Keeton stepped over to Lynette. She was shaking and only managing to watch through interlaced fingers. As gently as he could, he lifted her to her feet by the elbows. She collapsed forward against him.
“We’ve got to go,” he said breathlessly. “They won’t be out for long.” He picked up her discarded purse and thrust it into her hands.
Slowly Lynette regained her senses and walked with him to the door, giving the scene a final, shocked glance before reentering the alley. Thug Two was still writing on the ground. Keeton took Lynette’s hand and walked her up the alley and out onto a quiet street. They kept walking, in silence, until Keeton finally spotted a small hotel, and led them into it.
“Wait right here in the lobby, OK?” he told Lynette. “I will call the police from that phone booth there.”
“What did they want, those men?” she whispered. “What were they after?”
“You, of course,” he said, having settled down enough to have created a quick explanation. “I’ve heard of these kidnapping gangs. Some girls are ransomed back to their families or their companies. Those are the lucky ones.”
“That’s terrible!” She shuddered and buried her head once again into his chest. They stood that way for a couple of minutes, until Keeton gently lifted her chin.
“It’s going to be fine,” he said. “I’ll call the police now.” He walked over to a set of call boxes and climbed into the first one. Instead of dialing 9-9-9, he put several coins into the phone and repeated the number from the morning.
“Hello.”
“Hello, may I speak to the manager? It’s urgent.”
“One moment please…code in.”
“C-O 229. Omicron. Authorization 121258.”
“Confirmed. Please hold…”
“Keeton, this is Lionel. What’s wrong?”
Keeton explained the circumstances to the British agent. “The top guy was a German—he cursed at me during the fight.”
“Understood. What’s the status of the girl?”
“Status? She’s pretty shook up, as you might guess,” Keeton answered. “We’ll be heading back to her flat in Hounslow, and you know I’m leaving in the morning. Any chance you could arrange for someone to keep an eye out for her?”
After a brief pause, Lionel answered. “Yes, we can cover that. Eddy can pick you up tonight and take you back to the Regal.”
“Thanks. Do you think he’d wait around long enough to fetch me at midnight?”
“If I tell him he’s assigned to watch the girl for a few days, then yes.”
Keeton gave Lionel the address and then rang off. Back in the lobby Lynette was waiting anxiously.
“Are the police on their way over to that alley?” she asked.
“Yes, they are,” he lied. “But to be honest, I don’t think they’ll find any of those men hanging around. I told them to check the hospitals for a man with his arm pulled out of place.”
“I was wondering, how did you manage to…well…do what you did to those men?
“Just some combat training I picked up way back in Korea. Never used it against the enemy back then—I’m surprised it all came back to me.”
“Do you think they followed us?”
“No, not a chance,” he said. “I’ll have the concierge hail a taxi to take you back. I can stay at your place for a little while until you’re settled.”
She took a step closer and leaned into him. “I was hoping you could stay longer. I know this is a bit strange, but…I was hoping we could still take a walk around Hounslow, and then maybe have a nightcap.”
He looked down into her eyes. The fear seemed to have subsided, replaced by something just as charged. With his request to Lionel settled, this was exactly the answer he was hoping for from Lynette. “If you feel safe, then I suppose you could show me around—but no alleys, if you don’t mind.”
“I do feel safe around you,” she said. “Why don’t you go hail that cab?”
***
“Thank you for the tour of Hounslow this evening,” Keeton whispered into Lynette’s ear. “It’s a very nice little town.”
“It will do, for now, I suppose,” she answered. “Thank you for keeping me safe from the bad guys.” She turned her head and they kissed.
He liked the feel of her naked body nestling back against his in her small bed. The windows in her flat were open, and a cool, steady breeze made the single sheet they were under just the right amount of cover. The alarm clock on her nightstand read 11:10—Eddy would be down at the curb in less than an hour. The evening had gone by too quickly for Keeton; too soon he would get back to the Regal Briton, put on the new cover of Reimund Huber, and head out on a mission into enemy territory.
“I have to leave—that flight in the morning,” he said with genuine disappointment.
“I know. You told me,” she answered. “You know, I could stand a little international shopping in West Germany. If only I wasn’t on call.”
Good that you are, he thought. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’m back in London. I promise.”
She worked herself around to face him. “That would be lovely, actually. How about another nightcap before you go?”
“I think nightcaps are meant to be drunk in the ones,” he answered in mock seriousness. “A second one will deaden the nerves.”
She rolled onto her back and reached over to lift the snifter of brandy from the nightstand. She gave him a long sip and then took one for herself. “We’ll see about that,” she said softly.
Chapter 6. Whisper
Danger. The word continued to roll around in Keeton’s subconscious, even after he had successfully transformed himself into Reimund Huber, gotten through outbound English customs, and finally landed in West Berlin. After the attack in the streets of London, he had been keenly aware of pedestrians and passengers around him the whole time but had detected nothing. Why were they attacked? Clearly it was a setup—they were followed, and the two other thugs were in the alley already. Could it be that it really was just a street gang marking a well-off couple? No—Mr. Round Face spoke in German. He had to be part of the game, right? Eddy and Lionel had promised to look after Lynette until they confirmed that she was not at risk. Even so, Keeton would have preferred knowing the full picture of the mysterious assault.
Maybe it’s the lies, he thought. Everything is phony—my new face, my passport; even Lionel, Eddy, and the cab are just false covers of men who grew up with parents and real names. At some point, doesn’t all the phoniness have to come crashing inward under its own weight? The final ruse of the day was the inbound German customs at Tempelhof Airport, the clearing of which had put him at ease. So stow the nerves and get on with the mission, he rebuked himself harshly.
“Guten Tag, Herr Huber,” a man’s voice said to him near the exit of the airport. It was Philippe, who was also incognito with a cleanly shaved head and a new beard.
“You’ll do anything for the cause,” Keeton said dryly as he considered Philippe’s smooth scalp.
“I do it for the free haircuts,” Philippe answered back. “We’re old pals who’ve arrived together and now our mutual friend is picking us up here. Let’s go.”
Together they exited the terminal. Philippe raised his hand, and a DKW saloon that appeared to be casually cruising by suddenly swerved and pulled up to the curb directly in front of them. Of course Romain Roy was driving. He jumped out and opened the trunk for Keeton’s suitcase.
“Did you miss us?” Roy asked sarcastically from the driver’s seat as they pulled into the stream of traffic leaving the airport. He tore through the city streets with the car, finally letting them off near a bakery close to the heart of the city. In reality it was CIA West Berlin Safe House Number One. “Philippe will take you in, and I’ll meet you in there as soon as I’m parked.”
Philippe and Keeton walked the half block and stopped in front of the safe house building. The bakery was called Schneider’s, a fully operational business in its third generation.<
br />
“You may not know this,” Philippe said, “but the OSS recruited Heinrich Schneider, and he’s been with us ever since. His son is in on it, too.”
“Doesn’t seem one hundred percent secure that way,” Keeton commented.
“Let’s just say the Schneiders make the most expensive Streuselkuchen in all the world,” Philippe said, with a broad, knowing smile. “The dad’s doing it because he hated the Nazis. Junior—well, he has more material motivations.”
“I think I read somewhere that Director Morrison played a role in Schneider’s initiation during the war,” Keeton said.
Philippe looked surprised. “You do keep up with your stuff, Herr Huber.”
“Keeps me alive,” Keeton answered back. “Come on; let’s go in.” He stepped forward and pushed the front door open. The attached mechanical bell sounded quaintly, and it reminded him of the innumerable little Main Street shops of his childhood.
“Good afternoon, sirs!” Heinrich Sr. called happily in German from behind the counter of breads and rolls. He was short and stout, with the thick forearms of the baker who still mixed his own dough and the thick midsection of the baker who loved his own products.
“Is there something you need today?”
“It’s a fine day,” Philippe said in reply. Both men were using countersign language. In the event either of them was under duress, their dialog would have been altered. “How’s business?”
“Doing well, thank you, sir.”
“I think we’ll take a look in the back,” Philippe said absently and led Keeton past the delectable display, through a short hallway, and up a flight of stairs that ended in a locked door. Another set of pass phrases—in English this time—and the door was opened by a man Keeton knew to be part of the standard CIA contingent stationed in West Germany. He was not part of the Cavalry, but Keeton had crossed paths with him a few times. His cover name was Vogel.
“I’m to call you Huber this time, eh?” Vogel asked by way of greeting as he shook Keeton’s hand. “Please have a seat.” He pointed to a table piled with papers and pictures. Philippe was tending to the door.
They had walked into a suite of rooms above the bakery, including the large central office they were in now, a bathroom, and two smaller rooms used as bedrooms or storage. Keeton had already assumed, correctly, that the entire second floor of the building was encased in two layers of grounded wire mesh, to thwart electronic radio surveillance. Curtains covered the windows, but he suspected the presence of small electric motors that vibrated the panes of glass to block enemy listening techniques. The strong lingering smell of cigarette smoke indicated many hours of closed-door operations.
“I’m Huber for a while, anyway,” Keeton said, sitting in one of the stiff-back chairs across from the seat Vogel took. “You’re running Zeppelin. How reliable is he?”
“Very good so far, and very energetic. He’s a tradesman who is allowed to go back and forth, and he stays with relatives when he’s in EB, his aunt and uncle. He’s managed to start running his own secondaries, six of them! Zeppelin’s always got his ear to the ground. He met his uncle’s friend, a fellow pensioner who doesn’t have much else to do but look out the seventh-story window of his state-provided apartment at the nearby factory—Sonstige Industrierohr Berlin. Oh, and with his old binoculars from the war, no less. One morning he noticed a delivery van that had gotten through the gates with a very quick stop. He was able to see three men get out of the van, decidedly not in the normal coveralls. There were two men with suits and ties, and one soldier—Stasi, of course. This was very curious to him, so he started watching every day and night, more and more. He loves telling stories to the younger generation, like Zeppelin. We’ve given him the code name Whisper, as you know.”
“How long ago did he see the van?” Keeton asked.
“The first sighting by Whisper was about two years ago. He saw the van many times. Occasionally there would be more men in suits or another soldier, and they’d have someone with them who was obviously a prisoner of some kind.”
“And we think Whisper saw Red being taken into the factory?”
“It’s not confirmed,” Vogel answered. “But strongly circumstantial. Whisper apparently began recording what he observed in a diary. On the morning of July 28 he saw the Stasi crew bring in a prisoner, which wouldn’t have been so notable except that for the first time since he began watching them, the prisoner had a hood tied over his head.”
“I can see where that fits together,” Keeton said. “Part of the fear factor is being a GDR citizen who’s been openly identified as a suspect. The Stasi don’t need hoods for that. How about this three-man crew—same men? And do we know who they are?”
“That’s the second part of the story,” Vogel said. “Whisper thought that yes, it appeared to be the same officers but maybe a different soldier from time to time. And sometimes there would be more than one soldier with them. Anyway, three days ago Zeppelin went across and staked out Whisper’s building and the area surrounding the factory, at great risk to himself. The van came out from the factory, and he followed it.”
“Damn,” Keeton muttered. “He’s got balls, if not brains.”
“He has both,” Vogel commented, extracting a photograph from one of the many folders on the table and sliding it over to Keeton. “He managed to take pictures of the Stasi officers having lunch at a nearby cafe while the soldier waited in the back of the van. Close up and very clear, as you can see. Apparently, the junior officer usually drives. That means the other one is the boss. That’s him.”
In the picture the officers were seated quite casually in front of the eatery’s large window, with a robust plate of food and a mug of beer in front of each of them. Vogel had pointed to the older of the two officers, a man with a lean, long face and a balding scalp. Although his gaze was not directly toward the camera, Keeton clearly noted the intensity and mirthlessness of his eyes.
Bastard lives in a communist paradise—no wonder he’s always angry at someone, Keeton thought. “Can you identify him?”
“The film was smuggled back over to us by a runner yesterday and developed. We’ve only had a few hours to inquire, but so far five senior men match the description we sent from this picture. It’s the identity of the junior man that confirms it. You can’t see it from this angle, but he is well known to remind everyone who sees him for the first time of Rudolph Hess.”
Keeton turned his head sideways as he considered the tight crew cut, sharp jawline, and exceptionally cruel mouth. “Well, maybe he’s Hess’s secret son.”
“I don’t think so,” Vogel said dryly. “No. In fact he’s known as Gerolf Grunwald, a Stasi lieutenant. There are stories about his…shall we say proclivities for hurting people. More importantly, he is known to be frequently employed by a certain captain named Franz Junger, to help in investigations that need special pressure to get subjects to break. Junger’s name was one of the five matches.”
“So the bald man is this Captain Junger,” Keeton said. “I assume we have a file on him?”
“A bit thin, but yes. Here it is,” Vogel said.
Keeton read through the few pages. Infantry volunteer during the war. Decorated soldier. Injured. Evidence that he’d been recruited by the Soviets right after the war and then placed into the newly formed Stasi in 1950. Other details sketchy. At one point was thought to be a future star, but career stalled. “A captured Western agent would raise his capital in the eyes of Chairman Ulbricht.”
“Indeed,” Vogel said. “But we can’t let that happen.”
“And we have to confirm that Red is there, if we can,” Keeton added.
An electric buzzer sounded in a pattern, having been activated by Herr Schneider downstairs to indicate a messenger was on the way up to the door. Vogel pulled a revolver from his jacket pocket, and Philippe quickly retrieved two automatics from behind a set of books on a nearby shelf. He tossed one to Keeton, and the three men took up positions on both sides of the main d
oor. They heard the footsteps approach, then a coded knock, and a thin envelope was slipped under the door.
“It’s me,” Roy said from the staircase.
Vogel nodded to the others and slid the four bolts to open the door. Roy stepped in and nodded to Keeton. He was carrying a large sack of baked goods from downstairs.
“Herr Schneider is very generous,” he said happily. “I drove the block and saw the dead drop signal from Zeppelin. That was there.”
Vogel took the envelope and opened it to find a single sheet of paper with a few handwritten lines. “Flash code. Let us see…scheiße!”
“What’s wrong?” Keeton asked.
“Change of plans,” Vogel said grimly to Keeton. “Department Six has moved Whisper’s visa to today. He’s already across and wants to meet this evening. Zeppelin has sent the details.”
Keeton looked over the note himself and nodded. “Then let’s get ready.”
***
Keeton walked slowly along the southern border of West Berlin’s Tiergarten, his senses honed to search for the man they had code-named Whisper. He had been there several times in his capacity as a covert agent and had watched the postwar changes over his CIA career. Tiergarten had been a big lush park until the war. The Allies had bombed it and the whole city practically to the ground. Any trees still left standing had been cut down for firewood by desperate Germans. They had finally started planting trees again, and now the area seemed to be coming back to life. Still some work to do, Keeton thought.
Roy had driven him to the Victory Column, the famous Berlin landmark situated between the Brandenburg and Charlottenburg Gates, and let him out at the northwestern end of the Grosse Sternallee. He had taken this path through the Tiergarten to Whisper’s preferred meeting place, the monument to Richard Wagner. Keeton recalled his instructions. Look for an old man wearing a cream sweater and blue argyle socks, sitting at one of the nearby benches.
Keeton himself had dressed down and was wearing a light polo shirt, white slacks, and a black trilby hat. His watch read six o’clock. He casually circled the monument a couple of times, pretending to study the statues as he scanned up and down the busy Tiergartenstraße. Nothing. Five minutes later he finally selected a bench himself and sat down. A few moments later, a man walked up and sat opposite him. Keeton discreetly glanced over.
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