by Trevor Scott
That was earlier in the morning. In Frankfurt Jake had taken a 12:13 InterCity Express train to Berlin, a four-hour non-stop that got him in to Germany’s capitol at around 4:19 that afternoon. Again, security hadn’t been a problem. Not until he got off the train at the Berlin Hauptbahnhof, where the Polizei asked to see bags when they got off the train—a strange occurrence, since they hadn’t stopped anywhere along the way.
The two Polizei officers carrying HK MP5 sub-machine guns asked Jake for his passport, holding up the line of passengers.
“No problem,” Jake said in German. He handed them his Austrian passport and they scrutinized it carefully. His photo on the passport was similar to his current appearance—with the long hair and ten days of stubble on his face—and looked nothing like the photo the German Polizei was using while searching for him concerning the Garmish affair, or that Interpol was using for their Red Notice. When the Polizei officers found out it was a diplomatic passport, they slapped it back into Jake’s hand and waved him through. They didn’t look too happy with their job.
Jake had worked in the Berlin area back when it was a divided city, with West Berlin apportioned to the Americans, the Brits and the French, and East Berlin one mess of crappy concrete block Soviet built buildings—the city cut through by the huge wall. Jake had been a young CIA officer during the exciting fall of the wall, and had worked there a number of times during reunification. It was a crazy time. Like the old west. Former East German agents of the KGB were trying to defect, saying they’d been forced to spy on their fellow citizens. Russians were culling the herd like ranchers taking down weak cattle. Those who managed to convince the German government would never convince their own neighbors, and many ended up stoned to death with chunks from the very wall that had divided them.
So Jake knew his way around the city. From the Hauptbahnhof, he got onto the U-Bahn subway until he reached the Alexanderplatz in the eastside of Berlin.
Rising to street level, backpack over both shoulders, he started walking across the large square where shoppers mingled with commuters on their way home from work. Darkness was falling heavily on the city and it looked like rain might follow.
It was a few more blocks to a section of row houses built in the 60s. Since Berlin was almost completely destroyed by the end of World War II, almost every building in the east could be traced back no more than 60 years.
But before he went there, he checked in to the Forum Hotel to drop off his bag. He took a quick shower and changed clothes, wanting to get a few winks, but knowing he might not wake until morning. Jake checked his two guns, the one under his left arm and the back-up clipped to his belt by his right kidney. He hid those with his leather coat and headed back out to the square. He bought a curry wurst and fries from a street vendor and scarfed the food before heading out again.
Crowds were clearing as darkness was complete, but the rain started now, a light mist carried in on a cloud of fog. As he walked down the sidewalk toward the eastern residential area that sat back from the square a few blocks, Jake kept his eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. But that was the problem. There was still too much activity for one person to take in and analyze. When he worked with the Agency, he had comm and back-up, with eyes and ears all around him. He felt isolated now.
He’d have to make a direct approach on the building, he knew. To hesitate would bring suspicion. The apartment buildings here were five stories high. Jake was following a young couple now, hoping they were going to the same place. When they turned up the steps to the building on the left, Jake followed them, keeping back far enough so as not to intimidate, but close enough to grab the door before it slammed shut.
The man held the door for the woman and Jake thanked him and took the door from him, making sure to smile. Now Jake had a choice. He could get on the elevator with the young couple, or linger back, which would look suspicious. Or he could take the stairs. He got in to the elevator and waited for them to punch in three. He hit four, even though he was also going to three.
When the elevator opened on three, Jake held the doors for the man and woman to get off, and then stepped back and rose up to the fourth floor. He got out and found the stairs, heading down one flight. The couple would be in their apartment by now, he guessed. But to be safe he waited a few seconds before peeking out into the third-floor corridor. It was empty. Good.
Jake unzipped his coat halfway and reached for his gun. No problem. As he walked, his eyes caught the apartment numbers. A few more. On the left.
Damn. No peep holes. He couldn’t check inside, but then the resident would also have to open his door to see Jake.
Direct approach, Jake reminded himself. This guy had worked for East German Secret Police, the Stasi, during the height of the Cold War, working closely with Vladimir Volkov. Bernard Hartmann had been one of the Stasi caught shredding documents in 1989 when the wall started coming down. He was lucky enough to escape the citizens with torches and pitch forks, but Jake had been assigned to find him and bring him in for a debriefing. Turns out the CIA had also been getting some reliable information from the man over the years. Some not so reliable. Regardless, his former CIA ties had kept him alive long enough to get a job with the Bundespost until he could retire with a civil service retirement a few years ago. Jake hadn’t seen the man in five years, and then the old Stasi officer looked like he had been drinking himself to death, his complexion a road map of mottled red and white and his formerly Arian locks having turned a dull blue gray. He was at least sixty-five, Jake guessed. Yet, when Jake first met the man in the late 80s, Bernard Hartmann was a bear of a man. One to be careful around, for sure. The briefing on him was littered with references of brutality, including death squads and political assassinations. Regardless of age, a former Stasi officer was still dangerous.
Jake stopped and looked up and down the corridor. Clear. He knocked lightly and waited, his hands at his sides.
The door swung in, a surprised look on the old Stasi warrior, his face ruddy, his nose somewhat bulbous. He wore an old gray sweater a bit darker than his hair, and his muscle tone had collapsed since the last time Jake saw the man. His right hand sat behind him.
“I’m guessing you still have your Walther P38,” Jake said in German, his own hands in plain view.
“I’m looking at a ghost,” Bernard Hartmann said in English, which was as close to accent free as possible. The former Stasi officer showed his right hand held the venerable German sidearm, which he let hang at his side now. “What can I do for Mister Jake Adams?”
“Can we talk inside?”
The German waved his gun for Jake to enter and closed them inside the small apartment, sparsely furnished with cheap Scandinavian box store products.
Jake wandered to the center of the main room, his eyes scanning the room. Other than the furniture, the place was a shrine to communist rule, with old photos of men in uniform and plaques from his days in East German State Security.
“Nice place,” Jake said. “Reunification was good to you.”
Bernard laughed. “Right. I should have retired to a country estate. Who knew that communism would fail?”
“Ronald Reagan.”
“You say his name in my house?” The German set his gun on a table next to a tattered chair. Then he went to a wet bar and poured himself a glass of schnapps. Without asking, he poured a second glass and held it out for Jake, who took it from the old Stasi.
“All good things come to an end,” Jake said, raising his glass. “Prosit!” They clanked glasses and each downed their drink.
The German took the glasses and then went to the refrigerator in the adjoining kitchen area, producing two Berlin pilsners, handing one to Jake and shuffling into the living room, taking a seat in the battered chair. Jake sat on the sofa and sipped his beer.
“Now,” Bernard said. “What brings a dead man to my apartment at this hour.”
“So you’ve heard?”
He nodded. “You’d have to be bra
in dead not to know what’s going on.”
“Well, I haven’t had a frontal lobotomy, but I do have a bottle in front of me.” Jake raised his beer and took a long pull.
“You’re not alone, Jake. But I’m sure you know that by now.”
Jake watched the man’s eyes. They were the only thing that had given him away during interrogation. Normal. Bernard was feeling him out for information. “I know that people have been trying to kill me for a while now, and I’ve had to stay one step ahead of the shadow game.”
“I see that. But one million Euros is a lot of money. Perhaps I should collect.” The German took a drink from his bottle, but his eyes never strayed from Jake.
“I thought about killing myself, Bernard, but that would have made it hard to collect. I could collect on your bounty.”
The Stasi man’s chin raised slightly. “So, you know. Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m here for answers.”
“Like who wants you dead?”
“Who wants us all dead,” Jake said. “As far as I can tell, someone has put out a contract on damn near every player from the Cold War days. From what I can tell, most had worked here in Berlin.”
A slight smirk formed on the old Stasi man’s chapped lips. As if he was remembering the good old days. Finally he said, “There’s a new Cold War, Jake.”
“Who started it?”
“It doesn’t matter who started it. It just is. Like life and death.”
Jake took in more beer and thought about that. It had been staring him in the face for weeks and he’d denied the obvious. He knew in his gut that the German was right. Had even considered it a hundred times in his mind over the past few days. Yet, somehow, hearing it from someone else who’d been there in the old days, Jake knew the words were true. It was a new Cold War.
“The Russians have been testing new weapons with their oil wealth,” Jake said. “Trying to get back some semblance of influence in the world. Perhaps their status as a super power again. And now they’re back to their old ways. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Who else? The Chinese? Doubtful. They’re just going to overwhelm the world with economic power. Ten times what the Japanese did two decades ago. But the Russians.” He shrugged his shoulders and drank down the last of his beer. “One more?” Bernard got up and went to the kitchen, coming back with two more beers and handing one to Jake before sitting down again.
“Who’s running the show?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know.”
He appeared to be telling the truth. Damn.
Bernard said, “But I do know it most likely comes from the SVR. They’re almost back to Cold War KGB strength. You can’t kick a football in Berlin without hitting one. Did you hear about Vladimir Volkov?”
Jake had anticipated the question and didn’t react. “What about him?”
“He’s dead. Killed yesterday in Baden-Baden.”
“Interesting. I heard he was on the list.”
“So, is that why you’re here? To collect on Volkov’s assassination?”
“I haven’t been to Baden-Baden in four years,” Jake said calmly.
The German laughed. “That’s good, Jake. I couldn’t even tell you were lying.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were on the news tonight. They had a video of you coming out of Volkov’s apartment complex with a gun at your side. You had a slight limp, just like when you came in to my apartment. You couldn’t hide that.”
There was no way, Jake thought. He’d checked the building for cameras. But could someone have caught him on a hand-held video camera? Perhaps. Jake took another drink of beer to think. Would it matter if he came clean?
“Vladimir Volkov was an asshole,” Bernard said. “I’m glad you killed the bastard.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Jake said emphatically.
“But you were there. Video doesn’t lie.”
“Did the Polizei actually name me?”
Bernard shook his head. “No. But when I saw it, I knew it was you.”
This would actually help his case when he went to collect on the one million Euros for Vladimir’s death. “I was there,” Jake said. “But, just like now, I was only trying to get some info. Two guys showed up and shot him.”
“And you shot them.”
“Right.”
“Before or after Vlad gave you what he knew?”
“He never got a chance to tell me anything. At first I thought someone had somehow followed me. Even though I knew that couldn’t be true.”
“Because you’re too good for that?”
“No. Because I took extraordinary precautions.”
“And you were busted by some local amateur with a three hundred Euro camera.”
“They must have heard my shots. The Russian guns were silenced. It took me a while to get downstairs.”
“Long enough for the cameras to roll,” Bernard said, his head swishing side to side. “It was so much easier in the old days. You only had to deal with pros taking your picture. And these new spies. They’re. . .”
“They’re what?” Jake probed.
“Impatient. Impetuous. Arrogant.”
“Why do you suppose they’re trying to kill off all the old timers?” Not that Jake really considered himself in that category. After all, he was just a young officer at the end of the Cold War.
The Stasi man lifted his shoulders high. “You’ll have to find out. I have no idea. Maybe they’re the young wolf who wants to be the leader of the pack. But to become the lead wolf, the Alpha, they must kill the old leader. Or at least drive them away.”
That made some sense. “But why bring all the attention?” Before the German could answer, Jake finished on his own. “They’re cleaning house. Getting rid of anyone who knew the old ways. Knew the old secrets of the Cold War. It’s a God damn purge.”
The German snapped his fingers. “I think you’re right.”
Jake finished his beer and rose to his feet. He started for the door and stopped, his gaze upon the old Stasi who had sunk to half his former self. “You don’t seem too worried about someone killing you.”
He smiled broadly, more so than Jake had ever seen from the man. “Did you know I have a sister?”
“No.”
“We got her to the West just before the wall went up. We haven’t talked much until recently. She has two children in their early twenties. Good college students. My sister has never told her children about me. She was embarrassed by my position with the Stasi.”
“I’m sorry,” Jake said.
“It’s all right. I did what I thought was right at the time. We saved one soul to sell the other. Anyway, when I heard there was a hit notice out on me, I took out a one million Euro life insurance policy on myself, with benefit going to my sister’s children. So, what do they say in America? Bring it on, asshole. Maybe I take a few down with me. Don’t want to make it too easy for them.”
The old Stasi officer got up and met Jake at the door, shaking his hand with all the strength he could muster.
“It’s been nice knowing you,” Jake said.
“You too. Take those young arrogant bastards for everything they’ve got. If they try to screw you over, take them out.” He swung his fist up into the air.
“I will. Take care. Thanks for the drinks.”
Jake left the man there, wondering what would kill him first, the drinks or the bullets. He hoped for the sake of the man’s ancestors the later. Part of him felt guilty having drinks with a man who had brought so much pain to his own people over the years. Maybe time had healed Jake’s position a little. Bernard was doing what he thought was right at the time, regardless of how misguided that might have been.
As the German closed his door, Jake noticed the young couple from the elevator walking down the corridor toward him. When they were twenty feet away, the hairs on the back of Jake’s neck tingled. He turned to walk toward the elevators and simultaneously reached into his jacke
t for his gun. Turning his head, he saw the couple had stopped at Bernard’s door. Should he let them go? His gun out now and behind his back, Jake backtracked down the hallway. Approaching the young couple, he saw they had silenced guns at their sides. Okay, they weren’t Polizei.
The couple raised their guns together, aimed at Jake. Flashes burst from the barrels with the sound of small pops, just as Jake returned fire and shifted his body sideways to make his own target smaller. Jake didn’t stop firing until the man and woman were crumpled on the gray industrial carpet, frothy blood pooling out from multiple bullet strikes. Out of bullets, slide locked back, Jake calmly walked toward the couple smacking a full magazine into the gun butt.
Suddenly, Bernard’s door opened and the German stood with his Walther P38.
“You should have let them come, Jake,” the Stasi man said.
“Instincts,” Jake said. “Besides, I couldn’t let these two young punks take down former Stasi officer, Bernard Hartmann. Who would believe that?”
The German smiled. “You better get going.”
Jake agreed and hurried off down the corridor, taking the stairs this time. He’d have to get to a cross street before the Polizei reached the road in front of the apartment building and closed it off, stopping anyone and everyone along the way.
As it was, he had plenty of time. He didn’t hear the sirens until he got most of the way back to Alexanderplatz. But that was a problem as well. There were cameras in the square, he knew, with face recognition. If Bernard was right, every Polizei in Germany would now have Jake’s photo. The situation was starting to clear in his mind. It was amazing how one could hold back the obvious from escaping the deeper confines of the brain. Only time would tell if the theory he and his old German associate had developed was true.
Determined and trying to walk without a limp, Jake was more sure of himself with each step.
27
Changing his body position and walking like a wounded duck, Jake made his way across the edge of the large Alexanderplatz square toward his hotel. He’d pulled his T-shirt off and wrapped it over his head like a scarf, hoping to appear as an old hunched over woman, his face obscured from the cameras.