Another Man's Freedom Fighter

by Joseph Carter

  Now, this promising young woman was standing in the dark courtyard of the Belweder with smears of black mascara all over her cheeks. Her blond hair was messy, her jeans and T-shirt were blood-stained and sweaty. With both hands, she held a large bullhorn and screamed her lungs out. Blindingly bright lights shone on her from left and right.

  Suddenly, the screaming stopped and a male voice spoke through the bullhorn. “Sebastian Pavlovich, I believe you can hear me. First, let me say, that I want to apologize for the way things went today.”

  “The Russian ambassador, that’s Kedrov’s voice,” Berka said to the agent next to him. “I’ll kill the skurwysyn.” Feral instincts awoke in the president, he actually looked like he could kill the son of a bitch with his bare hands.

  The agent held him back before he could get up from the floor. The soldiers gave the president a small bullhorn they had found in a locker earlier.

  The bullhorn squeaked when Berka pushed the button. “Chuj ci w dupe, skurwysynu. Let my daughter go!” The president got carried away by emotion and wished the ambassador a male body part up his anus.

  “Well, well, Sebastian Pavlovich, please. I understand the stress you must feel. I am trying to help, I came over from across the street when I realized that you must be completely exhausted and alone. The sergeant major here tells me, you have only three people in there. No, four, that’s it.” The ambassador made an effort to sound helpful and understanding.

  Berka sat in the corridor. He was tired, thirsty, hungry, and the son of a bitch was right, he felt alone. While there were people around, he had no one to consult, to share the burden of his office and this completely insane situation with him.

  “I came over from the embassy at my own risk. I managed to convince the soldiers here to allow me to take you to a safe place where you can be together with your family.” The ambassador continued hesitatingly.

  Family? Could it be? Do they have Kamila, too? Berka worried about his wife. She was in Kraków in their private residence. He assumed that the south of Poland would still be Polish-controlled. Yet, he had to wonder if all of Poland could be occupied already.

  “No, no, it’s all a fucking mind game,” Berka muttered. “They isolated me, deprived me of food and sleep, they threaten my family, and now this dick is playing good cop to soften me up.”

  The soldiers of GROM felt compelled to say something, even though it was not their place to give advice to their supreme commander. They looked at each other briefly, and the higher ranked non-com addressed the president. “Panie Prezydencie, if I may offer some of our experience to assist you.”

  “Yes, yes, please, speak freely.” The president’s face lit up visibly.

  “You are on the right track, I think. What they did to us here had elements of a siege and the preparation for forced interrogation. But it doesn’t make much sense like this. We five here, we are together and not isolated as in a cell, we can support each other, we could easily take turns sleeping if the stress wasn’t keeping us awake. If I assume correctly, there is food and alcohol for a whole brigade down there, we have fresh water from the well under the building. We could camp here for a week or more. But they could also easily come in here and kill us, or smoke us out of here, or at least five other things. But they don’t do that. They’re out there talking to us.”

  “Sebastian, did you hear me?” Kedrov shouted through the bullhorn.

  “Shut up, I need to think,” Berka bellowed back. “Chorąży, continue, please.”

  The master sergeant sorted his thoughts. “So, they didn’t force their way in, they merely responded to our fire. That tells me, they want you alive and unharmed. And they are taking absolutely no risk with this. Why is beyond my pay-grade but everything I know tells me that.”

  The president nodded pensively.

  “Next, bringing your daughter here, if she is your daughter.”

  “She is my daughter, I am sure,” Berka cut off the speculation mid-sentence.

  “Well, then this is a crass escalation. They want you out unharmed but fast. If they really wanted to simply break your spirits, they would let us sit here without news and electricity for a week or longer. I cannot tell you why. It might be political or diplomatic or whatnot.”

  The sergeant next to him nodded in agreement. The special forces operatives were specially trained to resist forced interrogation and to apply it themselves in extreme situations. They knew every trick in the book and being smart, resourceful soldiers they could also think up tricks that were not in the book.

  The president was glad for some advice, even though it did not point him to a clear course of action. But then, he was sitting there on the floor in a corridor of his palace in the middle of the night. Thinking about any course of action seemed useless. What could he do? Was there any advantage in being under some sort of siege here versus being a prisoner of the occupants somewhere else? What the fuck do they want? Sebastian Berka had never been this cornered in his political life, and on top of all that they dangled his frightened daughter in front of him.

  “Tato, daddy,” Agnieszka wailed audibly exhausted. Then a new fit of crying started. “They killed Andrzej, tato. Andrzej is dead! He is dead! This animal slit his throat!”

  The news shocked Berka. The first daughter’s boyfriend was not in great esteem with the president. In his opinion, the boy was an unbearably opinionated hipster, but he did in no way deserve to die.

  “Sebastian Pavlovich, we are growing a bit impatient out here. Please come out. The civilians with you will be free to go, and the soldiers will be treated in accordance with the Geneva convention. You have my word.” The ambassador got more insistent.

  “I don’t trust this KGB asshole. He was posted at the Warsaw rezydentura before eighty-nine. That’s why he speaks Polish so well.”

  The sergeant major spoke again. “Panie Prezydencie, the situation we are in is hopeless in military terms. We cannot break out, we can safely assume the whole city is under their control and to date there is no counteroffensive. We would have heard planes, artillery, or rifle fire. Also, we cannot know how much of the country they control and if there will be any sort of counteroffensive at all. We will stay and protect you and do whatever you decide as a course of action. But the decision is political, either we surrender to the enemy, or we die one way or other.”

  “Kurwa, Sebastian, I am cutting the crap here now. Either you come out, right now, or it will be your daughter who gets dicks up her ass. All fifty-five out here including mine. Do you understand, you little fuck?” Kedrov gave up the good cop role after less than fifteen minutes. He was not a patient man.

  Eighteen

  The drapes were closed, a thin strip of sunlight shone through the center and disturbed Vitus’ sleep. He had worked most of the night to get his article to print and give video interviews for TV crews who were not accredited to NATO HQ. After all that, he had emptied the minibar in his hotel room. In his half-sleep, he told himself to remember calling Mark as soon as he found the strength.

  ✽✽✽

  Ofelia Sanders had left early for work. Mark got up the usual time, just before 7:00 a.m. and went to the nursery. Xandi was already sitting up in his baby bed mumbling incomprehensible sounds. He seemed happy ‘talking’ to himself. Mark watched the scene for a short while. Such an awesome kid, we are so blessed.

  Mark got sentimental and thought about how much the two had wanted a child. It was probably his slight hangover that washed up these feelings. He decided to enjoy last night’s feeling of tranquility that lingered on during his dreams and into the moment at his son’s bed. But then Alexander had other plans. As soon as he felt his father’s presence, he started to demand food.

  Mark took the kid, fed him, hoped he would stay dry for a while, and decided to do something against his hangover. A brisk walk in the fresh air, while it was not yet hot outside, and a small breakfast would do the trick.

  The dice stopped rolling and showed a lucky seven. Mark l
iked route seven, it took him through shady side streets, and it was a fairly direct route toward Özgür’s Späti. He would buy himself a freshly baked roll with goat cheese on the way, then get coffee, mineral water, and the paper from Özgür. The Bunkerberg bench that was part of route seven was in the shade, and only few people would come by on a regular Thursday morning.

  ✽✽✽

  The white-blue-and-red flag waved over the central block of the Embassy of the Russian Federation in Berlin. The leaves of the low trees along the posh Unter den Linden boulevard rustled in the wind. Traffic rushed by, a bus driver honked at a bicyclist, who in turn showed the finger to the middle-aged woman behind the wheel of the yellow double-deck bus.

  At a table in the corner of the Einstein café sat a man in a dark suit. He was in his fifties, his stature was that of a man used to regular physical exercise, not exactly short but not tall either. His long, sinewy neck led to a hard face, steel-rimmed glasses made it look even harder. His gray hair was parted to the right, the sides and the neck were cut short so that no hair touched his ears or collar.

  He looked out the window at the enormous Russian flag over the treetops. He took a sip from his Italian espresso and put the small cup back next to the glass of water on the table. He pursed his lips, it was easy to tell that he was tense.

  Another man of similar age entered the café. He was short, stout, dark-haired, and wore a well-trimmed beard, an expensive-looking suit, and a golden signet ring on the right pinky finger. As far as middle-aged gentlemen go, these two were total opposites. One ascetic, trim, unassuming, the other sanguine and pretentious.

  As the door closed behind him, the new arrival looked around and turned to the left. His eyes met with the sitting man’s. “Hartmut, wie geht es dir, how are you?” His accent was slight and hard to tell where it came from.

  “Gut, Grigory. I didn’t come to complain.” Hartmut motioned the shorter man to sit.

  “Well, I heard you were seen very angry outside the defense ministry, yesterday,” Grigory smirked.

  Hartmut was not at all surprised at the remark. He knew, he was under surveillance, it came with his somewhat public role. The word outside comforted him to a certain extent.

  “I did not come for funny remarks either,” he said stone faced. “You know what I came for.”

  “Yes, yes, but first I need some coffee.” The dark-haired man signaled a waiter that he would like the same, espresso and water.

  Grigory made a contemptuous face, took a folded newspaper from his jacket pocket, and put it on the table. He rested his hand on it. Hartmut looked at the paper. It was a few days old. Grigory’s hand tapped the paper slowly.

  “It’s not like the old days. We never spent much money. Most people I worked with back then were true believers. Today, it’s different. Everyone wants money. Blyad, fuck, wars are fought for money, PR, elections. Ach, who am I kidding, for appearances.” He made a small pause while the waiter served his coffee. “But well, even the officers and non-coms are running off to work in the private sector these days. Right after they come back from Syria or the Caucasus, as soon as they have something to show for. It’s a miracle, we could get that far in Poland with enlisted men doing non-com work, and conscripts doing contract soldier work.”

  “It surprises me, too,” Hartmut said. “The whole damn thing surprised me, and everybody in the government.”

  The Russian leaned closer to the German. “Same on our side,” he whispered. “I have it from the horse’s mouth, nobody wanted it, nobody was prepared. And everybody wants it to end soon. Go back to business, without losing face, you know.” Grigory leaned back again, he grinned and looked like he felt really important.

  “The Belarusians are not letting your troops pass through. That surprised me as well. How come?” Hartmut asked.

  Grigory’s contemptuous face came back on. “The bastard is negotiating better gas terms instead of just obeying. Not like the old days, not at all.”

  “Going back to business, Grigory,” Hartmut ended the storytelling.

  “You Germans, always so short on time. We are making conversation. Two old hands talking shop, no?” Grigory insisted on taking a little more of Hartmut’s time. “When this is over, Mother Russia, the president to be more precise will have to get the money back that he spent on this useless exercise. Spoils of war, what will they be, I wonder. What do you think?”

  “Well, since you insist. Poland is a successful industrialized country, it would be geo-strategically advantageous to integrate it into this weakly Eurasian Union of yours. Your government will break them out of NATO and get its coveted buffer back. We don’t need to speculate about Ukraine, your government saw them as their property currently on loan anyway.”

  “Now, don’t be stupid. Ukraine is a country of its own. It’s better for Russia to have a failing Ukraine than no Ukraine,” Grigory berated the German.

  “Politics is not my business, Grigory,” Hartmut grumbled.

  “Alright, enough of the small talk. You may earn your money now.” Grigory emptied the glass of water.

  Hartmut also took a sip. “Good. Your questions were specific and little surprising. The answers are equally unsurprising. One, I can tell you for sure, that our government will stand down and not support a counteroffensive. The reasons are purely political, the radical right and left opposition parties are giving the government a hard time. The population is largely anti-war anyway.”

  Grigory listened patiently.

  “Two, Bundeswehr has not improved its materiel situation since the last Klarstandsbericht, the readiness report. The increase in spending went largely into the pet projects of our adorable gentlewoman. Three, the Americans will use their bases in Germany as they see fit, just like they did in past conflicts.”

  “Come on, a newspaper for three euros could tell me this much.” Grigory grew a little angry, he pointed downward at the paper in front of him.

  Hartmut took the newspaper from under Grigory’s hand with a quick pull. “Yes, but you have it from the horse’s mouth now. That’s worth something, isn’t it?”

  The Russian let out a loud laugh. “Yes, actually it is. This Western transparency is such a foreign concept for our people that we don’t believe what’s in your reports and newspapers. In our government everyone suspects it to be lies to deceive us. Thank you, old friend.”

  Hartmut did not laugh. “May I ask for a bonus? What are your government’s plans for Germany?”

  Grigory nodded pensively. “I guess, I can tell you that as long as Germany keeps out of everything, there is no need to worry.” He seemed sincere for a man of his kind.

  Hartmut nodded and got up. “Ja, I hoped that.” He put the newspaper into his right jacket pocket. “Do svidaniya, Grigory.”

  “Auf Wiedersehen,” replied the Russian.

  Hartmut left and walked toward the Brandenburg Gate. Old friend he called me. Fucking self-infatuated bastard. Hartmut had to talk to Grigory, but he felt dirty doing it. He was content that the conversation was shorter than expected, but he was equally content that it was more informative than he had hoped.

  Grigory stayed and ordered a glass of French cognac. He looked back at his nearly forty years of running agents in Germany. Hartmut was the most potent horse in his stable, while a difficult one at times. This source was probably the only reason why he was still on active duty and had not been replaced with a younger version.

  Grigory would send his report to the Director of SVR directly. He respected the youngster, though usually, he did not think much of his superiors. Kuvayev was a man of action, a man after Grigory’s taste. He was from Gleb Yevgenievich’s school, just like Grigory himself. He had served in the army and worked his way up from the bottom. With help, yes, but that was unavoidable in these new days. If he was honest with himself, it was the same in the old days. Yes, I will see this gets directly to Kuvayev, and I will call Gleb Yevgenievich unofficially, he decided.

  He would not let
the Berlin chief of station steal his thunder, the importance and the urgency of the information would be excuse enough to bypass his boss. He would take what he had just learned, emphasize some of it and add some more of his own observances to bloat the report enough to be worth Hartmut’s fee and his own unofficial commission.

  He mused about the change of times. He could see it in his work. Traitors and agents fit into one of five categories according to their primary motivation: sex and coercion, money, ideology, conscience, and ego. While ideology was always the best motivation, it became rarer and rarer with the great ideologies waning. He himself once was a true believer in Marx and Lenin. In the beginning, it was elating to work with Westerners who believed, too. Even though they were bourgeois boys and girls, born with silver spoons in their mouths.

  Consciences were never something Grigory got to work with. Using sex heavily depended on opportunities for setting a honey trap, a woman or a man who would seduce the target and produce kompromat, photos of a sexual encounter for example. Ego was a good one, but Hartmut was a man without much of an ego. He was a money man.

  The cognac felt good as it rolled down Grigory’s throat and warmed his body from the inside. It cleansed away the uneasy feeling that the meets with Hartmut always left behind. Not like the old days, not at all.

  ✽✽✽

  When Mark left the convenience store, he had already glanced at the headline, and it did not sound good. It read ‘NATO divided over Polish-Russian war’. He half-jogged to his park bench, the coffee in the cup-holder and the goat cheese roll at Xandi’s feet.

  He sat down on the bench, parked as always, unpacked his roll, and started reading. The Russians had called for a meeting of the Security Council and issued a statement that they claimed the right to self-defense according to Article 51 of the UN Charter. They denounced the Polish and Ukrainian campaign as a precursor to a full-blown NATO attack on Russia. A quote by the foreign minister read ‘The world cannot deny the similarities to the fascist aggressions before the Great Patriotic War. It was preceded by seizing buffer zones with mixed populations in Sudetenland and then they attacked the Danzig corridor. Today it’s the Donbas and the Crimea. Already then the Germans had Ukrainians, the Galician SS, do their dirty work in the east’. Mark put the paper down and took a deep breath. I can’t believe this guy, he thought. He remembered a number connected to the foreign minister, it was 989,080,000. Probably more by now, he thought.