The Berlin Conspiracy (19 page)

“Bullshit,” he said, leaning forward.

“How much do you wanna bet that you’re holding the murder weapon in that picture?”

“I never saw this gun!”

“Sure, I believe you, but you won’t be around to clear that up after tomorrow. Killed while trying to get away, probably by some cop who’s working with them.”

The poor jerk sat there with a look of bewilderment on his face. He was trying to fit the pieces together, but his head was spinning. I leaned in and landed the knockout punch.

“Sasha knows you double-crossed us,” I whispered. “He knows you’ve been working for the Americans.” Kovinski went chalk white.

“But you—? How do you—?” He looked helpless, truly lost.

“I work for him,” I said, sipping black coffee.

“Sasha sent you?” he said, almost breathless. “What does he think—?”

“He doesn’t think, Aleks. He
knows.
How do you suppose I got your CIA code name? Sasha has people everywhere, you ought to know that. I’m one of them.”

“I never told anything important. … I swear! Never!” He said it with desperate sincerity. Watching him squirm was turning my stomach, so I put an end to his misery.

“Sasha is willing to give you a second chance,” I said. “A chance to clean the slate.”

“Anything …” he said, suddenly eager to please. “You tell me what and I do!”

At this point, of course, I could have told him to give me the name of his CIA controller. Chances are, though, he would’ve bullshitted or stalled me, even as frightened as he was. It was his nature. Even if he had played it straight, he wouldn’t have the guy’s real name, so I had to take a chance.

“I want you to make contact,” I said. “Arrange a meeting as soon as possible. This morning. Say it’s an emergency. Can you do that?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Tell him your cover is blown, that the Russians are on to you but they’re giving you one last chance. Say you’ve been sent back to get information about an assassination plot, that the KGB knows someone’s gonna be hit—they don’t know who or when, but they’re sure it’s somebody important. Don’t say anything about me or the photograph. Tell them if you don’t get some information to bring back, you’ll be killed. Have you got that?”

He nodded.

“Tell me.”

“Sasha found out I’m double agent, but he gives another chance if I get information … about plot to kill important man, but he don’t know who.”

“What about the photograph?”

“I say nothing.”

“And what happens if you don’t come back with some information?”

“I get killed.”

“That’s right, very good.”

He swallowed hard.

“They’ll probably send you back with some bullshit,” I said, knowing it was just as likely that they’d bump him off and find another patsy, but he didn’t need to hear that. Maybe he knew it already and was trying to figure out which side he stood a better chance with, not realizing that whatever he did, he was finished. It was just a question of how long he could delay the inevitable.

“We’ll meet back here today, at four o’clock,” I said. “Okay?”

“Yes. Four o’clock,” he repeated.

“Good.” I stood up. “That’s it, then.” He grabbed my sleeve as I turned to leave.

“Tell Sasha I do good work for him,” he said pitifully. I gave him a look and he let go.

Melik was parked down the street. I got in and gave him a pat on the back. “Nice going,” I said. We didn’t have to wait long because Kovinski was out like a shot and scurrying like a rat up the sidewalk toward the car. I scrunched down in the back until he passed.

“We follow?” said Melik.

“We follow,” I confirmed, and he pulled the car around, nice and slow, easing it up the street, staying well behind our man. I wondered if all taxi drivers in Berlin were as practiced in the art of surveillance.

Kovinski didn’t disappoint me, went straight for a phone. My only concern had been that I’d overcooked him and he’d run scared. I’d counted on him being smart enough to know that he didn’t have anywhere to run and I seemed to be right. It had worked out well, I thought. Kovinski’s story would shake things up, maybe even cause a misstep. At the very least, he would lead me into the circle. What I’d do after
that, I had no idea. Play it by ear, like always, I guess. I had to admit, though, I was enjoying my comeback.

About an hour later we pulled up in front of a small “art cinema” strangely situated in the middle of a leafy residential block of what would otherwise be a typical middle-class neighborhood. There was no marquee, just some steps leading down from the sidewalk, where a discreet billboard listed the feature attraction as
Schmutziger Engel
(rough translation: “Smutty Angels”). It was a perfect meeting spot for the clandestinely inclined—the picture played around the clock and the customers would be intent on their own business, so to speak. Kovinski had taken three buses to get there and, as far as I could tell, hadn’t spotted us. He looked at his watch, hurried down the steps, and disappeared inside.

I sat in the taxi with a dilemma. Whatever the public demand for a film about angels having sex, the place was bound to be empty at this hour, so there was a good chance that if I went in I’d be made, which would blow everything. On the other hand, anyone with half a brain would realize that Kovinski was a security risk and arrange an alternate exit in case someone like me had followed him and was watching the door. If I hung around I might lose him out the rear exit and be back to square one.

“Have you got a hat?” I asked Melik, and he produced a black fisherman’s cap, which would have to do. I took it and told him to wait, even though I knew he wouldn’t be going anywhere with the meter pushing seventy marks.

I went down the steps and inside the building. The lobby, if you could call it that, was dark, the only significant light coming from the ticket counter, which was a converted cloakroom inhabited by a young lady with bright pink fingernails who
was reading a copy of
Der Spiegel
under a bronze table lamp in the shape of a reclining nude.

“Zwei Mark fünfzig,”
she said, looking up without moving her head. I gave her the money and she pushed a ticket across. I noticed the magazine was open to a story on the election of a new pope, following John XXIII’s death earlier in the month. I remembered reading at the time that Kennedy’s European tour, which included a stop in Rome for an audience with the Holy Father, had been delayed by his untimely demise. The president, unwilling to miss out on the chance to be blessed by—and photographed with—His Holiness, simply rescheduled the trip for the following week and announced to the world that he would look forward to meeting the new pontiff, putting a fair amount of pressure on the College of Cardinals to make a quick decision. It looked from the article like they’d come through, sending up the white smoke in a record-shattering two days.

The girl misinterpreted my interest, gave me a “don’t even think of talking to me” look, and turned the page. She wasn’t much older than sixteen, I thought. Back in the States, she’d be listening to Ricky Nelson records and dreaming about the junior prom.

I made my way into the basement screening room. It was small—maybe a dozen rows, ten seats across, with an aisle down the middle. I pulled the cap down over my forehead, slipped into a seat close to the door, and glanced around. I had underestimated the film’s drawing power. There were twenty or so avid angel fans scattered around the room, in various states of consciousness. At least one of them was snoring. At least I hoped it was snoring.

Kovinski and his controller weren’t hard to spot, the only twosome in a room full of solos. They were tucked away against the wall about halfway down the opposite side, Kovinski
leaning over, talking animatedly to the guy, blocking my view of him.

I turned my attention to the screen. It was night, lit by moonlight, in black and white, very grainy. Two blondes with cardboard wings strapped to their backs were stretched out in the garden of some stately home performing heavenly acts on each other. Every once in a while the picture would cut to a reaction shot of the various marble statues overlooking the scene, which I guess allowed everyone to pretend they were watching art.

Kovinski was getting loud. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it didn’t sound good. He was agitated, making demands. He’d probably blown it, talked about the photograph. I thought he might, and even though I wished he hadn’t, I knew it was worse for him than it was for me. In fact, it might work out fine for me. There was no way this guy, whoever he was, would let Kovinski walk away after he mentioned the photo. He’d have to put him on ice and it would be interesting to see where.

They started to attract attention. A guy in front kept looking over and finally shushed Kovinski. I pushed myself down into the seat, kept my eyes fixed on the moaning angels. I could sense Kovinski’s companion getting agitated, looking around the theater, checking things out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lean over and whisper something, presumably along the lines of “Let’s get the hell out of here.” As the two men got up and headed for the exit, I got my first look at the control agent’s face—my old friend Baby Bear Andy Johnson, the Green Beret from West Texas, was heading up the aisle behind Kovinski.

He’d walk right by me, just inches away. Damn! Why the hell hadn’t I waited outside? And why had I taken an aisle seat? The angels seemed to be reaching a climax and I
prayed that the scene wouldn’t end with them going up in a blaze of orgasmic light. I needed dark right now.

I tilted my head down slightly so the cap would cover most of my face. If I was too obvious I’d just draw attention, but my heart was pounding away so loudly that I thought they might hear it. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought Kovinski spotted me then quickly looked away. He was such a klutz I was afraid Johnson might pick it up, but nothing came. They walked right by and out the door. I exhaled, counted to thirty, pulled myself out of the chair, and followed.

The lobby was empty except for the girl.

“The two men …” I said urgently. “Where did they go!”

“Out,” she said, with studied boredom.

“Which way!” She lifted her head and showed me a smirk that shouldn’t have been in her repertoire yet.

“Is there a back door?” I said urgently, realizing if Johnson had parked a car out there I was screwed. I hadn’t thought it through, was playing it a bit too much by ear.

“The back door isn’t allowed for the public,” she shrugged lethargically.

I dug into my pocket, pulled out a few crumpled bills, threw them on the counter. She looked at them, then at me, wanting more.

“I think you’d better tell me,” I said, taking a step toward her. She smiled, a little nervously, and pointed at a velvet curtain hanging on the opposite wall.

“There,” she said, stuffing my money into her bra. “It’s open.”

I pulled the curtain aside, pushed the door open, and stepped into a narrow alleyway between two buildings.

Then the world went dark.

I woke up on a hard bed
in a strange room, emerging from my black hole with the faint realization that I was still alive, a fact that became less gratifying as the pain hammering away at the base of my skull worked its way into my consciousness. I made an ill-advised attempt to lift my head, realized the mistake, and let it fall back onto the pillow. I think I groaned.

“He’s comin’ ‘round,” somebody said.

My eyes opened without warning and I recognized Andy Johnson—a little fuzzy around the edges—standing beside an open door. I started to pick up the thread of where I left off, wondered how much time had elapsed since he’d karate-chopped me into oblivion.

“I guess that’s two I owe you,” I croaked, lifting myself onto one elbow and feeling for a lump. It was pretty tender and I winced when I found the spot.

“Three strikes an’ you’re out,” he drawled as Sam waltzed in, followed by Powell.

“How’s the head?” Sam inquired.

“Sore,” I grunted.

“Bruised ego, no doubt,” Powell snorted, the sound of his irony-laden voice adding nausea to my growing list of complaints. I noticed he had my envelope in his hand.

“Fuck you all,” I said, swinging my legs around to sit on the edge of the bare mattress, feeling slightly less vulnerable in an upright position. It was a bare room—four walls, the bed, a table, two armchairs, and a hidden microphone.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“One of our safe houses,” Sam answered.

“Funny,” I said, rubbing my neck, “I don’t feel that safe.”

Johnson slipped out the door, closing it behind him. Powell took up his place in one of the armchairs, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin on his face, while Sam paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. He took a few laps before opening the show.

“What the hell, Jack?”

“Am I supposed to answer that?”

“You’re working the wrong side of the fence. They’re the bad guys, goddammit!”

“Bad guys come in all shapes and sizes,” I said, glancing at Powell.

“What about the Colonel?”

“What about him?”

“Last time I checked, he was the enemy.”

“Look, Sam,” I said, aware that I was wasting my breath as long as Powell was in the room, but knowing I had to say something, “The Colonel thinks there’s a play on Kennedy. I don’t know who, how, or why, but I don’t think he’s jerking us around. He’s got good reason—”

“You mean this?” He stuck his hand out and Powell put the Kovinski photo into it.

“That’s part of it.”

Sam paused, gave me an unhappy look. He turned away, pulled a Havana out of his pocket, and took some time lighting it up. We waited for him.

“You got something else, Jack, you better spit it out,” he finally said.

“Nothing solid,” I said, knowing I couldn’t say anything about the source of the photo, the Langley mole. I might later, but not while the information could be traced back to Josef and certainly not in front of Powell.

“What’s this picture supposed to prove?” Sam said through a cloud of smoke.

“Doesn’t it strike you as a bit odd that a guy who works for the KGB would pose for a shot like that?”