“They took a guess. They dropped off a package with my glasses and passport at the apartment in care of Hakan. The bastards kept my purse, but a note was stuck in my passport.”
“Do you know what they want?”
“More or less.”
“And you’re not going to tell me?”
Faith pushed her hair back out of her face. “I don’t know how it would help me at this point. I don’t even know if I’m going to do it. Like I said, until those roses showed up, I was on my way to the States.” Faith tinkered with the time line.
“A few flowers were enough to prevent you from leaving?”
“They were enough to get my attention. To make me think about what makes me feel alive—about where my passions lie.”
“And where is that?”
“You tell me. You’ve studied me.”
“Let me see.” Zara rested her head on her hands. Loose curls fell across her forehead, as if her hair were relaxing along with her. “Faith Whitney, the passionate smuggler. She delights in risk—that is, risk she believes she has some control over. She doesn’t like feeling out of control. But she gets an incredible high playing on the edge between control and chaos. Now, in her personal relationships, it’s a little different. As long as the risk is there, she enjoys it. When things start to settle down and become predictable, under control, she gets bored and moves on. So are you really going to abandon the one fulfilling relationship in your life?”
“Don’t you think you’re coming on a bit too strong? I hardly know you. And I don’t know what kind of intel you have on me, but I’m not a lesbian. I have impeccable heterosexual credentials. So you’re not exactly the one fulfilling relationship in my life.”
“I meant with the East, not me.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s the one fulfilling relationship in my life. I’ve had others.” Faith picked up her glass and pressed it against her lips.
“And I understand you abandoned that one.”
“We’re still close. I just couldn’t see myself trapped in a traditional marriage at the time.” Faith sipped the cognac. “I love what I do and I need my freedom. I don’t want to give it up, but I don’t want to die, either.”
“What would you do if you quit smuggling?”
“If I couldn’t play with the East, I’d find other playmates. There are a lot of markets in the world and even more governments that restrict free trade.”
Zara signaled the waitress for another drink. “Seriously, what would you do?”
“Like I said, there are a lot of opportunities for those willing to take the risk, but I wouldn’t touch most of them. What can I say? I’m too ethical for my own good. I’d never trade arms, and even so I understand it’s a tough market to break into. Drugs are out of the question. I’d probably go for antiquities. The thrill of the hunt would still be there, even if Third World governments aren’t as fun to mess around with as you guys.”
“I have a difficult time seeing you get excited over Greek vases.”
“I was thinking more like Khmer ankle bracelets, but your point’s well taken. I’d die of boredom.” Faith sipped her drink. The cognac took the edge off her surroundings. “The East is where I belong. I’ve flirted with the Stasi and KGB all my life. It’s a love-hate relationship, but, as you pointed out, it’s maybe the best relationship I’ve got.”
“So you’re telling me you’re in.”
“Depends. What have you got for me?”
“Your mother’s file covering the year and a half before your birth is sealed.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Whatever happened back then must still matter to someone with the authority to block access. I also tried to look at our copies of the MfS files from that period, but it was the same thing. I’m working back channels, but I can’t make any promises other than to do my best.”
“I think we can come to a mutually agreeable arrangement.”
“How far I can go with the Moscow storefront depends upon what you can offer. Right now we know the MfS is running a black op and taking great care to conceal it from us, but that’s about it. That’s not worth much more than assurances we’ll help you out as much as possible.”
“What happened to the import-export business in Moscow, permission to scour the countryside for antiques and all of that?”
“It’s possible, but the compensation depends upon the value of the project. And that depends upon the Germans.”
“I’m not comfortable entering into an agreement without first nailing down the terms, but I usually know what I’m peddling.”
Zara patted Faith’s hand. “You’re going to have to trust me. I promise you I’ll do my best to secure you the maximum honorarium.”
“I don’t doubt you will.” Faith rolled her hand from under Zara’s and ran her index finger along its back, exploring the ridges and valleys of her knuckles. She was aware the alcohol was helping her blunder in a dangerous direction, but permitted herself the sensuality of the moment.
“Before you distract me too much, you need to tell me everything you know about what they’re planning,” Zara said.
Faith sensed something feline about Zara. She suspected she could be purring on her lap one minute, scratching her the next. Faith prided herself on being able to pet neurotic cats, knowing just when to jerk away to avoid the claws. Faith moved her hand away from Zara, revoking her sensual liberties. “They want me to move something from Berlin to Moscow and they want it done quietly.”
“To Moscow? Your price went up.”
“Substantially.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“All I know is they want it done quickly—there’s a forty-eight-hour window before they start hunting me down if I don’t deliver. I’ll bargain for more time when I receive the item, but I don’t have the impression they’re too flexible. I also got the sense it’s an important piece of a bigger puzzle they don’t want associated with the GDR.”
“When’s the hand-off?”
“Tomorrow—somewhere between Checkpoint Charlie and the Reichstag. Now I’ve given you something. I expect something in return.” Faith forced down several gulps of water to dilute the alcohol.
“We don’t know what they’re planning, but it gets our attention anytime the man you know as Schmidt gets involved in a project. You do know who he is?”
Faith shook her head.
“Kosyk, Major General Gregor Kosyk of the MfS.”
“Sorry.”
“You know of Markus Wolf?”
“The spymaster who was behind infiltrating Willy Brandt’s cabinet and stuff like that.”
“Kosyk is more dangerous. Wolf is a traditional spy. He runs agents who use proven methods—usually sex—to place informants in high governmental positions in the West. Kosyk—your Schmidt—is from the dark side of the business. He believes the future of espionage isn’t with cloak-and-dagger, but terror. He made his name in seventy-two in Munich. He arranged contacts for Black September to get the weapons into the Olympic Village. There were two additional terrorists in that mission the West Germans never knew about, and Kosyk got them out through the GDR. He’s fostered the Red Army Faction in West Germany—sort of adopted them once Baader and Meinhof were apprehended. Remember when they blew up the Lufthansa jumbo and the other planes in the desert? He helped with the training in Yemen. He’s behind the GDR’s support for Carlos the Jackal, Abu Daoud, Abu Nidal, among others. Recently, he worked with the Libyans on the bombing of La Belle.”
“The Americans haven’t been able to definitively pin that on anyone, have they?”
“Reagan bombed Tripoli over it, but they haven’t been able to hold anyone legally responsible. Your government loves those show trials in The Hague—a legacy of Nuremberg, I suppose. Anyway, Kosyk reports directly to Mielke and has his own small group of operatives. It appears only a few in the Politburo know what’s going on.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It gets worse. Kosyk’s funds do come from the Stasi, and all the Stasi’s resources are at his disposal, but for practical purposes Kosyk controls his own black organization.”
“A boutique spy shop?” Faith said.
“You should feel honored.”
“I get the impression Kosyk isn’t well respected in the business.”
“I’m from the old school, where you use only as much muscle as necessary and you don’t associate with terrorists. In my book, Kosyk is a terrorist.”
“You make me feel better and better every minute, girl.”
“That’s my intention.” Zara slipped her hand behind Faith’s head and caressed her hair.
“I warned you, I’ve flirted with the KGB all my life, but I won’t go all the way.”
“You’re hardly a virgin. And I’d say you just got knocked up by the Stasi.”
“It was forced. And I’m not easy.”
“Nothing about Faith Whitney is easy.”
“Zara, I think we could be friends, but not like you want, especially not now.” Faith moved away. She threw her head back with the last gulp of cognac. “Now I’ve had a few drinks, I admit that I’m flattered, even a little turned on, and very scared—and I don’t mean scared because of the lesbian stuff. But I am disappointed in you. A honey pot to lure an agent into service is the oldest trick in the book.”
“You’re alone against the resources of the entire intelligence apparatus of the GDR. They’ll kill you unless you do what they want, and they’ll probably dispose of you even if you cooperate. The KGB has offered help and protection, and all we ask is to be kept informed about what the MfS is up to.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
STUMP NECK, MARYLAND, USA
Max Summer molded enough plastic explosive to bring down an airliner into the shell of a Sony radio. His thumb sunk a blasting cap into the doughy substance and then he twisted its wires into a receiver. He taped the receiver to the radio and then tossed it to the young Arab.
The Arab slipped it between a faded pair of jeans and a University of Oklahoma sweatshirt. Faded USDA inspection stickers and airline-security markers from international flights were the only clues to its owner’s identity. He closed the suitcase and shoved it inside a Pan Am 747 cargo container. It blended into the Samsonites and American Touristers.
The young man secured the cargo container and signaled to clear the area. They drove a short distance away. “Fire in the hole.” Summer flipped a switch on a radio transmitter.
An intense flash and the container was gone. A loud clap roared through the Maryland woods and the ground trembled. Toothbrushes, clothes and twisted metal rained down while a high-speed camera snapped pictures at five hundred frames per second. Lieutenant Commander Max Summer and Special Agent Maria Fuentes strolled toward the debris.
“C packs a wallop, doesn’t it?” Summer said. “I’d say it was enough to bring down Pan Am 103.”
“Who says these tests have anything to do with Maid of the Seas?” the FBI agent said.
“Doesn’t take a special agent to figure out what’s going on when the FBI sends me a semi with Pan Am cargo containers and wants me to blow them up.” Summer turned to the half-dozen enlisted men assisting the R & D department of the Naval Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technology Center. “I want everything picked up and put into this bin. You’ve got ten minutes. Make me happy in five. Go to it.” He turned back toward the FBI agent. “You need to keep in mind this shows how much damage a given amount of C-4 can do to a filled cargo container. My understanding is that it isn’t that easy to come by for international terrorists. If it was C-4, you should’ve picked up some microscopic markers called taggant that’ll show you what production line it came from. But I’m betting they used Semtex.”
“The New York Times ran a story that both our analysis and Scotland Yard’s came out positive for Semtex,” Fuentes said.
“Before you came down here this morning, I checked with a buddy in Defense Intelligence who knows a little more about Semtex. Both it and C are made of pretty much the same stuff—PETN and RDX—but the yield is really going to depend on the formulas. He couldn’t give me any blast-yield conversions, but he said it varies a lot with Semtex. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the usual slipshod commie quality control or because they have different types for different purposes, but—”
“They do have different types. Semtex-H is a terrorist favorite. The Libyans bought a ton and a half of it from the Czechs a couple of years ago. That story’s also been in the Times.”
“My point being, just because we’re able to demonstrate eight ounces of C-4 were enough to do the job doesn’t mean that eight ounces of Semtex-H—or whatever designation—would do the same amount of damage. Unless this is taken into account, we’ve just wasted our time. Not that blowing things up is ever really a waste of time.” He smiled, revealing his perfectly straight white teeth. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you brought us the containers. Blowing up luggage is a nice change of pace from old ordnance.”
“I want a few more tests with four, six and ten ounces.”
“You got it.”
A Dodge Ram screeched to a halt in front of the commander and a yeoman jumped out. “Sir, I received a phone call for you about five minutes ago. It was a civilian. She said it was a family emergency. She’d call back in an hour.”
“She say who she was?”
“No, sir, we got cut off. One thing, though, the connection was bad. There was kind of a delay, the kind like I used to get when I was stationed at Subic Bay and I’d talk to my wife stateside.”
“I’ll be along shortly.”
The yeoman sped off, leaving a dust cloud behind.
“You should also note another difference that really shouldn’t have much bearing on your investigation, but it’s worth mentioning,” Summer said.
“If you have to go, I understand.”
“I will in a minute, but let’s finish up here. My chief can supervise any additional tests you need. But as I was saying, you might also note we’re using a simple radio detonation device to set it off. Unless it was some kind of a wacko suicide bomber, they wouldn’t have done that. They’d probably use a delayed arming timer and a barometric triggering device set to explode when the air pressure dropped to a designated level. That way they could’ve sent it on some other flight to London, where it was transferred onto 103.”
“We know. We think they used at least two of them and sent the bag from Malta to Frankfurt, where it was loaded onto 103.”
“I bet that was in the Times.”
“No, the Frankfurter Allgemeine.”
Chief Rashid approached them. “We’ve completed removal of the container fragments. What would you like us to do with the, uh, collateral debris? A lot of it’s not hurt. I saw a rather nice leather jacket, some Ray•Bans, Nikes. The men were asking . . .”
“You need this stuff for additional analysis?” Lieutenant Commander Summer said.
“The pictures are enough.”
“Anything that’s not part of the radio or container, they can dispose of at their individual discretion. I have some other matters to attend to. You’re now in charge. Assist Special Agent Fuentes with anything she needs. Tell the boys happy hunting.” He turned toward the FBI agent. “It’s been nice catching up on the papers with you. But I do want to know one thing. Where did you find all this luggage?”
“The airlines. They have tons of lost baggage. I can get you some to practice with, if you want.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
CHECKPOINT CHARLIE, WEST BERLIN
FRIDAY, APRIL 28
You are now leaving the American Sector. Faith read the multilingual sign at Checkpoint Charlie a couple of dozen times while waiting as the Stasi’s note had instructed. Per their request, she set a leather satchel at her feet each time she stopped for precisely seven minutes at one of the viewing platforms along the Wall. She ig
nored the stream of tourists climbing the wooden stand to sneak a glimpse of Berlin beyond the Wall and spent seven long minutes thinking about her father. Who would still want to cover up whatever happened to him thirty years ago?
A border guard raised the red and white striped metal barrier and allowed a tiny East German Trabant to exit to the West. The Trabi wound its way through the maze of concrete barriers. The gray hair of the driver suggested another retiree had come to enjoy his thirty allotted days in the West, but the East German guards took no chances. They followed the grandpa with their binoculars, guns at their sides.
She glanced at her watch. It was 10:15 in the morning and time to move on, as the note had instructed. Why did the Stasi want to deliver the package in one of the most highly watched areas of Berlin? They must want someone in the East to see her receive the drop in the West. Any less touristy section might have drawn attention. She climbed down the viewing platform. Each step jarred her sore rib cage. Two American soldiers sat in a white guard shack, studying her more than the Trabi as it rolled toward the West.
She intentionally walked two feet to the right of the white line painted on the cobblestones marking the beginning of GDR territory, where not too long ago President Reagan had taunted communist authorities by sticking his foot across the line and through the Iron Curtain. She strolled along the Wall, pacing herself as she pretended to admire the graffiti on the ugly cement structure. Kurdish and Albanian political slogans were scrawled beside an elaborate painting of a view into the East as if the Wall had been knocked away. She glanced back toward the checkpoint. Nothing.
A few hundred yards later, she stopped and looked down into collapsing ceramic tiled chambers dug into the ground. They were filled with water from the recent rains. When she recognized them as the recently unearthed basement of Gestapo headquarters, her breath became shallow. She felt numb with pain, but wasn’t sure if it were her own. She had read about the recent discovery, but had avoided going to see it. Even before the torture chambers were located, she had always hastened her pace along this section of the Wall. Faith had no doubt Berlin was haunted, but she refused to believe in ghosts. She zipped up her leather jacket. She blinked back tears when she peered in the torture chambers. She took a deep breath and for an instant felt water fill her lungs. She coughed. Tourists gawked at her. A camera clicked.
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