by Peter Riva
Sam’s arrival might have worried Tische. But perhaps he hadn’t gotten a good ID on him yet. If he did, he might assume the man from CERN had come to collect the package. All the better for Pero’s plan because it would confirm, in Tische’s mind, that Pero hadn’t gotten to CERN and still carried the package.
Sam had been frisked and scanned with a hand scanner when he arrived at the airport, so he was clean. Tische might know that if he was looking for someone from CERN. But Pero hoped it was just a carpet sweep, not a target for Sam. In the event he was right.
Susanna told Pero that Bertha and Sam were still getting on like comrades of old. They finished each other’s sentences when talking physics and chemistry. Susanna had to admit when pressed by Pero, who asked her how she fit into the conversations and calculations, that Sam thought her command of mathematics was “almost as good as your sister’s.” She was shy about it. Pero was impressed.
Pero explained to the men aboard the plane that he would need her special microphone for the meeting that night. His problem was that he dreaded telling her he was going after Tische. Added to which, he needed cover to get in and out of the hotel—if he could at all. In his head, the same worry played out again and again, If I were Tische, I would hijack me either coming back to Berlin, trying to get to the Steigenberger, or at the restaurant rendezvous Tische has prepared at Borchardt’s, whichever comes first.
In discussions during the flight, all six of them had decided it was safer to assume that Tische would have eyes and ears everywhere. Schmitz agreed, “If he controls the ex-Stasi police, then he’s got resources of over a thousand ex-East Berlin police officers and ex-Stasi. He can watch everywhere.”
Arriving at Schönefeld airport, Danny took over and taxied Sergio’s plane over to the Globe-Ground VIP apron. He shut it down, lowered the stairway, and lead the team into the suite of waiting rooms. Government officials and corporate giants use those services daily. However, seven-thirty in the morning was not their usual time for an arrival, especially one that was unexpected.
Sergio’s presence fixed all that. The plane’s tail was brightly lit, and Pero thought well, it’s not everyone who has a Boeing BBJ more plush and more capable of flying long-distance than even the German Chancellor has. So, Sergio put his credit card down, Amex Black, and said to charge anything. Airport security was present in the form of a sleepy inspector, no police to be seen. The uniformed private security agent stared at the passengers who were all avoiding direct facial scrutiny, pretending to be rich jetsetters uninterested in minor functionaries. Sergio and his guests were all clinking champagne glasses in private conversation when the official was told by Schmitz, pretending to be a butler, that Herr Negroni was only there for dinner in Berlin that night and would be leaving. Presto, the customs agent left.
No passport control was necessary since the major had arranged for the Swiss ATC to tell Berlin ATC that the plane was inbound from Friedrichshafen Airport, on the German side of Lake Constance. Their clandestine flight cover was intact. Berlin customs and immigration had no cause to investigate. Tische would not have anticipated the take-off airport switch even if he knew Pero had access to a private plane. So, they felt confident their presence was secret.
Once the minor official left, they discussed the need for transportation. Pero said, “We need a plan for Tische’s meeting later on. But before we can decide on that, any way I look at this, we have a problem of Danny being recognized. And then there’s the problem of us getting into the hotel and then out to dinner without Tische knowing where or who we are. And with the bag.”
Sergio was watching Pero, who had a makeshift napkin ice bag on his scalp wound. “Figured it out yet, la loutre?” Sergio smiled then frowned, “But you know Pero, something is bothering me. How did the DG get named by Pontnoire in his three line, red whatever Lewis called it, message? Pontnoire’s the anti-Nazi ambassador, right? So, I get that he was rooting out Nazi sympathizers, he’s been open about that in the press. But how did Pontnoire know about the gold and the Nazi connection with the CIA?”
Pero nodded. “Lewis mentioned that the local CIA Station man reporting to the ambassador would have told him about the gold and uranium, so he’d be informed about local issues. Local One is the name for the ambassador in any city.”
“But how did Local One know to name the DG?”
It was an obvious question, Pero realized and felt stupid, shaking his head. Typical of the businessperson to focus on details. The answer eluded Pero. But it gave him an idea. He called Lewis.
“Baltazar here, can you patch me through to Local One, Berlin?”
“You’re kidding. No way, your mission is over, we’ve got orders. White House says so.”
“Ah, so I guess I’ll have to call Local One on a land line?”
“Well, you have a cell phone and the embassy is in the directory, but I am advising you not to call them, repeat not. I’ve told you four hundred and two times not to call.”
“Uh-huh, I got that. I understand. Out.”
“What did Lewis say?” André wanted to know.
“He gave me the ambassador’s extension number.”
In Germany, offices and large organizations, even hotels, secure a short phone number ending in a zero and build a phone switching system for themselves, like a mini-phone company in the basement. Then, say you are in room 601, all you do is tell your family that your number is the same as the hotel number, but to leave off the end zero and replace it with 601. They can dial you direct, without the hotel operator answering.
The American Embassy number in Berlin is 8305-0, so Ambassador Pontnoire’s direct number was 8305-402. Simple as that. Pero dialed, speaker on.
“Pontnoire.”
“Mr. Ambassador, Pero Baltazar here …”
“Ah, the man himself, the deadheading Delta pilot. Quite a ruckus you’ve kicked up ever since. Your discovery has had, ah, repercussions.”
“If you call getting the DG of the CIA fired, you’re right, but that may be your doing. How did you know he was involved?”
“Security personnel here are under my authority—but they were also taking direct orders from him, not the usual chain of command. The people here tell me everything or else I have them transferred to Greenland.”
Pero and those listening smiled, “Okay, but now I need your help in getting the ringleader, TruVereinsbank Geschäftsführer Tische. He’s the one who’s ex-Stasi. Can we talk without Washington knowing the gist?”
“No, I cannot promise that. I know Tische, don’t care for him or his history much. However, on the secrecy front, I feel compelled to tell you that for at least three days I won’t be sending any briefs back to State. Seems my report at the Senate has made me something of a pariah.”
“Yeah, welcome to the club. The CIA—no, sorry, the White House—has ordered us to stand down. And those are orders we are expected to obey. However, we want this bastard.”
“What about your two comrades, Mr. Heeper and Mr. Redmond?”
“Okay, can I trust you? I guess I have to …”
“You can, you should, and I do you, so please proceed …”
“They are here next to me. Thanks to Sergio Negroni and a daring raid, we rescued them.” Pero was adding fuel to the Sergio fire of fame. “We also have a Swiss Major Schmitz and two of his colleagues—definitely not Stasi or Nazi—here to help. Problem is, I’ve been advised that there are five agents from the CIA, contracted operatives, attached to the man we’re after, and they may or may not be able to be called off.”
“Yes, I got some feedback the CIA had been supporting him. What do you propose?”
“The man we’re after wants a sample of radiated banknotes …”
“What? Explain.”
“Mr. Ambassador, it’s a long story, here’s the précis …” Pero ran through events. When he got to landing in Berlin, he turned back to their needs, “But if Tische gets the ex-police evidence that I am carrying, what the CIA called a
package, you know the one?”
“I do.”
“Well, he’ll think he’s in the clear if he gets that package. He doesn’t know we’ve rescued Danny Redmond and Heeper, that we’ve got the shipment under close watch in Switzerland, thanks to major Schmitz, and that we’ve rounded up his people in Switzerland and his sister—who was, by the way, helping to run the operation.”
“You’re kidding. You’ve been busier than I was lead to believe.”
“Mr. Ambassador, may I ask you who tipped you off to ask your people for the DG and CIA connection?”
“I was told you would ask, and the answer is no. Let’s just say an advisor to the President owed me a favor.”
“Okay, but are you willing to help us a bit more? We need cover. You have security, especially because of your anti-Nazi position, security that are not going to be ex-Stasi either.”
“They’re not, of that I am sure. You want to borrow them?”
“If possible, maybe two? The meeting place with Tische is at a restaurant, Borchardt’s, tonight at eight. If we could seal the place and capture him, we would have an asset we could leverage for all the names, or at the very least, we could sever the head of this snake.”
“I can arrange that. Two men. Anything else?”
“Can I send two people to your office or the residence and have you keep them there, safe? I need them out of the line of fire—and to keep Tische from finding out they’re there safe. And away from danger.”
“Names for the security people here?”
“Bill Heeper and Danny Redmond—but please no leaks.”
“Ah, the rescued. Okay, no leaks. Guaranteed. I can arrange for them to be safe here in the embassy official residence, but I cannot control them if they want to leave, it’s policy …”
“Understood, that’s up to me—to convince them. I’ll do that. And thank you.” The two men then arranged the time for Heep and Danny to arrive at the ambassador’s residence, confirmed the address, and the ambassador agreed that his men would be at Borchardt by 7:45 having dinner. He’d get them a reservation, no problem, clear the restaurant if need be. He ate there often, with journalists, so he knew the staff. Borchardt’s is the haunt of journalists and actors.
Pero was formulating plans as he spoke. He turned to his friends, left the phone on speaker and said, “Okay, the ambassador is on board. Sergio, I know you want to be part of the action, but you’re my wild card here. I need you to act, be free to move, clear of me—certainly not associate yourself in any way with us, to provide cover and lodging. Then, at the last moment, turn up with the major’s two men, unexpected, at Borchardt’s at eight tonight. Can do?”
“Yes, but …”
“Sergio, listen. When we leave here, Danny, Heep, and I with the major, I need you to wait and then make a splash entrance in Berlin. Something separate from our activity. Your usual fanfare arrival, limousines, hotel—the best, the Adlon would be good. Book an extra room for your guest. They’ll assume it’s a mistress. Be there around noon. And then, when we’re all ready, you’ll turn up to dinner. You will become, by your very normal presence, invisible to Tische. It’s the only way I can see you getting in and clear—transparency. You won’t be on the agents’ or Tische’s radar—getting into the restaurant on time and with reinforcements.”
“Okay, Pero. I get it, come ready to assist but be unknown to Tische. I’ll get a full readout on him. I have good computers on board,” he indicated the plane out the window, “and I’ll be ready.” Pero was sure there would be photographs of the head of the TruVereinsbank on the Internet. Why wouldn’t there be, he is a public figure of good standing. But Sergio needed to ask, “Who’s the extra room for?”
“Me, if I can make it. No check-in. Your cloak of invisibility should work.”
“Fantastico, it’ll work just fine.”
“Danny and you Heep, I need you to stay out of sight. If Tische sees you, the game is up.”
“We could stay here in the plane …”
Sergio answered, “No, there’s no way to protect you. Too many people will be here during the day servicing my baby.”
Pero agreed, “And there are five agents on the loose with orders from Tische. The blackout in Schaffhausen will make him nervous …”
Mbuno chimed in, “The hyena always starts to look about, nervous, he can smell something’s wrong, but he’s usually too determined to change his course.”
“Hyena Mbuno?” Heep looked at him intently. “You still think he is really a hyena?”
“Interesting,” said the ambassador on the speakerphone, “And who exactly is Mr. Mbuno?”
“A Kenyan safari guide. My brother.” Pero watched Heep’s eyebrows rise. “The hyena link, Mbuno gave me the idea, Mr. Ambassador. His advice was to search my thoughts for the animal Tische reminded me of and track him that way. Hyena came to mind for me and Heep.” He faced Heep, “Heep, you know how they keep all their food in meat lockers, caches? It’s how we narrowed it down to Brinker’s.”
Heep was impressed, “Damn. Hyena’s meat locker, huh? Yeah, it fits.”
Danny was looking confused. “Somebody want to try to explain this again?”
Heep responded, “I’ll explain it all to you Danny on the way to the ambassador’s residence. That right, Pero? And then I’ll explain it to you, Mr. Ambassador,” Pero nodded. Heep continued, “It’s a thing Mbuno does, relates all human-animal behavior to nature. Damn thing usually works too. Hey, Pero, how’re we going to get this famous face,” he pointed to Redmond, “through Berlin unnoticed?”
Sergio had the answer. He went out, up the plane’s stairway and into the back of the plane and came back with sunglasses, winter parkas with hoods and fur edges, and Ugg Après ski boots. “A little overdressed for Berlin in March, but it’ll cover almost anything.”
“Yeah, only my red nose sticking out.” Danny laughed. He toed off his shoes, slipped the left boot on, reached over and took a flat bottle opener off the bar, put it in the right boot, and slipped that on. “Let’s hope I don’t have to walk far. Damn thing hurts.” He finished dressing and Heep did the same. “See you soon, Mr. Ambassador.”
“It’ll be my pleasure, Mr. Redmond. Over.” And he clicked off.
“One last thing,” Pero addressed them all, “if I get caught, don’t hesitate to get Tische anyway you can. Something about the prepared elaborate planning here tells me this is a huge operation Tische has going, has had for decades. I am pretty damn sure this is not a one-off.” No one responded. The thought had occurred to them as well.
The major was to take them to the residence and then proceed alone on to the hotel, to Susanna, Bertha, and Sam. Mbuno and the Swiss guards would travel with Sergio.
As Pero changed into a pair of Sergio’s pants and a sweater, he was glad no one pressed him on his plans. They were at risk and solo. He knew his face was the one Tische would want his men to look for. Nab Pero and there was no need for a restaurant rendezvous. However, even with the beginning of a plan, his planning wasn’t completely clear in his head yet, and he feared it would need changing on the fly anyway. He would have to deal with one issue at a time. No doubt the five Tische controlled agents were calculating Pero’s odds of evading recognition and capture at the same precise moment. He needed to outwit them. The problem was, they were experienced field operatives, the real journeymen or, perhaps, assassins. Pero had no illusions. His plan called for a diversion.
He decided his first stop was to be Kaufhaus des Westens, locally known as KaDeWe.
KaDeWe has been, like Harrods in London, the centerpiece for elegant shopping in Berlin since before WWI. Situated on the fashionable Kurfurstendamm, the store occupies a whole street block, is nine stories high, and sells everything. The place is always packed, although elegant, refined. The crowd was easy to get lost in. Since the 1920s, locals have always shortened its name to the acronym, KDW, or pronounced in German, kah day vay. Finally, the store gave in and changed its trading name
to KaDeWe, pronounced the same but written as a logo.
March was liquidation of excess stock time. Pero knew there would be loads of unwanted winter designs and colors on sale.
Pero had to make some assumptions. With only five men, even with additional ex-Stasi, Tische couldn’t cover every entrance to Berlin. Pero assumed he would watch the regular airport—Tegel—and the train stations as well as the Steigenberger Hotel and any other place Pero had been, including the museum and the aquarium. So, wearing Sergio’s spare camel coat—he had a whole wardrobe back there—with the Russian bag in his pocket, Pero turned up the coat collar and simply walked out of the airport.
Next to the airport was the head stop for the S-Bahn. Pero bought a ticket, inserted it into the time stamping machine—ding—checked it was dated, and went up the stairs to the platform for the S9. It was sitting there, doors open. No one else was on the train. Before the doors closed, as he waited for the departure time, two men got on in gray-blue worker’s clothes, a black coat over the top. They were discussing the most recent football scandal where someone had taken a bribe to throw a match. They got in the same carriage two doors down from Pero.
The S-Bahn departed and trundled along. He looked at the fahrplan, the timetable, adhered to the ceiling like a giant label. He counted the stops. Everyone who rides subways does that. Ten stops before he would need to alight. People got on and off. He paid no attention. Even if someone got on looking for him, it would be one heck of a fluke if they spotted him in the eight carriages out of the thousands in Berlin, at this particular time, on this particular stretch. If fate was being that unkind, he realized there was little he could do.
Ten stops later, the speaker announced his stop “Ostkreuz” and he got off and looked for the transfer to the other S-Bahn, S3 train. Down the steps, hurry along with early morning workers, up the steps, the S3 pulled in, everyone waiting got on. The train was getting crowded, working people mostly. Pero stuck out in the camelhair coat, so he sat, looking hung over. Two women made disparaging remarks about him being unshaven. Have to do something about that, he thought.