me when to make the call. I’m not really here,” he said, beginning to step away into the fog, a ghost again. Then he turned. “By the way, who recruited you?”
“Who? Someone I knew from the old days.”
“Yes?” Campbell said.
“Markus Engel,” Alex said, feeling strangely disloyal. “Why?”
“We like to know who’s out there fishing. Hard enough keeping track of the Soviets. Now we’ve got the Germans too.”
“He was K-5. Promoted when they formed the new service. I don’t think he’s a recruiter. He just happened to know me. From before.”
“What was the approach?”
“Like you. He appealed to my better instincts.”
Campbell looked at him for a second, not sure how to respond. “That’s the way,” he said finally, then drifted off.
Alex took a gulp of air, then another, calming himself, aware suddenly that his own breathing was the only sound he could hear. The planes had stopped, leaving an eerie silence. He held up his hand. Everything beyond was black, no moon or streetlamps, not even the pinprick of a flashlight. What drowning would feel like, swallowed up in the dark. He stood still for a minute, willing himself not to panic. They were going to leave him here, in place, to race between traps. Nobody could keep that up indefinitely. A matter of time and then caught. One side or the other.
He started to walk. Stay close to the wall, the only marker. If he moved even a few yards away, he’d be lost, going in circles. A pair of headlights swooped into the black. Where Wilhelmstrasse must be. He was about to duck, an automatic crouch, when he realized the car couldn’t see him. The fog had made him invisible too. He could go anywhere and no one would know.
It must have been a piece of girder, something low to the ground, because nothing hit his shin as he tripped and pitched forward, suddenly flying. He put his hands out to break the fall, slamming onto the frozen ground, something sharp hitting the side of his forehead, a warm ooze of blood. He lay motionless for a second, angry at his clumsiness, then sank flat to the ground, the dread back, weighting him down. They’d keep him here. The cold spread across his face then moved down along the rest of him, a damp tomb cold. He’d never get out. He felt as if the marshy Brandenburg soil was reaching up to reclaim him, pull him under. He would die here after all, his exile just a reprieve from the inevitable. Did it matter who pulled the trigger? The Nazis. Markus. Campbell. The end would be the same. What his parents must have felt, climbing into the train, too dazed to resist. Their only comfort knowing they’d saved him.
And he’d come back. A bet against history. Now lying in the rubble. Waiting for what? To be a victim, like the others? No. He pushed himself up. He couldn’t die here, not in Germany. One more Jew. He touched his forehead. Blood but not streaming, a Band-Aid cut. Think. Play your own side. Berlin had. On its knees for a cigarette. Now on seventeen hundred calories a day. He got up and began to pick his way carefully through the debris, then faster, more confident in the dark, suddenly feeling he could walk all the way back to Santa Monica Pier. He had one head start: he knew where Markovsky was. Make up the rest of the story. Isn’t that what writers do? Smoke and mirrors.
If Campbell leaked Markovsky’s defection tonight, Karlshorst would know by morning. They’d come to see Irene again, but what she’d already told them would fit. She just had to keep saying it, frame the story. Be surprised. Disappointed. Maybe even angry that he hadn’t confided in her, just went off with a kiss to her head. But she had to prepare herself, know they’d be coming.
He turned up toward Marienstrasse, following the curb to the bridge. A street he could find in the dark. Maybe there’d even be a few window lights now that he was back in the Soviet sector, out of the blockade. Think it through. What could go wrong? Markovsky himself, bobbing to the surface. But there was nothing he could do about that now. The stones would hold or they wouldn’t. As long as they bought him time. Campbell would know how to feed the story, add kindling. What did Markovsky tell us today? Reports leaking back to Karlshorst, everyone focused on them, not dredging the Spree. If they managed the story right, it could be more valuable than Markovsky himself. Assuming nothing went wrong, no weak link.
He stopped on the bridge, turning his back to a lone truck that was lumbering across. And if they found the body? You had to plan for the unexpected. Look at Lützowplatz. He heard Campbell’s voice again, lodged somewhere in the back of his mind. It wasn’t supposed to go that way. But how was it supposed to go? If they found Markovsky, there’d be hundreds of suspects. Berlin was a desperate city. A Russian alone at night. Anybody might have done it. But only one had seen him last. Nobody made it through a real interrogation. If it came to that. Three people in the room, one of them dead. They’d both be at risk, as long as she was here, easy to pick up, her protector gone.
He found the door with no trouble, then felt his way up the stairs. Underneath the door there was the thin flicker of candlelight. A soft three raps.
“Oh, you’re hurt,” she said, her eyes drawn immediately to the blood. She was clutching at her robe and holding a candle like some figure in a folktale wakened in the night. “What—?”
“I tripped. It’s nothing,” he said, stepping inside, closing the door behind him. He lowered his voice. “Frau Schmidt. Is she still away?”
“What? Oh, Frau Schmidt. No, she’s back.” Fluttering, as if she were having trouble following. “But why—I thought you said we shouldn’t see—”
“It’s all right. Nobody followed.”
“How do you know?” she said, her voice still distracted, clutching the robe tighter.
“Were you sleeping?” he said, finally noticing it.
She shook her head. “Why did you come? You said—”
/> “I know. I needed to see you. Do you have something for this?” He touched his forehead. “A bandage. A piece of cloth.”
“Who’s that?” A voice from the other end of the room, the German accented, Russian.
“A friend,” Irene said faintly.
“Another friend,” the man said, amused by this, stepping forward now into the candlelight, buttoning his uniform.
“No. A friend,” Irene said, at a loss, looking over at Alex.
The room seemed to dissolve for a minute, as if he had brought the fog in with him, shrouding everything outside the reach of the candle, the flash of brass buttons, her eyes staring at him. Like that night in Kleine Jägerstrasse, a whole conversation in a look, everything understood in a second. The same bright sheen in her eyes, the tiny spark of defiance behind the dismay. When things came back into focus he almost expected to see the Christmas tree, Kurt lying among the presents. But there was only a Russian officer, buttoning his tunic, watching them both.
“I’ll go,” Alex said, not moving, his eyes still talking to her.
“No need,” the Russian said calmly, picking up his hat. “I’m leaving.”
They all stood still for another second, just looking, then the Russian started for the door.
“A friend,” he said, smiling to himself. “I wonder, does Sasha know how popular you are?”
“Why don’t you tell him?” A quick glare, then looking down, retreating. “It’s not what you think.”
“Ah,” the Russian said, enjoying himself. “You should get an appointment book.” He turned to Alex. “Or are you early?” He put on his hat, then stopped halfway through the door and looked at Alex. “You won’t be sorry. Make sure she washes, though. Between friends.”
The door closed with a click. Irene moved over to the table and put down the candle, then belted her robe.
“He works with Sasha,” she said, low, almost mumbling.
“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“No?” She took a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit it with the candle. “I thought you weren’t coming here anymore.”
Alex raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“He came to ask me questions.”
“That’s some answer,” Alex said, nodding at the robe.