by Erika Holzer
Kiril almost recoiled at this last outrageous claim. After his three years of forced internship in the remote areas beyond the Arctic Circle, even one medical rescue helicopter would have been a godsend.
A door behind Dr. Brenner opened and Aleksei Andreyev came in. Only two people noticed—Luka Rogov and Kiril Andreyev.
Rogov sat a little straighter in his chair.
Kiril’s hand automatically went to his chest—as if something was banging to get out.
The moment of truth! As soon as Dr. Brenner turns, Aleksei will see the likeness for the first time. Will he remember the so-called eye infection—my only excuse for wearing dark glasses?
Uneasiness turned to near panic as Kiril realized that, the breakfast event being so early, he had completely forgotten to apply the lemon juice!
Brenner’s back was to Aleksei as he finished responding to an ersatz claim by a cardiologist from Bulgaria. “Medicine is international,” he intoned. “Great contributions come from every corner of the globe. America has much to learn from your countries. It’s why I have always applauded medical exchanges”
“Colonel Andreyev!” cried the Direktor, spotting Aleksei. “We are pleased and honored that you could spare the time to join us.”
The semi-circle opened as doctors turned to look and reluctantly moved their chairs.
As Kurt Brenner turned to greet Aleksei Andreyev, he steeled himself for the shock of seeing him across the chasm of sixteen years. “Colonel Andreyev,” he said brightly, “Herr Doktor Direktor tells me it was your idea for this lovely breakfast and the opportunity to talk with colleagues from around the world.”
Aleksei’s voice stalled like the engine of a car left too long in the cold.
How is it possible?
After an awkward pause, his voice turned over. But even as he responded to the guest of honor, then to the director of the clinic, questions buzzed in his brain like annoying insects…
How could there be such an uncanny likeness to Kiril without my being aware of it? Why didn’t the Brenner file tip me off? What did I miss? Were there no file photographs?
He frowned, trying to remember, and then realized he had ordered a photograph from New York. Some bungler from the Soviet News Agency must have forgotten to wire it. He shook off his annoyance just as another door opened.
Chancellor Dmitri Malik entered the room and looked at Brenner with a benign smile.
Brenner paled.
The bastards have double-teamed me. Whatever game they’re playing, it looks like I’ll have the answers sooner than later.
Taking a conveniently empty seat next to Brenner, Malik said, “I understand you served in Germany during the Great Patriotic War.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Seventh Army. I was very low on the totem pole. A mere sergeant,” Brenner said with a self-deprecating smile.
How bored you sound, Dr. Brenner, Aleksei thought, pulling out his pipe. And Mrs. Brenner? Genuinely bored. Even if she has no interest in war stories, she should be very interested in this one.
“I’m curious,” Dr. Brenner,” Malik said. “Where were you when the war ended—and when?”
“Berlin, 1945.”
“I thought as much,” Malik responded, as if warmed by the pleasure of reminiscence. “Odd, the things one remembers and the things one forgets. For me, the battles are a complete blank. Yet I recall with fondness some of the weapons with which we won those battles.”
Aleksei got his pipe going and said cheerfully, “Come now, gentlemen, enough of this wartime reminiscing.”
The relief in Brenner’s eyes was so transparent Aleksei almost felt sorry for the poor bastard.
Do you believe, my big fish, that you have wriggled off the hook so easily?
“But I, too, spent time in Berlin after the hostilities, serving with Chancellor Malik years before our East German comrades implored him to accept the prestigious position he currently holds.”
The array of physicians, initially disinterested, were warming to the three-way conversation, intuitively sensing that there was more happening than met the eye.
“So many tragic stories,” Aleksei mused. “Some eighty thousand of my Soviet comrades died fighting to rid Berlin of the Nazi scum.”
Aleksei paused as Brenner reached into his pocket for a cigarette, his hand surprisingly steady.
I’m impressed, Brenner. Let’s see how long it lasts.
“I still have vivid memories of one story in particular. We ran up against a repatriation problem after millions of my fellow citizens had been kidnapped by the Nazis. But somehow a group of orphaned Ukrainian children—refugees from one of the Nazi death camps—became unwitting pawns in an exchange of favors between a Russian officer and an American GI. By the time the children were turned over to us to be repatriated to their homeland, they were in a frightful state, having been shunted from one place to another.”
Aleksei paused to shake his head regretfully. To more fully enjoy Brenner’s fixed stare at a vase of flowers on a coffee table.
“But those were chaotic times so no one thought to ease the transition for these innocents,” he said softly. “No one reassured them that a soldier in a Russian uniform was a far cry from a Nazi one. As they were being led away for repatriation by Red Cross volunteers, seven of the children committed suicide.”
Genuine gasps throughout the room.
“They leaped into the Havel River before anyone could stop them,” he continued. “Of course, you Americans could hardly criticize our well-intentioned repatriation policy,” Aleksei said, his eyes boring into Brenner’s. “Many of our people were able to return to their homeland with official American help.”
Adrienne had had enough. “You really are too modest about what America’s ‘official help’ consisted of, Colonel,” she said with acid contempt. “My country did indeed help your country repatriate over a million refugees. The program, if I’m not mistaken, was named Operation Keelhaul. I feel compelled to add that those unfortunates were so eager to be repatriated that many of them slashed their wrists, jumped off roofs, and dove out of windows rather than return to your Soviet paradise.”
Good girl, Aleksei thought, aware that he and Malik were the only ones in the room enjoying the heavy silence and averted eyes. He looked pointedly at Kurt Brenner as if willing the man to read his thoughts.
Now you know what to expect should your lovely wife discover your sordid past. Your options narrow, Dr. Brenner. Defect, and you keep your dark secret. Defy me, and that secret will be exposed—and not just to your wife. To people all over the world who admire and respect you.
The director of the clinic glanced up as the door opened. Relief in his voice, he welcomed the new arrival. “Herr Roeder! Herr Ernst Roeder, ladies and gentlemen, here to take photographs for Neues Deutschland.”
Polite scattered applause followed.
Aleksei happened to note Adrienne’s recognition of the name but had no time to speculate about it. Luka Rogov had tapped him lightly on the shoulder, then whispered something in his ear.
“I fear my presence here has been somewhat disruptive,” Aleksei apologized to the room at large. “Please continue your discussion while I attend to a private matter.”
As he stood up, he gestured toward Kiril. “I feel sure my brother, Dr. Kiril Andreyev, will enjoy reciting the new oath our young physicians take before entering the profession. It should make a fitting photograph for Neues Deutschland, Herr Roeder, especially if you write some of your inspiring copy to accompany it.”
As Luka followed him out, Aleksei heard snatches of Kiril’s monotone “—work in good conscience wherever the interests of society require… guided in all actions by the principles of communist morality… remember one’s responsibility before the people and the Soviet State—”
Leaving the room, Aleksei tore open the envelope Luka had just been given by Lieutenant Barkov, not knowing what to expect from the microfilm in Stepan Brodsky’s cigarette lighter.
“May 1, Andreyev, U2, Summit, Walkout, Leverage, Berlin, Nuclear”—seven words, followed by a date. In the bottom left-hand corner, he thought he saw a few more numbers and what looked like a Chinese character, but they were so tiny as to be unreadable and of no significance compared to what was legible.
The significance of the words and what they implied was devastating. Aleksei had assigned Stepan Brodsky to work out security arrangements. But in order to do his job effectively, he had to be made privy to the U2-summit plan. Knowing he’d be in Potsdam, only a half-mile from the West across Glienicker Bridge, Brodsky probably hoped to expose the state secrets of the U2 summit’s demise as a bargaining chip for exfiltration out of East Germany. The key words—only seven of them!—would have enabled him to recount the entire story.
But something must have gone wrong. Why else would he have made a run for the West side of the bridge?
Was anyone else in on the plan? Kiril, perhaps?
Aleksei quickly dismissed that possibility for three compelling reasons. The first was geographical. Kiril wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near Potsdam. The second was that Luka Rogov stuck to Kiril like flypaper—and for that matter, so did his lovely girlfriend, Galina Barkova.
Aleksei didn’t linger on the third reason… even as he felt himself slipping into the first stage of the old terror. He refused to entertain the possibility that his own brother had committed treason because it would spell the end of his career, if not his life.
Gradually, Aleksei’s survival instincts kicked in. Why not foist the blame on Colonel Emil von Eyssen? After all, Brodsky’s defection attempt took place in East Germany. It was von Eyssen’s responsibility to secure Glienicker Bridge. It made sense.
More important, it was plausible.
As for General Nemerov, Aleksei felt sure he could somehow finesse what he reported to Nemerov about the cigarette lighter’s microfilm—especially if he could sweeten the pot with Dr. Kurt Brenner’s defection.
Maybe, just maybe, he could get out of this mess with his skin intact.
As was his habit, Aleksei began talking aloud as he tried to organize the few facts he had. “If there’s microfilm, obviously there has to have been a camera of some kind. Who had access to one? What did it look like?”
Luka tapped his shoulder. “A flat, metal thing?” he asked.
A miniature camera. Of course!
“You saw somebody with one, Luka?”
“American lady keep one inside her pocket book. Is there every time I search. She take pictures only with big camera. But soon as helicopter land, me and Barkova see her use small camera for first time.”
“Go back inside and bring Galina Barkova to me,” Aleksei said.
The minute Galya stepped outside, the door swinging closed behind her, Aleksei said, “Tell me everything you know about Brenner’s wife using a miniature camera.”
The bitch hesitated.
Aleskei glared at her. “Now,” he snapped.
“It was when our helicopter landed on a plowed field—the mass grave where they bury traitors,” Galya said, her voice hushed. “I told her not to.”
“Go back inside,” he said. “You have two people to watch from now on.”
Aleksei waited a few minutes before reentering the clinic. Adrienne Brenner was engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation with Ernst Roeder. Aleksei could not escape the thought of how the lady had recognized the mere mention of Roeder’s name.
Everything clicked into place.
What an amateur you are, Adrienne Brenner. You toss your anti-communist sentiments in my face, and then expect me to think you’re here to see the sights and participate in a medical exchange program that clearly bores you? You play the part of the dutiful wife even though your husband is so flagrantly unfaithful you haven’t lived with him for months? Shall I fit the pieces into my puzzle? From the microfilm to Emil von Eyssen’s photographer brother-in-law to you to the CIA in a nice neat recapture of the ball that Stepan Brodsky fumbled.
Over my dead body!
Aleksei gritted his teeth, a scissor-sharp pain making him long for numbness. He knew the signs. The old terror was accelerating.
When he managed to pull himself together, he played with the idea of pulling Luka off his brother and shadowing Ernst Roeder instead.
Much too obvious, he decided. If Roeder were alerted, he’d never make his move. Better to save Luka for a showdown in case Roeder proved to be obstinate.
He studied his most charming co-optee until she cringed under the scrutiny. “From now on,” he said sotto voce, “whenever Adrienne Brenner is not in her room, you will not let her out of your sight. That’s an order.”
* * *
It had been a few hours since Colonel Emil von Eyssen received a call from his man at the Schnellboot dock. The information was scant. Colonel Aleksei Andreyev had been on Glienicker Bridge and something had occurred—important enough for him to contact the East Berlin KGB station. A few hours later, the Vopos had recovered a cigarette lighter from one of their patrol boats and the lighter was now in Andreyev’s possession.
Under von Eyssen’s impatient questioning, the Vopo who surrendered the lighter to Andreyev confirmed he had been accompanied by a Soviet lieutenant, but, no, he did not get his name. Yes, Vopo personnel had conducted the search; but no, he did not know who had authorized it. Yes, the lighter had some kind of design on its metal case; but, no, he could not remember what it was.
With every answer, von Eyssen had become more frustrated. He was certain of only one thing. What he did know was potentially fatal.
Air Force Lieutenant Stepan Brodsky had attempted to defect. He did not succeed because of the chaotic bloodbath on the bridge. But the summit had dissolved just before Captain Brodsky had made a run for it—and that’s when Brodsky had been spotted talking to von Eyssen’s brother-in-law, Ernst Roeder. If Ernst was somehow complicit in the security leak, Colonel Aleksei Andreyev would find a way to lay it at von Eyssen’s doorstep.
Unless he could buy Andreyev’s silence?
Impossible. The man was impervious to every human feeling, even greed. He thought of the East German guard, killed on Glienicker during Brodsky’s aborted escape and how Andreyev had reacted to the news with callous indifference.
Not that von Eyssen’s superiors weren’t equally indifferent. With the summit looming, word had come down from above. Keep the borders quiet. No incidents during the negotiations. None after they were over. None during the expected new round of talks when bold proposals by the Soviet Union would be tossed on the bargaining table for the first time.
Von Eyssen’s jaw clenched as he relived the criticism that had been heaped on him by his superiors—and worse, by the likes of Aleksei Andreyev. What should he have done, allow some Soviet swine to escape and peddle his espionage wares to the West? The Soviets this, the Soviets that—and to hell with the Germans. Potsdam wasn’t even in his normal jurisdiction!
How carefully, how cautiously, he had nurtured his career. No sacrifice had been too great, not even the humiliation of being patronized by inferiors. Soviet barbarians who raped, not just our women, but our country! That the Soviet Motherland had plundered twenty billion dollars’ worth of German industry by calling it “reparations” never ceased to enrage him.
But there would be a day of reckoning. A day when Germany’s leaders, East and West, were replaced by men of vision and courage, he brooded. He would be ready for that day, his record spotless, his career intact.
Von Eyssen rose, walked to a floor-length mirror, and stood at rigid attention. The reflection that stared back was, as always, reassuring. White-blond hair and azure-blue eyes. Tall and broad-shouldered. Neat green uniform adorned with medals. A true Aryan…
The man of the future.
Colonel Emil von Eyssen clicked his heels, did a smart about-face, and cleansed of fear and anger, returned to his desk.
Where a pi
le of photographs rested placidly. Von Eyssen forced himself to leaf through them again. A face loomed with each name, like a roll call. This one is in no position to betray me. That one is, but would not dare. This one has no access to classified information. That one used to, but not anymore.
And his brother-in-law?
Damn you, Frieda!
He could hear his sister’s voice as if it were yesterday.
“My husband must have an important position in life, Emil. The kind that allows us to mingle with important people. And besides,” she pouted, “Ernst happens to be very talented. He takes such beautiful photographs.”
And I gave in to her, von Eyssen groaned.
He put through a call to his sergeant, who had just returned from tailing Roeder. “From now on,” von Eyssen told him, “I want my brother-in-law under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
Chapter 34
Everything was in readiness for the high point of the Humboldt University medical conference. The amphitheater was standing-room only—physicians, nurses, medical students, staff members, journalists, even some of the idly curious.
The elderly patient, unconscious on the operating table, lay between a sheet and a hypothermia mattress that had lowered his body temperature to the required coolness. Doctors, nurses, and technicians were stationed around the table. Behind them, in customary white smocks and masks, were four honored guests: Dr. Mikhail Yanin, Dr. Kiril Andreyev, nurse Galina Barkova, and Mrs. Adrienne Brenner.
A technician sat placidly at the controls of a heart-lung machine.
The chief surgeon, an East German of excellent reputation, leaned over the patient. Making an incision from collarbone to diaphragm, he sawed through breastbone, spread open the rib cage to expose a gleaming fibrous membrane laced with blood vessels—the pericardial sac.
As if on cue, at that precise moment Dr. Kurt Brenner entered the operating room from a side door. He walked to the table, held out a gloved hand for an instrument, and with a quick deft movement in what seemed a split second, cut open the pericardial sac to reveal the patient’s heart. There were murmurs of approval from many in the audience, a scattered clapping of hands. A woman in a green operating smock high in the amphitheater murmured, “Bravo, Maestro.”