by Fox J Wilde
“Matt York,” she replied without hesitation. Oddly, Grandfather didn’t appear to be the least bit surprised by this.
“I figured,” he laughed. “Like I said, the Americans and the HVA have very separate interests. But the clandestine services and their little operations are pretty easy to sniff out once you’ve done counter-intelligence for as long as I have. That, and intelligence apparatuses can be a lot less original than you might think. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if they were trying to get Matt York over into the GDR just like me.”
“H-how did you know?” Lena sniffed with surprise.
“Oh, call it a hunch.” he laughed again, “He’s just a little too perfect. That, and the fact that most of you are using your super-secret rooftop radios to listen to Radio Brandenburg?! Why in the hell would they be playing that anti-American nonsense unless they were trying to butter us up? Matt also speaks weird German. If you watch his interviews, he speaks it nearly flawlessly, but he uses phrases he would only know if he grew up on this side of the Wall instead of being handled by a case officer on that side, and he uses the phrases out of context. He’s being handled by someone that didn’t quite account for that. That’s pretty typical of intelligence organizations these days.”
“That makes a lot of sense. But how did you know that we were...”
“Well you’ve already told me about the roof-top radios.” he chuckled. “And, come on. You think my block doesn’t have its own? The only reason I don’t personally have one is because I have carte blanche from the State to do whatever the hell I damn well please. But I have my community too.”
“That’s so awesome!” Lena giggled. “You are so punk rock.”
“More than you will ever know,” Grandfather winked. “What, pray tell, were those idiot Americans wanting you to singlehandedly mastermind?”
“Well...” Lena thought. She knew she had to tell him, but she knew that doing so might risk his ire, or worse, get Hans in a worse position than he was already in, “It’s…complicated.”
“Oh, come on, tell me!” Grandfather rolled his eyes. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s particularly grandiose and movie-worthy. I would expect nothing less of you and your hijinks.”
“...it’s…it’s about Hans.”
“Oh my,” Grandfather’s voice took on a serious tone. “Oh my, yes. I was wondering when that little issue would come to call.”
“You aren’t mad at me, are you?”
“Oh, gods no! I’ve been waiting months for this to come up. And let me tell you this: I’m honestly surprised that the Americans have been this loyal to some random asset. Normally they just debrief the network and let the poor bastard rot, which is more or less what we would do. But I’ll assuage your fears, since you are being so honest with me: Hans is alive and well.
“He’s scared, of course, and could do with some fresh air. But I’m not of the business of torturing people—especially children. Remember, I’ve actually had teenagers. I know what the little shits are capable of. Unless the Americans are wanting to cultivate agents who have the particularly rare skill of liking girls or having acne, I know that they didn’t trust him with anything more than I would. Gods…what better way to get some girl to date you, than to tell them you are a super-secret spy? No, Hans is perfectly safe. Just between you and me, I’m only keeping him locked up because I know it pisses off the Americans. If it were up to me, I’d have one of my own agents spank him, and then pack him across the Wall.”
“But what about the network?” Lena asked, before thinking better of it.
“Oh, I know who most of them are,” Grandfather said, with a wink. “I even know who the radio operator is.”
“You know Mrs. Schroeder?!” Lena gasped, before thinking better of it.
“Of course, I do!” Grandfather scoffed. “But that doesn’t do me any good—it’s their crypto keys I’m after. If I go after Janet Schroeder, they’ll just switch the keys and then I’m back to square one.”
“Gertrude.” Lena corrected, trying to be helpful, “Her name is Gertrude Schroeder.”
“Oh, goodness me,” Grandfather sighed. “Age takes the memory first. In any case, I have no intention of brutalizing Hans or her. I only want their information. Once I can find out their crypto keys, I’ll just listen in. That way I get better information, and I don’t have to harm anyone. Much more neighborly, don’t you think?”
“That’s wonderful,” Lena sighed, relieved.
“But back to the important parts. You and I both know that you aren’t working for Matt. Matt is just an agent; I need to know who his boss is.”
For a second, Lena hesitated. She felt betrayed by Matt and Mr. Collins for putting her in this position. Yet something about Mr. Collins was just so…trustworthy. He was the sort of man that everyone wanted to be around. He was a genuine person that knew how to let unimportant things slide. She admired him, and didn’t want to disappoint him. Yet he was also on that side of the Wall—no one could touch him over there. What harm could telling Grandfather actually do?
“You won’t hurt him, will you?” Lena asked sheepishly.
“Who? Matt or his boss?”
“Either, I guess.”
“Oh, Matt can be controlled.” Grandfather laughed. “Worse comes to worst, we’ll just deport his British arse and be done with it. But his boss is a case officer. By and large, those people are untouchable from a political standpoint, and he wouldn’t ever be on this side of the Wall if he knows what is good for him.”
“His name is Marcus Collins, I think,” Lena said plainly.
Suddenly, Grandfather shoved her out of his lap onto the floor, and stood up with a start. For the first time since Lena had met him, he seemed unnerved…angry, almost. He was fidgeting in place, tightening and re-tightening his hands as if they had gone numb, “What in the hell?” Lena boggled to herself, “What’s the big deal??”
“You…” he started anxiously, “You…you have to be absolutely certain.”
“Certain of what?” Lena asked honestly.
“Don’t toy with me right now!” Grandfather yelled. “Answer my damn question! It’s a great sin to lie to an elderly person. Are you absolutely certain you have that name right?!”
“Y-yes...” Lena responded, suddenly afraid, “Marcus Collins.”
“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” Grandfather said as he began to pace. “Oh this…this is…oh why? Why did…but he…there’s no way…when did I…it’s unbelievable! It’s preposterous!”
“Grandfather, what’s...” she started, before being interrupted by an increasingly manic Grandfather.
“Shut up, you brat, and don’t interrupt old people when they are trying to remember things! What with senility kicking in, it’s too hard as it is!”
“I’m sorry,” Lena said, on the verge of tears. He had never treated her like this before.
“This…but…oh, Lena…you have no idea…if…”
For some time, Grandfather paced and sweat, tightening and re-tightening his fists, rambling like a gibbering idiot. Lena didn’t know what to expect next, but it wouldn’t have surprised her if he suddenly punched a wall, or set something on fire, or began hysterically laughing or crying or…suddenly, she realized that a nervous Grandfather was far more unsettling than anything Dragon Lady had ever done.
“Alright,” he said, after some time. “Alright. This…no. No, that won’t work. But…no, no, that certainly won’t do, either.”
“What won’t work, Grandfather?” Lena asked, trying to be helpful and not annoying at the same time.
“Lena, please don’t take offense to this, but you will have to find a way of entertaining yourself for the rest of the night. I have to think. This is very important, and I can’t be bothered to be particularly Grandfatherly tonight. One thing is very certain, though: you will be going back to West Berlin,
and you will be playing a show with Matt fucking York!”
Das Verdickungsdiagramm
The night was cold, and filled with a mist that threated rain at any moment. The ground was wet, with little puddles and streams meandering through the cobbled ground. Vivika, who seemed to be the only one out at this time of night, walked into the phone booth wearing thick black sunglasses. The glasses made it hard to see; but it was better this way. Occasionally, she would reach a finger up behind them to nurse her poor eyeball. It had swollen terribly, and she could barely see through it. Carefully, she checked to make sure the door was closed behind her. Then she checked to make sure that no one was about that could see her, before pulling out her key-chain.
Fumbling through the few keys on it, she handled a particularly nondescript one that was heavily tarnished. Considering it for a second, she placed a finger roughly half-over the gripping end, and the small hole drilled through. Then, she quickly dialed a few digits on the phone box’s keypad, listening to make sure the tones were correct, before blowing into the hollow tooth-side of the small key to phreak out the final tone of the number.
“Zero, zero, five, seven, two, nine...” the automated voice on the other line began. She knew that this was a random series of meaningless numbers that would go on forever, just in case the Stasi became wise to the secret line. No doubt if they did figure out how to listen in, they would spend months meticulously annotating gibberish, before sending it to the highest-ranking members of the Soviets so that they too could puzzle over it.
“I’m sorry, wrong number.” she said into the receiver.
“Five, three, zero, two, two...”
“I’m sorry, wrong number.” she said again.
“Zero, nine, three, nine, zero...”
“I’m sorry, wrong number.” she said one final time, before hanging up. She sighed with relief, glad to have that business over with.
Looking around to make sure that she was still alone, she left small phone booth. She took one final irritated swipe at her assailed eyeball, before slowly shuffling down the street. The night’s fog clung to the asphalt and buildings alike, making them glisten with the dampened streetlights. It definitely smelled like a long rain forthcoming—just like her mood. She resigned to walk off the funk, hoping that the exercise would somehow improve her outlook. It wouldn’t, though. Just like her black eye, she knew this from experience. Still, she might as well give it a try.
She walked past a series of meaningless structures, and a scant few meaningless cars parked right next to them. Occasionally, a meaningless statue or gilding would barely catch her attention, before she decided it wasn’t worth the effort to look. Every single windowsill, cobblestone and lamp-post was unoriginal and devoid of life; a relentless onslaught of copying and half-hearted attempts to meet the demand of the GDR’s slowly-expanding population. As she walked, she realized—for perhaps the thousandth time that week—her lone super-power: her ability to see the future. Repeating the same routine day and day out does that for you.
“Every day is exactly the same.” she sighed to herself drearily.
Another streetlight; another set of cobblestones; maybe a few more idle doorways with the same type of people behind them, sleeping and ignorant, happy in their lack of variety. Vivika felt both sorry for them and jealous at the same time. “They have no idea how complicated things can get.” she despaired, “Thank god they never have to.”
A lone figure walked her way from off in the distance, wearing typical evening attire of a long coat and dark fedora. Nothing about him was remotely interesting, and that was precisely what he had in common with everyone else—complete lack of originality. Like everyone else she encountered, however, there was a chance that this one would serve some small purpose in her life. Why not? Why not ask? As the man approached, tunelessly humming some inane nonsense to himself, Vivika called out to see if he had what she needed.
“Excuse me, Sir,” she asked, as the man kept on walking right past her. “Excuse me, Sir!”
“Yes?” the man stopped to face her. “What do you need?”
“Do you have a cigarette? I’m all out.” It was a lie of course. Vivika was never out of cigarettes—she simply refused to pay for them. Why pay for cigarettes when she could procure them from nearly anyone in the GDR? By now, she had a litany of random strangers she could corner on nearly every local block for one. Sure, she was probably annoying; but she more or less enjoyed that fact. It was the small price she made them pay for their blissful lack of variety.
“Yes, yes, sure,” the man said, annoyed, as he reached into his pocket and pulled one out, before promptly speeding off.
“Thanks.” she absently called after him. She didn’t really mean it, but why not say it anyway? It probably increased her chances of getting one from him next time around.
Happily, she put the cigarette in her mouth, lit a match and then lit the tip of her smoke. While the flame cast a bright light on the cigarette, she noted the small message written on it, committing it to memory. Once her cigarette was finished, the message would be gone forever. Satisfied with her small part, she continued her stroll down the street. She only had one more errand to run before the night was through, and then she could deliver her message to Codename: Rahab. Yet this was by far the worst of her errands. They included him, which meant they included her once again being little more than a piece of meat.
It was a type of physical behavior that she had yet to fully figure out. She knew it was wrong—it wasn’t wanted, after all—but it wasn’t really rape…was it? It was ugly, but it wasn’t forced on her. Not in the strictest sense of the word, really. She had agreed to it for her safety, after all. Then again, she had never really tried to deny him. Maybe if she did, then he would force her. ...it was just something she really didn’t want to think about. Words like ‘rape’ had a certain power to them. The second she allowed herself to identify with that word, well…better to just agree to it and get it over with. That way, she got what she wanted in the long run, and she got to maintain a modicum of control in the meantime.
She walked down a dark alleyway. It was another bland and uninteresting alleyway, just like all the others, but this one wasn’t meaningless—no, it held a sad, unfortunate meaning for her, if for no one else. Since last meeting him in West Berlin in another alleyway, he had taken a liking to clandestine sex. Now it was happening far more frequently, and she could barely stand it anymore. Still, she needed something from him now. In order to get it, she would have to give herself to him. It made her want to throw up.
She saw him standing in the alley entrance. He was just a faceless silhouette, like a villain in a movie, with the street light cascading around his shadow. As he began to walk towards her, she felt a chill as if the night was becoming colder with his presence. Goosebumps spread on her skin, and she swallowed in anticipation.
“Well, well.” he called to her. “Looks like someone got themselves into trouble the other day.”
“What are you talking about, Patrick?” she replied, irritated.
“Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about,” he menaced as he drew closer and closer. “You were following Lena. I warned you about doing that.”
“The Stasi told me to. I’m a god-damned spitzel, remember? I have to follow her everywhere and report on where she goes.”
“I told you not to do that,” he hissed, as he walked up to her, his face inches from hers. “I told you that she wasn’t your problem anymore. I told you to stay away from her.”
“She’s my friend, Patrick. Why would I avoid her?”
“Maybe they should have given you two black eyes.” he reached up and prodded around her eye. “Maybe then you would learn.”
For a second, Vivika stared at him insolently, trying not to recoil from his touch. She hated him so much, and she wanted him to know it. She wanted him to know it down to the core of his
being. But she knew it was futile—Patrick didn’t care in the slightest.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“The hell you are! But you are about to be. You aren’t just messing with overworked and apathetic Stasi officers anymore. You have raised the suspicions of HVA agents who can smell bullshit a mile away. You’re lies don’t work on me, and they certainly won’t work on them. Once they figure out what you are up to, you are out from under my umbrella of protection…that is something you don’t want.”
“I…I know I don’t. You are right,” Vivika responded in a small voice. She knew what the ‘that’ was, and it was far worse than anything Patrick was doing to her. She didn’t know all of Patrick’s coworkers, but she had met the Dragon Lady—the psychotic bitch with the dead, evil eyes. Vivika had only seen her one time, and that was more than enough. The way she had looked at Vivika, eyeing her up and down, made her skin crawl.
“I’m sorry,” she continued. “You are right. I’ve made a horrible mistake.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Patrick said, as he moved behind her and began…grabbing her. “I’ve fixed it. I covered you. I told them you were a stupid, bored, little girl who does stupid, bored, little girl things. For now, you are safe.”
“Th-thank…thank you,” she responded, trying to sound genuine as his hands found their way under her coat.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said roughly. “But we’ve got a few other things we need to talk about, my dear.”
“What’s…what’s that?” she asked, not caring all that much. He was kissing her neck now, and it was once again confusing her. Her body was responding to it even though she really didn’t want it to. It was creepy and wrong-feeling, but her body didn’t seem to care what she thought about it.
“There is a complication now,” he said, as he lowered her jacket off of her shoulder, exposing her skin to the cold night air. “A few new developments have come to my attention, and you and I need to figure out a way to rectify it.”