Ultimate Issue (37 page)

He turned his back on the man. Coming down the street were half a dozen youths in shabby trenchcoats, heavy boots, and peaked cloth caps. They were laughing loudly, and suddenly Verago felt fear. He didn’t want them to see

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him. It was a gray, drab neighborhood, and they were like a pack of scavenging wolves. Or was he getting paranoid?

He melted into the doorway, and the group went past, guffawing and laughing among themselves. They didn’t even look at him.

Jesus Christ, Verago, you’ve come this far, and you’re not going to chicken out. What the hell can they do to you anyway? Kick you out of the People’s paradise? Deport you from East Berlin? Okay, let Colonel Ochs have his field day and accuse you of causing an international incident. They’ve got your card marked anyway, might as well give them something good to burst their blood vessels.

He crossed the road and put his hand on the handle of the undertaker’s door. For a moment he hesitated. Then he walked in.

Inside was a small office with a table and two chairs. Dark velvet draperies divided it off. There was a faint, sickening-sweet smell of incense and, very softly, organ music. Funereal muzak, thought Verago with distaste.

The curtains parted and a thin, weedy man appeared.

“I ” began Verago, and stopped. He didn’t quite know how to put it.

But the man smiled sympathetically, gave a slight bow and asked softly, “Braunschweig?”

The cloying aroma of the place began to make Verago feel slightly sick. He swallowed, and nodded.

“Fraulein Helga …”

“Of course,” said the man, with deepest understanding. He went to the table and opened a leather-bound book lying on it. He pushed it toward Verago and held out a pen.

“Please,” he invited.

It was like a visitors’ book, with signatures on each page. Verago paused momentarily, then bent down and signed.

The man gently still the book back toward himself and glanced at the signature.

“Ah, Herr Verago,” he said softly, as if the name explained everything.

He straightened up and held one of the velvet curtains open for Verago.

“This way, please.” His tone was compassion itself.

This is crazy, thought Verago. But he went through the gap in the curtain. The thin, mournful man did not follow hirm

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Verago found himself in a small, dark chapel. Four enormous white candles stood in tall holders at each corner of a bier. On the bier was an open coffin. And in the coffin a body.

Verago stepped closer. It was a woman, and despite the gloom the light from the four big candles was enough to illuminate the face. He recognised it. He had last seen it as a photograph in Pech’s office.

The dead woman in the coffin, looking peaceful and contented, was Helga Braunschweig.

Verago stood stiff, dazed. He stared at the face like a hypnotized man. He took another step forward and then stopped.

Suddenly he felt faint and dizzy. The whole room began spinning, and it seemed to him that the soft organ music had grown louder, the sweet syrupy smell more suffocating.

He heard the velvet curtains rustle, glimpsed a man with cropped hair and rimless glasses. He experienced a moment of panicky fear. Then Verago felt sudden great pain and knew no more.

Karlsrahe

Only one lamp was burning in the office. Herr Stamm sat at his desk and with two fingers slowly typed the report that only the minister was to see.

It was after ten o’clock at night, and the offices along the corridor were silent. Herr Stamm had locked his door. And there was only one sheet of paper in the typewriter; there could be no copy of what he had to say.

He had headed it “Sehr Geheim,” and it was indeed most secret. So secret, in fact, that he could not dictate it to anyone.

What he had to say would not make him popular. And he realized, in view of what he already knew, that it could even put his own life in danger.

But Herr Stamm was good at his job, and loyal. Bonn had to know that treason was in the air.

Already he had typed the list of names:

Colonel Karl Otto van Hingeldey, of the Bundeswehr

general staff

Heinz Felfe, former Abwehr officer and now a civil

service member of the BND, the Bundesnachrichten

Dienst, the special intelligence bureau in Bonn

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Peter Fuhrmann, a senior controller in MAD, the Militaerische Abschirmdienst, the Bundeswehr security

service

Three esteemed men, experienced intelligence officers, entrusted with the most delicate state secrets, and privy, as part of their duties, to the most highly classified NATO documents.

And each one of them a Soviet agent.

Herr Stamm sat back and looked at what he had awkwardly typed so far.

He sighed. Bonn’s whole intelligence network, all its various special agencies, the very heart of security and espionage, had been penetrated.

The light from the lamp fell on the secret file that contained the background on General Edgar Feuchtinger. The man who had recruited the ring. The man who inadvertently had led Herr Stamm to the trial….

He didn’t have to make a special report on the general. He was dead. Herr Stamm allowed himself a cold smile. People died rather conveniently in Berlin.

He looked at his watch. He felt tired, and he wanted to get home before midnight. But he wasn’t finished yet.

He had to add one more name to the list of traitors.

East Berin

“Stop play acting,” ordered an unfriendly voice in accented English.

Verago opened his eyes, but shut them again as the glare from a white light stabbed into his eyeballs. His head was thudding, and he felt sick.

“Cook at me,” commanded the voice.

He tried again and squinted, trying to escape the harshness of the light. He was handcuffed, sitting on a chair in a room with whitewashed brick walls. At a desk opposite, a fat man contemplated him. The man was bald but for a single piece of hair, like a string of spaghetti, that was pasted across his shiny pink head.

Verago licked his lips. “Where am I?” he asked.

The man laughed. “Don’t you know? I’m surprised. You’re under arrest.”

Gradually Verago became conscious that not only his head ached. His body hurt. As if somebody had kicked him; he wondered if they actually had. He couldn’t remember it.

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“Arrest? What what for?”

“Espionage, of course,” said the fat man. “My name is Schultz. Sicherheits Dienst. SSD. You understand?” He held up an object. Verago tried to focus on it. It was his wallet.

“You recognise

Verago nodded. The handcuffs were biting into his skin. “Could you loosen these, please? They’re cutting my wrists.”

Schultz was holding something else he had taken out of the wallet. “And this? You recognize this?”

He thrust it in front of Verago.

“It’s my ID card. My army identification.”

The man threw it on the desk and jumped up. “So!” he exclaimed. “You admit. That is very sensible of you. I think we’ll get on.”

The light was still bothering Verago. He tried to look away. “I don’t know what this is about, but I want the American authorities notified. And I want to know what I am doing here.”

With surprising agility for a fat man, Schultz swung himself on top of his desk and sat on it facing Verago.

“You are in no position to want anything. You are in deep trouble. You are here illegally. As a spy. You “

“You’re crazy,” cut in Verago. He felt awful, but his indignation was taking over. “I have a visa. I “

Schultz leaned over and picked up Verago’s passport lying next to his blotter.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “you have a visa, all right. Obtained by fraud. You did not tell anybody you were an American officer.. You said you were a civilian. A tourist. You deliberately deceived the customs and immigration. Why are you running around in civilian clothes and not in uniform? Why did you call yourself a lawyer? Why didn’t you cross at the official border post used by allied military personnel? Why smuggle yourself into our country?”

Schultz took a deep breath. Before Verago could say anything, he rambled on:

“I will tell you. You are on a special mission. A spy mission. Or maybe sabotage. Unfortunately for you, we have caught you, redhanded.”

He nodded with satisfaction. He brushed his head with his right hand, to make sure the string of spaghetti was still stuck in place.

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“Your mission was doomed from the start, of course. You spies don’t realise we are always ready for you.”

“You know you’re talking nonsense,” Verago said quietly. Maybe he could try reasoning with the fat man. “I just came across for twentyfour hours, as a visitor. I am a lawyer. I’m here privately, not on duty. I came to see the sights.”

“Oh, sure,” Schultz agreed sarcastically. He swung his legs joyfully. “In time you will tell us everything. What were you doing there anyway?”

“Where?” asked Verago.

“The place we found you.”

“Oh, the funeral parlor.”

Schultz’s eyes widened. “Funeral parlor? What funeral parlor? I warn you not to play the fool. No, the bomb site where we found you. In the Kroll strasse.”

Verago’s head was splitting. “I don’t understand. I was in the mortician “

“You’re wasting your time. You had a struggle with a man on a bombed site. You were seen. The police came. The man had run off, and you were Iying unconscious on the ground. By a wall. He must have hit you. Who was the man? Why did you fight?”

“There wasn’t any fight, there wasn’t any bomb site,” said Verago.

“But we have a witness.” Schultz raised his hand. “Please. Don’t take my word for anything.”

He got down from the desk and went to the door. He opened it and shouted to somebody outside: “Bring him in.”

He turned to Verago. “Why do you insist on telling lies? You know the truth will out. That is an old American saying, is it not? Anyway, I will prove it to you.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” shouted Schultz.

A man entered. He had cropped hair and rimless glasses.

“Is that him?” asked Schultz.

The man studied Verago. The bright light shone on 08 glasses, they redected the glare.

“Yes7” he said.

“Tell me again,” ordered Schultz.

“I was walking along the Kroll strasse. I saw two men struggling. On the bomb site. By the demolished cinema You know the one?”

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Schultz nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, go on.”

“It looked nasty. A robbery perhaps. This was one of the men. I recognize his foreign clothes. I ran for the police. But when the Vopos arrived, the other man had gone and this one was Iying on the ground, unconscious.”

“Well,” said Schultz to Verago, “what do you say to that?”

“It never happened,” replied Verago.

Schultz sniffed his distaste. “And you will tell me that you of course have never seen this man before?”

“No. I have, as a matter of fact.”

The man with the rimless glasses turned his head toward him. His face was expressionless.

“Ach so! How surprising.” Schultz smirked. “And where was that?”

“In a cafe,” said Verago.

“What were you doing there?”

“Drinking a schnapps.”

“Really.”

Schultz scratched his chin. Then he asked the croppedhair man, “Did you see this American spy in a cafe?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

Schultz spread out his hands like a man who gives up. “There you are, Captain Verago. I do not understand your little game, but it’s not very successful, is it? This man is just an innocent passerby. Obviously he never saw you before.”

Interesting, thought Verago. They don’t want to know about the cafe. Or Trudi. They don’t want to ask me any questions about anything there.

He shrugged.

Schultz nodded to the man. “You may go, with the thanks of the authorities.”

“Happy to do my duty,” said the man.

It was a nice little command performance, Verago thought as the man shut the door.

“Well,” said Schultz, sitting down behind his desk, “I don’t know what you were doing to get knocked about by a stranger.” He leered suddenly. “Maybe you don’t like girls? Maybe you prefer young men and made a very improper advance to this individual? Is that why he beat you

Verago smiled coldly. “Are you enjoying yourself,

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Schultz? Or do you judge everybody by your own standards?”

Schultz tightened his lips. “That’s not the way to get rid of your little bracelets,” he warned.

He opened a desk drawer and took out a pencil. It had a very sharp point, and he felt it with his thumb. It seemed to satisfy him. Then, from another drawer, he took some sheets of paper and placed them neatly in front of him.

“Now, then,” he said, “you have a clear choice. You can now make a voluntary statement, a full confession about your mission, what your objective is, who your superiors are, your contacts here, who’s working with you, the lot. If you do that, I promise you everything will be quite pleasant, and we can part the best of friends. How’s that?”

“Very considerate.”

Schultz’s eyes narrowed. “Or you can go to a little place where everybody is eventually persuaded to tell the truth. I am sure they’d be delighted to welcome you at Hohenschoenhausen.”

“Hohen what?”

“Hohenschoenhausen,” Schultz repeated with relish. “A little SSD holiday establishment. After all, you said you want to see the sights of East Berlin, and that’s a sight you’ll long remember.” He laughed. “Well, which is it to be?”

He sat poised, the pencil hovering ready to write.

“I want to talk to the American liaison mission,” said Verago.

Schultz shook his head. “You are very badly informed. Your authorities do not have relations with us. You are on your own. Perhaps you should persuade Washington to recognize us. Sooner or later they’ll have to. Unfortunately, it’ll be too late for you.”

He waited, but Verago stayed silent. Eventually he sighed and put down the pencil.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll arrange for transport.”

He put the paper back in the drawer. He was a methodical man.