The Berlin Spy Trap

by Geoffrey Davison

  Stack thought back to Lehna. She was dark and attractive. He had accepted her as being an Israeli, but on reflection she could also have come from a Balkan country. She could have been equally Hungarian, Rumanian, or a Yugoslav, and so could Criller.

  Stack had accepted her identity, and her intentions, on their face value. Now he wondered about them. He also wondered what her motives had been in trying to prevent him from contacting Criller. Had she realised that Stack’s suspicions would have been immediately aroused? Had she realised that he would have questioned her more closely? Was that why she had tried to make him believe that she had left Berlin?

  Stack sat quietly smouldering. He’d walked straight into Preiser’s trap in the Ice Stadium. That puzzled him. So did Schmidt’s timely intervention. Had Schmidt actually saved his life? Had someone really hired Schmidt? Had Stack got himself into the dingy hotel bedroom with Criller by a series of accidents? Or had he got himself there by someone else’s design?

  The problems never left Stack as he waited for the next move.

  Shortly after two a.m., their contact came for them. He was a heavily built man with short, shaven hair, and dressed in a green boiler suit. He didn’t waste any time on introductions. Brusquely he ordered them to follow him.

  They left the hotel via a rear door and crossed an open yard. Waiting for them was a large, container-type truck. Another man sat in the driver’s seat and kept the engine running. Their contact opened a side door and Stack and Criller got into the container. It was filled with crates and boxes. A small electric bulb gave off a dull light. Criller crouched in one corner and Stack sat in another. There was no dialogue, or bond, between them. Only suspicion.

  The truck started on its journey. Stack felt trapped on a course of action that was not to his liking, but he knew that there was little he could do about it. He made himself as comfortable as possible on the hard, ribbed floor, and slept fitfully as the night passed. There were a number of stops during the early morning, but it was not until midday that they finally reached their destination. The access door was flung open and they were ordered to get out. Gladly they left the container and stretched their legs in the open air. They were in a courtyard of a large farm. Their contact was standing beside an open door to a farm building. The driver joined them. He was smaller than his companion and softer spoken.

  ‘In the basement,’ he ordered. ‘You will be picked up at 21.00 hours.’

  Criller moved to the doorway. As he stepped into the building their contact gave him a bundle of clothing.

  ‘Put these on,’ he growled. He turned to Stack. ‘And you,’ he said.

  Stack accepted the clothes. They were a pair of dark, rough trousers and a dark jacket.

  ‘Leave your own clothes in the room,’ the man ordered.

  Stack followed Criller down a flight of wooden steps into the basement. No sooner had they entered the room than the door was closed and bolted behind them.

  Stack glanced about him. The room was lit by an electric lightbulb, which hung over a wooden table. On the table was some food and wine. There was also a couple of beds with bare mattresses, and several newspapers. The walls were whitewashed, but bare. The floor was stone slabs, and there was a dry smell of corn.

  ‘We could be worse,’ he said.

  Criller looked at him. Stack waved an arm about the room and repeated his statement. Criller looked away, and started to change his clothing. Stack went over to a bed and did likewise. He could see the wisdom of wearing rough, dark clothes. Especially Criller, whose coloured shirt would have been conspicuous.

  Stack changed his clothes. They fitted reasonably well, but the jacket sleeves were short. He glanced at Criller. He was also having similar trouble, except that his jacket sleeves were too long.

  Stack went up to him and held out his jacket. ‘Try this one,’ he said. ‘It looks more your size.’

  Criller looked at him sharply. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Come on,’ Stack insisted. ‘Yours will probably fit me better.’

  He tried to push the jacket on to Criller. Criller swung around and knocked the jacket out of Stack’s hand. The two men eyed each other. Stack saw the anger in Criller’s eyes. He looked as if he was sparring for a fight.

  ‘What’s troubling you?’ Stack asked, relieving the tension.

  ‘I said, no,’ Criller replied in broken German.

  ‘I was just being friendly,’ Stack said, eyeing him closely.

  Criller scowled and turned away. Stack picked up his own jacket and returned to his bed. Criller’s attitude puzzled him. Everything about Criller puzzled him. The only thing that was certain about Criller was that he was not what Lehna had described. Either Lehna had been lying, or this wasn’t the real Criller.

  Thoughtfully, Stack lay on the bed, his hands holding the jacket. His fingers touched a piece of material that was different from the rest of the jacket. He glanced at it. It was a small strip of leather across the shoulders, but it had a rough touch, like fine sandpaper. He glanced across at Criller. He was sitting at the table eating some of the food. There was no patch on the back of his jacket.

  Stack’s suspicions were aroused. What was the need for the patch, he wondered? It wasn’t large enough to protect the shoulders from any chafing, and it had a strange feel about it. He put on the jacket and lay as if resting.

  Criller wouldn’t accept the jacket, he thought, although it was more suitable for him. Why was that? Was there some special reason why he preferred the other jacket? Was there some particular reason? Was Stack’s jacket a marked jacket?

  Stack’s pulse quickened. Berak had been shot in his attempted escape. The West German border guard had referred to an orange flash like a trip flare. Orange flash! Could Berak’s jacket have been marked with a fluorescent material that could be picked out by the beam of a searchlight?

  Stack’s pulse did a double beat. That was it, he thought! That was it! Berak’s jacket had been marked, and so was Stack’s. Marked so that it would be picked out by the beam of a searchlight! Marked so that the person wearing it could be shot in their attempted escape.

  Stack’s inside turned over. He felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He was a man about to be executed! A man whose life expectancy was only a few hours. He felt weak as it all began to fit into place. Preiser had let him go free, knowing that Schmidt would pick him up. Why should Preiser risk an international scandal when Schmidt and his organisation would do the deed for him? Schmidt would get Stack to the border, and the border guards would have a legitimate excuse to shoot him. Stack would be an escaping refugee from the East. How were the guards to know who he was? Here was Stack in the dress of a country workman, attempting to cross the border illegally. Preiser’s hands were clean.

  Stack breathed heavily. That meant that Schmidt, or someone else, was in league with Preiser. He grunted audibly. That was where he had come in. That was why Berak had been murdered. Someone was giving the Communists the tip-off. Someone knew about Stack. That someone had now tipped off Preiser. When they had finished with Stack, Preiser had gone through his pantomime. Stack had fallen into the trap like a fool. Instead of going to an hotel and contacting the Western authorities, he had let Schmidt take over. And now Stack was past the point of no return.

  Criller began to take on another guise now. Criller was in the plot. He was on Preiser’s side. He knew that Stack was a marked man. That was why he had refused the jacket.

  Stack swallowed hard. He was going to have to discard the jacket before they entered the open ground, he thought. He glanced at his nylon shirt. That wasn’t going to give much protection. It would soon be picked out. So he would have to think of something else.

  He watched Criller at the table. Criller’s hand kept touching his bulging jacket pocket, as if checking that his revolver was still there. Somehow they were going to have to make a switch, Stack thought. Somehow they were going to change jackets…

  At nine o�
��clock, precisely, their door was unbarred. Stack hadn’t decided how, or when, he and Criller were going to exchange jackets, but he was more determined than ever that there was going to be a switch.

  The younger of their two contacts greeted them in quiet tones. He had changed from his green boiler suit into dark clothes, similar to those that Criller and Stack were wearing. They left the basement. In the courtyard stood a small, dark saloon. Inside was their other guide. Stack was hustled into the rear seat alongside Criller. Their contact got into the driver’s seat and drove out of the courtyard.

  Stack watched the countryside. It was fertile, undulating ground of fields and woods. Their route followed a series of narrow secondary roads, sometimes only farm tracks, which skirted the thick pine woods. Perhaps he should make a break for it there and then, he thought desperately. There was plenty of cover, and they wouldn’t be expecting the move. The car door was not locked. But would he be allowed to get away with it? Would they let him remain at large? He shuffled about in his seat. He had to decide now whether to make a break for it or take his chances on switching with Criller. It was now or never. The decision was suddenly made for him.

  ‘We are here,’ the driver said gruffly, and stopped the car.

  They were alongside a wood. So it was going to be the switch, Stack thought grimly. It was going to be either him or Criller.

  They got out of the car. Stack could feel the tension beginning to build up inside him. Somehow, somewhere, he had to make his move. Another figure suddenly loomed up out of the darkness. It was an East German border guard! Stack froze, but the others were unmoved. The two guides and the guards held a brief conversation. Stack and Criller stood to one side. The guard grunted and disappeared into the woods.

  The two guides came up to Stack and Criller. The younger of the two spoke in his quiet, country accent. ‘I will take you to the border now,’ he said. ‘The time is precisely,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘twenty-one forty-eight.’

  Criller and Stack adjusted their watches.

  ‘The timing is important,’ the guide explained. ‘When you pass through the first barrier fence, you will make for a thin strip of wood. It is about fifty metres from the fence. At the far side of the wood is a stream. Beyond the stream you will see the silhouette of a church.’

  Church! Stack’s inside reacted. Berak had been shot near a deserted churchyard at Fenstadt.

  ‘You must make for the church. One you reach the churchyard you are in West Germany.’

  ‘What is the name of the village at the other side?’ Stack asked.

  The guide looked at him. ‘Fenstadt,’ he said.

  Fenstadt! Stack felt the blood drain away from his body.

  ‘There are control towers to your right and left, about four hundred metres apart,’ the guide explained. ‘You must go direct to the church. If you deviate, you could set off a trip flare that will bring out the searchlights from both control towers.’

  Criller grunted his agreement. Stack was surprised that he understood so readily.

  ‘The timings are very important,’ their contact added quietly. He sounded like a bored guide who had done it so many times before. Stack began to hate him. ‘You pass the barriers at 22.00 hours. You reach the copse five minutes later. From there it is safer that you move one at a time.’

  One at a time! Stack wondered why. It made him more suspicious. Safer for whom, he wondered? For Criller?

  ‘At 22.10 precisely you leave the copse,’ the guide said to Stack. ‘It will take you five minutes to get to the church.’ The man turned to Criller. ‘You will follow at 22.20 precisely.’

  After he had reached the church, Stack thought grimly. After he had been shot, dead! He felt like a trapped animal.

  ‘At the church you will both be picked up by the West German border guards,’ their guide added. ‘You have the times?’

  They both said that they had.

  ‘Repeat them,’ the man said to Stack.

  Stack repeated his instructions.

  The guide turned to Criller. ‘You fully understand?’

  Criller gave a guttural, ‘Yes,’ in German. Again Stack wondered how he could understand so readily. Unless he had gone through the instructions elsewhere, Stack thought.

  ‘Good,’ their guide said gruffly. ‘The control tower to the north,’ he pointed to his right with his arm outstretched, ‘will probably be scanning their area at twenty-three hundred hours. You will both be out of their range. The tower to the south will also be scanning their area some time before midnight. Again you will be safe.’

  Stack listened intently.

  ‘There will be a patrol returning along this area at twenty-two thirty precisely,’ the guide added, and looked pointedly at both Criller and Stack. ‘They have dogs,’ he warned. ‘The dogs will get your scent and they will be let loose. You must,’ he emphasised his words. ‘You must be clear of the stream by twenty-two thirty. It is essential. Between the fence and the woods is still East German territory.’

  Stack knew now when he had to make his move. It was before the dogs could be let loose on him, and before he went out into the open.

  ‘Come,’ the guide said gruffly, and moved into the woods. Criller followed behind. Stack hesitated, momentarily, saw the other guide watching him closely, and moved into the woods behind Criller.

  It was pitch black amongst the trees. The guide stopped to allow them to get used to the darkness, and then moved forward, slowly and stealthily. Criller and Stack kept close together. Stack’s heart began to thump wildly, his brain warning him that if he didn’t take action, he was going to his own execution, just as Berak had gone to his. Berak hadn’t known, but Stack did. He had to do something about it.

  Suddenly they were through the wood, and the darkness gave way to the dull, grey light of the open countryside. Occasionally the moon appeared between the clouds. In front of them loomed a high wire fence. In the distance a dog barked as if giving them a timely warning. Stack breathed heavily. Criller stood beside him.

  The guide touched Stack’s shoulder and waved him to the ground. Stack and Criller went to earth. The guide got down beside them and pulled a large tuft of earth towards him. Silently, he indicated that they were to crawl under the wire and follow a line directly ahead of them. Another pat on Stack’s shoulder and he was ordered to make his move.

  Stack’s mouth went dry. There was no turning back now, he thought. He flattened himself and crawled through the trench under the first barrier. He kept crawling to the second wire. There was a similar sinking in the ground, camouflaged by the grass, to give him access.

  Momentarily he stopped — almost expecting to see an armed guard on top of him. Criller came up behind him and urged him forward with his hand on Stack’s foot.

  Stack cleared the fence. Ahead of them was the open ground. Somewhere to his right and left were control towers, with searchlights. He moved forward, inching his way over the ground, using every bit of cover and caressing the ground with every muscle of his body.

  Slowly the copse loomed up in front of him. Again a dog barked, and then silence enveloped the area. It was an eerie silence. The silence that warns the animal kingdom of danger. It warned Stack as well. He crawled cautiously into the copse, his hands feeling gingerly for any trip-wires that would set off a flare or anti-personnel mine. He touched something hard and cold. His inside froze. Was it a small mine? His fingers nervously examined the object. It was only a stone, the size of his fist. He gave a long sigh of relief and his pulse resumed its normal beat. But the stone could be useful, he thought. He kept it in his hand as he moved forward through the bushes that formed a barrier between the tall trees.

  Criller came in beside him. They stood up, alongside each other, both breathing heavily with the physical exercise and tenseness. Stack noticed that Criller had discarded his spectacles. Criller moved forward, taking the lead. Stack watched, momentarily, and then followed. The copse was thick with overgrown bushes that caught the
ir clothing and restricted their movement. They were almost prisoners to the clinging vines. It became a nightmare. Eventually they came to the clearing at the far side.

  ‘There is the church,’ Criller said in his brusque, broken German, and pointed to his front. Stack peered into the distant greyness, but it took a short while before his eyes became adjusted. He saw the faint silhouette of the building.

  ‘Now it is five minutes after ten,’ Criller said gruffly, looking at his luminous watch. ‘You move in five minutes.’

  Stack nodded his head, but he was wondering how Criller had suddenly acquired such good eyesight. That settled it, he thought. That was the excuse he had wanted for himself. He edged himself, quickly, into a position behind Criller, and mustered all his energy. As Criller half turned to see what he was doing, Stack brought his fist with the stone in it, down on the back of Criller’s neck with all the force he could muster. His hand connected and sent shock waves up his arm, but Criller sank to the ground, unconscious.

  The pain in Stack’s arm was immediately forgotten. He bent over Criller and hurriedly removed Criller’s jacket and dressed him in his own jacket. Criller stirred as Stack was putting the jacket on him. Stack stood up and put on his new jacket. In the pockets he found a torch and Criller’s automatic. He put them in Criller’s pockets. Criller stirred again. Stack bent down and gingerly moved the pointers of Criller’s watch forward to read five minutes before the half-hour. If Criller accepted the time when he awoke, then he might take the lead and Stack could follow him.

  Criller stirred again and groaned. He was coming to. The timing could not have been better, Stack thought. He quickly crept forward to the edge of the stream and slipped into the water. It seeped into his clothes, but it wasn’t very deep. He crossed over to the far bank. It was sandy and provided a barrier against the open ground. He pressed his body into the dark, shadowy inlet and waited.

  The minutes passed. There was no sound of any movement from Criller. Perhaps he was still dazed, Stack thought. He clenched his fists tensely and sweated. He would have been on the open ground now, approaching the church, he thought. A movement behind him in the bushes made him freeze. His perspiration became an ice-cold trickle down his back. Criller had recovered.