“I’m afraid I’ve deceived you,” she said with a smile. “Yours is the second thing we’re going to listen to. I made the first selection. Come along.” As before, she took his hand. In the bedroom the Dansette turntable played a scratchy old recording of “I Need a Little Sugar in My Bowl” by Bessie Smith. Lynette pulled the chain of the nightstand lamp to leave them in the flickering light of two candles and began to undress him.
Down in the lorry, Eddy watched the light that had been shining from the side of the building go out. He tuned in the BBC on the sketchy AM radio and opened his last bottle of warm Fuller’s London Pride.
“Damned Yank,” he whispered to himself sleepily.
***
By the time Keeton arrived at London station the next morning, new intelligence from the Elephant had begun a flurry among the case officers there. He had left Lynette’s flat early in the morning and traveled by taxi to his own room at the CIA-controlled Regal Briton. The lorry had been gone when had he stepped out of the flat, and he had wondered if the Brit had let the security detail lapse.
“They’re moving Bleudot in the next day or two,” Lionel announced as Keeton walked down into the basement of the station. Roy came by and handed Keeton a cup of coffee. Over at the planning table, the overnight Teletype paper was piled conspicuously in the center, atop the operational map of East Berlin. Along with Philippe they all took their usual posts around the table.
“Any chance we won’t be able to get into EB tonight?” Keeton asked. The coffee and the circumstances had quickly pulled him out of the lethargy of his late night with Lynette.
“We’re set to go,” Philippe declared. “There is one addition we can consider. Jimmy Morel has offered to join us on the mission. He’s still on the other side and says he can help monitor the Stasi motorcade and use the Elephant system to send the information back to us. He’d rendezvous with us at the safe house tonight. What do you think?”
Keeton nodded. “He’s shown that he’s got the nerve. And the radio skills.”
The rest of them agreed, and Roy left to send the coded message back to Morel from the Teletype room. Keeton walked through the basics of their plan once more, and when Roy returned they all practiced their Stasi covers. After an hour of this, they took an “elevenses” break of coffee and biscuits and fruit. When they had returned to the basement, two additional Teletypes from West Berlin were awaiting them.
The first message, from the CIA’s Department 10 station, simply read: MOREL CONFIRMS ARRIVAL AT EB SAFE HOUSE BY 1700 GMT+1 TODAY. VAN REPAIRED AND READY. Keeton smiled. He had considered abandoning or even burning the Stasi van they had stolen from the factory during his escape with Agent Red. Morel had convinced him to let the repair shop have it for future use. The second Teletype was from Morrison out of the Fort, and it was even more concise: GET BLEUDOT. LUCK. DM. The terse message carried Morrison’s affection for both his current agent and a former collaborator, the Frenchman. The personalized signature was a rarity.
Keeton checked the wall clock nearby. It was nearly noon in London, one o’clock in West Berlin. “I assume we’ve got the next flights to WB already booked?”
“Yes, sir,” Lionel answered. “The three fifty out of London Airport, tourist class—lands at seven in the evening, Berlin local. You can either walk across or take the U-Bahn, as you very well remember. Your credentials as Marzell Adler have the new picture with the beard. Philippe and Roy are ready, too.”
“That’s sounds fine. I’ll walk through; you guys take the train. We’ll have the Stasi IDs in our patches, right?” he asked, referring to the secret pockets sewn into the backs, sides, and even sleeves of their coats.
Roy nodded. For a moment the four men stood together in silence. Each knew the preparations were done, that the mission only needed their dedication and action to make it a reality.
“We’ll have transport outside at one o’clock,” Lionel said. “Until then…”—he held up a finger and left the room, returning a few seconds later carrying a tray adorned with tumblers and a bottle of bourbon—“…a toast for a successful mission.” He poured the round, and the men each raised a glass and then tossed back the shot.
At Keeton’s request, they did it twice more.
***
The following twelve hours were a whirlwind of hurried preparations in London, a dash to the airport, the arrival in West Berlin, and the uneasy crossing into East Berlin under cover. It all went perfectly. As soon as the entire team was ensconced in the Hellers’ safe house, Morel announced the latest intelligence recovered from the Elephant listening system. Bleudot and Neumann were set to be taken to Schönefeld Airport at dawn the next morning for the flight to Moscow. They needed to act immediately.
“We’re expecting some heavy security with the move,” Keeton said as they sat around the kitchen table having a late cold supper. Philippe, Roy, and Morel each had similar folios of local maps and pictures. Frau Heller attended to the courses of the meal, ending with an elaborate black forest cake and coffee. Herr Heller helped them understand the intricacies of the likely routes the Stasi motorcade would take to the airport—distances, alleys, sight lines.
“I will say this once, and it will stand for all of you, for all time,” Herr Heller announced. “We’re old. We’ve seen many things in our lifetimes, many tragedies and much struggle. When you require a place to hide, under any circumstances, you may consider this your home. Do not worry about what might happen to Frau Heller and myself, if we’re captured. It is something we’ve resigned ourselves to—that we’ll not live to see our Germany brought back together again. But you, the next generation, or the next after that, will eventually see this come about. We’re happy to face the danger today, so that tomorrow may be better.”
The old man’s eyes had become wet as he spoke, and Frau Heller had stopped fussing with the cake and the plates to listen. The latent cynicism that Keeton had earlier felt toward this committed but paid informant melted away in the sincerity of the short speech. Philippe spontaneously uttered a toast, and they all raised their coffees in salute.
The CIA team then turned in for a few hours of rest before starting out early, ahead of their enemy. The Hellers stayed awake, talking softly to each other until it was time to wake their visitors.
***
“Loud and clear,” Philippe responded into the improvised microphone in their van. Morel had just called to them over the Elephant, checking the quality of his signal from his lookout post near the factory. Indicating the same thing, Roy’s voice crackled over the speakers as he watched the entrance to the Charité Hospital.
It was six forty-five in the morning. Philippe and Keeton had parked along the north side of Hannoversche Straße, facing the direction from which the motorcade was expected to travel. On their right was the high white-brick wall of the Dortheenstadt Cemetery, its solid expanse broken only by the wrought iron gate, which stood open.
“Ever been in there?” Philippe asked Keeton, nodding toward the gate. “No? Well, it’s an old place, lots of notable people buried there over the centuries. Also known for the artwork and the elaborate tombstones.”
“Think they care?” Keeton asked. “The dead, I mean.”
Philippe laughed. “I can only speak for myself. I won’t care if I have a big fancy tombstone or an unmarked hole in the ground—I’ll be dead. Given our profession, it’ll be the latter.”
“Never thought about what it’ll be like?” Keeton asked.
Philippe shook his head. “To be truthful, I’ve never thought about it. Yes, I’ve been in situations where I’ve thought about whether I’d die or not, but not about what it would be like afterward.”
“That priest I got out of Czech might disagree,” Keeton said with a smile.
“Yes, I suppose that’s so,” Philippe answered. “My father fought as part of the French Resistance against the Nazis. He was a maquisard. I think I must’ve inherited my apathy for the afterlife from him. It was the nature of his work—it’s th
e nature of our work.”
The radio crackled again. “Morel here. The Pack is in sight. One black car and one truck; it’s another panel van, white. Stand by. Looks like Junger is in the car with the driver. Van has the driver and two—no, three—uniformed soldiers. They’ve retrieved Neumann from the factory and put him in the van. They’re heading out now. I’m heading back to home base. Luck, everyone.”
“I’m ready,” Roy responded. They waited for seven minutes—which seemed like thirty—until Roy’s transmission continued. “Pack is here at the hospital. Van’s pulled up close. I see Bleudot. He’s walking on his own, the tough son of a bitch. They’ve got him in the van now, too. Same configuration; car in front and then the van. Another Stasi goon is now in the back seat with Junger; must’ve been with Bleudot in the hospital. They’re back on the street. I’m following fifty feet behind. No sign of any additional escorts.”
“We read you,” Philippe said into the mike, then turned to Keeton. “We expected more firepower. Arrogance, or set up?”
Keeton shrugged. “At this point there’s no reason to think they know anything. We’ll know in a couple minutes. Ready?”
“Headed north on Luisenstraße, as expected…” Roy informed them on the radio. “Turning right on Hannoversche Straße…coming your way. ETA thirty seconds.”
Philippe nodded. Right on time, the black car rounded the easy curve near the end of Hessische Straße, followed by the van. Philippe started their vehicle, and Keeton donned his fedora and pulled it down close to his eyes. As soon as the Stasi motorcade passed the nearest corner to them, Philippe threw the van into reverse and backed it out into the middle of the road. On Keeton’s side an oncoming car stopped suddenly but turned around quickly when he flashed his Stasi credentials. Philippe jumped out of the van and raised his forged identification card into the air. In his other hand was a typed sheet of paper with the Stasi letterhead.
Junger’s lead car came to a halt about twenty feet away. The van stopped thirty feet farther back. Roy pulled his car against the curb at the corner and waited.
“What is this?” Junger demanded as he and the other suited man got out of the car.
“Captain Franz Junger?” Keeton asked gravely as he rounded the front end of their van. “Captain Junger, we have a warrant for your arrest, on suspicion of treason against the German Democratic Republic.”
“Treason? This is preposterous!” Junger answered angrily. Even he had an involuntary tremor at the mere mention of the word.
“I am Colonel Krebs of State Security,” the man who had been riding with Junger announced. “Let me see your identification, please.”
Keeton slowly handed over the small red booklet with the card affixed. Krebs read it over and frowned. “Lieutenant Colonel Gabler, eh? In my position in the ministry, I’ve of course memorized every senior officer, and”—he looked up at Keeton—“I’ve never heard of you.” He raised his hand and made a motion in the air. The drivers of his car and of the Stasi van quickly exited their respective vehicles and approached them warily.
Keeton knew they were losing control of the situation. They had expected more low-level goons who could be bullied by the paperwork, not a high-ranking officer. He needed to take quick, perhaps drastic action. “Of course not, Colonel. We are the ministry behind the ministry. Do you understand?”
Krebs frowned again. “Not entirely. Let me see the warrant.”
Philippe ceremoniously handed the paper to Keeton, who then gave it to Krebs. The colonel looked over the paper, holding it at arm’s length in lieu of donning his eyeglasses.
“You see,” Keeton said to Krebs. “Junger here had two Americans under his watch, and he aided both of them in their escape. We have evidence of this, including a payment of West German currency smuggled into his apartment.”
“What? This is another lie!” Junger yelled. “I am loyal. I was overpowered, and those prisoners escaped.”
Keeton continued. “We have further evidence that Junger has arranged a bomb to be placed in the plane that is to carry the poet and the Frenchman to Moscow. The orders from his capitalist puppeteers would have them killed rather than turn them over to the justice of our brethren. I have orders to take the prisoners back myself.”
“Stop!” Krebs ordered them as Junger began to protest again. “First, under no circumstances am I going to relinquish the prisoners to you. If there’s suspicion of a bomb, this can be investigated in due course.”
“Xaver,” Junger pleaded to Krebs. “We’ve known each other for our entire adult lives, worked together for the ministry. You know my record and my loyalty!”
Krebs regarded Junger with a surprising mixture of familiarity and coldness. “Yes, Franz, that’s true. However, I’m obligated to investigate any potential disruption in our plans. Not only are these charges very serious, but we can’t risk losing our prisoners. So Lieutenant Colonel Gabler will accompany us back to our station until this is sorted out—one way or the other.”
“As you wish, Colonel,” Keeton said, removing his hat. It was the signal to Roy to prepare the car.
“Wait!” Junger said suddenly. “I…I don’t believe it. Xaver—I mean, Colonel Krebs—this is the American that escaped! I swear it! Adolf!”
“You see, he’s both disloyal and delusional. He should be arrested and detained per the warrant,” Keeton answered. He saw Roy’s car now speeding down the street toward them. Junger’s driver, Adolf, thrust his hand into his jacket. The van’s driver did the same. Keeton dropped his hat, which was the final signal to switch to overt action.
In the split second that all four Stasi men in front of them curiously watched his hat fall to the ground, Keeton and Philippe pulled guns from the back of their waistbands and fired. Keeton’s shot hit the van driver in the chest. Philippe’s double tap penetrated Adolf’s forehead twice, spraying the street behind him with blood. Keeton pivoted toward Junger and squeezed his trigger again, but Junger pulled Krebs in front of him and the colonel took the next two shots just under the knot of his tie. Junger then managed to run behind his car for cover—Keeton noticed that Junger had pulled a pistol of his own.
The Stasi van’s doors swung open, and a uniformed officer dropped to his feet already raising his rifle. Roy slammed the car into him, and the body hit the windshield and then tumbled through the air, ending with the officer’s head impacting the pavement of the street with the sound of a splitting melon. The second and third uniforms jumped onto the street, one aiming at Roy and the other at Philippe. Keeton and Junger exchanged shots that missed. Philippe’s next shot hit Soldier Two as he was sighting into Roy’s car, but then Soldier Three fired and Philippe fell back onto the street. Keeton took cover behind their van and was able to see Philippe on the ground. He was holding his side and struggling to raise his head.
Roy had climbed through the car to the other side and taken cover. This action surprised Soldier Three, who suddenly found himself out in the open. Roy quickly exploited the advantage and emptied his pistol’s magazine into the helpless man. Junger bolted from behind his car and ran to the open cemetery gate, firing the last shot from his revolver and then squeezing the trigger twice more. Both men heard the impotent click of the hammer. Junger dropped the gun as he disappeared through the gate.
“Take the truck!” Keeton called to Roy, who nodded and ran to the open van doors and greeted the prisoners with a sarcastic comment about interrupting their drive to the country. Keeton looked up to the cemetery and then back to the dying Philippe—his midsection was soaked in blood. He turned his head to Keeton and nodded. Keeton cursed and ran toward the gate.
He suspected that Junger wouldn’t have another gun, but he approached the gate warily nonetheless. Then he saw the Stasi captain ducking between statues and tombstones, running at full speed toward the north entrance on Chausseestraße, where no doubt he could get help or escape. He had a thirty-yard head start up the narrow path. Keeton took a deep breath and sprinted up the path as Ju
nger turned a corner and Roy gunned the truck engine to exit the scene.
At the first corner of the path, Keeton slowed and peered around it. He didn’t see Junger. Ten yards up, he came to a fork. “Damn,” he whispered to himself. He had no choice but to pick a direction and move quickly to catch Junger. Another deep breath and Keeton took his first three strides before Junger jumped from behind a large black obelisk, knocking them both to the ground. Keeton’s gun fired into a nearby stone. When they landed, the empty gun’s open slide was obvious. Junger recovered and jumped onto Keeton, swinging a knife down toward his head.
Keeton blocked Junger’s arm with his own and began wrestling for control of the knife. He felt the knife tip nestle under his chin and slice it open. Junger bounced his weight down a couple of times until the knife penetrated and inch or so into Keeton’s shirt near the shoulder. He would soon fully succumb to Junger’s leverage. The knife went in another inch. He drove a knee into Junger’s testicles, and when Junger’s strength momentarily ebbed, he swung his elbow hard into Junger’s temple, then three more times. Finally, he was able to wrest Junger from atop him, and they separated and stood. Junger lunged with the knife. Keeton grabbed the extended wrist and pulled Junger forward to unbalance him, then swung him around and drove him backward against the obelisk. Junger’s wrist cracked loudly as it broke under Keeton’s harsh leverage. The fight was finished when Keeton pushed the awkwardly distended hand and the knife now pointing backward up into Junger’s body, just under the sternum. Keeton held off several punches and knees until Junger stopped moving and fell to the ground. He stood over the dead man for just a few seconds before picking up the inert body by the shoulders, dragging it to a nearby thicket, and heaving it into the brush. His shoulder hurt but was mobile. He knew he needed to ignore it and escape fast. He turned back toward the Hannoversche Straße gate and ran.
He got back to the scene of the shootout to find a priest kneeling over Philippe, administering the last rites. He stopped nearby. The priest continued in Latin for a few more seconds and then looked up.
Agent Orange Page 20