The Berlin Package

by Peter Riva

  He remembered that he still needed to acquire a ski jacket—at night when everything was already closed. Making his way to the toilets, as any dinner guest would, down to the Saanerhof basement, the ski room next to the public toilets was piled with guests’ skis, poles, and boots. Guests came in from skiing, dumped their equipment in the ski room, and walked upstairs in stocking feet to a warm shower or bath. As he expected, there was always some tourist who didn’t want to take their ski jacket, which might be damp from skiing, to their room. Indeed, there was a selection, all the latest designs. Saanenland was trendy. He chose a Head ski suit model nearest his size because it also had zip up over-pants, to cover his tracksuit. The Russian bag stayed in his green coat pocket, under the other jacket.

  The ski-room had its own outside door. He left quietly. He needed to see what companies’ aircraft were at the airport. The walk, a mile or so over the train tracks, past the lumber mill in the cold March evening air kept him alert and awake.

  Pero was concerned he wouldn’t know who owned which plane by the tail registration number any more than he could tell one car from another by their license plates. In the Saanerhof stube, gossip among locals had been in Schweizer-Deutsch, the local version of German with a heavy accent. Mostly, the locals assumed that no outsider could understand. And they were right. Mountain valley people, isolated from one another, develop strange variations in dialect that make comprehension difficult. However, people’s names are always recognizable. So when he heard the name Sergio Negroni, he knew which jet should be, if Sergio were still in the region, at the airport. Sergio was celebrity famous for flying his own Boeing BBJ (Boeing Business Jet), a remodeled Boeing 737. There surely couldn’t be too many of those around. So if there was one BBJ there, it was likely to be Sergio’s.

  Pero was right. He saw it there, parked on the apron in front of the service hangar, next to the glider hangars. It was illuminated—tail showing a logo, a scrolled white SN with Italian green as a background. It looked very elegant. Sergio was simply rich. Olive oil rich, originally daddy’s olive oil that Sergio had nurtured into a global empire of gourmet kitchen supplies, mostly packaged in China. His BBJ was ultra-long range. He was known, so it said in People Magazine, to weekend in Gstaad, a few miles from Saanen, and still get to work in Shanghai on Monday. Friday he’d be back partying. Sergio was the real jet set, a modern international business tycoon.

  He was also Pero’s old roommate. It was Sam who referred to Sergio as the lion that gave Pero the idea to go to Saanen and see if Sergio was around or if not, would Sergio at least know of some rich personal jet he could hire. Maybe my luck’s holding … Way back then, in his school days, Sergio was, simply, le lion, at the time always the brave one. Pero could use that sort of help.

  As he trudged toward the plane, Pero knew Sam would already be fully engaged in helping. Sam’s hatred for the misuse of “the secrets of the universe” as he called nuclear science, made him fully commit before Pero even had to ask.

  Sergio, on the other hand, would have no such burning passion. Pero was hoping that the tycoon would still be, after all the years, that brave, reckless adventurer he was when Pero knew him best.

  Walking around the perimeter of the airfield and away from the lights, he crossed to the flight center, ambling slowly so as not to arouse suspicion. The tower was halfway up the mountainside dominating the airstrip. The hut where you filed a flight plan, got a machine to dispense hot chocolate or coffee, or simply sat waiting for your private pilot to finish paperwork was mid-way down the airfield and guarded. The police officer on duty asked him for his identity papers. He showed him his passport. When asked what he was doing there as the airport was closed for the night and no flights expected, Pero told the officer he wanted a walk. Then he suggested that while they were both there and it was getting cold, perhaps he could get them both a hot something to drink? Would the officer care to join him?

  He would. They went in and Pero put the two franc coin in the machine and asked the police officer his choice. “Choc Ovo.” Chocolate Ovomaltine it was. Pero then pushed the correct buttons to order a second one. The altitude, cold, and Ovomaltine were always perfect combinations. For over an hour, the two sat there on the leather couches drinking and discussing skiing and Pero’s history in the region. He knew the officer would be curious and Pero had nothing in that time period of his life to hide. As in most villages, they had acquaintances in common. The young man’s father was the brother of the ski-lift operator on the Wispile in Gstaad. They happily discussed the years before the lift was installed, when Pero and his fellow students all had to uptrack, putting fur pelts on the bottom of skis and walking up the mountain, a thousand meters up, to have one run down per afternoon. The younger man was just old enough to remember 1963, being born in fifty even.

  When Pero’s cell phone rang, the officer got up and told Pero to stay and finish his call in the warmth. As the officer was leaving to retake his patrol position outside, Pero thanked him and answered the call. “Hello?” He pretended the signal wasn’t strong enough, looked at the phone keypad, and secretly with his thumb, keyed 5-5-5. He listened again.

  The officer, standing in the open door, was making sure Pero heard someone. He gave a little wave and went back outside, the door smoothly shutting off the cold of the night air.

  “Baltazar, P. here, go ahead.”

  “Susanna here. My sister has something to tell you.” She handed over the phone.

  “Bertha here. It is a, how do you say fremder beruf, ach, ja, a strange profession you have Herr Baltazar.”

  “Call me Pero, please.”

  Bertha let it all tumble out in a rush, “Ja Wohl. Susanna and I have initiated a search mit die Internet and then we call a colleague in Paris. He is metals Spezialist, and we have confirmed the cadmium and some cesium—cesium is also used to improve the cadmium’s properties for the flow … have been recently purchased in Switzerland. Twelve shipments in the past month. Five were to the electronics company Bosch, but we think they are for coating of rotors in electric motors. Two were for RINCO, expert welders for hydroelectric generatoren. Both these companies have regular shipments every month, every year. Und so, that left five shipments. Only two of those were ordered in the past two weeks, making them more likely, we feel. Now, we have kalkuliert, Susanna and I, mit talking mit Herr Professor Turner, the amount of cadmium one would need with cesium and the amount without cesium as a reactor to convert one ton of uranium. Aber, neither shipment was enough to convert a ton of uranium. We are sorry.”

  Listening intently, Pero realized he had made a mistake. “Bertha, the shipment was for a ton, total weight, gold and uranium. If the gold were taken away, how much Uranium would be left?”

  “It is impossible to say. Let me see …” she was talking with Susanna, quickly in German. “Ja, ja, gut … Mr. Balta … sorry, Pero, yes, if you assume half the weight, either shipment is just enough. If you assume one-third, by weight, then it is more likely. That would be enough protective gold too, and we discuss this ratio with Herr Professor before,” she meant Sam, “to cover an exchange of plutonium or uranium. Und so mit a third of a ton you have enough to process into, ah, approximately, twenty or thirty fuel rods, which would release in a … a swap you say …? A swap to make maybe ten conventional thermonuclear devices, as your government calls them, of five megatons each. I call them what they are.” She said it with distaste, like Sam had before, “atombomben.”

  “That many? God, that’s terrible, that damn many bombs, five megatons, each? Christ!” Pero said and meant it. Pausing to collect himself after such a shock, he asked, “Okay, where were those two shipments made?”

  “One was made to Geneva,” Pero’s hopes soared, “but it went to the Albert Schweitzer University in Geneva. For medical uses we think. They have an extruder, for pipes used in making water purification filters, but probably not suitable in strongness you say? Not for this type of application.

  “One other
went to Brinker Metallarbeiten Fabrik B.V., a metal works, in Schaffhausen. They do not do any extruding. They prepare raw metals, metallelementet, for coating. They import precious metals und chrome, make special formulas, specializing in medical instruments … the coatings are for. We do not think it is them either. They have no smelter, we checked. They grind and prepare mixtures, little ball bearings or flakes, only mit verhältnissen, sorry, only with proportions for clients to smelt in their own factory. They are an old company, very well regarded in the medical field.”

  Pero thought, damn. “Do you, or did Sam, think of anything else?”

  “No sorry, we did not. Oh, and Herr Professor wanted you to know he is on his way to Berlin, via Paris. He will arrive this night, late. He could not reach your phone, it was always busy. He wanted to remind you to have a shower and change your clothings. Und to please take your pills.” There was a background comment. “Ah, und Susanna wants to know what pills.”

  “Please tell her I am taking the antibiotic, the wound is still doing fine. Sam also gave me some iodine pills …”

  “Oh, Gott und Himmel.” He heard her tell Susanna.

  “Listen, listen, he gave them to me as a precaution, there’s nothing wrong.” Even to Pero, his own voice sounded desperate, trying to will Susanna not to worry.

  “Susanna is not happy, she says you are ein dummer mann, a stupid man, a … What?” he could hear Susanna speaking, “Yes, also a brave man but now more stupid than brave. She says you are playing … how do you say it? With fire? Yes, with fire. She says you must stop. Nein, nein … Ach, genug. Here she is …” he heard the phone being passed.

  “Pero? You … you …” she gave up, Pero heard her inhale a deep breath, “Please to be careful.”

  “I will.” And they left it at there. There was little else to say as they both realized that what could be done was being done. The sorrow in her voice was also troubling to Pero, then the phone line went dead.

  Time to call Sergio Negroni and borrow his jet. Pero knew the old four-digit local phone number by heart. It had always been the same since they were fourteen when they partied at Sergio’s parent’s chalet on the side of the hill overlooking Gstaad. Most winter outings the boys had to confine themselves to the Hi-Fi Disco in the Gstaad Palace, and its lesser cousin, in the ping-pong room in the basement that they affectionately called the Lo-Fi.

  The new Gstaad numbers were now three digits longer, all unique to Gstaad, so Pero added the three, dialed all seven, and the phone answered on the first ring. “Good evening. Can I help you?” It was the suave voice of Sergio’s butler.

  “Is Mr. Negroni in? It’s Pero Baltazar calling. It’s urgent. We’re old friends.”

  “One moment sir.”

  “Pero? Pero, is that you? Where the hell in God’s name are you?”

  “In Saanen, at the airport.”

  “Great, I’ll send the car, be there in fifteen minutes …”

  “No wait, Monsieur le Lion, I need you to get off your bony ass and come here in about an hour. Can do?” There was a pause and the line went dead.

  Pero immediately called Lewis. He explained to him that Sam was on his way to Berlin. He still felt he couldn’t explain what Bertha and Susanna had discovered because, as he was increasingly sure, the thought of all that weapons-grade substitute uranium being processed and shipped would cause the CIA to act immediately, thereby pushing the safety of Heep and Danny into obscurity. He could see it from Lewis and Bergen’s point of view. The CIA would be concentrating on the greater good. But Pero guessed he still had at least twenty hours to play with. Tische wanted to get the sample, the package, the police evidence, from Pero—at the rendezvous time and place he had set. By now Tische would know, or at least think, that Pero hadn’t made it to CERN. He would also assume Pero still had the bag. But only Pero, Sam, and his two new friends in Berlin knew what it contained, what it meant. Tische didn’t know they knew nor did he know that anyone knew the truth about the gold, especially not DC. As far as Tische was concerned, the package only contained evidence linking him to something dangerous to his liberty and enterprise.

  The fact that Tische could not know that Pero and his friends knew what the package really was, that was their only real advantage over Tische. That and a serious brain trust helping the friends think straight and hopefully get ahead of Tische’s plans.

  Lewis was concerned that Pero wasn’t making progress getting to Berlin. The CIA and German Internal Security were conducting probes—as Tische would expect, no doubt. “Had there been none, he would have gotten more nervous and would have run to hide, permanently, and probably made your friends disappear,” Lewis explained.

  Pero agreed. “We needed him thinking he is winning—just. But not enough to dispose of the kidnapping evidence … Danny and Heep.” Lewis agreed. “Your people have intel for me on TruVereinsbank yet?”

  “It’s a list, a long, long list. TruVereinsbank owns or controls or Tische sits on the board of over two hundred companies. Some are in China and Shanghai but nothing in Thailand. Some are, well, everywhere. The shipping agency that sent the gold from New York? They own them. The online metals auction company the Treasury idiot used to sell the gold? They have a majority share. Some of their companies are … how can I say this? Familiar.” He used a word, like the CIA’s use of the word “reliable,” meaning discrete. “Familiar” to the CIA meant well known to the CIA, sometimes partners.

  “How familiar?”

  “Very. Funded.” Oh damn, and double damn, he thought realizing that TruVereinsbank was a funded partner with CIA holdings. The slush fund. Direct contact with the DG was more than possible.

  “Lewis, I don’t want to upset the CIA’s applecart here, but they’ve chosen a strange bedfellow. I can’t tell you why, yet, but trust me … you may want to check every one of those familiar connections.”

  “Yeah, if they’re anything like the gold-uranium deal, we need to. I can’t take this upstairs yet, I need proof.”

  “If I can find Heep and Redmond, you’ll get your proof. We are working on it.”

  “I have additional information on Tische. You are dealing with a nasty fellow, he is ex-Stasi, came with the nationalized business entity, Treuhand, when some of the assets were parcelled out to the Vereinsbank, making it TruVereinsbank. Tische only became Tische in 1987. Before that, his last name was Aue, Stasi Oberführer Heinrich Aue. His father, Sergeant Joseph Aue, was an informant and source to CIC, the pre-CIA, after the end of the war. CIC took charge of him from the Seventh Army prison camp in 1946. Aue disappeared from records shortly thereafter, presumed, according to the open CIA internal records, to be back in East Germany, Russian side. Pero, many of the SS officers assumed the rank of foot soldiers to escape war crimes trials. If they had information to trade …”

  “Or gold.”

  “Yes, or gold. CIC was in charge of that. But I think he, this Aue, could have been in the West and changed his name or had someone cleanse his records. But why did the son—and there’s a daughter by the way—stay in the East? I was going to access Aue’s records, but they have a red line in the computer here.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “State secrets. If I probe that, it will mean the DG will find out.”

  They were both silent, there wasn’t much more to say. Pero ran over the details in his mind again, A father who was probably an SS officer pretending to be a non-com, as many of them did, who traded the whereabouts of Nazi gold to CIC—who then liberated the gold and used it to fund the most clandestine CIA operations—and no doubt still does. “Lewis, see if you can locate the daughter, maybe there’s a lead there.” Was there anything else he needed? Yes, there was, he just couldn’t really access it on this phone. But he needed to try anyway. So he asked him, “Can you simply read all those company ties of TruVereinsbank and boards Tische sits on, starting with the ones in Switzerland?”

  “They’re only in alphabetical order, not importance, so I’ll go
down the list for you picking those out when I see something significant. Okay, let me see, there’s … Almvier GmbH in Konstanz, Arcadia Promotions SA in Morges, and, ah, there are no more “A’s”—as he started into “B,” Pero stopped him. Lewis had made the solid connection.

  “Stop. I am going to Schaffhausen, Brinker Metallarbeiten Fabrik. That has to be it. Get me anything you can. And Lewis, those are field agent instructions, no delays.”

  Lewis’ voice had a hard edge, “I got the lecture last time. We’ll talk about that later unless the director general cancels your appointment. But tell me, how did you associate Brinker. What is it you know that you are not telling us?”

  Pero responded harshly, “Not now, Baltazar out.” Two clicks and Lewis was cut off. A half hour later Sergio’s Porsche Cayenne roared into the parking lot outside and the police guard saluted, smartly.

  Chapter 13

  Schaffhausen

  His elegant northern Italian accent still made Pero chuckle. The finest schools, the best elocution lessons, and he still spoke English with an Italian accent. “Da boney ass? Twenty years … no, we saw each other in LA ten years ago, very brief, but all dese years and you expect me to jump because of a teenage oath?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “Okay, so I am here. Now what?”

  “Now, my old and trusted friend, le giraffe, and I humbly ask you to take off your mantle of world business leader and help us save people from dying and, perhaps, millions from catastrophe.” Shocked, Sergio looked at Pero, saw Pero was serious, and buckled his knees to sit on the couch, shaking his head.

  Pero waited until Sergio went through the thought process, the same one he always had done as a kid. Am I being used? What’s in it for me? How can I stay the leader? And then, I can relax, this is my trusted friend.

  So, like Sam before, Pero told him the whole story, everything he knew. Sergio’s eyes sparkled. Not admiration, more like, you’ve been doing things, daring things. Pero saw the gleam in Sergio’s eyes and knew then that Sergio would want in. Besides, Pero had just the plan to let Sergio take all the credit if it all worked out. Old friends are reliable, especially if you knew them as well as that little gang knew each other. Their tight, teen boarding school did all that—all is revealed, trust is born and never dies.