A Question of Time

by James Stejskal

  Becker accepted his new identity.

  “No problem. Give me a sign if you think he’ll be a problem and I will step in.”

  “I will resort to that only if I think this will end badly. I would prefer to get out of here without any additional evidence left behind.” “That’s what we were hoping for too, but things may have changed.”

  Fischer nodded, “Yes, yes, but we’ll see how this goes.”

  He walked back down the hallway to the front door. Before he got there, he heard the thump of a car door slamming. Someone was walking towards the house. Fischer reached the door about the same time as he saw a bulky shadow cross the opaque sidelight windows. He knew it could only be Großmann. Opening the portal, he saw a clearly incensed man in a long wool overcoat. He was wearing a

  Russian Ushanka fur hat, like a Cossack general. Fischer wanted to laugh. It wasn’t even cold. Großmann loved to wear his general’s uniform but he couldn’t outside the confines of Stasi headquarters, so he compensated by trying to look like one in civilian clothing.

  “Bruno! To what do I owe this honor?”

  “General Wolf told me you were here.”

  “Please, come in.”

  Fischer said the words like he was actually surprised, but he had anticipated a visit might come. He turned and walked back into the parlor where Becker, having no other place to go, was standing.

  He walked through the room and pivoted in front of a large lounge chair.

  “Come in, come in.”

  Großmann came into the room and looked at Becker, then back at Fischer.

  “Who is this?”

  “My neighbor. He keeps things in order around here while I am in the city.”

  “Do you have a name?” Großmann threw the words at Becker like a superior who expected his questions answered before he asked them.

  Becker stood rock still. He had put his field coat back on and was looking very much like the countryman he was supposed to be.

  “I do. I am Jurgen Weiss.” He didn’t offer anything else.

  “From where?” Großmann asked.

  “From down the road,” he turned and pointed generally towards the village.

  “I meant from where do you come.”

  “Originally? From Suhl. In the south.”

  “I know where Suhl is. You don’t sound like you’re from there.”

  “I am. Are you from Mecklenburg?”

  That startled Großmann.

  “I was born up there. How did you know?”

  “You sound like you’re from there.” Becker knew where Großmann came from not because he heard the vaguely Plattdeutsch lilt in his voice, but because he had read his Agency profile.

  “Surely you didn’t come all the way out here to discuss dialects,” Fischer broke in.

  “It’s not so far when you have a job to do, Fischer,” Großmann said. There was a threat implicit in his words.

  “Job? What job? Is there some sort of an emergency?”

  “You know exactly what I am talking about, Fischer.”

  “No, I don’t have any idea. And is this a subject to be discussed in front of a man who does not have a security clearance?”

  “I don’t think it matters, really. He’s probably in on it with you, anyway.”

  Fischer paused for a moment. He knew what was happening and what Großmann was about to say.

  “He’s in with me on what? Perhaps you should come to the point.”

  “Wait a minute!” Becker said. “I don’t know what’s happening here but I know it doesn’t include me. So I will excuse myself now. If you need me, Herr Fischer, I’ll be at my place.”

  Becker took a step towards the door, and closer to Großmann.

  “Just stay where you are,” Großmann said. He pulled a Makarov pistol out of his coat pocket and pointed it menacingly back and forth at both Becker and Fischer.

  Becker noted that. He doesn’t know how to handle that thing in close quarters.

  “Are you crazy, Großmann?” Fischer enquired.

  “No, not crazy, I am quite lucid, actually. I know what you are and I think this guy,” he pointed at Becker with the pistol barrel, “will help me prove it.”

  “I am sorry, Jurgen. I think my colleague has lost his mind.”

  “He does look crazy, Herr Fischer,” Becker said. He turned to

  Großmann, “I don’t know who you think you are to come in here and pull a gun. I am going to get the police.”

  Becker took an oblique step towards the hallway as if to leave, one that was ever so slightly closer to Großmann. He touched the cold plastic grips of the pistol in his pocket and thought about pulling it out, but decided to wait.

  “I told you to stay where you are!” Großmann was turning red.

  Fischer saw what Becker was doing. He turned and began to walk towards the kitchen.

  “Now where do you think you’re going?” Großmann said, swinging his pistol back towards Fischer.

  “To make some coffee. I think we need something to drink.” “I am not going to drink anything with a traitor!”

  “Is that what this is about? You think I’m a traitor? On what basis did you decide this? I hope you told General Wolf before you decided to come up here.”

  “No, he would have just tried to protect you. He knows of my suspicions, and so does Mielke.”

  “Suspicions? You decided I was a traitor based on suspicions? I am sure that wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny even in front of the State Security court. Or did you come out here just to shoot me?” “You know we don’t do that anymore. You are guaranteed your rights under the law.”

  “The constitution of the GDR assures civil rights? That may be true but we Stasi people don’t care about such laws, now do we Bruno?” Fischer said.

  “You people always think you’re better than the rest of us.”

  “I take that to mean you don’t think much of General Wolf ’s Directorate? He did always say that a good intelligence officer should have clean hands. So did Dzerzhinsky, as I remember.”

  “Dzerzhinsky shot his share of traitors,” Großmann sneered.

  “Perhaps, but then he was Polish. General Wolf never killed anyone nor has he ordered his officers to do so, while Mielke’s hands are stained with the blood of innocents.”

  “In the defense of the nation, it is necessary to crush those who wish to destroy it. But, sometimes the wrong person gets shot.”

  Fischer decided that he was not going to play any more games with Großmann. He was already sailing far too close to the wind to care.

  “Yes, yes, I know you are quite willing to overlook the mistakes of the system. I remember all those so-called theories about the dictatorship of the proletariat and the need to get rid of the ‘coun- terrevolutionaries.’ But if we had reacted differently to the uprising of fifty-three, I don’t think we’d have half the problems we do now. Suppression of the opposition only breeds more opposition.”

  “I detect dangerous deviationist thinking in what you say.”

  “Ah, now I hear the true Großmann speak. ‘Dangerous deviationist thinking.’ What is that supposed to mean? I hear echoes of Stalin’s propaganda in your voice, isn’t that true? Anyone who is not for us is against us and must be dealt with. All opposition must be ruthlessly crushed. Are you still longing for August 1953? I have heard that you were involved in a lot of ‘wet work’ back then.”

  Großmann was shaken. He had never heard Fischer or anyone else in the Firm speak so openly against him or even Stalin for that matter. More than ever, Fischer was confirming his suspicions. Großmann was turning red again, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  “You are against our cause. We were… we are protecting the Party and the nation from the Fascist West!”

  “‘Let the ruling classes tremble…’ Remember that?” Fischer said.

  “You were a supporter of the uprising?”

  “No, you idiot! It’s from Marx’s Manifesto. The Party lost its wa
y with the people. I am not anti-anything except the bourgeois class of party hacks, the cognac-drinking communist cadre we created and the controls they use to keep the people in their place. And from whom were we protecting the nation? A bunch of construction workers, farmers, and low-level bureaucrats who didn’t want to work one hundred hours a week for less money than they used to earn from working fifty? Some threat they posed. We are not a perfect society as our leaders would like us to think. They have stolen the cause and just want to perpetuate their hold on power over the people.”

  “The traitors were being incited and led by Western agents, you know that.”

  “Do you still actually believe that tripe, Bruno? You know very well no help came from the West. That was an excuse Ulbricht made up to cover for the failure of his leadership. The people just wanted free elections and the things that went with democracy—you know what ‘democracy’ is, don’t you? It is that thing we call our country—a democratic republic. Those words both belong with another word—liberty. In reality we have none of those things.”

  “Bourgeois freedoms,” scoffed Großmann. “We need order, not freedoms.”

  “What do you know of bourgeois freedoms? I am wasting my time trying to lecture you. You’re nothing more than Mielke’s attack dog.”

  “Do you agree with his thinking?” Großmann asked Weiss/Becker.

  “I don’t think about such things. But I am surprised to hear you think Herr Fischer is a traitor. I’ve always known him to be a loyal citizen, but we don’t talk politics. We talk about the local citizens—the animals and the forest mostly.”

  Weiss/Becker was telling the truth, he just wasn’t saying to which country Fischer was loyal. Everything else was just being consistent with his cover. He was also trying to dial Großmann’s anger back or at least redirect it. He wasn’t sure if he could get his own pistol out in time and he didn’t want to exfiltrate a dead agent if there was any gunplay.

  Großmann stared at him, wondering if he was really dealing with a simple farmer or perhaps even a simpleton.

  “Do you know what Herr Fischer, as you call him, does for a living?”

  “No, other than he is some sort of official in Berlin. He must be important because he owns two homes, but we haven’t talked about that. Do you work together? If you do, there must be a lot of conflict in the workplace.”

  “That’s none of your business. I still can’t place you, Weiss. Where did you say you came from again?”

  His attempt was a very ham-handed challenge to trip Becker up.

  “Suhl, as I told you. This is how I speak. My parents gave me their accent.”

  “Bruno, enough of the language analysis already. Why did you come here? Are you going to arrest me and drag me back to Berlin or do you have some other purpose for being here?”

  “Well, for starters, I think it would be a good idea to take you and your ‘Jurgen Weiss’ down to the village to verify his identity. Then we’ll see what happens next.”

  For the second time that day, there was a crunch of tires on the driveway. And then a car door slammed.

  Becker couldn’t help but think the timing, if unplanned, was perfect.

  31

  It was early afternoon, when the Wartburg growled its way north out of the village. Earlier, they had done an area recce before settling down in the forest to wait.

  “We did this all the time when I was driving with the Mission. Hide and go seek,” said Kaiser.

  When it was time, he did another short circuit to make sure no one was following them and then followed a couple of tracks to get back on the country road that led to the Dacha.

  Turning into the driveway, they saw Becker’s safe sign on the gate, but it was partially open and unlatched, which puzzled Mann. He got out and closed it fully once the Kaiser drove their car through and then locked it with a chain and a big Chinese padlock. He had brought several for those times when it might be prudent to slow down anyone behind them.

  “Take it easy. Keep your eyes open.”

  The last meters into a target were always the most nerve racking. It was always smart to come into a target slowly as you could never be sure of what might be waiting. As the Dacha slowly came into view, so did the big black Zil. A driver stood by the door watching them approach. The license plates on the car were nondescript in a way that still said, “don’t mess with this vehicle, there is a VIP on board.”

  Kaiser gave out a low whistle.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” he said.

  “Christ, just what we need. I’m going to go in. You stay here and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

  Mann got out the car and walked forward towards the house. Kaiser could see him speak with the man briefly and then continue on towards the house. The driver turned as if to follow Mann, so Kaiser did what he was supposed to do. He stepped out of the car.

  “Stehen bleiben!” Freeze! Kaiser said.

  The driver spun towards him. Kaiser was smiling as he approached him.

  “You don’t want to interfere with a police officer’s official duties now do you?”

  “No, of course not. But why are you here?”

  “We are here to check on Herr Fischer. We heard reports that there might be something unusual going on, like a burglary. You aren’t a burglar now, are you?”

  “No, can’t you tell by the vehicle? We’re here on official business,” said the driver.

  “Maybe, but cars can be stolen and plates forged easily enough. Herr Fischer is an important man and we wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to him.”

  “My boss is also an important man.”

  Mann stopped just short of the door to the Dacha and turned to watch the encounter. He sensed something was about to happen. He assumed it would not go well for one of the two.

  Mann heard the driver say something but he wasn’t sure what. Kaiser said something in return. He couldn’t make out quite what that was either, but it sounded angry.

  And that’s when things did indeed go downhill.

  The driver tried to reach under his coat to pull what Mann assumed was a pistol. Mann saw Kaiser’s moves coming as the driver had mistakenly allowed him to get inside his circle of defense. Nick took a long step forward and smashed the driver’s nose with an open palm strike that stunned him and slammed him up against the Zil. The second move was so swift, Mann barely saw it. Kaiser pinned the man to the car with his knee and disarmed him. Then he grabbed the driver’s head, pulled it straight back and crushed the windpipe with a swift punch of his fist. He held the man and waited. When the body went limp, Kaiser dropped it to the ground. He stared at it for a second and then looked up at Mann and shrugged his shoulders. He took a couple of steps toward Mann and said quietly, “He didn’t like my accent.”

  Mann spread his arms in supplication and looked at the sky.

  “Why me, Lord?”

  He pivoted to the door and grabbed the door handle. Pulling his pistol from its holster he entered the house.

  32

  With the second car’s arrival, the atmosphere inside the house became tenser still.

  “Expecting visitors, Fischer?”

  “No, it may be someone from the village, maybe the Bürgermeister. He checks in from time to time.”

  “Good. Then he can identify this Weiss person.”

  “Don’t get too excited, Bruno.” With the arrival of what he assumed were Becker’s men Fischer wasn’t as worried.

  They didn’t hear the front door open, but a disembodied voice came down the hallway.

  “Herr Fischer! Alles in Ordnung?” Is everything okay?

  Fischer remained quiet. It was Großmann who answered.

  “Come in here.”

  All eyes were on the hallway as the tall Volkspolizist walked into the room. His Makarov was out and its barrel followed his eyes as he surveyed the room taking in the details. Only Großmann’s pistol concerned him.

  “Please put that on the table,” he said.
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  “I–I am—” Großmann said, stammering.

  “I don’t care who you are. Do as I tell you until I can get this straightened out.”

  Großmann put his pistol down on the table.

  “Now step back.”

  Großmann complied but he noticed something. “Polizeihauptkommisar, what is your name? You have no name tag.”

  “Ah, that… Yes, I seem to have misplaced it somewhere. I am Franz Gruber, Polizeihauptkommisar Franz Gruber.”

  Gruber/Mann stepped forward to the table where the Makarov lay and picked it up. He holstered his own weapon then checked Großmann’s. Deliberately, he dropped the magazine out, checked that it was full and snapped it back in place. Then he pulled the slide back a bit to see if there was a round in the chamber. The brass case glinted out at him and he let the slide slip forward. Making sure it was on safe, he pulled out his own pistol.

  “Feuerbereit.” Ready to fire, he said as he gave Großmann’s gun to Fischer, butt end first.

  Turning back to Großmann, he chuckled a bit.

  “No,” he said, “not really. I’m actually a lowly sergeant. Seems we’ve arrived in the nick of time, Boss.”

  Großmann looked completely baffled.

  “Seems so,” Becker said. “Sit.”

  Becker had pulled his Walther P38 out and gestured to Großmann. Großmann sat.

  “You are BND!”

  “No, we’re not BND. Try further west, much further.”

  It was finally starting to dawn on Großmann that he might be caught up in something he couldn’t handle.

  “I knew you were bad a long time ago, Fischer. I just didn’t have the proof. Now I do.”

  “I don’t think you had a clue until recently and right now I think you’re a bit late with your proof.”

  Fischer turned to Becker.

  “Well, Jurgen, what is the next step? Things have become a bit complicated.”

  “We continue as planned, although this man has, as you say, complicated things. We’ll have to come up with a way to deal with that.”

  “If I may, Boss?” Gruber/Mann said.

  “Go ahead,” Becker said. He was always very open to new ideas. Großmann’s arrival had thrown a wrench in the plan. He was that one variable they hadn’t really contemplated.