“It’s pretty late. No escort?”
“Obviously not. I guess they’re not worried about being hijacked. Good night, men.”
The major was bored. He had been told to show up to make sure the convoy got through without being hassled. It had. Now he was going back to his quarters, a beer, and a football game on Armed Forces Network.
Outside, the convoy rolled forward towards the Soviet checkpoint where they would undergo a similar ritual. Each driver’s Flag Orders and ID would be checked and the Soviet guard would roam around the truck trying to figure out what was inside.
Each driver had been given packs of cigarettes, cash, and copies of Playboy magazine to tempt the guards into trading badges or whatever they had in an effort to occupy them. They didn’t have to worry. The Russians didn’t give a damn about the trucks; they had come loaded with stuff to trade. Out of sight of the officers on the dark side of the trucks, they pulled belts and buckles, hats, and cheap military badges from their pockets and out from under their coats. They were happy to get something from the West to take home, be it West Marks, cigarettes, or alcohol.
As each truck cleared the checkpoint, it rolled forward on the side of the four-lane Autobahn to wait for the rest. When the final truck cleared the inspection, the convoy rolled forward. It was 180 kilometers to Checkpoint Bravo and traffic was light.
East into the night the convoy rolled, the light from their headlamps bouncing as the trucks rolled over the regularly placed expansion cracks on the poorly maintained highway. The West German government paid the upkeep for the road. The East Germans spent the money on other things. It was all part of the game. The Russians didn’t care because they rarely used it.
The commander stopped the convoy twice at lay-bys along the road. He walked the convoy line and spoke with each driver and waited a few minutes. Satisfied that no one was really paying attention to them, he got back in the cab and continued the trek.
About 50 kilometers short of Berlin, he saw the road was clear of traffic and gave a signal over the radios each driver was monitoring. The convoy slowed a bit, from 85 kilometers per hour down to 60. The last tractor trailer moved into the left-hand lane, pulled up next to the truck that had been ahead of it and stayed put, both of them slowing even more. Lights flashed.
As the number three truck moved to straddle the center of the lanes, its rear doors opened and a cargo ramp slowly tilted out of the truck until it hit the pavement. Even with the big truck traveling at low speed, there was a shower of sparks across the road.
Inside the truck was a green and white Wartburg 353. Nick Kaiser and Stefan Mann were sitting in front, its engine was running, and they were just waiting for the signal from the Agency officer who had released their tie-downs. When the ramp stabilized, he gave the thumbs up and Kaiser slipped the transmission into reverse so the car could roll backwards out of the trailer and down the ramp. He put it in neutral when it started down the ramp to prevent any damage to the transmission or engine.
A small puff of gray smoke and a squeal of the tires when they hit the pavement was the only sign of protest as they began rolling in the opposite direction. Once all the wheels were on the ground, he clicked the gear shift into third, let the clutch out, and accelerated to match the truck’s speed. The rear ramp was pulled up, the doors closed, and the trucks got back into their single-file line. Four minutes had passed.
There was now a Volkspolizei patrol car in their midst. Nick pulled into the left lane and cruised up the line of trucks until he reached the front of the line. The trucks were back at their cruising speed of 85 kilometers per hour.
“That went well,” said Kaiser.
“So far, yes,” said Mann. He waved at the lead truck as they accelerated away from the convoy.
“No need to hang around here then. We’ll get off the Autobahn and head for the house. We will get into the area by late morning and then we’ll be able to lie low and observe things before we go in to pick them up.”
The car had come out of a warehouse near an airfield somewhere in Europe. It was part of a collection of odd things that someone thought might come in handy one day. The warehouse had one of everything and sometimes two, including hang-gliders and hot air balloons, cars and trucks, and even a Gulfstream jet. There was also a selection of clothing, which explained where Mann and Kaiser got their uniforms.
The Wartburg, on its own merits, was a piece of garbage compared to western vehicles. The one Kaiser was driving had been acquired from some Third World country that had been forced to accept the cars as part of an East German police training package, probably paid for by the United Nations at greatly inflated prices.
Kaiser was told that “we gave them a fleet of Toyotas” because the locals hated the Wartburgs and Toyotas were better, of course, but also because some savvy quartermaster realized the Wartburgs might come in handy someday and shipped a couple of the best examples back to the States. He was right.
When the cars were sent to the motor pool, they were given to the wrench magi who were told they could have their way with the cars as long as they still looked like a Wartburg when they were finished. The mechanics stripped all the identifying serial numbers and rebuilt them using parts that actually worked and electrical systems that actually electrified, which is to say, not Lucas. The three-cylinder, two-stroke engine and transmissions were pulled and thrown away. With a small-block, German Ford four-cylinder and a four-speed transmission as replacements, the cars actually had power and reliability. Then they redid the suspensions so the cars would stay on the road at high speed. And they had real brakes; although they were drum brakes for appearances’ sake, they stopped the car, which was a very important consideration in the balance against velocity. When the guts of the car were finished, the outside was redone. It was thought prudent to repaint several in colors that might be useful, in this case, the colors and markings of the GDR’s Volkspolizei.
With a sub-eight-second 0–100 kilometers per hour time and a top speed of over 180 kilometers per hour, Kaiser told Mann that he better understood the phrase “bat out of hell” after his test drive.
Kaiser said, “I wonder if it’s happy to be home?”
“It’s probably confused, being part Ossi and part Wessi.”
“Well, it now has a chance to serve the greater good,” Kaiser said. He turned off at a highway interchange and took the road north.
By the time the pair got to the village of Neurippin it was mid-morning. They had taken a circuitous route to avoid population centers and known police stations. Their radio scanner kept them attuned to the situation. Only occasionally did they have to acknowledge another Vopo car but they kept driving after the obligatory wave of the hand.
It was only when Kaiser spotted an Imbiss fast food stand that he insisted on stopping.
“I need a Currywurst and fries.”
“Okay, but stay in the car. I’ll get us something. I don’t trust your German.”
“What, my ‘Wie geht’s?’ won’t make it here?”
“It’s not that bad, but you do still have a touch of Minnesota in your accent. Wait here.”
At the stand, Mann was doing his best “chief goose guarding the flock” act, constantly scanning the neighborhood, turning his head from side to side and back to front watching the cook, the passersby, and their car to make sure Kaiser didn’t do anything stupid. Kaiser, the only other SOG veteran on the team besides Becker, had a penchant for acting on the spur of the moment, despite his combat experience. And, although his heritage was German, his Minnesota accent came through when he was stressed or had drunk too much. This was not the place to test his fluency.
When he turned back to the stand to pay for the food, Mann saw reflected in the glass that a woman was approaching Kaiser’s side of the car. Kaiser was totally absorbed in listening to the radio chatter. She rapped on the window.
“Shit,” Mann muttered under his breath and quickly paid the proprietor in crisp, new Ost Marks. He mad
e it back to car just as Kaiser rolled down his window to talk with the woman. He heard her say something about a husband drinking in a bar and asking for help to get him out.
Before Kaiser could respond with a full sentence, Mann interrupted him over the top of the car.
“I’m sorry, we’re Kripo and we’re on our way to investigate an incident. We can’t help with a domestic issue right now,” he said.
He tossed the paper-wrapped Currywurst trays onto the back seat and climbed in.
“Let’s go.”
The last thing they heard was a furious East German housewife yelling at them, “You Criminal Police— you don’t have time for an abused woman but you’ve got time for a god-damned Currywurst!”
“That was your fault,” Mann said.
They drove on.
30
It was still dark when Becker stirred. He listened for a while and heard only the whispers of the forest pines.
Time to get rolling.
He rolled out of his bivvy sack and repacked. In the cold morning air, his warm breath created a small steam cloud as he worked. He preferred that to oppressive heat and insects. There was something about a green forest that the jungle didn’t offer.
The first thing he did was to pull his pistol from its waistband holster. He dropped the magazine and cycled the action. A cartridge flipped out into the air where he deftly caught it. He slid the round back into its place in the magazine, which he then snapped back in place. Pulling back the slide, he allowed it to slowly slide back into battery. He clicked the toggle to safe. Satisfied the weapon was ready, he returned it to its holster.
Ready condition.
He risked using his Esbit cooker to heat up some water for the freeze-dried chicken and rice patrol ration he was carrying, as well as some lukewarm coffee from of his thermos bottle. He had contemplated bringing C-Rations, as a can of “Chopped Ham & Eggs” with Tabasco might have been a tastier breakfast, but thought better of it. The problem was that anyone within half a kilometer could smell “C-Rats” cooking. Finishing his meal, he buried the unmarked packaging and carefully covered the hole so only a bloodhound or a wild pig would be able to find it.
Time to scout the trail.
Becker did a 360-degree scan of the area before he stood. It was technically the time known as BMNT or Begin Morning Nautical Twilight, that period when a person can just see things distinctly but when the sun hasn’t broken the horizon. Some people simplify things and call it “dawn.” In any event, it was the ideal time for an Indian attack or to look at an objective.
The eastern sky was brightening from the dark blue of night to apricot as he moved towards the trail. When he finally reached it, he remained in the forest and observed how it snaked through the trees. He was looking for a specific point and then found it. It was as Fischer described it, a slight bend in the path with a rather large flat rock next to the track. It was several hundred meters from the house and isolated, as was everything in this neck of the woods.
When he reached the rock, he gathered up a handful of stones— not too big, not too small—and reached over the big one to pile the smaller ones on the dirt trail in a symmetrical pyramid shape, three stones high. It was an obvious sign if you looked for it. It would have looked unnatural to anyone paying attention, but he hoped no one else would be walking the trail this morning.
He backed off, set his rucksack down in the brush, and found a space where he could sit leaning against a tree and disappear in the undergrowth to watch. He remained alert to avoid missing anyone or anything that might approach.
He remembered the first time he saw what happens if you sleep at the wrong time in the field. A student on the qualification course had fallen asleep only to have the TAC, the instructor, discover him asleep as the patrol got ready to move out. The TAC wordlessly motioned for everyone to move away and then dropped a grenade simulator at the sleeping man’s feet. Eight seconds later there was a bright flash and an explosion, the equivalent of a quarter pound of TNT. It was a hell of a way to wake up, but better than having a bayonet thrust into your chest.
Point made.
It was two hours later when he heard someone approaching. The sound was too loud and too irregular to be an animal. He knew it was a person. The appearance of Fischer confirmed that. Fischer was walking slowly, looking from side to side, inspecting “his” forest. Becker sat silently in his place and watched him walk by. He didn’t look back but continued up the trail.
Becker knew that Fischer had already walked down to the gate and checked out his other trails to make sure no one else was near his house before he came up this trail. Now he would continue on to check its further reaches as well. About thirty minutes later he reappeared and walked to the bend. This time he looked back in the direction from which he had come and then turned back towards his Dacha. Before he moved on, he swept the stones from the trail with his feet.
That was Fischer’s sign. The area is clear, you can visit me.
Then he disappeared down the trail.
Becker looked at his watch, waited ten minutes and stood up, all the while continuously checking his 360 for unwanted guests. He put on his rucksack and walked along the trail’s edge until he could see the open area and the Dacha’s porch. The front door was open and a long-handled spade stood next it. It was still safe to come out of the cold.
He left the shelter of the forest and trotted towards the house.
Fischer was watching and stepped out the door. He reached out and grabbed Becker’s hand and shook it while dragging him inside.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, shutting the door. “We meet again.”
Becker looked about as he followed OZ into the parlor. He put his rucksack in a corner where he could quickly grab it and continued to study the interior. It was rustic. There were no paintings or photographs, but there were several trophies on the walls. He saw a big ten-point fallow deer rack and a smaller one near it.
“Is that a Rothirsch?” he asked pointing at the smaller rack of horns.
Becker was deliberately taking his time to avoid ratcheting up any apprehension Fischer might have. He felt the tension in his own body rising like someone was slowly increasing an electrical charge to his nervous system. He had to keep himself and his charge calm.
“Yes, I shot these when I was younger. I stopped hunting a while ago. I don’t see the need. If I want some venison I just go down to a restaurant in the village. But I have a question for you. I don’t know what to call you, what’s your name?”
“Kim. My father liked Rudyard Kipling, hence Kim.”
He wasn’t under cover and was carrying an ID card in that name, so he thought it best to use it with Fischer.
“Another spy and an adventurer who ran before you. Your father must have been prescient. But, tell me how your night went. I was nervous all night long that something might happen to you.”
“Uneventful,” he reassured Fischer. “Some friends dropped me a long way off and I walked here without anyone seeing me. And then I waited out there in the bush for you.”
“I felt someone watching me when I came to the rocks. I assumed that was you.”
“Yes, I was probably staring at you too hard. People often feel it when someone stares at them intensely. It’s your sixth sense.”
“I hope you didn’t have a weapon pointed at me.”
“No, just my binoculars. I was just watching you, trying to see if you were under stress or any pressure.”
“Was I?”
“Not that I could see.”
“That’s a relief. How much time do we have here?”
“Several hours. A team will show up here around mid-day, we will need to put a signal on your gate so they know it’s safe for them to approach.”
“What then?”
“We set up your disappearance. There will be a fire and the authorities will find a body—not yours, but someone that resembles you. It’s been arranged.”
“No one was ki
lled on my account, I hope?”
“No. We found a candidate that had nowhere else to go. He’s serving a higher purpose now. Then my men will move us to the extraction point.”
“Extraction point? Where is that and how do we do it?”
“It’s not far. It’s south of here and closer to the main air corridor. We’ll go out by air. We have some aircraft with special capabilities. One of them is coming tonight. I’ll explain the procedure later. No worries.” “I have no worries at all, this is all just like a walk in the park,”
Max said facetiously.
Fischer kept himself busy for the next hours. He would read a bit, but the anxiety would overtake him and he would pace around the house before settling down again. Around noon, he walked down to the gate alone and put the safe signal in place; a bow of rope tied on top rail as Becker showed him.
Becker wandered through the house as well, but mostly he kept his eyes on all the approaches. He didn’t want to be surprised.
***
It was mid-afternoon and he was in the parlor staring out the rear window when he heard the crunch of car tires on the gravel. Becker walked up the hall to a small study at the front of the house where Fischer was standing.
“This does not look so good,” Fischer said as he watched the big black Zil sedan roll up the drive. Seconds later he confirmed his thought, “I thought so: it’s Mielke’s hitman, Großmann, driving in his Russian status symbol.”
“The one that thinks you’re the American spy.”
“Yes. You know they always send someone you trust if they want to arrest you,” Fischer said. He turned to Becker, “But, in this case, Großmann is not the man they would send. General Wolf knows I hate him. That probably means he came on his own. He must think I am about to run away. He’s probably afraid he might lose his quarry.”
He took Becker’s arm and guided him back to the parlor.
“You are my neighbor, Jurgen Weiss. I hire you to keep the property in shape while I’m in Berlin. You live down the road. I’ll handle the rest of his questions.”
A Question of Time Page 20