Winter Work Page 3

  He inhaled deeply from his cigarette, then swallowed more beer as he scanned the customers in the other room. She could sense him shifting back into an operational posture, a heightened sense of his surroundings. Old habits, never far from reach.

  “Obviously you didn’t seek me out to talk about the good old days.”

  “Not those good old days, anyway. I need advice. On personnel.”

  “Ours or theirs?”

  “Both.”

  He looked around again, fiddled with his lighter.

  “Are you part of this goddamn phone bank Diggs and Gentry have put together?”

  “So you know about that?”

  He chuckled, venting more smoke.

  “It’s the biggest running gag in town. In our circles, anyway. You know how all this got started, don’t you?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Middle of January, the night the protesters broke into Stasi headquarters. You catch any of that on the tube?”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Our president did, that’s for sure. And when the longhairs started tossing boxes out the window, everything falling to the ground like candy from a fucking piñata, Bush turned to his aides and said, ‘I hope we’re getting some of that.’ Completely offhand, but, hey, when the president’s your former director…”

  “So people jumped.”

  “Like lemmings from a cliff. First thing they did was put Lindsey Ward on a plane to Berlin. Now there’s a woman on her way up in a hurry, so she was the perfect choice to come light a fire under their slack asses. By noon the next day she’s sitting in a bad Italian restaurant on Mexikoplatz with Diggs and Gentry, asking why their people weren’t out on the cobbles, scooping up the goodies. A month later and here you are, part of the big push, even though we’re still playing catch-up. So who’s running this shit show?”

  “Diggs. In name, at least, although Gentry seems to give most of the orders.”

  Lester Diggs ran the Agency’s small station in East Berlin, and still reported to a different boss than his West Berlin counterpart, Bill Gentry. Both of their bosses reported to Lindsey Ward, the new deputy director for operations.

  “From everything I’ve heard, Diggs still can’t get used to the idea that the game is over, and that he’s suddenly free to move around as he chooses,” Baucom said, shaking his head. “For years the poor bastard couldn’t even walk down to the corner Tante-Emma-Laden to buy his milk without the Stasi snapping his picture. Every agent he recruited was either blown or turned out to be working for the bad guys. You know what he told Lindsey Ward while they were twirling their noodles?”

  Claire shook her head. She knew better than to interrupt when Baucom was on a roll.

  “That it was still too dangerous to make a move. Poke your head above the trench, he said, and they just might blow it off. Hell, no one is even in their trenches anymore, much less armed and dangerous.”

  “Then why are you still being so careful?”

  “Because our other old pals from the KGB are still in business, of course. Glasnost or not, their station down in Karlshorst is business as usual.”

  “Do you think the Stasi’s not even listening to the phones anymore?”

  “Even if they are, who cares? Now, the KGB, that’s another matter. They’re as preoccupied as we are with trying to scoop up the loose marbles rolling out of Normanenstrasse. Too worried some of them might have their fingerprints. Reach for the same marble and maybe they’ll step on your fingers. Or chop ’em off.”

  “I knew there was a good reason I wanted to see you.”

  Baucom shrugged.

  “I haven’t told you anything you couldn’t pick up around the office.”

  “Not yet, maybe. We’ll get there in a second.” Baucom raised an eyebrow. “If it makes you feel any better, Diggs made an executive decision a couple days ago to ditch the phone calls. From now on it’s going to be strictly a door-to-door operation.”

  Baucom’s mouth dropped open. Then he laughed loudly enough to draw a disapproving stare from a young man in the next room, who shook open the pages of his newspaper as if to block any further intrusion.

  “Like the goddamn Fuller Brush man? Wonderful. Will you be carrying sample kits? Maybe some greenbacks from the petty cash fund to show ’em what’s waiting for every lucky winner behind door number three?”

  “I agree. It’s clumsy, all of it. But how would you do it?”

  His eyes narrowed in thought.

  “I’d use cutouts, not our own people. And I’d approach their people on the fly while they’re out and about—shopping at the market or walking their dogs. Use a little goddamn discretion. Slip them a message in a park, or on a crowded street, then clear the hell out of there to wait for a response.”

  “And if they’re willing to bite, how are they supposed to get back in touch?”

  “By fax. We’d put a number in the message.”

  “Fax?”

  “The East Germans and Russians never figured out how to intercept those. Or not in any way that they could make heads or tails of the signal.”

  “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

  He shrugged.

  “Anybody operational in Berlin base has a fax machine at home. Or used to.”

  “Do they take it away when you retire?”

  “Not if you bought it with your own money, and used a private number.”

  “Was this an authorized means of communication?”

  “No comment.”

  She smiled appreciatively and nodded.

  “If I was still going to be part of this sideshow, I’d be tempted to ask for your fax number.”

  “Wait. You’re off this job now?”

  “Off the sales force, anyway, as of noon today. Gentry put me on another piece of it. He claims it’s mine and mine alone.”

  “I see.”

  Baucom slid his chair a little closer and took another drag from his cigarette. Claire glanced toward the other room. The fellow who’d looked over was still walled off behind his paper. The waiter was gone.

  “A hot lead, he called it. A single source, from high in the food chain.”

  “HVA?”

  “Yes.”

  “Surprised we even had his phone number.”

  “We didn’t. Or not at first. Apparently, he reached out to us.”

  “I hope he’s offering more than just his memories.”

  “Meaning what? Documents?”

  “It’s the most valuable item they still have, and apparently even those are disappearing fast. They’ve been running shredders nonstop for so many hours that they’ve burned out every machine. Take a nice new model over there and you could probably sell it for a bundle. The rest of the records they’re either burning or shipping off to Moscow. Unless this fellow says otherwise.”

  “All that Gentry will say is that it’s bigger than anything else we’ve got going. There’s an asset, and I’ve been assigned to handle him.”

  She expected Baucom to be impressed. Instead he frowned.

  “What? You look skeptical.”

  “The right name might bring me around. But I suppose this is where you tell me it’s beyond my clearance.”

  “I might’ve, except I don’t know yet, either.”

  “Well, how high in the food chain, then? Top ten? Top twenty?”

  “A colonel. That’s all I know.”

  Baucom sat up straighter. He swallowed more beer as he thought it over.

  “That probably means at least top ten. What’s he asking for?”

  “Gentry says his biggest concern is safe harbor.”

  “Makes sense. If the West Germans prosecute, anyone at that rank is bound to be vulnerable, and most of his colleagues would rather see him in the grave than in the d
ock, where he might implicate all of them. But, at the risk of being rude, there’s one thing I don’t get.”

  “Why me?”

  “Exactly. Nothing personal, but…”

  “No. I agree. I don’t know the territory, the players, or much of anything else about the way business is done here.”

  “Did you ask Gentry that question?”

  “A fresh face, he said. He told me the asset wants to deal with someone who won’t be easily recognized.”

  Baucom frowned.

  “Depends on who they pair you with from Berlin base, I guess.”

  “No one. I’m on my own. The fewer moving parts, the better, Gentry says.”

  Baucom’s frown deepened. He wiped away a ring of condensation.

  “If I’m the asset—and I’m not, although I am a careful old bastard who grew up playing by the same set of rules—then I’d insist on someone who, if need be, could walk every street and alley on his side of the fence in complete darkness, and still find his way home. And it wouldn’t be a woman, no offense.”

  “None taken, but why?”

  “Because that’s how those bastards have always operated. They love honey traps and Romeos and using women in all the wrong ways as much as any intelligence service, and they’ve placed a few of them in the West. But in terms of advancement and trust and sensitive matters of their own survival? No girls allowed. It’s just not in their DNA. And that’s almost certainly how this guy is wired. He’d also want his contact to come equipped with plenty of support. Or I would, anyway. You said he reached out first? Who was his initial contact?”

  “Gentry didn’t say, and I asked him three different ways. Nothing.”

  Baucom shook his head.

  “Christ almighty, Claire. What have they told you?”

  “Only that the whole thing goes operational tomorrow. With a meetup, a Treff, sometime in the afternoon or evening. All I have is an address, at some greasy spoon over on their side. They’ll brief me on the rest tomorrow morning.”

  “So this meetup, is it to give him a look at you, or for him to proffer a sample of the goods?”

  “That’s up to him. All we know is that someone’s supposed to come to my table, take a seat, and ask if I think Andreas Thom is good enough to make it with Bayer Leverkusen.”

  “East Germany’s best footballer. The first one to sign a contract with the West German Bundesliga.”

  “I know. I looked it up. I’m supposed to answer, ‘He can’t miss.’ ”

  “And after that?”

  “I’ve been instructed to follow his lead. Or the lead of whoever he sends.”

  “Who’s your backup?”

  “None. Solo, coming and going. No spotters, either, far as I know. And no route security.”

  “Is there an emergency signal? An extraction plan? I mean, I know Gentry wants to move as quickly as possible, but still.”

  “He says things are fast and loose enough now that I won’t need any of that.”

  “Christ on a donkey. He’s probably right, but he’s paid to think like NASA. On something this big you’d better have backups for your backups. All I can figure is that you’ll have them, but he’s not telling you who they are, or where they’ll be deployed. Which, to me, is a dumb fucking way to run an op, but maybe that’s the style now.”

  “I doubt that’s the case. Gentry seems to mean what he’s saying.”

  Baucom drained the last of his beer. Claire had nothing to add, because he was echoing her own doubts and anxieties.

  “Well, I hate to say this, kiddo, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect that someone was, well…”

  “Setting me up to fail?”

  He frowned and waggled his right hand. “That’s one possibility. Or setting up the asset to fail, which is just as bad. It could also mean they don’t want to look overeager. Maybe this is our way of telling him there are other offers on the table. Or, hell, maybe it’s like Gentry says, that this is the way the asset wants it. Could be any of those.”

  “But if it’s one of the former, why?”

  He pondered that a moment, then shook his head.

  “Sorry. I’ve still got a few friends inside, but for what you need? I’m probably wasting your time.”

  He sagged in his chair. For all his supposed reluctance to get involved, it was clear that he had hoped to be more useful.

  But Claire still had a surprise for him.

  “Hold that apology. There’s another favor I need, and this one’s operational.”

  “Operational?”

  Baucom perked up like a hungry old dog that has just heard the rustle of a food bag. By the time she was finished telling him, he again looked ten years younger.

  4

  It was only a five-minute walk from the crime scene to Emil’s dacha, if you stayed along the lakeshore before cutting uphill to his back gate. But Lieutenant Dorn didn’t know that, so Emil took the long way instead, circling uphill to a gravel road that ran along a ridge to his front gate. He needed extra time to think about what to say—about Lothar, their relationship, the man’s recent movements. He also wanted to impart some information about Krauss without seeming too eager or obvious. And, frankly, he needed a few moments to deal with his grief, and an extra five minutes of brisk walking proved to be just the tonic.

  “Here we are,” he said, stepping forward to unlatch the gate.

  Surrounding the small wooded lot was a high fence with an unsightly coil of barbed wire along the top. Dorn stared in apparent surprise.

  “That’s not very neighborly.”

  “It was the security committee’s doing, after Wolf built his place. They didn’t want to make it easy for some foreign invader to scoop up all three of us in one fell swoop.”

  “With Lothar Fischer being the third?”

  Emil nodded.

  “And that big birdhouse, looking down at us from that post over there. A surveillance camera?”

  “They said it was necessary for my security, although an enterprising wren didn’t think so. She built a nest last spring that blocked the lens for two months. I wouldn’t let anyone clear it away until the fledglings were gone. I’ll confess, it was liberating to not have them know who was visiting my house all that time.”

  “So someone besides you also received the signal?”

  “That’s how all of those cameras work.”

  “Interesting. Even the Stasi has to hide from the Stasi.”

  “Had to, Lieutenant. Had to.”

  A mere four months ago they wouldn’t have had this conversation, or not without each of them worrying that the other might report it. Dorn was silent a few seconds, as if still adjusting to these new freedoms. And even they didn’t come without risks, Emil supposed, or else why would Lothar Fischer be lying dead at the bottom of the hill?

  The path to the door was covered by wet leaves. Emil really needed to do some weeding and raking. He’d become such a slacker. He wondered if he’d have the energy to plant vegetables this May. Maybe instead he’d still be looking for a job. He should have already started some seedlings indoors.

  The scent of smoke from Wolf’s A-frame was even stronger now. Should he mention that to Dorn, or let the cop figure it out for himself? Maybe it was only Wolf’s wife, Andrea, who had come back, or the ill-fated son-in-law, recovering from his breakdown. There were only a half dozen houses at this end of the lake, and none was really suited for cold weather. Their isolated little community had never before been this crowded in the dead of winter.

  “We won’t be alone,” Emil said as he opened the door.

  “I assumed as much. You’re married, right?”

  “Yes, but my wife won’t reveal anything. She’s, well…you’ll see.”

  They stepped into a cramped hallway with a kitchenette to the right. Looming
just ahead was a rustic great room with a vaulted ceiling spanned by timber beams. Big, drafty windows at the far end looked out toward the lake. Another large window on the right had a view of the woods and a row of bird feeders. There was also a rumpled couch, a matching easy chair, and an end table piled with paperback novels, a nature guidebook, and a pair of binoculars. A braided oval rug and a woodstove sat in the middle of the floor. There was no television. The doorways to two bedrooms opened from the wall on the left.

  A woman’s voice called out.

  “Emil, is that you?”

  She emerged from the doorway of the second bedroom, an attractive woman in her early fifties, trim and a bit flushed, with hair clipped short enough to show off delicate ears and a graceful neck. Dorn doffed his cap in a courtly gesture.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Frau Grimm. I’m Lieutenant Dorn from Bernau station. I won’t be long.”

  She reddened slightly and looked to Grimm with a pleading expression.

  “This is Frau Weber, Lieutenant. Karola Weber. She is a caretaker for my wife, Bettina.”

  “My apologies.”

  Dorn’s gaffe appeared to have thrown him off balance. Emil was fine with that, even if he wasn’t particularly proud of how he had managed it.

  “Everything all right with Bettina?” Emil asked, hoping to at least set things right with Karola.

  “Yes. She’s sleeping at the moment, but she’s had a good morning. I fed her, and we watched a little television.”

  “Good.”

  He turned to Dorn.

  “Mind if I look in on her?”

  “Please.”

  “Can I take your coat?” he asked.

  “I think I’ll keep it on for now.”

  “Sorry about the chill. We run a space heater in Bettina’s room, but otherwise there’s only the woodstove. Excuse me a moment.”

  He stepped through the doorway. His wife was indeed sleeping, on an angled hospital bed, or otherwise he would have leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek. Her skin always seemed powdery these days. Emil could taste it without even kissing her. He slipped through a side door into a shared bathroom that led to the other bedroom, a smaller, colder chamber where he slept every night.