“Rock doves. Technically they’re not pigeons, but rock doves. I think a summer exchange program focusing on the history of Soviet-GDR cooperation is a great idea, but I would have the students spend more time in Moscow than Berlin. We’ll have to get the GDR’s Education Ministry on board, and I can line things up on the Soviet side.”
Tatyana turned her head toward Faith and lowered her voice. “You mentioned your interest in certain art objects. I have excellent connections. Is there anything special you’re searching for?”
“Anything designed by Natalia Danko or Kandinsky from the Lomonosov Porcelain Factory in Leningrad.”
“You have something particular in mind?”
“A chess set.”
“I can get you any chess set you like in exchange for the right item.”
“Probably not this one. ’The Reds and the Whites’ from the early twenties. It’s a masterpiece. The theme obviously is the Great October Revolution. The red figurines are modeled after the communists, the white the—”
“Imperialists.”
“Including the Tsar’s family. My favorites are the pawns. The reds are liberated reapers with sheathes and sickles and the whites are oppressed peasants, complete with chains.”
“I can check around for you. If I find one, maybe you could find something for us in exchange.”
“How about a Reagan coffee mug? Now the old geezer is finally out of office, they should start picking up in value. I’ll even throw in an old ’Nixon Now’ button.”
“I think you know what I’m asking for. We always need help getting items on the List—fiber optics, computer chips.”
“I can’t help you. I agreed to meet you to work out a student exchange program, and I know you’ll use it for some propaganda crap, and frankly I don’t care. I like you, Tatyana, and maybe we can be friends. But understand this: If you ever try to recruit me again, that’s the end. Basta.” Faith waved her finger in the air like a schoolteacher scolding a wayward pupil.
“I only thought it might be a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Save your breath.” Faith stood, raising her voice. She yanked the binoculars from around her neck and shoved them toward Tatyana. “Thank you for the interesting afternoon.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again. Allow me to take you home or wherever you want to go. It’s the least I can do.”
“For a few moments, I thought we might be friends without politics getting in the way.”
“It is possible. Let me give you a ride back into town.”
Faith crumpled into the seat, relieved the tinted windows shielded her from the Stasi’s view. She wished she could hide from the KGB as well. “I’m serious—I don’t want anything to do with this.” Tatyana turned her torso toward Faith and moved just beyond the boundary of her personal space. “I know you are, but the Stasi hasn’t given you any choice. I’m offering help and asking nothing of you. If you should need to get in touch with me, don’t call the embassy. Only contact me from the West.” Tatyana gave Faith detailed instructions on how to signal her for a rendezvous in the other Berlin.
“And if I’m trapped in the East and need to meet you over here?”
“This is the Stasi’s playground. Sorry.”
Faith turned away and watched the green fade into urban gray.
“Faith, you don’t get what I’m saying. If they saw us here together again doing anything outside of negotiating a cultural exchange with some of their officials present, they’d assume I’m running you and would liquidate you. You also can’t go home and talk about this.”
“Yeah, I know my phone’s bugged.”
“Did you know there’s a camera in your kitchen? Hakan cooks you pancakes on weekends and sneaks vanilla into the batter when you’re not looking.”
“I assumed they kept one in the flat in the East, but in West Berlin? Are there bugs?”
“Only the kitchen, but my copy of your MfS dossier predates their current interest.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. About the vanilla in the pancakes, I mean.” Faith sighed and continued looking out the window as they passed rows of prefab high-rises.
“You’re familiar with the Berolina Hotel?”
“Spooks from the Arab embassies hang out in the bar. Some real slime-bags.”
“It’s watched more than average. We’re almost there.” She tapped on the driver’s shoulder and spoke in Russian. “Ivashko, stomp on the brakes in front of the Berolina. Make a scene. Our guest is leaving us there.” She switched back to German. “Jump out of the car screaming at me like you’ve just had a really bad date.”
The Chaika drove away. Faith oriented herself by the television tower at Alexanderplatz. She headed toward the Friedrichstrasse border crossing. A Wartburg slowed and drove alongside her. Her heart raced and she quickened her pace. The car sped up. She ducked into a side street in near panic and the car screeched across several lanes of traffic to follow.
She pushed at the door of an apartment building, but it was locked. She smacked every button on the intercom. Please be home. She turned to run off just as a girl responded. She stopped.
“Post. Telegram,” Faith said.
“Come up.” The lock buzzed. Faith reached for the latch.
As she pulled, someone grabbed her from behind. She trembled and her knees started to buckle, but she caught herself.
“Frau Doktor, we must talk.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
KGB SAFE HOUSE, DEMOCRATIC BERLIN–MARZAHN
SUNDAY, APRIL 23
The communist planned community of Marzahn was an architectural eugenics experiment gone awry. Bogdanov wound along the endless Ho-Chi-Minh Strasse searching for the back entrance to the KGB safe house, driving past clone after clone of prefabricated apartment buildings, grocery stores and restaurants. The recently constructed but already-decaying buildings reminded her of the inner-city tenements she had seen while on assignment in the States. She preferred the quaint old buildings and cobblestone streets of some of the older districts, such as Karlshorst and Köpenick, but the sprawling anonymity of Marzahn made it much easier to run a safe house and conceal it—even from the Stasi. The Wartburg’s brakes squeaked as the colonel parked it in a row of Trabis, Skodas and Ladas.
Bogdanov arrived a half-hour before Kosyk was expected. She was surprised that someone had actually cared enough to add pleasant little touches to the place. Instead of the usual wilted mums in algae-filled water, fresh Gerber daisies decorated the coffee table. A dish of candy sat atop a hand-crocheted doily. She wished she could get this fussy housekeeper reassigned to her office at the embassy before her cleaning crew allowed the dust to cover her pictures entirely. She drew the living-room curtains and poured two shot glasses, one with water, the other with vodka. Kosyk never drank on duty and was known for his irritation with anyone who did. She wanted him in just the right mood.
Kosyk arrived early, even for a German. He slammed his fist onto the table directly in front of Bogdanov, knocking over a vase of flowers and sloshing liquid from the shot glasses. “Who are you to recruit my asset? You’re compromising the entire operation.”
“You’re making a mess. How un-German of you.” Bogdanov held herself back from righting the vase and sopping up the water. She instead crossed her legs, leaned back in the green plaid armchair and watched the puddle expand toward the edge. “I think you should calm down, lower your voice and tell me what you’re babbling about. You also might want to remember with whom you’re speaking. Regardless of any cooperation on this special project, the MfS does not give orders to the KGB.”
“You know what I mean—the American. Whitney.”
“The professor?”
Kosyk snorted.
“Herr Kosyk, you need to control your agents. And I’m surprised with you. The first rule in this business is never to reveal the identity of your agents—even to a friend like me. I think we’re both talking about the one I’ve designated F
edEx.”
“FedEx?” Kosyk laughed. “You like the Americans, don’t you?”
“Their government’s the enemy, not the people. But I want to make it very clear I was not the one who initiated contact. FedEx approached me on an unrelated matter with two of your citizens. They were all hot and bothered because you censored one of our magazines—sort of sweet, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t know about it, because I heard you picked up the librarians.”
“Stay away from her.”
“Not an issue.”
“You met with her a second time.”
Bogdanov took a piece of Russian hard candy from a glass dish and unwrapped it. “I thought her skills might be useful in acquiring some materials we’ve been looking for. I had no idea you were interested in her.” Or how interested I would be.
“You took her to a park.”
“It’s a much more effective technique to befriend potential assets rather than to coerce them into cooperation—which I understand is your preferred style.”
“It’s a question of effectiveness.” Kosyk’s left eye jerked to the side; the right one remained fixed on Bogdanov.
“What are you planning with FedEx?”
Kosyk stood to leave. “We agreed you’d handle recruitment in Moscow and arrange on-site logistics. We handle all disinformation and we deliver you the means to strike the target. Upon receipt in Moscow, the KGB takes control. Beyond this, I see no grounds to share operational details.”
“Very well.” Bogdanov twisted the waxed candy wrapper as the water from the spilled vase dripped onto the new carpet. “Then I see no need to go into additional details unless you want to have a seat and remind yourself we’re working toward the same goal.” Bogdanov pointed to an armchair.
Kosyk continued to stand, his arms crossed. “I’m listening.”
“Suit yourself.” Arrogant little bastard. Bogdanov refused to look up to him and instead stared at him as if he were sitting down, but, unfortunately, his crotch was eye level. “Good news from Moscow. We have strong initial support from Gasporov. Our own Spetsnaz unit is with us. Let’s drink to early success.” She pushed the shot glass of vodka across the table to him and picked up the water-filled glass.
Kosyk shook his head. “Too early and I’m working.”
“You’re more German than the Germans. But you’re a Sorb, aren’t you? Your High German’s too pure, too practiced. You grew up speaking sorbski, didn’t you? Tell me, Gregor, did you grow up as Yurij?”
“That’s of no consequence,” he said with force.
“Isn’t it? The thought of native Slavs in their Deutschland never sat well with our German friends. They’ve never seemed to like the Sorb minority in their midst, have they? But then, I guess they’re not too keen on minorities in general. They’ve spent the last thousand years trying to assimilate or eliminate our little West Slavic brothers, among others. With you I’d say they succeeded.” Bogdanov drank the shot of water. “I wonder if Markus Wolf would’ve gotten such a sweet retirement deal from the MfS if he’d grown up an ethnic Sorb in Hoyerswerda.”
“Wolf deserved nothing.” Kosyk’s face turned red and his voice quivered with anger. “He was a politician, not a real spook. Good staff, a lot of politics and Der Spiegel blew his reputation out of proportion. If he were a Sorb, he never would’ve advanced beyond major.”
“But I hear he’s not really retired. He’s a major behind-the-scenes player.”
“He’s nothing. He doesn’t even know—” Kosyk interrupted himself and studied Bogdanov. “You’re not extracting information from me. Crude, Bogdanov.”
“A question of effectiveness.”
“Stay away from FedEx. Understand me: If I believe my asset is compromised, I will eliminate her.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
To learn from the Soviet Union is to learn victory!
—EAST GERMAN COMMUNIST SLOGAN
MFS CENTRAL DETENTION CENTER, [EAST] BERLIN–
HOHENSCHÖNHAUSEN
Chipping gray naval paint and smears of blood and feces covered the cinder-block walls of the Stasi prison. The room contained only a table and chair for the interrogator, a stool bolted to the floor, and a slop pail in the corner. Recessed fluorescent lights glowed overhead day and night in the windowless cell. Her side ached from when she fell off the stool and they’d kicked her awake. At this point she would have welcomed a smelly mattress or even a few moments of peace on the grimy floor. Her thoughts were jumbled, but she was certain of one thing: No one ever left this wretched room the same person she went in—except the Stasi interrogators. They never changed. They had no history, no future and probably no present.
The interrogator slapped her, nearly knocking her to the floor. “What does the KGB want with you?”
“I told you. I refused.” Faith ran her fingers over her stinging cheek.
“How long have you known Tatyana Medvedev?” The voice was flat, as if the interrogator were bored with the repetition.
“Since Friday.”
“Why did you go to the Soviet embassy?”
Faith closed her eyes and turned away. Her mind was numb from fear and exhaustion. She didn’t think she could hold out much longer, but she had to. If they believed she’d even talked to the Russians about them, it was over.
“Frau Whitney, answer my question.”
“Over and over, I have.” Faith sighed and glanced over toward a picture mirror. They had taken away her eyeglasses and everything was a blur, but she knew Schmidt was there, studying her. “Get Schmidt.”
“How often did you meet Frau Medvedev?”
Faith turned toward the two-way mirror. “Schmidt,” she said and paused for a breath. “Stop, please. I’m not working for them. You’ve got to believe me. It’s the truth.”
“Pay attention. How often did you meet Frau Bogdanov?”
“Twice. Wait—Bogdanov?”
“So you do know Bogdanov. When do you meet her next?”
“I don’t know Bogdanov. I’m tired. I can’t think straight.”
“You admit you met Bogdanov twice. How do you contact her?”
“I don’t know Bogdanov.”
“When did you first meet Zara Antonovna Bogdanov, lieutenant colonel in the KGB?”
“Medvedev’s Bogdanov?”
“How do you contact Bogdanov, your KGB handler?”
“I don’t know.” She pressed her cracking lips together to spread whatever moisture remained and stared at the clear bottle of seltzer water on the table four feet away. “I’m thirsty. Please.”
“How do you contact her?” The interrogator looked at Faith with the dissociated gaze of an executioner.
“I don’t know.”
“What did they offer you?”
“A chess set.”
“Why that?”
“I collect.”
“Were you interested in their offer?”
“No. May I have water?” Faith yawned. She struggled to concentrate. Small variations could mean hours more of questioning. Or worse.
“So you were interested.”
“I’ll never work for the KGB.” Her words were halting.
“And why should we believe that you would work for the MfS and not the KGB?”
“You know about my father.” She fought back tears, but they streamed down her face anyway.
“Did you tell her you’re doing a job for us?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What did they want?”
“Fiber optics.”
“Did you tell them we’ve approached you?”
“No.”
“And why would you work for us and not them?”
“I want to find Daddy.” Her voice cracked. “Water, please?”
“Very well.”
The interrogator popped the rusty cap from the bottle of seltzer water and poured it into a glass.
“Thank you.” Faith reached for the glass. The interrogator jerked it awa
y, threw it into Faith’s face and left the room. Faith rushed to the bottle and gulped the remains. She crawled onto the filthy floor, drew her legs tightly against her body to fight away the cold. At least they hadn’t taken away her clothes. She fell asleep to the acrid odor of stale urine and dreamed of her father valiantly rescuing her.
Sharp pain awakened her. She grabbed her side just before the interrogator’s boot smacked into it again.
“On the stool. I told you never to get off that stool unless I give you permission. What does the KGB want with you?”
“Technology from the List.” She clutched her side and had no idea if she had been asleep for seconds or hours.
“Did you tell them you’re working for us?”
“No.”
“What did you agree to do?”
“Nothing.”
“When did you first meet Colonel Bogdanov?”
Faith once again gave the same answer she had every time, but this time the interrogator suddenly left the room. Faith sat on the stool, waiting, but no one came back. She wanted nothing more than to crawl onto the floor and rest. Still, she waited on the stool, wobbling from side to side as she started to fall asleep. She hoped someone knew where she was. Tatyana, or rather Colonel Bogdanov, might know, but she wouldn’t help her in East Berlin. Dean Reed. Faith’s thoughts kept returning to the American folk singer who defected to the Soviets during the Vietnam War. Soviet youth flocked to his concerts; the more savvy East Germans laughed at their Soviet counterparts, who believed Reed was an American pop icon. Dean Reed couldn’t settle into bleak Soviet conditions, so he chose the GDR as his home. He lived peacefully outside East Berlin until he fell out of favor with the regime a few years back. When his body floated face-down in an East German lake, the communists insisted it was suicide. Dean Reed. Face-down in the lonely water.
Faith had been in the cell for days, but, without any clues from the outside world, she had no idea how many. Hunger and fatigue stretched the time.
She yawned as she forced her thoughts back to the puzzle. What would happen if they found out the KGB knew the Stasi had successfully recruited her? Dean Reed. She had to keep up the lie. Whatever they wanted her for, they didn’t want the Russians to know. It made no sense. The Soviets and East Germans were on the same side. East German loyalty had never wavered. Not in fifty-three, when they ordered their own troops to shoot their own workers. Not in sixty-one, when they divided Berlin with a wall. Not in sixty-eight, when their tanks quashed the Prague Spring. The East Germans were Soviet lapdogs. Why would they suddenly want to keep their masters in the dark? Geopolitics aside, what did she have to do with a rift among communists? All Faith wanted was to find out about her father, but she knew she was caught in the rift zone.
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