“Is there anybody else here?” someone whispered.
“Keep your mouth shut!”
The bus had been “ambushed” in front of a building that couldn’t be seen in the dark. Each student, now a prisoner, was taken into the building and down into the basement where individual holding cells awaited them. Then the fun began.
Each prisoner was subjected to a medical screening. Their clothing removed, each was inspected by a female medic if they were a male, a male medic if they were female. All the while they were blindfolded. It was meant to demean and humiliate the prisoner. For many it worked. There is nothing worse for some men than to hear a woman laugh and say, “Look at that tiny thing!”
They were questioned under duress, made to kneel on a steel grate that bit into their knees or forced to sit in front of a roaring hot furnace. Then they were taken to another room and sprayed with ice-cold water, still blindfolded. In between sessions, they sat in their cells wearing nothing but underwear, freezing their butts on the cold concrete, listening to the chaos around them.
Then the process was repeated.
The interrogators’ questions and accusations came in rapid fire.
“Who are you?”
“Why are you in my country?” “You are a spy!”
“I think you are a drug smuggler. You know we shoot drug smugglers in this country.”
After about ten hours of listening to the ear-splitting white noise and recorded screams being blasted into the halls and cells of the basement confinement facility, Zenebe couldn’t handle it. He was reliving a terrible moment from his past. He broke. He cried, he screamed, he rolled on the ground and said he couldn’t do it anymore.
The chief instructor came to him. “If you want to quit, all you have to do is say, ‘I quit.’”
“I quit,” said Zenebe.
He was taken away immediately, given a hot meal and the opportunity to clean up before he was sent back to his home unit. Several others quit that night; quitting was contagious. It wasn’t a negative thing and didn’t impact their careers. It was stress—kind of like combat fatigue, a thing you have little control over. Zenebe quit the training and returned to his unit where he would serve in jobs with little chance of being captured and interrogated by the enemy’s security forces.
Some say that a man who has been tortured can never again be trusted. Becker knew that the more important question was why would anyone want to risk being tortured a second time. What kind of person can overlook the pain they experienced? Would they have that last measure of courage to push through it all? What was their motivation to do so?
Becker knew Sarah had gone through a painful experience—just how painful he didn’t know—but he hoped she was stronger than Zenebe.
Why would she want to go through this again? What does she stand to gain? She has to weather this night.
Becker entered the hotel and came back from the dark place he had been for the last few moments. He marveled at the human mind—how it can replay in mere seconds memories that lasted for many hours.
Becker thought that the check-in process at the Palast must be like that of German-occupied Paris during World War II. He knew that the secret police would soon have their photographs and copies of their documents. These would be filed away under categories like “French,” and whether or not they were of interest to the Stasi, or potentially dangerous to the GDR.
Becker contemplated that reality as he and Rohan registered. The staff was cleanly if somewhat shabbily dressed; the hotel was orderly, but poorly maintained. It seemed that the only things that worked precisely were the cameras at the entry way and in the reception area. Those were the responsibility of hotel security who were essentially sub-contractors of the Stasi.
He had reminded Sarah of the possibility that their room would be monitored and they acted accordingly. They were there to drop off their overnight bags and prepare for the evening. It was a short stop and for a moment he wondered if the routine was worth the effort. Most, if not all, theater-goers from the West stayed the night after a performance rather than run the gauntlet of the checkpoint at night. Not many people wanted to put up with the bother of returning. Becker had decided to follow the norm and at least go through the motions of registering and getting a room; what they would actually do later was another question.
When Sarah came out of the bathroom, Becker looked her over closely. He told himself he was assessing her readiness for the evening’s mission, but he admitted he was also appreciating her beauty. She wore a pantsuit, walking shoes, no jewelry, and had her hair arranged to keep it out of the way, but he still couldn’t see the earpiece. Her non-prescription glasses were the only nod towards fashion, but they served a purpose as well.
“You look very nice,” he said. He realized he was smiling. He felt a bit like a teenager saying it, but it was true.
“Thank you. You clean up well, too. I’m ready when you are, dearest.”
She threw in the “dearest” as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Becker knew it was for show and the benefit of anyone listening, but for a moment he wished she were sincere.
Then he came to his senses.
“Let’s go have a look at the city before the show.”
He grabbed her coat, a reversible trench suitable for fall or clandestine operations, and handed it to her after she closed and locked the room door. The coat was tan on one side and dark gray on the other. She put the coat on tan side out.
Rather than risk getting stuck in an unpredictable elevator, they took the stairs down to the lobby. Becker strode across the open expanse to the concierge desk.
In simple German with his French accent, he said, “Where is the Schiffbaum Theater?”
The concierge looked at Becker curiously for a moment. “I think you mean the Schiffbauerdamm Theater, true?” he answered.
Then he showed Becker the route on a map that he refused to part with.
Cheap bastard.
Becker wanted the map. Any map from a denied area was a good map to take home.
Becker already knew the directions anyway. He had no intention of following the concierge’s instructions but wanted to make sure the staff thought they knew where they were going. With that established, he took Rohan by the arm and headed out the front door.
The theater was about 3 kilometers away, too far to walk at night. The car was a logical mode of transport to get there. But that wasn’t the objective. The car would put them closer to their meeting and give them an excuse for being “off course” if they encountered any police.
Becker opened up the passenger side door of the Renault and let Sarah settle into the car. It gave him an opportunity to do a discreet visual sweep of the people and cars in the vicinity. It wasn’t definitive but it would at least give him an idea if a similar car showed up again later. He had to rely on his instincts and hope that, if they decided to follow them, the East Germans would use just a few cars and expose themselves repeatedly and quickly. He knew the police and Stasi rarely used Trabants, which didn’t have the power to tail another car, so he concentrated on the bigger vehicles. Nothing popped out at him as he slid into the front seat and started the car. It was early evening, which meant that the sky was beginning to darken as night approached from the east.
“Let’s take a look at the island,” Becker suggested as he drove away from the hotel.
Passing Alexanderplatz, he turned towards Museum Island. It was a logical direction to sightsee or to get to the theater. He slowed the car to a crawl going over the Spree River bridge. He was watching the mirror, but there were no cars behind him. Continuing across the bridge and then south onto the island, he named the old buildings as they came into sight, the Dom Cathedral, Customs House, and Nikolai Church, before they turned again and drove off the island. He sped up before turning one more time over the Spree into the tight streets of the Friedrichshain District.
Finding an open space, he shoehorned the car into the spot. He and R
ohan jumped from the car and walked away at a fast clip in the direction they had just come from.
“Are we clean?” Sarah asked. She had reversed her coat from tan to dark gray.
Clever girl.
“I think so. It was a short run but I didn’t see a soul.”
They kept walking until an alleyway appeared and they ducked in, walking to its end and then onto another residential street.
“Nothing from the others,” Sarah said, referring to the other teams that had entered the city before them. One was on the ground walking the inner ring around their objective; the second was cruising the main streets further out, watching for security patrols and monitoring radio communications with a scanner tuned to the known Volkspolizei and Stasi channels.
Becker led the way, hand in hand with Rohan, stair-stepping several streets and crossing a playground before walking down a pedestrian path between two apartment buildings. They were relatively new, simply constructed and plainly adorned in the communist style, or better said, lack thereof. To their front was a smaller building. It was described as a duplex in their target folder. From 50 meters out, Becker could see the rear concrete block wall that protected the residence and came to a halt. At this distance he risked doing a blatant visual search to their rear and all the other directions. He saw nothing. It was still quiet. “Anything?” he asked.
“Rien.” Nothing, she answered. The other teams were silent. Report
by exception was their last order—use your radio only in emergency or when absolutely necessary.
It was quiet. By night, there was an eerie kind of beauty in the neighborhood. The buildings stood as sentinels, a few dimly lit windows illuminating each one. A partial moon blinked at them between gray clouds scudding across the sky and a slight breeze rustled the tree branches overhead. By day it was another story; then the city was a testament to the poor conditions in the country. Becker saw the building they were seeking and walking carefully forward in the darkness, he felt for and found the unlocked latch. He lifted it and pushed the gate open slowly. He just hoped that the hinges were well oiled and only relaxed when they didn’t protest. They moved inside and closed it quietly behind them.
They had but a few moments. A Stasi surveillance team was probably on the street in front of the house and it was possible that a foot surveillant might venture behind the building to check on things.
The rear courtyard was split in two parts, separated by a wooden fence. The house had been a single-family dwelling before the war, but was then divided into two three-floor apartments by the regime to provide suitable housing for senior officials. There were two doors that opened onto the courtyard. Becker knew the left-hand door was theirs. He walked towards it and as he did, he felt Rohan grasp his hand. They stood close together in the darkness next to the wall, waiting.
Becker looked at his watch. “Almost time.”
At 19.10 Central European Time, the light in the hall came on as did the light over the door. They flashed for a moment and then went out.
“Now.”
Becker and Sarah walked to the door which was partially opened and slipped inside.
A tall figure stood in the dimly lit corridor, waiting.
“Wir sind Ihre neue Nachbarn.” We’re your new neighbors, Rohan said.
If Fischer was taken aback by Sarah, he didn’t show it.
“Willkommen in meinem Schloss.” Welcome to my castle, he responded.
Fischer motioned for them to follow. He led them up the stairs to a second-floor foyer. Music was playing in one of the adjoining rooms. Not loudly, but enough to provide some cover.
“This area is good to talk. We have little time and much to discuss.”
“First, we’re French theater-goers, lost in the neighborhood.”
“Ha, no one will believe that if they find you here. But it was a good idea to bring her.”
“We didn’t have many other options for cover. Now, we need to talk about getting you out of here.”
“You can’t get me out of the East to West Berlin. Surveillance on the border crossings in the city is too tight. We will have to cross the frontier to West Germany. I have a house, my Dacha, north of the city. The exact coordinates are inside.” Fischer handed Becker a coin. “There are other important notes in there as well, including information for one of my people—‘Flower’—but trying to contact me through that asset should only be attempted in extreme emergency. It’s in code, your people over there have the key.”
Becker knew what the coin was as soon as he felt it in his hand. He pocketed it as Fischer brought out an army map to show him the landscape around the house. After memorizing the map’s name and series, Becker asked, “What are these?” and pointed at several lines around the house.
“This is a dirt road from the main route and these are walking trails I use in the forest.”
As Becker and Fischer talked about the house and trails, Rohan roamed the hall. She noted the curtains were heavy brocade, pulled closed. The walls were sparsely adorned with old lithographs and historical photos. Not a single photograph of a person. It was all generic; nothing indicated who lived here. She glanced into a room through a partially opened door and saw similar decorations, although many books lined the wall shelving. Older furniture, well cared for but plain. There was a record player atop a table.
Interesting, a “Dual” turntable and speakers, all high-end West German equipment. He likes music and books but otherwise the man who lives here is an enigma.
She turned back to the two men still quietly talking in German.
“Sept heures et demie.” Seven-thirty, she reminded Becker.
“You are French,” Fischer said. He was surprised.
“No, but I speak it well,” she said. “We must go soon.”
“A couple of details more.” Becker needed time.
Fischer described what he thought to be the cause of his compromise and the recent message about the Libyan hit squad that he had been given.
“It’s a trap, I know it. But it may be an opportunity as well.”
Becker nodded all the while. No notes were taken. Rohan listened closely to the last details.
Coming to an end, Becker summarized, “We have a location and a signal for the date and time. You gave us the information on the leak and the players involved. Anything I missed?”
“No.”
“We will set up the means to get you out, just be there.”
“Yes. But try to set it for these days,” Fischer pointed a span of days on the calendar.
“Got it. We’ll be in touch very soon. Auf wiedersehen.”
He reached out and shook Fischer’s hand. It was a strong grip.
“I hope so, neighbor,” and to Sarah, “Au revoir, madame.”
“A bientôt, monsieur.”
They climbed down the stairs quietly. The door opened and they were gone into the night.
Fischer stood at the top of the stairs hoping they would make it home without a problem, praying that he could finally escape from the intricate web he had wrapped so tightly around himself.
The music played on in the background.
***
Becker peered out onto the pathway behind the house before he dared open the gate fully. He smelled the man before he saw him, a figure walking slowly along the path in the deepest of shadows. A wisp of smoke would rise from his cigarette and get caught in the moonlight. He was one of the surveillance team, of that Becker was sure. The man walked too slowly and paused too often to be anything else, except maybe a husband trying to get away from his wife. But Becker couldn’t risk it and watched carefully as the man continued his route. He was going back to the car and probably some lukewarm coffee. When the path was finally clear, they stepped out and walked briskly back the way they came. The car was almost 2 kilometers away but the walk passed without incident.
Becker started the car and they headed back towards the city center and the theater.
They were on
Frankfurter Allee and about five minutes into the drive when blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror.
“Polizei, damn.”
“Non, ‘zut’!” Sarah corrected.
“Sorry. I know he can’t arrest us, but running from the police is never a good idea.”
After stopping the car, Becker waited for the Vopo to approach.
“Franzosisch, nicht wahr?” You are French, correct? “Where are you going so quickly?”
In bad German, Becker tried to explain that they were lost and trying to find the theater.
The Vopo glanced at the identity document Becker had given him and sighed.
Touristen, he thought.
Swatting the card back and forth on his fist, the policeman contemplated asking for a gratuity and then decided the people in the car were probably too cheap. They were French, after all. Slipping into his best simple German he pointed ahead and rattled off a series of street names before finishing with, “And then you are there.”
He handed the identity cards back, gave a salute, and walked back to his car.
It was Becker’s turn to relax.
“He seemed nice,” Sarah said facetiously. “Let’s get out of here.”
Once they arrived near the theater, Becker checked his watch. It was close to 20.30.
“Right on time, let’s go see the performance.”
“We might as well,” Rohan said, and keyed the radio mike three times to signal success before they disappeared into the crowd of theatergoers.
20
The loud hum of the bubble’s ventilation system deep inside the BOB made it hard for Wheeler and Murphy to hear each other, let alone think about their damage control plans.
“I sent the summary of Becker’s meeting to Russia House and they believe OZ’s theory is probably spot on. One of our reports passed to BND headquarters at Pullach had too much detail about his contact, enough to figure out who he was. I am told the reports officer and reviewer in Bonn who did the summary will be disciplined. The West Germans will have to deal with an enemy agent in their midst. That is, once we decide to tell them,” Murphy said.
A Question of Time Page 15