A Question of Time

by James Stejskal

  Becker planned a long route, one that involved driving, walking, and taxis, and he started out from the hotel in the rental car the concierge arranged for him. He drove west, around Table Mountain to Constantia where he visited a B&B with its old vineyard. He talked to the manager and took brochures and made notes before driving on down a long steep gorge towards Hout Bay. He did more visiting and note-taking as he played the game of being a high-end travel agent. He hadn’t picked up any interest in his activities, no cars appeared twice, and no one followed him that he could see.

  One road led up a mountainside. It turned into a dirt track and became rougher until he saw a cattle gate. He hopped out of the car and was greeted with a gust of ocean breeze, cooled by the coastal Benguela current. The view out over the ocean was spectacular and he thought he’d come back and really be a tourist when he was done playing spy.

  He turned the car around, seemingly lost, but he wasn’t. He had plotted the route out meticulously before he even set foot in the country. The only things he couldn’t account for were construction and the occasional traffic. He continued around the mountain on the Victoria Road, stopping here and there until he got to Green Point. From there he walked, using all the tricks “Cowboy” had taught him to make sure he was completely free of surveillants until he found a taxi and disappeared into the city following his chosen cover theme of “travel agent.”

  It was only when the sky began to darken that he made his way back down the hill to the flatlands near the harbor. He passed the Citadel he had visited earlier that day and entered the oldest park in the city, the Company Garden. He was nearly certain that he was not under surveillance, but that didn’t mean he was home free. He could have missed someone but he doubted it. That said, there was always the chance encounter—an “aw shit” moment when you realize an undercover policeman just happened to be in the area and saw you make the drop—that could ruin things.

  He had to be certain. Becker walked slowly through the park. In addition to the police and BoSS, he now had to concern himself with another danger. The park was not a safe place to be after dark: the slums and shanty towns had encroached on it seriously and many unsavory characters roamed the darkened pathways at night. He wasn’t worried about one bad guy, but a gang of them was another story.

  There was a wooden information sign ahead. It described the park’s origins and how it had served as a garden for the first Dutch ships that came into port to re-victual. It also informed Becker that he could proceed. There was a red tack on the side of the left post. It was clean and bright, consistent with having been placed only moments before.

  I am free of surveillance, come to me, it told him.

  He walked on through the park until he saw the outlines of the Cecil Rhodes statue ahead. Nearby a man in an overcoat sat on a bench, a newspaper in his hand. Becker could see the man was covertly watching his perimeter. He too was cautious, but Becker still did not want to risk exposure. He backed off to rethink how he would make the approach when he saw a young black kid about twelve years old walk down the path.

  “Jong man,” he said, “do you speak English?”

  The youth was startled. Rarely did a white man speak directly to him unless he was yelling something and never at this time of day.

  “I do. What do you want?” Suspicion filled his question.

  “Want to make some money?” Becker said.

  “Maybe.”

  “I am playing a trick on a friend. See the man sitting by the statue of the white man Rhodes over there? Take this package to him. Carefully, don’t let anyone see you. Leave it on the bench next to him and say it’s from George. Got that? It’s from George.”

  The kid nodded.

  “Here’s ten Rand. I’ll give you twenty more when you come back. And remember, I can see you.”

  He grabbed the package and disappeared.

  The package was small, about the size of two “D” cell batteries, wrapped in paper. The invoice was inside, wrapped around the bottles, all of which he had wiped clean as best he could. Becker doubted anyone could lift prints off the items if they were intercepted. At least, he hoped that was the case. From his secluded position in the shadows, he could see the youth slip behind the man on the bench and place a package on the wood seat. The man looked up and appeared to say something before he put the packet unobtrusively in his pocket.

  Minutes later, the youth came back. He was breathing heavily but smiling.

  “That was fun. The man said to tell you ‘Robert says thanks.’ Can I have my money now?”

  Becker gave him a fifty-Rand note and turned to leave.

  The slack-jawed boy could only stammer, “Dank U wel.”

  The night closed in as Becker disappeared from the park.

  ***

  The rapping on the door came early, far too early for housekeeping, he thought. Becker rolled out of bed and put on the hotel’s dressing gown to answer the door.

  So much for sleeping in.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s the police, Mister Winter. We need to speak with you.”

  Becker opened the door to see two rather burly men dressed in civilian clothing. One of them held out his credentials.

  “I’m Inspector Coetsee. This is Inspector Reid. May we talk with you?”

  “Of course, come in.”

  Becker went back inside and sat on the unmade bed. Both policemen remained standing. While Coetsee talked, Reid wandered about the room looking at things.

  “You were at the Castle Museum yesterday, were you not?” “Yes, I was there as well as a number of other tourist sites.” “We’re investigating a theft that took place about the time you were there. We got your name off the museum entry log. Do you remember seeing anything unusual?”

  “Nothing specific. Could you give me any more information?” “Just this: did you see either of these men while you were there?”

  Coetsee said.

  He held a composite photo sheet in front of Becker’s face. He had pulled the page from his notebook and it showed two white men in their thirties. Becker thought one of them might have resembled “Robert,” but he wasn’t sure. He stared at both closely, controlling his breathing before he answered.

  “No, I don’t think I saw either of them.”

  “That’s fine. One more thing, could I see your passport and airline ticket, please?”

  “Yes, no problem.”

  Becker got off the bed and walked over to his shoulder bag and pulled the documents out. He handed them to Coetsee who looked at them closely. He jotted down a few details and closed his notebook with a slap of the leather covers.

  “You’re leaving this evening, I see.”

  “Yes, I was planning to. Is there any problem?” Becker wondered if he made a mistake in asking.

  “Nee meneer.” No sir, Coetsee said, “Just be careful in town today.

  Watch out for these men and let us know if you see them.” He handed Becker a card that showed only his name and a telephone.

  No affiliation, Becker thought. “Kom, Robert,” Coetsee said.

  Reid was still poking around in the corners—looking. For what, Becker had no clue. After the two departed, he thought about their visit. He had questions: who were they and why were they interested in him? He knew his cover was airtight and the pass to the NOC had gone well. At least he hoped that was the case. If Robert had been picked up, they probably would have arrested him too. How then did they come across him? Becker didn’t believe their story but he didn’t have much recourse. There was no border to run for and if he did, he would only confirm their suspicions. He had to stay the course and ride it out. He had been in bad situations before, but at least then he could fight his way out. Now he couldn’t. He had to pretend all was well while at the same time feeling the bottom of his stomach falling into a dark hole.

  It was time to go and he had planned well ahead; his airline ticket was ready. He spent the rest of the day in close proximity to the hotel.
He visited a couple of bookstores. He was searching through the stacks of Clarke’s Bookshop when he discovered a biography of Frederick Selous, the adventurer, big-game hunter, and soldier. As he leafed through it, he thought of Kingsley. And although it was an expensive first edition, he bought it anyway. If he got out the country, he would have at least one souvenir.

  He left the hotel about an hour before the flight and grabbed a taxi to the airport. He walked into the terminal and found his check-in counter. All was going smoothly up to the point when a blue-uniformed customs official came up behind the desk clerk and spoke a few words of Afrikaans in the clerk’s ear. She stepped aside and the officer came forward.

  “Good evening meneer, we’re doing spot checks of luggage for prohibited items like animal trophies and such. Do you mind?”

  Knowing refusal was not an option, Becker acquiesced to the request. A second man in civilian clothing joined the officer as they lifted his bag onto a table and opened it. Becker could see they were doing a thorough inspection. Then the officer asked for his shoulder bag. Again, it was searched completely. The second officer was finishing up when he reached into a small pouch and brought out a monitor and swept it over both bags. Becker felt his stomach drop out of his backside. He hoped he had cleaned everything sufficiently. It was only when the officer finished and shook his head that Becker relaxed.

  “What was that about?”

  “Nothing important, meneer. Have a nice flight,” he said, leaving Becker to close his bags himself.

  The ticket clerk came back and finished checking him in, all the while looking at him warily as if he were a criminal.

  “There you go, Mister Winter. Have a nice flight,” she said without any trace of conviction.

  Becker did not know what to expect next but he wasn’t prepared for what he did see when he turned to go to his gate. Standing in his way was Inspector Coetsee. He was wearing the ubiquitous emblem of African security officials: sunglasses.

  “I just wanted to see you off, Mister Winter, and to wish you a nice trip. Your flight to Atlanta leaves from Gate Ten.”

  “Atlanta? I’m going home to Frankfurt, why would I want to go to Atlanta?”

  “Silly me, I forgot—or maybe I just assumed,” Coetsee said. His eyes were obscured behind the dark lenses, but he was smiling malevolently. His expression said: whoever you are, we’ll be watching for your return.

  Becker said, “I still have your card, I’ll look you up next time I’m here.”

  He hurried down the hall towards his gate.

  So much for the kudu.

  ***

  It wasn’t like he could afford to go back for the kudu on his own dime anyway. An African hunting trip cost thousands of dollars and he certainly didn’t have that kind of spare cash. Whatever drove Coetsee to confront him, he never found out.

  Becker flew back to the States and met up with the Zookeeper at j. gilberts, a McLean restaurant favored by Agency types. “How did we do? What did the samples tell you?”

  “I’m not really supposed to tell you but the samples were a wash.” “What does that mean, a wash?”

  “We got nothing from the samples.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What the fuck… That’s probably why they didn’t pick anything up from my luggage.”

  “Probably. The information you brought out didn’t reveal anything substantive.”

  “Substantive? What is that?”

  “Something, anything revealing. Evidence we could use against the South Africans. We got nothing.”

  “You have nothing but the Russian satellite images and the ‘Blackbird’ photos?”

  “Yes, but those still prove nothing definitively. Just pictures of holes in the ground.”

  “Great, so we did this and got nothing?” “Basically, yes.”

  “At least you are honest. And Kingsley?” “Ah, that’s the thing…”

  “What?”

  “Kingsley’s Pilatus went down in the Okavango Delta. He and his son were killed. The South Africans say they were shot down by a Cuban MiG that crossed the border out of Angola. The thing is, one of our assets in Angola says the Cuban Air Force didn’t fly that day.” “So the South Africans murdered them?” Becker’s emotions welled up inside. “Was anyone else with them?” “No, not that we’ve heard.”

  Maybe Henry and Sam were safe. He could only hope. But for what did John and William sacrifice their lives? For a sample of dirt? To confirm an assessment the analysts already knew to be true? Why? Remembering that episode, Becker was sure the South Africans would not have let him out of the airport if they had discovered anything. He and Rohan had to go over their plan again.

  18

  “Where is the General?” Fischer asked Wolf ’s secretary as he walked into the office. He hadn’t called because his own office was just a short walk down the hall.

  “He’s gone to see the Minister in Haus 1,” she said as she continued to type. “He was called to some meeting.”

  Fischer thought this presented as good an opportunity as any.

  “Thank you,” he said and left.

  He strode across the open quadrangle from his office in General Wolf ’s HVA building to Haus 1, the epicenter of all the Ministry’s operations except for its clandestine foreign intelligence. The Stasi compound was the biggest open secret in the city and the location was avoided by every East German except the ones who worked there. A certain negative energy exuded from the place that was surpassed perhaps only by the KGB’s Lubyanka headquarters in Moscow.

  Haus 1 was open to all Stasi officers, unlike Wolf ’s office building, which was accessible only to officers of the Main Reconnaissance Directorate because its operations were conducted in extreme secrecy. Fischer sometimes thought it ironic that he had full access to the entire Ministry compound, but then he felt his work was on a higher ethical level than that of any other department of “the Shield and Sword of the Party.”

  Climbing up to Mielke’s second-floor office, he went over his proposal once more, answering in his mind the objections and counterproposals he expected would meet his own. He walked into Mielke’s outer office and past the executive assistant who started to say something and then decided against it when he saw the hard-set determination on Fischer’s face.

  The door to Mielke’s office was partially open and Fischer pushed through and into the inner sanctum. Wolf was sitting in an armchair to the front of the Minister’s desk. He recognized the third man as Lieutenant General Hoffmann, the head of AGM, the Minister’s Working Group.

  An appropriate audience.

  Mielke stopped mid-sentence, surprised at the intrusion. Wolf as usual showed no emotion, while Hoffmann just stared.

  Fischer looked at Mielke and came to the same conclusion he always did.

  A fool. A strutting martinet. He’s an ape, no, he’s a toad in a general’s uniform.

  “Sorry for the intrusion, Comrade Minister, but I ran across something in today’s traffic that I thought deserved your immediate attention.”

  He pulled the blue striped folder from a portfolio and brandished it like the weapon he knew it was. When he read the message in his office moments before, he realized that his intelligence report on the Libyans must have been the one that had compromised Gypsy. Großmann must be attempting to flush him out, hoping he would give himself away by trying to report this new tidbit of critical information. He intended to turn Großmann’s ploy in a different direction.

  “I just received a highly classified report that a Libyan hit team is present in Western Europe. They are planning to assassinate an opposition party leader there. I wanted to make sure you were aware of its implications.”

  Mielke looked questioningly at Hoffmann, who lied.

  “We briefed you on this last week, Comrade Minister.”

  Mielke nodded, unsure if he remembered the briefing or not, “Yes, and what of it?”

  “I believe this may be the sam
e team that Department XXII recently hosted at our operational site ‘Walli,’ is it not?”

  Fischer was asking Hoffmann for confirmation.

  “I believe it could be, but Colonel Dahle would be able to confirm that.”

  Dahle’s Department XXII was another of the contradictions that underpinned Fischer’s dislike of the system. It was ostensibly the Main Department for Counterterrorism, but actually spent most of its efforts supporting terrorist groups like the Red Army Faction and Red Brigade who created chaos in Western Europe. Fischer was also aware that Ilyich Ramírez Sánchez, better known as the Jackal, was at that moment being hosted by Department XXII in a safe house not far away.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary at this moment, General. My concern is that I don’t think we’ve prepared for the blowback of an assassination.”

  “What blowback?” Mielke was now interested. He wanted nothing to shake his status with the Politburo.

  “I am not sure where or when this operation might take place but, if anyone in the West determines that this team trained in the GDR, we will face consequences at the United Nations, not to mention in the world press.”

  “What would you suggest?” Markus Wolf spoke for the first time.

  Wolf knew Fischer was on Großmann’s list of suspects. What Fischer said next might be an indication of where his true allegiances lay.

  “General, that is not my area of expertise. Active Measures should be the focal point of any contingency planning, but if the Libyans carry out an act, we should have a story that perhaps suggests they were a rogue element. Or we could blame it on the Bulgarians, they have a history of ties to Middle-Eastern terrorists. That would be a start, anything to distance us from their activities.”

  Fischer was speaking of the Stasi’s AM disinformation branch, the section that propagated false stories to discredit nations, organizations, and personalities. Its best operation to date was propagating the lie that the Americans were eavesdropping on their West German allies.