“You’re not suggesting we try to stop the Libyans?” Wolf asked.
Now Fischer had to reach into his case officer’s bag of untruths. “No, certainly not. If successful, their action will serve us well to destabilize the targeted government. Also, if we should try to stop them, we might tip our hand that we knew of their activities beforehand. We should just be prepared for any blowback.”
“It’s a reasonable suggestion,” Wolf turned to Mielke. “If you agree, Minister, I will have AM look at the issue and prepare some possible scenarios that we could consider.”
“Yes, yes, do it,” Mielke said. He was not adept at propaganda either, but knew he had to protect himself and the organization he had done so much to build. Most importantly, he didn’t want the Politburo meddling in his affairs— he had enemies who would like to strip away his power and destroy him.
“Anything else?” Mielke asked of the troublesome interloper whom he knew by sight but not by name.
“No, Comrade Minister,” Fischer turned and retreated from the office as quickly as possible.
Hopefully, a seed of doubt has been planted…
Once Fischer had disappeared, Mielke asked Wolf, “Who was that?”
“Major General Fischer, my head of overseas stations in the Third World. He’s been with us since the beginning.”
“You damn spies are so secretive, I don’t know any of you, other than you!”
“Perhaps it’s better that way, Minister.”
As for Fischer’s motives, Wolf was still unsure.
19
The teams were ready. Becker and Rohan would make contact with the target, the only boots on the ground close to him. The two other cells would be for security and make sure they got in and out without a problem. Everyone was linked with concealed and encrypted Ascom SE-138 VHF radios that would only be used for warning or to signal an emergency. Even if their communications could not be understood by the East Germans, a transmission signal might alert the security forces that an unauthorized radio was operating.
Kim felt that his team was well prepared. Since he took over, he had optimized training for cellular operations rather than working as a full or split “A” Team. Special Forces teams generally operated as one twelve-man or two six-man elements. In Berlin, the teams took it further and broke down into three-man or even two-man cells that were linked loosely by well-practiced clandestine communications systems. It was the only way to survive when operating in a high-threat environment, a system that was derived from Office of Strategic Services operations in World War II and continually improved since.
The first two cells would cross the frontier into East Berlin, initially traveling together ostensibly as a freedom of passage patrol. Both the Soviets and the Western Allies sent patrols into their opposites’ occupied zones—the Russians into West Berlin and the French, British, and Americans into the East. The Allied patrol cars could not be stopped or searched and Becker was counting on that to get the first elements into place. The car would drop off two of his team about a kilometer from the target. In civilian clothing, they would provide an outer ring of surveillance near Fischer’s home, while the van continued to roam further away.
The staging site was in an abandoned factory complex in the seedy district of Neukölln. Secured from the outside, it looked all but empty to the locals. Only a few vehicles entered and exited every day. It seemed to pass for some type of maintenance facility, which situated the proprietor nicely. The Agency preferred that the locals ignore its facilities. It was a typically drab group of buildings; windows on the street side were broken and boarded over, the concrete had passed through every shade of gray from light to dark and was heading for the black color of an about-to-be-condemned rat-trap.
Inside one of the buildings, Becker watched as his first team left the garage in an olive-green US Army Ford Transit van and turned towards its crossing point and Checkpoint Charlie about 2 kilometers distant. Soon he and Rohan would follow from another start point in a second car, a civilian vehicle with French occupation forces license plates. The East Germans could not stop and search that car either, but there was a slim chance of it being detained. The East Germans had done that before when they suspected a vehicle was being used to smuggle a disenchanted citizen out of their Workers’ Paradise. They often blocked Allied civilian cars from moving by trapping them with a Volkspolizei cruiser front and rear for hours. The “accidental” discharge of a policeman’s pistol into the trunk of a car might end the quest for freedom then and there. But Becker wasn’t worried about that today as he and Rohan would not be smuggling anyone out.
Becker left the Neukölln facility to take a ride on the U-Bahn. He emerged from subterranean Berlin at a station in the Wedding district. A short walking route followed so he could meet Rohan near a cafe. Satisfied he was not being watched, he approached Rohan who, as usual, looked totally at home in the area. Becker had to admit that she was an attractive woman, but she did not stand out. She seemed to blend into the environment with her rather drab clothing, perfect for a trip into East Berlin where they needed to attract no one’s attention.
The one thing he did notice that he hadn’t seen before was her eyes, now framed by a pair of dark-blue eyeglasses. If you looked closely you could sense that she was constantly observing her surroundings and evaluating. It was a trait normal for well-attuned soldiers, spies, and criminals, not so much radio-intercept operators.
“Hi, Paul! I’m glad you’re on time,” Rohan greeted him in French.
“I would never leave my lady waiting.”
Becker responded in kind. Their banter was as much a greeting as a warmup for the task at hand. They needed to get into character quickly and stay there until the mission was complete. Kim’s decision to use “Paul” as his cover name was as much to remind him of her boyfriend as it was to make it easy for Sarah.
Rohan thrust her arm though Becker’s and turned him down the street.
“I parked close by,” she said.
She handed Becker the keys as they walked.
“Full tank of petrol, everything seems to function properly. And I have done a radio check. Hopefully, that’s the last time I will have to use it tonight.”
Becker looked to see if he could spot the radio’s clandestine kit earpiece but her hair hid it from view.
“Perfect. Hopefully, this will go smoothly and quickly.” “There it is,” she said, “the blue Renault.”
“That’s one ugly car. At least it will blend in with the Trabis,” Becker said. He alluded to the ubiquitous and cheap East German car made of fiberboard and plastic.
“It doesn’t smoke, though.”
Trabants smoked like locomotives with a two-stroke engine that sounded like an angry sewing machine.
“That’s a plus, but I hope the owner didn’t smoke either. I can’t stand French cigarettes.”
“It smells like Chanel. Your senses will be safe.”
Rohan climbed into the passenger seat as Becker checked the tools and spare tire in the trunk.
Always be prepared. He lived by the Boy Scout motto as much for it being ingrained into his memory as for its applicability in daily tasks, especially ones involving mortality. Satisfied, he hopped into the front seat, familiarized himself with the controls and adjusted everything before he cranked the engine.
“Okay, no shop talk, this is a fun evening,” he said.
“Yes, dear,” came Sarah’s unexpected answer. She had a self-satisfied grin on her face.
Checking the mirrors, Becker launched the Renault away from the curb and south towards Kreuzberg and the Allied crossing point into the East. It was an easy drive, even if the streets were full of evening traffic. He would head east and then south through the Tiergarten district to avoid the heavy congestion in the city center.
Ahead he could see the glistening column that stood in the center of a traffic roundabout; a testament to the Prussian victory over the Danes in 1864. A gilded statue of Victoria
glistened at its peak and captured cannons encircling the column reflected the western sun as he approached the circle. He wasn’t sightseeing but he appreciated its symbolism: a sight that rankled the East Germans who had to look at it from across the border. If it had been situated further east, the communists would probably have dynamited it after the war, just as they had most symbols of Prussian power.
Onward he drove, through the Tiergarten then south through Nollendorf Platz before he turned east. He stayed away from the Wall as if he didn’t want to be exposed to East Berlin before it was absolutely necessary.
Sarah seemed to sense Becker’s mood, determined as it was, and didn’t speak. Little did she realize that it was his way of bringing focus to the task ahead. But she too was in deep concentration, going over details of her cover life and visualizing the routes and streets they would soon be walking, not to mention the layout of the apartment building belonging to the man she only knew as the Wizard.
Before long, Sarah realized she was reliving an earlier moment of her life, a time when she was a child pretending to be someone she was not. This time she felt at ease, better prepared and, even if nervous, actually looking forward to the task. This was what she had enlisted in the army to do, after all. She glanced at Becker and decided that she could not do much better than having someone like him in charge.
Their car turned onto Kochstraße. An illuminated blue and white U-Bahn sign marked the turn into Friedrichstraße and an immediate stop at Checkpoint Charlie. There, in the middle of the street, was a booth marked “US Army Checkpoint” with the flags of the Allies—the United States, United Kingdom, and France—flying outside it. Another big sign proclaimed, “You are leaving the American Sector” in English, French, Russian, and, in very small type, German. Further down the street, Rohan could see the East German Border Guard tower, a tall structure that commanded the street and reminded anyone who saw it of what awaited them on the other side. To the right and left of the street was a sobering sight. The Wall ran out perpendicularly from the roadway topped with several strands of barbed wire. Several more linear obstacles stood behind the first were meant to impede the flight of anyone foolish enough to try escaping at this point. Rohan had seen similar fortifications on the Czech border, not quite as formidable as this, but those had left scars on her soul. That was then, however.
Becker stepped out of the car. Seeing the license plates, a French military policeman approached. He gave a perfunctory greeting and salute before he took the papers Becker offered. He checked the papers with their official stamps and compared them with the identity documents to make sure everything matched and the dates were correct.
“You will be staying the night?” “That is our plan, yes.”
“Everything is in order, sir. Pay attention to the Germans in the booth ahead. They will want to see your identity cards. Give the cards to them but don’t engage them with any talk. Do what they ask and move on only when they say to proceed.”
The French corporal did not see the guards as East Germans; to him they were all the same—German.
“Understood, thank you.”
Becker hopped back in the car, “We’re off.”
Pulling past the Allied checkpoint, the first stop was just inside East Berlin. Becker could see they were now behind the Wall proper. The communist checkpoint was marked with a sign that proclaimed HALT! To emphasize the sign’s instruction, an East German soldier wearing an olive-green uniform marked with the forest-green epaulets of the Border Guards stood waiting for the car. His uniform echoed those of soldiers of the former Wehrmacht.
Becker stopped adjacent to the soldier and handed him two identity cards. He took them without a word to the window in a booth. The cards disappeared into the booth where Becker knew another soldier would record the data. After a long—seemingly longer than necessary—wait, the cards came back out the window to the first soldier, who marched stiffly over to the car and shoved the cards into Becker’s hand.
“Fortfahren.” The soldier gestured with his hand and indicated that Becker could proceed.
Becker rolled slowly out of the checkpoint into the city.
“The hotel isn’t far, we’ll check in and then do some sightseeing before the performance,” Becker said as he pointed their car north towards their goal. He still imagined the French had left a recorder or transmitter somewhere in the car.
It was a short trip to the hotel through the more or less refurbished streets of the communist capital. Unlike the western sector of Berlin, the East did not suffer from an overpopulation of cars and Becker found a parking spot close to the hotel’s main entry.
Rohan climbed out of the car and stood looking at the modern Palace of the Republic, the communist parliament building, across the cold, dark waters of the River Spree. Beyond its mirrored, brown glass facade, she could see the tall spire of the Fernsehturm—the TV tower—in the distance.
“They say the tower was cursed by the Pope because its windows reflect a cross in the sunlight,” Sarah said as she glanced at Becker. Then she added, “This side of the city smells different.”
“It’s probably the lignite coal smell, it’s stronger over here.”
“No, it’s the river. Its source is near a town called Bautzen on the Czech border. The river carries the stench of that place, I’m sure of it.”
“What stench?”
“Fear. Bautzen is a mean place.”
Becker glanced around to see if anyone was close. Despite the French, he didn’t want their conversation to be overheard.
“No politics, remember?”
She looked at him again and he could sense the intensity of her feelings.
“It’s all around us, I can’t help it sometimes. On the hill, I listened to people’s conversations, the leaders and the officials; they all spoke of that place with something in their voice that told stories, very bad stories. We had a place very much like it in Prague—Pankrác.
We couldn’t talk about it either. I hate the people that build those places.”
“Try not to think about it, think about the theater, about pleasant things. We’ll talk about it later. Please try.”
There was a deep hurt in her eyes. Her look was one of intense pain; he could feel it and couldn’t look away. Then she shook her head and blinked the pain away. She smiled at him, stoically it seemed.
“I’ll try.”
Becker grabbed the luggage, two small bags, and walked towards the entrance. Rohan followed, her head turning from side to side to take in the sights as well as to get oriented to the new surroundings. Becker knew he had to keep Sarah focused. He didn’t want her to be overwhelmed by the all-pervasive negative environment that surrounded them. He had seen a similar reaction in a refugee once before in a training program.
He clearly remembered the young man’s name: it was Zenebe. He was perhaps twenty-eight years old, an aspiring journalist from Ethiopia. He had escaped the Derg, the murderous regime that ousted and murdered Emperor Haile Selassie. The Derg were nasty people. They buried Selassie under his toilet.
In the early seventies, Zenebe was arrested and put in prison. He was interrogated and tortured many times before being released, possibly so he would lead the secret police to others they could arrest. Instead, he disappeared and ran for the border, escaping to Kenya where the UNHCR—United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees—arranged for his relocation to the United States. To make his way in his newly adopted homeland, he joined the army and that was where Becker met him.
It was during a SERE course. The acronym stood for “Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape”—instruction on how to avoid getting captured and then what happens and how to live through it when you do. It is one of the worst five days a soldier can experience. Becker knew: he had done it four times, twice with the army, once with the navy, and once with the air force. It never got any better, but then he was a glutton for punishment, or so his team sergeant told him.
Zenebe was in trainin
g to work with Special Forces as an Amharic interpreter and had to successfully pass the arrest and interrogation phase of the training. It was a course that simulated the sights, sounds, smells, and sometimes, the pain of being locked up in a Third World prison.
The students were returning on a bus after several days of field training. There was one instructor and the driver on board with the thirty-five or so passengers. It was dark and the usual chatter had died down. Two hours of driving lulled many to sleep and only half the people on board were awake.
The bus had turned off onto a dirt road and was slowly heading up a long incline. Even if someone was awake they could not see anything beyond the glare of the headlights, when a series of bright flashes and explosions rocked the bus. The driver slammed on the brakes throwing everyone and anything into turmoil. Both he and the instructor went down as if they were dead.
The bus doors burst open and about six men rushed on board with pistols and Kalashnikovs firing into the air. They were firing blanks but no one knew that. Several of the students tried to bolt for the rear escape doors, but no one made it. The invaders were yelling and screaming at everyone.
“Get down! Get down on the floor!”
There were more explosions and firing and yelling. Smoke filled the bus as flashlights searched through the students on the floor of the bus. Then it quieted down.
The invaders became captors and handcuffed everyone with cable-ties. Then they “bagged” all their new prisoners, putting black cloth sacks over their heads. The prisoners were grabbed roughly and dragged off the bus one at a time. To the prisoners, time became an unknown. Was it ten minutes or an hour before they were taken off the bus?
Each would remember the ordeal differently, from their own perspective. As they were wearing hoods, directions became confused. That was the instructors’ objective: keep the students confused and disoriented.
Was that a ramp or just a hallway, and what is this space?
A Question of Time Page 14