Invariably, Mister Frank would go down to the port the day after his meeting. Fischer often followed him discreetly and watched his activities. Frank never seemed to be concerned with watching his back. That told Fischer he was either not an intelligence officer or he wasn’t doing anything operational. One time, however, Frank was walking the narrow paths between the carts and trucks in the crowded port area when two young toughs accosted him. They were both shirtless and barefoot, their skin a deep black, which Fischer took to mean they were mainlanders and not of Omani descent. They probably worked the dhows as stevedores and thought Mister Frank to be vulnerable. Whoever they were, the two confronted Mister Frank in a particularly congested area, one in front and one to his rear. Frank acted unconcerned despite the heavy metal bar brandished by the front man. Fischer saw the flash of a blade in the hand of the man to the rear. There was an exchange of words and Frank reached for his pocket as if to get his money. As he did, he stepped to the side, pulled a spring cosh from under his loose linen coat, and swung it at the man behind him. It connected with the young man’s forearm. There was a resounding snap and the knife flew into the air as its owner went to his knees in pain. Frank turned and smiled at the first man who decided he had business elsewhere. So did Frank, who kept walking down to the ferry dock and departed for Dar es Salaam.
Fischer decided Mister Frank could handle himself and must be a bit more than a conventional diplomat. And if he traveled to Dar after his meetings then it followed that he must not trust the communications system at the consulate. Fischer did his sums and surmised Frank was a case officer who was handling the old Zanzibari as an access agent.
The visits to the station site and the elder’s village never seemed regular, but over the course of several months, Fischer determined that one particular day of the week, Saturday, seemed to be Mister Frank’s preferred choice of day to drive out of town. And it was early on a Saturday morning that Fischer parked his old Riley sedan on the road to the tracking station and threw open the hood, feigning engine trouble. He stood near the car, imagining he could smell the cloves from the nearby plantations.
As Fischer had hoped, sometime later Mister Frank’s big Ford sedan appeared. He slowed to a stop.
“Do you have a problem?” Frank asked.
Fischer had removed his sweat-stained linen coat and rolled up his sleeves. Despite parking in the shade of several palm trees, he felt the blazing heat and humidity even this early in the morning. “It seems to be overheating. Do you by any chance have water?”
“As a matter of fact I do.” Frank said. He climbed out of the car and pulled out a small jerry can out of the trunk.
“Are you German?”
“You have a good ear,” Fischer said. He was even more convinced he had chosen the right man. “You’re from the American consulate, is that not true?”
“Yes, I am.” It was an easy guess as Frank’s car had Corps
Diplomatique number plates with a “116” prefix for the United States. “I am with the Solidarity Committee from East Germany,” he said.
If Mister Frank was an intelligence officer he would immediately recognize the connotations.
“I didn’t think you were permitted to talk with us.” Frank’s alert mechanism was pegged at the warning level.
“We’re not. But I’m in charge, so I make the rules and I can talk.
I need your assistance and, in return, I think can help you.” Fischer pulled a small brass presentation coin from his pocket. “Please take a look at this. It shows who I work for.”
Mister Frank read off the inscription on the coin, “Tschekist sein kann nur ein Mensch mit kühlem kopf, heissem herzen, und sauberen händen. Feliks Dzierzynski.”
“Do you understand German?”
“I do. It says, ‘A person can only be a Chekist with a cool head, a passionate heart, and clean hands.’ That would seem to mean that you’re with the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit.”
It was a statement not a question. It validated Fischer’s supposition and told Frank he was dealing with someone special.
“It does. My name is Maximilian Fischer. I would like to volunteer my services to the United States of America. If you are interested, I will be here at the same time next week.”
Frank looked around out of habit, assuming there would be someone in the bushes. There wasn’t. It was quiet and they were alone.
Without giving Fischer a direct answer the American said, “My name is Frank. I should probably go now. I assume your car is fine then?”
Frank tried to return the coin but Fischer pushed his hand back.
“Keep it. I have more. Please think about my offer. I will keep the water can for appearances’ sake. Go now.”
Mister Frank climbed back into his car and drove on.
Fischer watched him drive away and then puttered around with his car for a bit. He poured a little water into his radiator and then glanced around. As he expected, he saw no one. This section of the road was always deserted.
The next week, Mister Frank did come back. And, after talking more, Frank became Mister Frank Miller. Their conversation continued and a contract of sorts was orally agreed upon before Fischer gave him a packet. Not sensational intelligence, but more than Miller was expecting—papers that included a list of all the Stasi officers on Zanzibar, Fischer’s instructional program, and his student roster. He also included a plan of how they could meet and exchange information.
From the beginning, Fischer’s contact plans were geared to his own security. He always insisted on keeping his distance from the handlers and controlling the contact. Over the years, he communicated through carefully chosen intermediaries who often did not know who he was. The Americans knew his identity, but never talked directly with him. They were happy with that because of the quality of his information and the precautions he took. There was always extreme risk involved with running a Soviet Bloc agent, especially one from a security service. Carefully constructed means of indirect communication were devised that permitted instructions and requests to be innocuously passed through newspapers and radio programs. He rarely risked a personal meeting and also chose the means he used to pass documents. It was as safe as a system could be for a spy.
And he thought he had done a pretty good job of helping the Americans over the years. In the beginning there were small coups, like the African air force officer who passed on the complete Soviet strategic plan for Africa. He was a well-placed officer who wouldn’t have been noticed by the Agency had Fischer not tipped them off to his monetary woes. Then the Agency asked for Fischer’s help to find an advanced artillery piece they heard the Russians had supplied to one of their allies, something the Americans desperately wanted. With the help of one of his assets, he found the item and it disappeared under mysterious circumstances along with the unnamed army officer from a small East African nation. And, of course, Tel Aviv never did find out where the tip came from—the tip that the Egyptians were about to launch an offensive against them—which justified the Israeli first strike in 1967.
More recently, his intelligence had been reserved for even more rarified, sensitive information: things that came to his suite in Berlin from the meetings of presidents in overseas capitals or the deliberations of the Politburo on foreign affairs.
But his life as an intelligence officer or a spy was rarely that exciting. It was more like a slow game of chess, a game played deliberately with a great deal of calculation and planning beforehand. To rush into a move could be disastrous unless luck intervened or your opponent was stupid. But to rely on luck was unwise because, like nature, she is fickle. And to rely on the opposition’s stupidity was a dangerous exercise. He had learned early on in his career to never underestimate the capabilities of his enemies.
Fischer came back to the present and surveyed his realm. Four walls paneled in blond oak, a portrait of Felix Dzerzhinsky, the man who set up the Soviet Cheka in 1917, hung on one wall. It was identical to the one that hung
in State Security Minister Erich Mielke’s office across the courtyard, but Mielke also had a plaster death mask of Lenin on his desk. Not that Fischer was envious; he actually thought it was rather macabre to have those empty, staring eyes peering up from the desk top all the time. Hanging next to Dzerzhinsky’s portrait were the official renderings of Honecker and Mielke, both of whom Fischer despised. Both believed their ideology mattered more than the welfare of the people. Both were fanatical communists who thought any deviation from their line of thinking was blasphemy. By their reasoning, most of the population deserved prison time.
On the wall opposite from the portraits was the obligatory Russian KGB–German Stasi friendship plaque, and on the third, a map of the two Germanys.
There was only one man in the Stasi who Fischer liked, or rather respected. That was his immediate boss, Markus Wolf. There was not a picture of Wolf on the walls of the headquarters or anywhere else for that matter. The same held true for Fischer: the Directorate did not permit photos of its leaders for good reason. The enemy can’t track you if they don’t know what you look like.
He swiveled his chair around to face the safe built into the fourth wall behind his desk. A tall, wood door panel covered the actual container, a 2-meter-high steel closet with a heavy door, a key lock and a fireproof lining. The safes were all custom-made for the headquarters by the Stasi’s own specialists. Unlike the slaves who built the Pharaoh’s tombs, however, once the job was done the workers were not killed to keep the secrets. Someone had to maintain and service the things.
Fischer had the only key to his safe on a chain around his neck, and pulling it out he inserted it into the lock. But before he turned the key, he checked the seal on the safe door edge. The previous evening, he had used his issued Petschaft, a small metal seal, to make an impression in the soft putty. His seal was unique and if the safe had been opened, the putty would show it. The stamp was in his pocket and never left his possession.
Now Max knew. The putty appeared unmolested, but the safe had been opened by someone else. He always put a trap on the door of the container, a telltale that only he knew—a grain of black sand set in a groove on the dial. It was not there. That meant someone had entered his safe and then closed it with an exact replica of his seal. Only “S,” the security directorate, could have a copy of his personal stamp and only the Minister would have signed off on the order. He was in trouble, but he was not about to try and reverse course in the middle of the rapids.
I have embarked on a course from which there is no turning back.
Opening the safe, he quickly scanned its contents. Nothing missing, nothing apparently moved. He never kept anything incriminating anyway, either in the office or at his home.
Something had gone wrong somewhere, somehow. He had to go through the process of tracing back to find where the compromise happened but, at the same time, he couldn’t show his hand. Every request he made would be scrutinized in detail. The fact that he had not yet been detained meant they were waiting for some crucial bit of information or for him to confirm their suspicions.
As Fischer sat and reflected, he realized he had come to the end of a phase in his life. He had no real choices and made his decision quickly. He couldn’t pass any more information and he was not willing to remain in place and risk arrest. It was time to go. He would get out of the Workers’ Paradise. The big question was how. If he was under suspicion he was probably under discreet surveillance, as he had witnessed earlier that morning. If he tried to travel across the inner-city border, he would be stopped before he ever got close to a checkpoint.
He would have to rely on the Americans. It was something he had planned on years before but it required direct contact, an extremely dangerous move and something he had always tried to avoid. He leaned back in the chair and pondered his next move.
First, he would send out a message to warn his handlers. Second, he would determine the cause. Third, he would find a way out. Last, he would survive. But before he cut all his anchors, he would take care of one final thing.
His mood darkened for a moment, then he turned back to the windows. Outside, snow was beginning to fall, brightening the otherwise gray-brown sky. Then he realized it was too early for snow. What he saw was actually chimney ash from the cheap coal the government’s power plant burned night and day.
4
Bruno Großmann stood before the Minister of State Security’s desk. He was puzzled by its bareness. The desk was huge, bigger than his family dinner table, and there was nothing on it but Lenin’s death mask. Like the walls of the office, the desk was made of a light blond wood. At least it wasn’t set on a platform to make the minister appear even more god-like, he thought.
Großmann now considered the man sat behind the desk, the dumpy chief himself, Generaloberst Erich Mielke. Mielke was a communist who had risen from the roughest streets of Berlin to the highest levels of the Party. He had been an assassin in the communist self-defense force and had killed two police officers before the war. As Minister, he had built the best internal security apparatus in the world; better than the Soviets and more ruthless than the Chinese. But, and there was always a but, he was basically a policeman and didn’t know much of anything about intelligence or, more importantly, counterintelligence operations.
That’s my area and Mielke knows it, Großmann thought. He was pleased with himself.
Standing to the side of the desk was Markus Wolf, the Director of the HVA, the Stasi’s foreign intelligence branch. He was the Grandmaster in the game of spying. Großmann respected Wolf because of his skill at penetrating and manipulating the Bundesnachrichtendienst, the West German intelligence service. He wondered what Wolf thought of Mielke, but it was impossible to tell. Wolf never shared personal opinions and his eyes never betrayed his thoughts.
Großmann was known as “S” because he was the head of Hauptabteilung II—Spionageabwehr, the main department responsible for counterespionage. HA II protected the secrets of the GDR’s most secret ministry and tracked down traitors to the Party.
He cleared his throat and began his case summary.
“Last night, based on information provided to me by Generaloberst Wolf, my department conducted an operation to capture a spy working for the Americans. A man we believe was linked to a senior level officer in our organization.”
“Was? Past tense?” questioned Mielke.
“Unfortunately he was ready for us and resisted our officers. He was shot dead.”
“Who warned him? Did you establish who he was working with?” “Most likely he was awake and heard the team coming, Comrade Minister. As to your second question, we’re going through the evidence and are getting close.” “No answers then?”
“Nothing definitive yet, Minister, but based on your earlier instructions, I have begun to monitor several possible suspects. I expect we’ll have the answer soon.”
“Markus, your opinion?” Mielke turned to his espionage chief.
“To recap what we know: information from a very reliable Russian source at Pullach points to a well-placed traitor within our ranks. The Americans shared a report with the BND that contained details of our relations with the Libyans. But they carelessly left in details that described how they had obtained the information. It was enough to reveal the suspect’s identity. The man who died was an S-Bahn driver with access to West Berlin. But I believe he was just an intermediary, not the spy himself—he would have had no access himself to this kind of material. Whoever the spy is, he most likely uses multiple intermediaries to communicate and has very sophisticated means of protecting himself. Lacking any additional clues, General Großmann’s surveillance of the possible suspects within our headquarters, as well as trying to find the spy’s contacts on the outside, is our best course of action at the moment.”
Mielke turned red and began to splutter.
“I want this spy, this traitor, this—this slime found! I want him arrested before any of this gets out to the Politburo. I will not be emba
rrassed. Do you understand me, Großmann? When we do find him, and you will, I want him to understand the consequences of betraying his country. Then, we will kill him.”
Großmann watched Mielke fume even as he spoke. His words were punctuated with tiny spit droplets that landed all over his desk. He thought Lenin would be appalled to know that the Minister of State Security was defacing his death mask.
Finished with his report, Großmann clicked his heels in the Prussian fashion, although he was not in uniform, and marched himself from the room. For a brief moment he reveled in the thought that it was the GDR, not the soft Federal Republic in the West, that had inherited Germany’s true military tradition.
After dismissing his senior security officer, Mielke stared in a seeming trance at the portrait of his hero on the wall. Wolf took the opportunity to leave. He needed no dismissal.
In the corridor, he caught up with Großmann.
“Too bad about last night. I assume you didn’t have the chance to take him on the street or at the rail station?”
“He must have known he was in danger. We had to act fast before he ran. When we showed up, my boys saw a pistol in his hand; it turned out to be fake. We found nothing incriminating and I have no leads. I was hoping he would give us something. Whoever trained him did it well. But we’ll keep pushing.”
Großmann was throwing out excuses and had completely missed the point. Wolf knew he would have had better results had the man been arrested away from his home on unfamiliar ground and off balance. Then they might have had a living suspect to interrogate. Wolf continued, hoping to salvage something from the event.
“Besides the Minister, have you told anyone else in headquarters about the suspect’s death?”
A Question of Time Page 3