Thriller (47 page)

breathe! I thought you hated planes.”

“I do—still do.” Planes, parachutes and gunfire were affiliated memories. “I’ve got something in the works, Lucille. I

need your help. Perhaps I could have a private word with you

and Joe?”

Joe Pults was another Jedburgh friend, now in the CIA’s Office of Special Operations. They found him reclined in his chair,

feet propped on the desk. Seeing Henry, he bolted up and strode

over. “Henry? Henry Caulder? God, it’s good to see you!”

“And you, Joe.”

Lucille said, “Henry’s got an op he wants to talk about, Joe.”

Pults shut his door and gestured for them to sit. “Shoot.”

It took but five minutes for Henry to make his pitch. “It’s dicey,

but if we pulled it off—”

“Jesus, Henry, I don’t know what to say. What’s your time

line?”

“It should happen within the next couple of months—plenty

of time if we move quickly.”

“And your people?”

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“I’m on a leave of absence.”

Pults thought for a moment, then nodded. “Dulles is traveling.

Let’s talk to Beetle.”

Walter Bedell “Beetle” Smith, former chief of staff to Eisenhower at SHAEF, had been appointed CIA director by Truman.

Smith was a soldier at heart and Henry hoped that attitude would

work in his favor. Smith listened to his plan, then said, “God,

man, do you have a death wish?”

Standing against the wall, Lucille and Joe shuffled nervously.

Henry simply smiled.

“Apologies,” Smith said. “Okay, how many contacts?”

“Three.” Henry gave him the names. “I doubt I’ll have time to

reach any more than that.”

“You’d have to lay the groundwork just right.”

“Yes.”

“I know you speak German. How about Russian?”

“
Ya ischu devushku, kotoraya khochet lyubit i bit lyubimoy.
”
I am

looking for a girl who wants to love and be loved.

“Aren’t we all,” Smith replied. “You’d go naked?”

“Naked” meant without diplomatic cover. If captured, he’d be

executed. “It’s the only way,” Henry said.

“Timeline?”

“Two weeks of prep here and three days on the ground.”

“Tight schedule.”

“I doubt they’ll leave me alone any longer than that.”

“Probably right.” Smith gazed out the window for a moment.

“You’re sure about this?”

“General, we know they’re coming sooner or later,” Henry

replied. “This is a golden opportunity.”

“You have family?”

“My wife and I divorced in forty-two. My son, Owen, is twelve.

His stepfather’s a decent sort.”
And I wasn’t
, Henry thought.
Not

much of a husband and not much of a father
. Since ’39 he’d been

gone more than home.

“Still,” Smith said, “they—”

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“They won’t miss me, General. Let me do this. Please. It could

make a difference.”

“I’ll have to run it by Ike.” Eisenhower, who had been elected

a week earlier, was in transition, preparing for his January inauguration. “In the meantime, Joe, you and Lucille get to work.

Anything Henry needs, give it to him.”

Ten days later Henry’s cover, backstop documents, communication protocols and route were in place. The cornerstone of the

plan, an executive secretary at the GSFG, or Group of Soviet

Forces Germany, headquartered in Zossen-Wünsdorf, was being

prepped by her CIA handler.

Two weeks after arriving in Washington, Henry landed at

Tempelhof Airport and took a taxi to the CIA station on Baerwald Strasse, where he spent an hour with the chief of station.

By dusk he was pulling up to the East German checkpoint at

Chausseestrasse in the French-controlled sector.

He coasted to a stop before the barrier. On either side concertina razor wire stretched into the twilight, winking in the arc

lights. A guard appeared beside the window and asked for his

papers while two more circled his car.

“You are French?” the guard said in stilted English, the default

language used at checkpoints.

“
Oui
—yes.”

“Your purpose here?”

“It’s in the letter. I’m a consultant with COMECON,” Henry

replied, referring to the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance. This alone would pique the immediate attention of the

Stasi
—the East German secret police—and the MgB—the current version of the Soviet’s Ministry of State Security—but it

couldn’t be helped.

The guard handed his papers back. “Proceed.”

The barrier swung upward and Henry drove into the Soviet

Occupation Zone.

364

* * *

Having worked in Berlin since the end of the war, he knew its

nooks and crannies. Even in the dark, the bleakness of the Soviet

sector was palpable: buildings gray, streets gray, streetlights muted

in the cold drizzle. It was as if the occupation had leached all the

color from the landscape. In every vacant lot stood mountains of

rubble from the bombing raids seven years earlier, and most

structures still showed signs of war: bullet holes, gaping wounds

from artillery, facades crumbling onto sidewalks. Here and there

people walked in threadbare coats, heads down as they hurried

home or nowhere.
How many?
he wondered. At last estimate, the

Stasi
had 50,000 agents and 125,000 informants throughout East

Germany. One in six people on the street were
Stasi
.

The question was, could he do the job before they moved

on him?

Henry had no trouble finding the safe house, an apartment off

Wilhelm Pieck Strasse. He parked down the block and circled on

foot to ensure he hadn’t picked up any watchers, then climbed

the alley stairs to the door and knocked. A female voice said,
“Ja?”

The language was German, the accent Russian. “Herr Thomas?”

Any name other than “Thomas” would have been the waveoff:
run and don’t come back
.

Henry gave the correct response and the door swung open.

The agent known as ADEX was tall, blond and full figured.

Henry had no idea what had motivated her to turn—likely one

of the MICE: money, ideology, compromise or coercion—and he

didn’t care. Lucille and Joe had vouched for the handler, and the

handler had vouched for ADEX. For the last four years she’d

served in Logistics and Travel at GSFG.

“Welcome,” she said. “My name is—”

“I don’t want to know your name.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Come in.”

Henry was in a hurry, but she wanted to chat. Most of them did.

Isolation and fear were common among agents, especially here.

365

After twenty minutes, she gave him the dossier. He asked her to

make some tea, then scanned the file and put the details to memory. He walked to the woodstove and tossed the file inside.

“How did you come across this information?” he asked.

“Gossip, expense reports, that sort of thing. They come for

meetings several times a week. What can I say? They like to talk.”

She smiled coyly and sipped her tea.

And more, perhaps
, Henry thought.
Sexpionage at its best
. “And

the other thing?”

Using her index and middle fingers, she mimed scissors.

“Snip, snip. Done. Took it from his belt.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, then Henry slid a folded

newspaper across the table. Inside was an envelope. “Papers.

You’re leaving tonight. You’ll be met on—”

“What? Tonight? Why?”

“If you stay, you’ll be arrested. From here you’ll walk to the

eastern end of Prenzlauer Allee and stop. You’ll hold the newspaper in your left hand. You’ll be met.” In fact, ADEX would be

watched from the moment she stepped outside. If she deviated,

she’d be snatched off the street. “Repeat that,” he said.

“Prenzlauer Allee, eastern end, newspaper in my left hand.”

“Good. Better get going.”

She left. Henry finished his tea, then stretched out on the

trundle bed and slept.

He awoke at two, left the apartment and started driving south.

On the outskirts of the city he made his first mistake, speeding

through a stop sign within sight of a Volkspolizei car. He pulled

to the curb and waited as the VoPo officer checked his papers,

asked his destination and gave him a lecture before sending him

on his way.

He spent the remainder of the night touring the German countryside, heading south and east, killing time. Two hours before

dawn he reached Magdeburg and spent an hour servicing the

dead drops. There was nothing to pick up, only drop off. Next

366

he followed his map to Kleingarten, a park along the banks of

Lake Neustadter. He parked, then ducked into a bus hut overlooking the path and waited.

His contact was on schedule. Colonel General Vasily Sergeyevich Belikov, hero of the Great Patriotic War and Commander of

the Third Shock Combined Arms Red Banner Army, was a man

of habit. Every morning without fail he walked his borzoi around

Lake Neustadter.

Henry waited until Belikov was three hundred yards away

then flipped up his collar and stepped onto the path. Hoarfrost

coated the grass, and his footsteps kicked up billows of ice crystals that glittered in the sun.

Belikov was accompanied by four guards, paratroopers from

the Ninth Corp, two preceding him and two trailing. Henry let

his shoulders droop and adopted a shuffling gait—another tired

and overworked German. As he drew even with the leading

guards, they frisked him, checked his papers, then sent him

along. He could feel their eyes on him, guns at the ready should

he take a step toward their charge.

As he passed Belikov he let the blue button slip from his fingers. He bent to pick it up and called out,
“Entschuldigung Sie,

bitte.” Excuse me, please
.

The general turned around.
“Prastite?”
in Russian, then in

German:
“Was?” What?

“You dropped this,” Henry said, button extended.

Behind him Belikov’s guards were trotting forward, machine

guns coming up. Belikov raised a hand, halting them, then said

to Henry, “Pardon?”

“There, from your coat belt. It must have fallen off.”

Belikov glanced down at the coat. “Oh…yes.” He took the button from Henry’s hand. “Thank you.” He turned and walked on.

He was back in Berlin by late morning. As he crossed the Warshauer Bridge over the Spree, he caught the first whiff of
Stasi

367

watchers: two cars, one leading him and a second trailing a hundred yards back. In his rearview mirror he saw the passenger raise

a microphone to his mouth.

No question now. They were onto him and probably had been

since Magdeburg. As he was still an unknown to them, the leash

was loose, but that wouldn’t last long.

He spent two hours driving around the city, playing the delicate game of surveillance/countersurveillance. If he knew how

big the net was, he might gauge how long he had. Conversely, if

they suspected he was dry-cleaning, they might scoop him up.

For now, his role had to be that of the oblivious quarry.

He spent the afternoon at the Pieck safe house. At six o’ clock

he left the city and drove north forty miles to Furstenberg, where

he parked on a side street. Night had fallen and the lights along

Leibninstrasse shone like yellow beacons. Only an hour from

Berlin, Furstenberg had a lighter feel and the people on the

streets were animated. He found the pub, the Schwarz Katze,

halfway down the block.

The bar was crowded with Russian soldiers, mostly tankers

and Spetsnaz, the elite of the Soviet Special Forces. The air was

heavy with cigarette smoke, and in one corner a radio blared Russian folk music. Henry picked his way through the crowd to the

bar and ordered a beer. Two minutes later a pair of civilians in

black leather coats walked in and took a table near the back.

More obvious now
, Henry thought.
Tightening the leash
.

It took but thirty seconds for him to spot the man he was looking for. General Yuri Pavlovich Kondrash, commander of the Second Tank Guards Army and the Twentieth Guards Spetsnaz

Diversionary Brigade, sat alone, hunched over a bottle of vodka.

Henry walked over, offered him a cigarette and struck up a conversation: Where was the closest butcher shop? What month was

the Marigold Festival held? How often did the train run to

Blindow?

Kondrash’s answers were curt, but Henry had what he needed.

368

* * *

He was back in Berlin by 10:00 p.m. On the road he’d picked

up more watchers, six men in three cars, bringing the total to

ten he could see, and probably another dozen he couldn’t. They

were growing aggressive now, the lead vehicle only ten feet off

his rear bumper.

Not long now
, he thought, checking his watch.
God, let me finish
.

Remarkably, the Schiffbauerdamm theater, overlooking the

Spree River and within sight of the Brandenburg Gate, had survived the war largely unscathed. Since ’48 it had become the de

facto center for East Berlin culture, from opera to ballet to theater. Friday night was opera, and according to the playbill given

to him by ADEX, tonight’s production was Wagner’s
Tannhauser
.