“You know who I mean. E.E.”
“Ah, him. He cannot change reality any more than I can. Any more than you can.”
“Have you seen him?”
She hated the taste of the cigarettes they sold in East Berlin. She had always hated it. It tasted like death, like the air when the bombs were falling. But when she tried to quit, her hands would shake, sometimes so hard she worried it would never stop.
“He came to me today,” she said. “He had a message for you.”
The bed creaked. “A message?”
“He wants out. He wants to go to the West.”
“He told you this?”
“He told me to tell you.”
“You told him you were giving me information?”
“No.” It was the truth, though she would have lied if necessary. But he had just known. Held her in his arms and whispered her own darkest secrets into her ear. “But he knew.”
“And he wants to defect? Why now?”
A dog barked somewhere outside. The sound echoed in the alleys before drowning in the hum of the streets. “He is afraid.”
“Afraid? Of what? Did he tell you?”
Yes, he had told her. And trembled when he did. “A man has come from Moscow. He fears this man.”
“Who is it? Did he tell you his name? The Russian’s name.”
“He does not have a proper name. But he said he is called the Nightingale.”
She watched him over the warm light of her cigarette. He did not move or speak. Perhaps he was afraid too. All men were capable of terror. She knew this. Yet it often surprised her. She forgot sometimes that men were nothing more than boys wearing the mask of age.
“I have to go,” he said. The bed protested as he stood, but he was already at the door. “I will get him out. I will get you out too. It isn’t safe here anymore.” He opened the door and went out into the hall. “Don’t go out again,” he said. “Not tonight.” Then he was gone.
How neat and orderly, the minds of men. They feel the cold and think of shelter. They see danger and plan rescue. They believe tonight is different from any other night and that the men they fear do not already have a boot on their neck.
There was something red on the quilt: his forgotten scarf. Seeing it there felt scandalous, a feeling she had not experienced in a long while. She picked it up, ran it between her bone-thin fingers. It was cheaply made. She had thought it unsightly when he wore it, but it, like her, benefited from his absence. It was even still warm.
She tossed away her cigarette, wrapped the scarf around her neck, and went back out into the cold.
NINE
It didn’t make any sense.
Or, maybe it did make sense, but not the kind of sense you could wrap your head around.
At least, not the kind Karen could wrap her head around.
The Wall was everything she could have hoped for: a masterwork of interwoven magic, spells layered on spells, the complex intertwined with the impossible. When the Wall had first appeared one morning and split Berlin into two, everyone had wondered how the Soviets could dare. But having seen their work up close, Karen wondered if the better question was how they could manage. Russian magicians had always been among the best in the world, even after they purged some of the greatest in the fires of the Revolution. Grim stories were told of the Soviet magic wielded against Nazi Germany at the end of the war and to crush anti-Communist demonstrations in Hungary or Poland. They knew magic and, unlike America, had no qualms about using it.
But this magic was more than impressive; it was terrifying. If the Soviets could make the Wall, who knew what else they were capable of.
And it was impenetrable in more ways than one. It exuded so much magical power that any test she tried to run was almost completely thwarted. If there was other magic at work, she might not even notice it. Making sense of it was like trying to hear your own breathing over the sound of an orchestra.
And then there was the flaw in this masterpiece: the breach.
A spell like the Wall should have lasted forever. And yet, it was withering. In the stillness of the office, she could just make out Professor Goldberg’s squeaky lecturing from across the years since her sophomore class on magical theory:
Now, class, what is the best way to upset an existing magical spell?
Forget its birthday!
Karen smiled at her teacher’s dumb joke. The intervening years and the lack of sleep somehow made it seem funnier. The real answer was more complicated, but pretty much boiled down to two choices:
#1. Disrupt the spell with other magic.
Or #2. Exhaust the spell’s source.
The first was harder than it sounded. Magic, once cast, was relentless. It was like gravity: with enough arm flapping, you might be able to stop it for a while, but really you’d better hope you had a parachute. Disrupting a spell usually required intimate knowledge of the spell’s nature, how it was structured and what held it together, something usually only the original caster knew.
That left the second option. For the Wall, she couldn’t even discover the source of magical energy. Most simple spells drew their power directly from the caster, which was the painful drawback to wielding the cosmic powers of the universe. Some magic was tied to a totem, a physical item that had been imbued with arcane energy. It was theorized that was partly how a magician’s locus helped them cast stronger magic. But whatever was powering the Wall hid its tracks well. There was clearly some nearby source of magical energy, a big one, but her efforts to pin it down had been in vain.
In other words, she had no idea what was going on.
She didn’t pretend to be an expert at the political minefield she’d volunteered to tiptoe through, but she knew enough to be scared. Lots of dangerous people had lots of dangerous ideas about how to run Berlin. And though she hadn’t learned much so far, it was enough to convince her that there was more at work here than it appeared. Something was in the air, something intangible but undeniable. And so far, inexplicable.
“Well, it took some digging, but I think I found what you asked for,” said a walking stack of books that suddenly appeared in the doorway. They had given Karen a temporary office on the second sublevel, saying that its usual occupant was “on assignment.” It was cramped and a little damp, but she preferred to think of it as cozy.
“Really? That’s great!” Thrilled to be distracted from her unhelpful notes, Karen jumped up and helped Jim arrange the musty old books into some semblance of organization on her severe metal desk.
“Every book of magic we’ve got,” Jim said, dusting off his now rumpled shirt. “Which, now that I think about it, isn’t a lot. I’m sure we’ve got more back in some secret library in Virginia, but getting any of those is above my pay grade.”
Karen opened the book on top: Majik ak Mistè. It was written in what looked like Haitian Creole and was full of elaborate diagrams of animal dissections, occult symbols, and rambling, all written in a slightly reddish ink that looked a bit too much like blood. She doubted any of this old magic had made its way into the Wall spell. But even if it had, the book wouldn’t prove to be terribly useful to her, as someone had gone through with a steady hand and a sharp knife and excised large sections of nearly every page.
She held up a page and glanced at Jim through one of the larger gaps. He smiled nervously.
“Sorry about that,” he said with a boyish shrug. “Sometimes it seems like the ‘C’ in ‘CIA’ stands for ‘Censoring.’”
Typical. How did these magiophobic lunkheads expect her to diagnose the problem with the Wall when their policy on magical intelligence seemed to be to destroy what they didn’t understand? Winning the war against more magically inclined nations like Germany had left the US with the mistaken impression that magic was some European nuisance. It took an impressive kind of arrogance to dismiss one of mankind�
�s greatest powers, but America was up to the task.
She chose, however, not to share these thoughts with the amiable CIA agent in her office deep beneath the Agency’s Berlin headquarters. Instead, she said, “Thank you, Jim. I’m sure these will be very helpful.”
“I also found these,” Jim said, producing a thin folder and adding it to the pile. “Most of the Agency’s files on the Wall are classified well above my pay grade, but there were a few available for general consumption.”
Any excitement Karen might have felt at getting access to the CIA’s files on the Wall was quickly doused as she flipped through the scant pages. Some of the words remained legible, even a sentence or two in some places, but mostly it was a sea of thick black bars, obliterating whatever information might have once been contained within.
Jim sighed. “We’re nothing if not consistent.”
“Why would the CIA be so secretive about the Wall?” Karen asked.
“The CIA is secretive about everything,” Jim said. “I had to get a special clearance for them to tell me where the bathroom was on my first day.”
Karen scanned the documents.
Findings of the █████ on August██ 19█ only for ███████
Conclusive evidence not ███████████ magical asset confirmed █████████████████████████████████ for ██████ and the ███████████ if █████ for which the ████████
When reporting to ███████████ which ████ therefore ████
And on and on.
“I’m sure I can find something here that . . .” Her voice trailed off as she noticed something at the bottom of one of the pages that looked only partly censored. The rest of the documents were printed on blue paper; this one was green. She pointed. “What does this line mean?”
“Operation Hobnail?” Jim sounded as confused as she was. “I’m not sure—”
“This is dated from just before the Wall appeared,” Karen said. She read aloud. “‘Senior magical asset on ground reports success in initial development.’ Black line, black line. ‘Threat containment minimal. District still . . .’” And the document ended.
“I think she might have been misfiled,” Jim said, removing it from the rest. He tried to smile, tried not to furrow his brow. “Happens all the time, I’m afraid. Don’t tell the Soviets. BOB’s a well-oiled machine, as far as they know.”
Karen stared at him for a moment, wondering, but decided not to press for more information. She doubted he would be forthcoming, even if he knew anything. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Your secret is safe.”
An awkward silence fell as he seemed to be desperately searching for something else to say and she was too tired to help him out. In the end, he offered to help her find anything else she needed, and then disappeared into the maze of BOB’s halls and stairways.
Alone with incomplete books, insufficient notes, and infuriating questions, Karen collapsed into her chair. If George were here, she thought, he’d be just as lost as she was. And she doubted Jim would have been nearly as helpful. You can do this. You’re smart, capable, and a damn good magician. Sure, the available information is absurdly limited, and the stakes laughably, world-shatteringly high, but that doesn’t matter, because Karen J. O’Neil from Rockville, Maryland, is on the case.
Sighing like a rapidly deflating birthday balloon, she tapped her forehead against the sharp edge of the desk, and wondered how hard she’d have to hit it to knock herself out until this was all over.
TEN
The car pulled slowly up to the blockade at Checkpoint Charlie. It was late, though it was hard to tell with the floodlights whitewashing everything with an artificial noontime glare. Young men dressed in the dark uniform of the National People’s Army stood watch with solemn faces and ready rifles. It was mostly for show. There had been incidents at the Wall, including a few at Checkpoint Charlie, but this was the gate for foreign diplomats and military. This was the gate where World War III could start. Accordingly, everyone was usually on their best behavior.
Bill Holland cranked down his window and handed his passport to the waiting soldier. He’d made this crossing countless times since being posted to Berlin, but tonight he couldn’t keep his heart from racing just a little. His fingers drummed the wide steering wheel. He had news, after all. And not the good kind. The sooner he was back at BOB, the better.
He turned and looked out his open window. The soldier had handed his passport to another. A third was approaching.
“The stamp is there,” Bill said in German, pointing a finger at his passport to show them where to look. “Right there. Just look.” The soldiers did not even glance in his direction. “Bunch of buffoons,” he added, though quieter and in English.
Another man was there now, a strikingly big man with a serious scar across his face. Wearing a Soviet uniform. The other men showed the scarred newcomer his passport. Everyone knew the Soviets were the real power behind the German Democratic Republic, but they usually weren’t so obvious about it.
Then Bill thought about what the prostitute had told him. The Nightingale was in Berlin.
He could see West Berlin not that far ahead of him. The car would never make it through the barrier, especially from a dead stop, but if he got out and ran, maybe he could get there. It was a straight line, completely exposed; the GDR snipers couldn’t ask for an easier shot. But would they take it? Would they shoot an American government agent in full view of the world?
Maybe the better question was if he was ready to be the guy who started a war.
His hands gripped the steering wheel now. They were sweating.
They were coming back toward his car. The Soviet waited behind, but he was watching closely. Bill glanced over his shoulder. More soldiers were coming up from the other side.
You trained for this, he told himself. Do what you are supposed to do.
But whatever that was, he couldn’t remember.
One of the Germans placed a hand on his car door. He’d left the window down. “Step out,” the soldier said, in English. “Please.”
ELEVEN
The spy game used to be simple. Or as simple as it could be in a city bisected by a magical wall and run by four separate foreign nations. Jim found himself thinking fondly of his early days with the CIA in Berlin. He’d been assigned to counterintelligence, so that just meant knowing who in West Berlin was working for the other side and how to keep them from finding out anything useful. Oh, and if possible, asking them if they’d be open to the idea of betraying their masters. You know, easy stuff.
But lately, things were all jumbled. The breach was certainly part of it, but it wasn’t all. Berlin was rumbling, like a sleeping monster about to stir. His usual informers (the nosy garbage collectors, the observant street sweepers, the bored bartenders) had all gone silent. Known Soviet agents were changing apartments for no reason, some vanishing in the process. Suspected operatives suddenly stopped behaving suspiciously, as if they knew they were being watched. Birds were flying backward, lions and lambs were snuggling, water was turning to blood.
And then there was the Bill situation.
Bill Holland was one of those guys you could count on. He played by the rules, even when the boss wasn’t looking, something Jim certainly couldn’t boast. That was why Bill was trusted with whore detail. He was a real company man, a straight shooter.
And now he was missing.
Dennis had been the one to tell him, right after lunch.
“Garriety’s on the warpath,” he had said, careful to keep his voice down. “Bill never checked in last night after going over the Wall.”
“Maybe he finally succumbed to the wiles of one of his contacts,” Jim offered, but both men knew that wasn’t likely. And even
if he had, he would have had the smarts to drag himself into work the next morning.
They hadn’t said much else, just sat there. They knew, of course, that a job like theirs carried risks. They were spies, after all, working to thwart some very serious men. Among the paperwork and the boredom, it was sometimes easy to forget the danger. And then they’d be reminded. Jim had been working for the CIA for six months when he saw his first flag-covered coffin. He hadn’t known the man well, and it had been an accident, not some foreign provocateur, but it had still hit Jim hard. For some time. And then routine, the real opiate of the masses, took over and he forgot life and death for a while, forgot about the monsters on the other side of the Wall, forgot that he wasn’t immortal.
He checked in with their guest, the comely magician drowning in old books and redacted files down in the basement, but he didn’t linger. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week and she’d only been there a few days. Her eyes had the desperate mania of the caged animal. He took that to mean the research was not going well.
So instead he drove around Berlin and checked in with a few of his remaining contacts, old friends he nearly trusted, and asked about any chatter over a missing American. They had heard none. Not even a peep. Sometimes, they said, people just disappear. He thanked them for being so unhelpful then drove out to Checkpoint Charlie for a while. People came and went through the narrow gap in the shimmering Wall, looking relieved (though not really that pleased) to be back in West Berlin. He watched the guards, young men enforcing the will of old ones. What sort of man would he have been if he’d been born in Germany? How would he carry the inherited shame of a defeated aggressor? How would he explain Auschwitz or Ravensbrück?
He drove back in silence. Normally he’d listen to the broadcast from Radio in the American Sector, but tonight he just needed to hear his own thoughts, as empty and uncomforting as they were.
If the worst happened to Bill . . . , his thoughts said, leaving the rest for his imagination.
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