by James Quinn
“You are sure?” pressed Vogel.
“Absolutely.”
“Can you remember anything else about him?”
Muller closed his eyes and thought back to that night when the car was ambushed. Finally he said, “He was quick with the gun, fast, we didn't even have time to react. He put us all down and there was not a thing that we could have done about it. He was ruthless.”
Vogel thought for a moment and then nodded. “Thank you, Werner, I won't forget this service that you have done for me.”
Vogel sat for a few more moments in silence, before Lauder asked, “Where to now?”
“Take me to my home in Kopenick please, Gunther. I have a few things to collect. After that, you are free to go.”
“I don't mind sticking with you through this, comrade.”
Vogel shook his head. “No, you are relieved of your duty after this. This is something that I will handle personally, my friend.”
Chapter Seventeen
Bob and Tiny followed Jack Grant back to his apartment in Spandau.
They watched from a distance as he parked the little Trabant in a side street and then walked around the corner to the main entrance of his apartment building. He let himself in and then, a few minutes later, a light came on in Grant's room. It was dark now and the chance of Grant spotting their surveillance was extremely unlikely, but they were ready for anything. After all, Jack was one of them and they all shared the same skills.
“You take the first shift,” said Tiny, already snuggling underneath a blanket in the back seat.
Bob rolled his eyes and settled down for the long watch over their friend. Nice easy little gig, this, he thought. So much better than keeping the hairy eyeball on the Russians.
Once inside his apartment, Jack Grant moved fast. He knew that time wasn't on his side; especially if he had to 'dump' his two mates who were outside and then get to Magdeburg for the rendezvous with Lisbeth.
He reached under his bed, removed the loose floorboard and took out what was concealed inside.
Masterman might have taken his service weapon, but Jack Grant had an ace in the hole; the Smith & Wesson '39 that was a gift from Mike Stern. He checked over the magazine and the spare, then loaded, cocked it and initiated the safety.
Next was a set of East German ID cards and papers that he had bought on the black market. Not as good as the material that SIS and the CIA had, but it was better than nothing. The rest, he would just have to either bluff his way around or pray to the gods of escape and evasion to keep them safe. He did a quick operational check; suitable dark clothing, weapon, map, ID, money. He had everything that he needed.
He let himself out of his apartment – leaving the lights on, the window open and the radio playing loudly – and then made his way down the staircase, keeping as quiet as he could so as not to alert any of his neighbours. His target was the rear downstairs apartment which he knew was vacant. A quick play with his lock picks and the door opened into an empty room.
He opened the living room window and climbed out into the darkness of the passageway at the back. Peering around the corner, he could see the Trabant less than twenty feet away and the Gutterfighters' surveillance car parked on the opposite side of the street a little further up.
He crouched down, keeping low and moving fast, trying to keep out of their line of sight. He just had to hope that, at that moment, they were focused on his apartment window with the light and the music, rather than on the car behind them.
Grant guessed that he would have a few seconds' head start on them before they became aware of his car moving and then they would be on him. He unlocked the driver's door slowly and slid in across the seat. Keeping low in the driver's seat, he checked everything over and then, when he was satisfied, he started the engine.
The effect inside the surveillance car was instantaneous. Grant saw Bob swivel around in his seat and from the back, the unmistakable head of Tiny Blease came to life.
Grant gunned the engine and the car sped off down the street. He barely looked at the surveillance car as he passed it, instead preferring to concentrate on putting as much distance between him and his pursuers as possible.
“Shit! He got away!” cried Tiny.
“Call it in. Ask Masterman what the rules of engagement are,” grunted Bob, before swinging the VW Beetle out of the parking space and into the pursuit proper.
Tiny grabbed the car radio handset. “Alpha 1 to Echo 5; are you receiving? Over…”
Jack Grant guessed that it was a thirty minute drive until he was on the borderline at Friedrichstrasse, and if he could keep the Gutterfighters off him he reasoned that he could make it there comfortably.
The streets were busy, so he knew enough to slow down in heavy traffic and then thrash the engine on the quieter, wide open streets to make up for lost time. The car was screaming at him as he moved up and down the gears, his eyes constantly looking around for threats.
The radio screeched into life. “Delta 1, this is Alpha 1, come in, over… Jack… Jack… Fuck it. Look, don't be an arsehole, pull over, we don't want to…”
Grant switched off the two-way vehicle radio, moved up a gear and went faster.
“Bastard has turned off his radio! Bloody hell, Gorilla!” said Tiny.
Masterman came on the direct channel to the surveillance car. “Alpha 1, this is Echo 5; receiving, over.”
“Echo 5 this is Alpha 1; Receiving,” responded Tiny.
“Our man is not – I repeat not – to cross over to the East,” ordered Masterman.
“Er… he's got a healthy head start on us already, boss; over.”
“Alpha 1; then I assume you will correct your mistake. Over.”
Jack Grant was five minutes away, probably less and knew that he was going to make it, but he also had to account for patrols in the area as he got closer to the sector border. The last thing he wanted was to act suspicious by driving a car at high speed and then being detained because of it. So the last part of his journey in the West would be done at a snail's pace. He wanted to look like an East German who was visiting friends in West Berlin and was now taking a slow drive home.
He just had to hope that he had enough of a head start to make it.
“Can we pursue to the East? Over,” said Tiny, being thrown around in the back seat as Bob manoeuvred the car around even tighter corners.
“Alpha 1, that is a negative. I repeat, do not cross over to the East. If he makes it that far, then your orders are to turn back. The silly bugger will be on his own,” said Masterman.
“Echo 5; roger that. Over and out.”
They were nearly at Friedrichstrasse. They looped around the man road and then Bob braked hard, causing the tyres to let up a plume of black smoke.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Tiny, when the vehicle had come to a complete rest.
“Because, look!” said Bob, nodding his head forward.
Fifty feet away, a Vopo patrol, the GDR's national Police Force, was parked up in front of them, effectively barring the way to the East. In the distance, they could just about make out the tail-lights of the Trabant as it ambled slowly along the road and out of sight.
Gorilla Grant had outrun them, crossed the border, and was now heading deep into East Germany.
Chapter Eighteen
The night drive from Berlin to the outskirts of Magdeburg was a two-hour journey and the temptation to get there quickly was burring inside him. Go in a slow hurry, he could hear Masterman saying inside his memory.
And what would Masterman think of his protégé now? Heading into enemy territory on an unsanctioned mission, an illegal firearm in tow and his own people scrambling around trying to find their very own rogue agent? Masterman would probably snort with derision and say, “Well, you buggered that up, Jack old boy!”
He took his time, dousing the lights when it was safe to do so and sticking to back country roads. He had studied the Vogel farmland over the past few months. He knew its location a
nd how it was laid out. His plan was to drive past the farm, dog-leg back about a mile further on and then cut across the woods until he could see the rear of the farmhouse.
The roads were quiet once he left the relative activity of the periphery of Magdeburg itself, all the while keeping a seasoned eye out for Vopo or military patrols. So far, luck had been on his side and the most dramatic thing that he had passed had been a few trucks and family cars.
Fifteen minutes later and the roads got smaller and smaller until they had transformed into dirt roads that led to the woods that skirted the farmhouse. He parked the Trabant in a small lay-by, killed the lights and waited. He let the night surround him, feeling its pulse and the quiet environment, letting it return to its natural peace. Grant peered out of the window; it was a cloudless night and the brightness of the moon illuminated the fields nearby. That could work both for and against him; easier to be spotted on a moonlit night, but also easier to keep track of the route that you are taking.
He moved quietly out and away from the car, heading towards the darkness of the woods. It would take him a good fifteen minutes of measured walking before he would be able to see the lights of the farmhouse. The going was slow and as well as trying to navigate a direct route through the woods, he was also conscious of not giving off a signature of his presence. Farmland meant canines in the area and the last thing he needed was to alert the locals by triggering a barking dog.
He reached the edge of the tree line and was greeted with a no-man's-land of open field. Across the open field, and roughly two hundred feet away, was a second tree line that led into the second wave of trees. He moved cautiously across the field, aware that he was exposed and open to attack. Eventually, he reached the second tree line and could see the faint light of the buildings in the distance, all the while keeping low until he had a favourable vantage point. He stood behind the trunk of a thick tree, took out his pocket binoculars and surveyed the land before him.
The farmhouse was, he estimated, three hundred feet from the woods. The building was a simple structure with two sheds that at one time must have housed livestock. Smoke was coming from the chimney and he could see that the lights were on in the kitchen. No sign of anyone else, no sign of a trap, no sign of anything suspicious.
Jack Grant checked his watch; 11.30. It was near enough to collection time. His plan was simple; get Lisbeth and the children and get the hell out of East Germany. Everything else… well, he would sort that out once he was back on home ground in Berlin. He put the binoculars away and took out his US Army flashlight, followed by the S&W '39. A quick chamber-check of the pistol and he held up the flashlight so that it was chest height, then he waited until he could see a silhouette in the kitchen window.
Minutes later, the unmistakable figure of Lisbeth came into view through the glass. He blinked the flashlight twice, then a pause and then a repeat of the sequence.
He watched. He waited.
The light in the kitchen went out, then flicked back on and then the sequence repeated. It was the all-clear. She was alone, she was ready and the exfiltration was a go! He put the flashlight away and re-holstered the pistol, all the time listening for a surprise attack. When none came, he moved to the edge of the tree line and waited. Seconds later. he saw the kitchen door open and Lisbeth came walking out briskly. In her hands was a bundle.
She covered the distance quickly and he stepped forward to greet her, one hand on the holstered pistol just in case, and as she got near he saw that her face looked grave. “Quickly, take the baby, take Katherine,” she whispered to him.
He reached out and took her, holding her against his chest to keep her warm. “Where is Peter?” he asked.
“Still in his cot in the kitchen. I couldn't carry both at once, they are getting too big.”
“Okay, quickly though. We need to move fast. I'll wait inside the edge of the woods,” he said, his eyes scanning around in the darkness.
Lisbeth leaned forward and kissed him gently, and then kissed the top of her daughter's head. “Wait for me, I'll be right back,” she said. Then she turned and ran back to the kitchen.
Jack Grant and his daughter melted back into the darkness of the woods and waited.
Lisbeth made it back in moments, her mind racing about what she… no… what the babies would need for the next few hours – a bag, a change of clothes, food…
Her mind was so distracted that she didn't immediately register that the kitchen door was closed. Hadn't she left it open when she had left the first time? Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. She opened it and entered, the heat from the open hearth hitting her immediately, warming her skin.
“Hello, Lisbeth,” said a voice.
She turned in its direction, toward the table, and there, sitting in the kitchen, was her estranged husband, wearing his habitual grey suit, his sadist black leather gloves and a smile of malevolent fury. He sat next to the cot that held the sleeping baby, Peter, his gloved hand gently stroking the boy's head.
“Peter is resting. You need not worry. But you, you have been busy,” said Vogel. “Adultery and espionage.”
“It's cold out. I need to get warm. I need to see to the baby,” was all that she could think to say.
She went and stood by the open hearth and busied herself with stoking up the fire. Stay calm, stay calm, stay focused, you are nearly there, she said to herself.
“I admit it, you had me fooled. Who'd have thought that the little girl that I knew would grow up to be a spy?” he said, looking down at the baby.
“I'm glad that I can still surprise you, Ulrich.”
“So you admit it?” he asked.
She moved a block of wood around with the poker, its end glowing white from the heat. “What would be the point in denying it? You probably know most of the details. Isn't that what the Stasi do?”
He nodded. “It's true, we do. I'm going to arrest you. My men are on their way here as we speak. You'll die in the interrogation cell. I just wanted you to know that.”
“Are you afraid to beat me yourself these days, Ulrich? Are you too much of a coward to hit me anymore?” she mocked. She glanced briefly over her shoulder at his flushed face and she knew that her words had wounded his ego.
Vogel cleared his throat. “And the man, the blond man that you were seen meeting with. What is he to you? A lover?”
“Yes,” she said truthfully.
“And what of Die Kinder? Are they mine?” he asked.
She grasped the poker firmly, heated in the fire, clutched the handle tight and said, “No, they are mine and his.”
“Who is he?”
“He is Jack. Jack Grant,” she said and smiled. Saying his name out loud made her happy.
“He is British?”
“Yes.”
“A spy?”
“Yes.”
“Like you?”
“Yes, I am his spy,” she replied.
“Why do you love him so?”
“Because he is not like you,” she said.
He started to roar in anger and fury, but was cut short by the swing of the metal poker that she wielded. It was a short arc, no more than a few feet. She swung it with all her power and it caught him on the side of the face. She felt the impact, felt the connection of metal meeting flesh and God, it felt good! Then there was the instant smell of burning flesh. Vogel screamed and fell to the floor, partly from the impact of the strike and partly from the searing pain of the burning metal that had destroyed the side of his face. She hit him one more time on the side of the head, and then she dropped the poker and reached into the cot to grab Peter.
Lisbeth did not even wait, she just ran. To her, the enemy was down, if not out, the children needed to escape and she had her lover waiting for her just on the other side of the woods.
Jack Grant had been gently cradling Katherine when he saw Lisbeth explode out of the kitchen door, her body rocking from side to side, trying to gather momentum whilst still trying to hold the baby car
efully. When she reached him at the tree line, she was almost out of breath.
“Ulrich… it's Ulrich… he's here!” she gasped, holding onto him to steady herself. “The Stasi are on their way.”
“What happened?”
“I knocked him out with a red-hot poker, burned his face. I don't think he's dead… I don't know! Jack, what do we do?”
“We have to go. As fast as you can, follow me, I'll take point,” he said, drawing his gun and leading the way into the darkness of the woods.
He set a punishing pace, running, dodging branches and fallen trees, and all the while trying to see in the darkness. Sporadically, he would glance behind him, checking to see if Lisbeth was keeping pace with him. She was still there, but not as close to him as he would have liked. He reached the open ground of no-man's land and kept running, the baby gurgling at his chest. He had almost made it back to the first set of trees, and was about to turn around to see how far behind him she was, when he heard the shot.
In the cold, clear night it gave a loud crack, then another, and another. Someone was shooting blindly in the darkness.
He had made it to the safety of the tree line when he turned and crouched, his body hidden behind a tree stump. The baby was in his arms, wrapped inside his thick winter coat. The Smith & Wesson '39 was gripped tightly in his other hand, ready to be used to protect himself and the child.
He saw the figure of Lisbeth emerge from the tree line, a look of desperation on her face. There was another crack of a pistol shot and her head was flung at an unnatural angle before she dropped onto the ground, the baby falling from her arms. He could hear the child, Peter, crying in the darkness.
Jack Grant stared across the no-man's-land, pistol ready, stifling a cry of rage and remorse.
A man stood at the opposite tree line. He was suited; tall and arrogant-looking. Ulrich Vogel. He reached down and picked up Peter with one hand and in the other was the pistol that had killed Lisbeth.