by Fox J Wilde
“Not in the Lord’s house,” she replied saucily.
“Now don’t get my heart beating that fast for nothing. If I have to have a third heart attack, I want to know it was for something.”
Yes, Walter was a rare treasure in these dark times. He was cantankerous, but it was a pleasant sort of cantankerous. He had such an ornery streak, what with his occasional off-color jokes, various pranks, and love for that godawful rock music. Yet he loved Mick and Herr so dutifully—boxing their ears the one moment, and then cussing and smoking with them the next (when she wasn’t looking, of course). He truly had a youthful heart, and Gertrude enjoyed his company.
Of course, she couldn’t tell him the real reason she dragged him off to the churches. Walter was a spy for the Stasi, and Gertrude was a radio operator for the Americans. She knew that he gave regular reports on her doings and dealings (even though she knew he hated doing so). Thus, she knew the best cover story she could possibly have would be to keep him around nearly all the time, filling his reports on her. She knew he knew—at least partially. She also knew he was grateful not only for the company, but for the lies. She made his job much easier to do and saved him from the pain of betraying her to his Stasi handlers. He would, in turn, further serve to obscure her little missions. And it was very important he do so tonight: these were important messages.
Sunshine had breathlessly swung by her apartment earlier to deliver a to-go order of currywurst, some loose change and the adjoined receipts. For nearly an hour, she had carefully opened up one of the small coins with a razor to reveal the millimeter-wide dot of microfilm. Then, for nearly two hours, she carefully developed the pictures. She could generally tell the difference between Analog’s and Open-Wide’s work, but the gut-wrenching nature of the sordid photos was something she couldn’t quite pinpoint—it looked perhaps like a hidden static camera. She didn’t really stare at it long enough to figure it out, however. She knew the way the world worked and she wasn’t stupid. Still, certain things no one needed to see.
Then, she spent the next few hours working on the receipt. She had a great love for cryptography, and had discovered she had a knack for unlocking encoding messages. But her true love was for the art of steganography—the act of obscuring encoded messages. She knew these tactics well, hiding damnable information out in the open. From there, she need only place the developed information in an envelope—with a few marks for the Lord, of course—and head out to the church.
The Boss always tried to use the elderly whenever he could, as he felt it gave them some much-needed excitement and purpose. It was also difficult to peg someone of her advanced age as a secret agent. And he had been right: the work had given her some excitement and purpose. The Boss was a master at using the bent and broken. In his mind, they made the most loyal and trustworthy workers, unlike like the Stasi and HVA who ruled with fear and paranoia.
He also had a gift for using their unique personalities. He wasn’t a believer himself, of course. Few in his position were, as they had just seen too much of the world. But the Boss knew Gertrude Schroeder, and he knew that the Bible was a very large book. This made it handy for designing crypto keys. Her love for the Bible had actually benefited The Boss, as on her word, he had been able to make use of this chapel’s priest—codename: Black-Sail.
She wasn’t entirely too familiar with how the Americans functioned outside of the GDR. But within the network inside of the GDR, she had become the de-facto hub. Grips (before he was taken), Spanish, Open-Wide and a few others would busy themselves with the main operations of obtaining HUMINT (Human Intelligence…however they went about garnering that), and finding GDR-specific ways of transmitting that information back to her. Gertrude’s job was simple: receive instructions from the outside world and disseminate them where needed.
From there, a few messenger assets—including Sunshine—would make a run to ‘The Drugstore’ where Too-Shy would have messages further sent to Gertrude for decryption. There was only one other radio operator in the GDR, but Gertrude wasn’t allowed to know who that was for safety. After all was said and done, Gertrude would deliver the non-encrypted (and mostly un-secure) messages to ‘The Isle of Tortuga’, where Black-Sail would see the messages off to The Boss.
Things had always been secretive, of course, and complicated by nature. To properly deliver messages, it had to be done cautiously and securely. This rarely meant that it could be done quickly, or even in a timely manner. It was common to show up for meetings two-hours late, or for information to be an entire week behind its needed delivery date, or for the information to be poorly-formed and incomplete. Of course, deciphering the information was the job for analysts back in safer waters.
However, things had reached a fevered pace since Grips had been taken. Since that incident, an entire section of the network had been taken down, and the only other radio operator was now entirely running counter-intelligence to protect the assets and agents under that crypto’s umbrella. This had somehow resulted in the surprise inclusion of Sunshine, whom Gertrude worried about terribly. Sunshine was a bright young person, but her training had been uneven. The HVA had been training her to provide tell-tail signs that she was being followed, which meant that they knew she had (or soon would) be propositioned by Gertrude’s people, which further meant that they might suspect Matt York. Sunshine hadn’t had nearly enough training time with The Boss to counteract that, nor had Gertrude been given permission to pick up the slack.
And Analog…this was someone that Gertrude worried about terribly. Analog had been a smart asset, but had been dealt an extremely complicated hand. Analog was being watched as well as could be, given the circumstances of the Wall. But should that asset go under, it could cause untold damage. If Gertrude—the only remaining radio operator running actual operations—went down…well, she simply couldn’t consider the implications of that.
“Can Christians even have sex?” Walter interrupted her musings.
“Walter!” she exclaimed, whacking him on the arm.
“Well, it’s an honest question!”
“Of course, they can. It’s the Catholics that can’t.”
“You would be surprised,” an elderly voice called from across the room.
“Ah, Black-Sail,” Gertrude mused. She had never known a religious figure that spoke with such candor and whimsy as this man. In part, that was why The Boss had seen to bestow upon him such a mischievous codename. But that had largely came down to a joke the priest had told him about a passing seagull pooping in the eye of a pirate with a newly-acquired hook.
“Oh, don’t you encourage him, Father.” Gertrude chastised the man.
“Don’t call me Father, woman. It makes me feel old,” he fired back, as he walked closer.
“Oh, but your religious stature!”
“Not shrinking like I suspect my physical stature is.”
“Oh, you will always be tall and handsome to me.”
“If only we could convince those young punks running around what real beauty looked like, eh?” he quipped.
“They don’t know what they’re missing.”
“I know what I’m missing,” Walter said sadly, to the ensuing laughter of the other two.
With the pleasantries over, Mrs. Schroeder handed the envelope over to the priest. He had been through this many times before. Pulling out the money (while leaving everything else inside), he made a show of ‘emptying’ its contents in full sight.
“Bless you, my child.” he said happily, while crossing her in a Catholic gesture.
“Oh, you do know how to make a woman feel young again.” she simpered, much to the chagrin of Walter.
“Ah, West Germany,” Patrick thought to himself, as he stood outside of a West German barn, looking out into the dark, foggy night.
The differences between East and West Berlin were quite stark indeed. Even the lighting was different. The West r
eaped the myriad benefits of its rich and powerful benefactors. Its power grid had consistently been upgraded with the latest and greatest technologies. While East Berlin’s streetlights remained the dim, grubby yellow of the post-war 50’s (excluding the few Soviet ‘upgrades’ that could barely be considered so), West Berlin’s streets were brightly lit a powerful white. These windfalls weren’t just a nod to common trade diplomacy, but a not-so-silent series of raspberries to blow in faces of the residents of East Berlin. Indeed, anyone who merely gazed across the Wall was constantly reminded of how piss-poor life in the GDR truly was. Patrick hated it profusely, and was filled with jealousy anytime he crossed over.
West Germany, however, reminded Patrick that nature didn’t care about politics in the slightest. Out here in the rural areas, surrounded by hills, trees, streams and lakes, it looked exactly the same as its Eastern counterpart. Even the farms that dotted the landscape were virtually the same. They even had much the same lighting. Patrick took a sick pleasure in this. NATO didn’t give a single bloody fuck about this country. They only doted on West Berlin so that it stuck in the craw of the GDR. Here—where the folks in the GDR couldn’t readily look—the windfalls were few, if any.
“One day,” Patrick promised himself, “One day this will all burn. One day, when those worthless Americans don’t have any use for this country, it’ll burn, and fade into obscurity. Then they’ll see. But I’ll be far, far away by then.”
Feeling a chill, Patrick moved inside. It wasn’t much warmer in here, but it did cut the breeze down. He rubbed his hands together, and buried his face into his scarf for warmth. If they didn’t show soon, he would have to do jumping jacks, or stamp in place, or something to get his body temperature up to where it needed to be. “Why here?” he wondered, angrily. “Why must they always choose cold places?” It was yet another cruel joke the West played on the East: treating foreign agents with such disrespect. It was maddening. Patrick was here to benefit the damn Americans. They should be treating him like god-damned royalty, and paying him far more than they were. That, or at least pick someplace warm.
He waited…then he waited. After what seemed like an hour, he waited some more. It was always this way. They wanted to humble him. They wanted to remind him where he was in the pecking order. They wanted him to know his place and be subservient, “One day…” he swore to himself, “They’ll pay too.” Soon enough, however, he heard a shuffle of feet outside of the barn.
“Is my donkey ready?” a young male voice called out clearly.
“Clothed with the finest silk,” Patrick said through gritted teeth.
“Can it fly?” the voice asked.
“Only if you feed it right.”
Satisfied that the two were alone, and that the meeting wouldn’t be in vain, the owner of the voice stepped into the barn. The young man, dressed in a greatcoat and fedora, also wore a brazen look. And he stood with an impetuous posture as if displaying a sort of wretched dominance.
“Matt fucking York,” Patrick said. “The one and the only.”
“Oh, get over it, Patrick. You made your bed. Now lay in it.”
“Three months! Three fucking months I’ve been your little errand boy! I’ve jumped through your hoops, sang your songs, and done every inane thing you’ve asked of me.”
“Yes you have,” Matt admitted, without the slightest bit of concern in his voice.
“Maybe I deserve a little respect?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you cold? Well, I apologize for that, but as I recall, you were the one who asked for these security measures.”
“I didn’t ask to be left to wait for so long!”
“Ah, yes. I understand,” Matt switched to an apologetic tone, “Yes…those are our security measures.”
“What? Don’t trust the traitorous little double-agent?” Patrick sneered right back.
“As a matter of fact, no,” Matt laughed. “No, none of us do, and I’ll tell you why. You came to us, not the other way around. You know very-well the HVA’s policy on walk-ins, so you can probably figure out ours. The only reason we took you on is because you work for the HVA, and had access to information.”
“Information I have readily provided!”
“Yes. Very readily,” Matt sneered, “Without even the slightest hint of sorrow. Our higher-ups think it’s because you have some beef with your own country, but my Boss and I think it’s because this is a job for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, don’t play that game with me. You are in the same world of Counter-intelligence that I am. We feed you useless nonsense, and you feed us useless nonsense. What better way to mess with the Americans than to pose an agent as an angry, unloved child who wants to get back at daddy for not buying him a pony when he was a child?”
“I’m not…” Patrick puffed, “I didn’t…I’m not a god-damn child.”
“Feeding us useless information is one thing. But trying to put my people in a position to be forcibly turned…now, that is something that will never happen. And if ensuring that requires that we whip you like a dog until we trust you, that’s precisely what we’ll do.”
“I’m not a dog!” Patrick yelled, becoming increasingly more irate by the moment.
“You’re right, you aren’t. Dogs are obedient. Dogs are simple, trustworthy, noble beasts that know what’s good for them. You are an intelligence agent who knows damn well why we don’t yet trust you. And until we do, we’ll continue to meet like this. Now, if you wish to be treated like a man, then start acting like a man and stop complaining about how cold it is.”
Patrick hated him…oh how he hated him. He hated his organization, and he hated Matt’s cover story—getting to be the lead singer of a popular band, screwing new girls every night and smoking his weight in marijuana every day—it was maddening. Patrick deserved all of that. For all that he had suffered and put up with, he deserved it. But mostly, he hated being talked down to. Patrick was a member of a prestigious intelligence organization. That meant that he deserved to be treated as such. Still, he knew he wouldn’t get what he wanted if he didn’t play ball.
“So, then,” Patrick said placidly, “I have your documents.”
“Well, let’s see them.” Matt said respectfully, noting the change in Patrick’s tone.
Reaching into a small attaché, Patrick pulled out a few folders and handed them over quickly. He was glad to be rid of the incriminating evidence.
“Richtlinie 1/79?” Matt asked.
“It’s the Stasi’s policy for zersetzung: how to seek out community organizations that could be considered dissentious or potentially harmful to the State. It gives the guidelines for the spreading of counter-propaganda and sowing the seeds of discontent.”
“Interesting,” Matt replied.
“May I ask why you wanted this document in specific?”
“Various reasons,” Matt responded, with a telling smirk. “Do you have the other document?”
“Here,” Patrick said, reaching into his attaché for another folder and handing it over, “The dossier on Hans Schmidt.”
“Again, give me the short version,” Matt said, looking it over.
“He’s talked, alright,” Patrick said with a knowing glare. “We’ve been able to work through most of his confessions. Make no mistake…we know bullshit when we hear it.”
“We figured.”
“Luckily for him, my case officer also believes that it’s your bullshit and not his. Mr. Schmidt believes that what he is telling us is the truth. Mr. Schmidt is very, very fortunate. My case officer has a soft-spot for the youth, and has much pull with the Stasi. He is also not one for forceful methods of interrogation. But, since he doesn’t know anything useful, at this point Mr. Schmidt is alive only because your agency believes he is still of use to us, and we believe he is a bargaining chip for you. Whatever you are planni
ng to do, you had better do it quickly. Because once we’ve figured out who your radio operator is, they will all lose their heads.”
“I suppose you would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t care in the slightest. I hate my country and I hate yours. I just want out. That’s why we’re talking.”
“But you realize that if we secure your defection, you will effectively be an American.”
“It’s much easier to leave America than it is to leave the GDR.”
“...especially if you are a rich American.”
“Like I said, I’m doing this for me.”
“Lucky for us.”
“Again, you had better work quickly,” Patrick said, his tone becoming more serious. “Lena has started lying to us on your behalf. Whatever you, your case officer, and she have arranged, you had best do it and get her out of the country as quickly as possible.”
It was a lie, of course. Patrick didn’t know if Lena was working for them or not. There was strong suspicion, of course—Lena had met with Matt, and Matt was the enemy. But Patrick also knew that Grandfather had a soft-spot for young people and wouldn’t tolerate imprisoning her with no proof. Besides, she was just dumb enough to make an excellent and unwitting courier for the HVA. If she was also an unwitting courier for the Americans, well, that just meant they could abscond with whatever she was carrying without her knowing. It just made things easier that way.
Fortunately, Matt had fallen for his ruse. For the first time since Patrick had met Matt York, his demeanor changed from the previous braggadocio to one resembling actual concern. Matt hadn’t expected this one, “What a fool,” Patrick thought to himself. “He honestly thought his plan would work out without a hitch.”
“Don’t make the mistake I think you’re making.” Matt said ominously.
“Oh, what mistake is that?” Patrick toyed.
“The girl has a guilty conscience. She has a guilty conscience because of you and the way the HVA trains the assets it doesn’t care for.”