“They should all be summarily executed,” Wheeler said. Clearly upset, he tended to resort to ballistic solutions when confronted with incompetence or treachery.
“Chief said he would wait until the case is resolved to determine punishment. Execution is out, but they will be dealt with.”
“Hopefully. Putting OZ at risk was unconscionable. The report should have been triple checked before it was released.”
“Agreed. But at least his info gives us an opportunity to turn the tables a bit. Since we have the best handle on the East German service, Russia House asked for something that could be inserted into another report that would throw suspicion in another direction.”
“Nice they want help after the fact.” Wheeler did not easily forgive transgressions.
“Sometimes they’ll admit weakness. Anyway, everything compromised seems to have dealt with terrorism-related issues; they think nothing from his more substantive political reporting was passed to the West Germans. So, for the report I’m going to describe the Stasi operational site ‘Walli’ with information we already have and loosely describe a Libyan team that was there. OZ confirmed that was where they trained and our information on the location isn’t critical, so we can use it for good background. I will also add a very subtle operational note pointing at someone in Abteilung XXII.”
“The ‘counterterrorism’ department that trains terrorists?” Wheeler asked.
“That one indeed. I think something along the lines of ‘a usually reliable source who directly observed the activity described’ would be good.”
“Subtle and direct. We play that back to the Russians and hope they give it to the Stasi quickly. If they do, it’ll buy us some time. If they already had a suspect in XXII, that will burn him pretty good.” “OZ said the red-herring message included XXII on the distribution line, so it makes sense that they’re casting a wide net to catch the leaker. Luckily, OZ has more experience than most anyone in the organization. His lead should confuse the investigation and lets us finish preparations for the extraction. How are our friends doing with their planning?”
“Well, I think. They’re doing some out-of-the-box brainstorming and pulling in assets I didn’t know existed or at least they didn’t when I was a young pup in SF.”
“Were you ever a pup? I guess times have changed since both of us were in the service. By the way, I want to sit in on the final briefback, so you’re going to sneak me over when it happens.”
“That won’t be hard. I’ll get someone to drive us over in a closed van. The Russians won’t see us leave the compound.”
21
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
As he plotted Fischer’s coordinates of his country house onto a map, Becker thought about the challenges the mission posed for his team. Going into East Berlin under diplomatic cover was one thing; going into East Germany black, was another.
There were few options. Travel as a Western tourist was a no-go. There was no way to get close to Fischer and no way to get him out. Pretty much the same went for diplomats as they would be followed immediately after crossing the border. Going in black would be the only possibility but he had to come up with a means of transport. Hopping over the border wall would not work. Fischer’s place was over 50 kilometers from Berlin and walking there was out of the question.
Then, once you get to his house, how do you get him across the border to the West?
He sat back and scratched his head, as if acknowledging the conundrum to the rest of the team.
“Ideas, gentlemen?”
Team 5 were crouched in a huddle around the East German military map, the same series as the one Fischer had shown him. They were staring hard and looking for answers.
Becker had plotted the coordinates Fischer had given him on a map he got from the Agency. Fischer’s country house was located about 12 kilometers northwest of Neuruppin. It was located in an isolated area of farms and stands of forest, one of which enclosed Fischer’s property.
“Getting to him is the first problem.” “Cross over and steal a car,” offered Finch.
“This isn’t Boston. You wouldn’t last three hours.” Stefan Mann knew the Vopos’ capabilities.
“Helicopter,” Finch tried again.
“Even worse,” Mann continued his critique.
“Piggyback with a Mission tour.” Nick Kaiser threw in his best idea.
“Hold it there. What’s your thought?” Becker said.
“One of us rides in with the Mission and drops off somewhere near his place. Once they meet, they get picked up and brought back to Berlin,” Kaiser outlined.
The “Mission” was shorthand for the United States Military Liaison Mission, a kind of legal spying arrangement agreed to between the Allies and the Soviets after World War II that permitted the monitoring of military activities in their occupation zones. Just as the Soviets observed Allied forces in West Germany, the Allies did the same in the East. Looking for new equipment was one task; the other was to serve as an early warning mechanism. The USMLM, like its British and French counterparts, sent clearly marked vehicles into East Germany each with a Foreign Area Officer who spoke Russian and a senior enlisted intelligence analyst who spoke German. These missions provided the Department of Defense with some of the best military intelligence that could be gathered, and gave SDB an opportunity to look at its targets up close by sending men in as part of the Mission tour crew.
“It won’t work. They would detain every Mission car once they figure out he’s gone. You’d never make it safely back across the bridge into Berlin,” Mann again struck at the obvious weak point. Becker tweaked Kaiser’s idea a bit: “True, we wouldn’t be able to get him out with a Mission car, but we could get to him. Then we need part two.”
“Helo pick-up,” Finch tried again.
Mann was obviously ready to smack him.
“Give it up with the helos already. The EGs would blow them out of the sky once they deviated from the usual flight path and crossed the border. And they’re too slow to outrun a MiG.”
“Then how about a Beaver?” Finch was referring to the de Havilland U-6A, an airplane used by the Berlin Air Detachment for its daily Wall Flights.
“Still too slow.”
“But not a bad idea. There might be a better aircraft out there.” Becker was beginning to frame up some alternatives. “See if you can locate some good LZs within, say, a 10-kilometer radius of the house. I’m going to talk to the S-3 about available assets. Paul, come with me.”
“Uh oh, Pauli’s in trouble.”
“Shut up, Finch,” Stavros shot back as he walked out behind Becker.
Becker had stopped in the empty hallway and was waiting for Stavros to catch up.
“I meant to tell you that Rohan did quite well. Once she got over her initial anxiety, she settled in and was more relaxed than I was.”
“Actually, I waited for her last night so I could talk to her. She was excited to have done the mission and said you were very professional and taught her some cool stuff.”
“She got mad at me when I told her we were going to abandon our luggage. So we went back to the hotel. She likes the bag from the French PX; Louie Button or some silly thing.”
“Louis Vuitton. Yeah, she mentioned that. I think she’s going to be really bored in her job now,” Stavros chuckled.
“I’m going to ask the sergeant major if he has any ideas for her.
He’s got good connections at the Pentagon.”
“Well, don’t get her reassigned yet. I’m still working on her.” “I can imagine. Are you making any progress?”
The smile on Paul’s face told him everything.
22
Days had passed since he broke into the meeting with Mielke and Max Fischer was planning to tell Wolf of his decision to spend the weekend at his Dacha.
It wouldn’t be necessary.
Wolf seemed to sense something and Fischer wasn’t sure if it was because of Großmann’s suspi
cions or in spite of them. What he did know was that Wolf was a chess player to the ’nth degree. That was why he was in charge of the Main Reconnaissance Directorate. The MRD carried out East Germany’s espionage outside the country. MRD officers recruited spies and placed infiltrators in foreign governments—it was the most delicate business an intelligence organization could attempt. Mielke didn’t understand its intricate methodologies and the tradecraft required, and neither did Großmann. They were cops and brutally straightforward in how they carried out their business. They were also killers. Wolf was above that and that was why Fischer respected him. He had watched and learned from Wolf from the beginning when he started to work with the service as a young and resolute communist. While his commitment to communism had wavered, Wolf ’s never did. Because of that, Fischer was wary. Wolf would have no sympathy for a traitor to the cause.
Fischer was in his office reading the latest traffic out of his in-box when a knock came at his door. He always left his door open: he had nothing to hide and was ever approachable, was the image he always tried to portray.
He looked up and was surprised to see Wolf in the doorway.
“Come in, General!” he said as he stood and walked in front of his desk.
“It’s Markus, Max. I told you that you can always call me Markus. We’ve been at this together too long, you and I.”
Ever the gentleman and ever the player, Fischer thought. “Thank you for bringing that issue to the Minister’s attention so promptly, Max. My secretary told me that you came looking for me.” “I thought the Libyan issue might pose a problem that needed to be proactively addressed. Department XXII seems to carry on operations without much thought given to the overall strategic effect.”
“True. I think General Hoffmann should be able to put something together with AM as you suggested. But what I actually wanted to talk with you about wasn’t really work related. It’s about you.”
Fischer was genuinely surprised.
“Me? How so?”
“You seem a bit stressed. Perhaps you should take some time off. Looking over your calendar I saw that you haven’t taken any time for yourself in over a year!”
“That’s probably right. Things have been busy with all that’s going on in Africa and southwest Asia.”
“Yes, but that shouldn’t keep you from taking care of yourself. As I said, we’ve been at this for a long time but even I take a vacation now and then. Why don’t you take four or five days and go off to the countryside? You have a nice, quiet place to relax at your Dacha. Catch up on some good reading, that sort of thing.”
“I was actually thinking about doing that. Some time in the country would be nice.”
“Agreed and so ordered. Tell your deputy he’s in charge and get out of here.”
“Yes, General.”
Wolf started to say “Markus,” but just shook his head and turned and walked away.
Well, it’s now or never.
Wolf ’s visit had been unexpected and Fischer, ever paranoid, wondered about his chief ’s true motivations.
Does he really think I need a vacation, or is he giving me the rope to hang myself?
He began to close up his office. There was nothing he needed or wanted except for his personal Petschaft that he had used for his entire career. He slipped it back into his pocket after he pressed it into the bit of gray clay on his safe. And then he set a telltale as always, just in case.
All secure.
Fischer glanced about his office and felt mostly relief. The time had come and nothing he was looking at was holding him back. Grabbing his coat, he walked out of the office and handed his secretary his out-box with a couple of documents nested in its tray.
“I won’t be in tomorrow and should return in less than a week. The general just told me to take a couple of days off. You should also try to get out of the office early. Colonel Geyer will be acting in my place until I return.”
The secretary acknowledged Fischer’s instructions, happily looking forward to some stress-free days ahead.
Fischer made a stop at Geyer’s office, informed him he would be in charge and made sure he had the Dacha’s direct phone number before heading down the stairs. He made no effort to look at the headquarters as his car left the compound. He was focusing on the things he needed to do in order to leave his life in Berlin without appearing to be cutting ties permanently.
Fischer dismissed his driver when he reached his apartment. He would drive himself to his country retreat as he usually did.
***
After leaving Fischer, Wolf walked the short way back to his office thinking about what he had done.
Russian liaison had informed him their penetration had provided more information and it looked like the source of the Americans’ information was indeed out of Department XXII. Although that was an easy solution, he wasn’t sure he was ready to accept it yet. Wolf ran through the permutations of the moves he had just made and where they would lead. He didn’t think much of Großmann, but he still wasn’t sure about Fischer.
Either he will take this opportunity to run, or he will come back in several days. By then Großmann may have figured out who the traitor is, but probably not. All the officers on his suspect list are smarter than he is and won’t make mistakes. Except maybe Dahle, he is about as thick as Großmann.
I may regret this. When Großmann finds out that Fischer left town, there could be hell to pay.
23
Major Steve Bright was a long-standing veteran of military intelligence work. So much so that his career and promotions had stalled after his twelfth year of service. The army placed so much emphasis on the combat arms branches that all the others suffered. Of course, the brass at the Pentagon recognized that intelligence was important to operations, but not so important as to actually promote those who were skilled in it.
In the past several years, many, if not most of his contemporaries had been systematically and unceremoniously cashiered from the army despite their stellar performance and Vietnam experience. Undeterred, Bright soldiered on, secure in the fact that he was still employed.
Still, he felt like he had to keep looking over his soldier for some bean-counter who might pull his name out of a hat. He hoped MI needed at least a few officers with experience and would not replace him with some wet-behind-the-ears captain in an effort to save money and keep more positions in the hard skill jobs—infantry, artillery, and armor. That seemed the rationale behind most of the RIFs, but then he was an optimist. Or maybe he wasn’t.
His service in Vietnam was noteworthy, he thought. Almost singlehandedly, he had dismantled a Viet Cong support network in Saigon before the Americans pulled out completely in 1975. After he returned stateside and completed a stint as an infantry brigade intelligence officer, he had received a call from his branch manager in the Pentagon offering him a position in Berlin. That was the encouragement he needed not to look seriously for a job in the civilian sector.
Finally, he would have a chance to use his degree in Russian Studies that had given him fluency in the language as well as a good understanding of Soviet strategy. A tune-up at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey was all he needed before he headed out to his posting at the US Military Liaison Mission in Berlin. That was two years ago.
Sitting outside the USMLM chief ’s office, he wondered what was up. He was nearing the end of his posting and would be leaving the city for a job with an MI battalion within six months. The commander rarely called on his tour officers individually unless it was to discuss family matters, performance, or assignments. He knew everything was fine at home and he hadn’t heard any dissatisfaction with his work, so he hoped his follow-on job had not been cancelled.
Finally, the door to the chief ’s office opened and the colonel walked out.
“Hi, Steve. Sorry to keep you waiting. Come on in.”
Bright followed his boss into the office expectantly. Instead of sitting the colonel remained standing. Bright assumed that mean
t a short meeting.
“We have a special tour coming up that I would like you to take.” In MLM context, a ‘tour’ was any planned trip into East Germany to roam the countryside looking for signs of imminent hostilities. It was essentially legal spying, agreed to and tolerated by both sides, but it was not without its dangers.
“Okay, sir,” Bright responded with not a small amount of curiosity in his voice, “but why me and why is it special?”
Despite the fact that the MLM offices were swept religiously for bugs, the colonel was careful in his words.
“You are my most experienced tour officer for one,” Colonel Stofall began, “and it might be a bit hairy. It will require you get in and out of an area without being spotted.”
“Is it a PRA?”
Bright was referring to Permanently Restricted Areas, the zones the Soviets arbitrarily created to keep curious mission teams out. They were usually near training areas and a few important garrisons. “No, but it might as well be. You will get a specific briefing from OGA this afternoon. You need to be at their office at 1400 hours.
After you get the brief, choose the driver you think best suited for this tour; he needs to be rock solid.”
“I’ve never heard of an OGA-directed tour before.”
“You’re correct. While we take on their requirements all the time, rarely do they directly task us. But only one part of this tour will be theirs, the rest will be normal. Let me know if you need anything else. Questions?”
“I’m sure I will have, but I’ll save them for the briefing. Thanks for your confidence, sir!”
“Go then. Let me know how the briefing goes before you head out for Potsdam.”
“Roger, sir.” Bright saluted and withdrew from the office.
He was intrigued by the prospect of the tasking and wondered what it might entail. Back in his office, he set down to finish up his last report and pondered who might be the best driver to take along with him. Some were excellent linguists and good drivers. Others were excellent drivers and adequate linguists. Although everyone had a professional level of fluency, the officers in Russian, and the enlisted men in German, there were some who were either native speakers or close to that. He scratched that requirement. Speaking perfect German would not be key to avoiding detection; good driving skills would be.
A Question of Time Page 16