Ultimate Issue (40 page)

Jensen lowered his voice. “Listen, the colonel’s come here specially with a proposition. Haven’t you, sir?”

He was a model acolyte.

“Well?” said Tower.

Kincaid gave him a frank, honest beam. He was very good at it.

“We all want to get this business over as painlessly as possible, don’t we, Captain? If you go along with my sug

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gestion, I think it’s pretty likely things will go easy for you.”

“How easy?”

“Well, I think Lieutenant Jensen can fill you in.”

“You let me handle things,” Jensen explained earnestly, right on cue, “and it’ll become a formality. You plead guilty, you’ll get your knuckles rapped, maybe a little confinement, but I can promise you it’ll be favorably reviewed. You’ll be a free man in no time. They’ll wipe it all out. In due course.”

“Turn Captain Verago’s absence to your advantage, Captain,” urged Kincaid. “Start all over again. It’s only a suggestion, of course,” he added hastily. “I’m not trying to influence you. You have to decide. But I think you’ll find my advice is pretty sound. Yes, sir.”

“It stinks,” said Tower.

Kincaid’s expression didn’t change.

“I never heard that,” he said. “But what can you lose? The way you’re going, you’re asking for the book to be thrown at you. The other way, you might be home for Christmas.”

“The point is,” said Tower, “it’s all served its purpose, hasn’t it? Soon it won’t matter if I’m around to shoot my mouth off.”

Jensen glanced nervously at Kincaid, but the colonel was bland.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Captain. I just want to make it painless for you,” he said.

“Pain, Colonel?” Tower’s lips twisted. “Don’t worry about that. It stopped hurting a long time ago.”

Hohenschoenhausen

The cell was empty when Verago returned. He expected the guard to slam the door behind him, but instead he escorted him-inside. He stood and regarded Verago thoughtfully, his fingers playing nervously with the strap of his machine pistol.

For a moment, Verago was frightened. A crazy thought crossed his mind that this was how they were going to do it. Here. Now. In this cell. A sudden burst from the gun and his body filled with bullets. They could always say that he tried to escape. It would make an adequate explanation, if anyone wanted to know.

But who was there to ask questions anyway?

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“You want something?” asked Verago, hoping he didn’t show his fear.

The trooper stood rock still. Verago realized he had spoken in English. So he asked in German, “Where is Captain Kingston?”

The soldier shook his head. He had blond eyebrows, freckles, and very bhle eyes.

He pointed at Verago’s watch. “Bitte,” he said.

It took a moment to sink in. Then Verago said incredulously, “You want my watch?”

The soldier nodded. “]a, bitte, ihre Uhr.”

And very gently he raised the barrel of his gun so that it pointed straight at the pit of Verago’s stomach.

It didn’t jell. Something was wrong. The Grepos were too disciplined, too military to steal from prisoners. Verago felt certain of that. These were not ragged mercenaries who looted, but ramrod stiff, professional soldiers.

And yet …

Verago shrugged. He slipped’the watch off his wrist and handed it to the man.

“Danke schoen,” the Grepo said respectfully, and clicked his heels. He put the watch in his pocket, and as he did so, Verago noticed the man was already wearing a wristwatch.

The door slammed, and Verago was left alone.

He went over to his bunk and sat thinking about the incident. Of course! The guard wasn’t robbing a prisoner. He had been given orders to take away Verago’s watch. They didn’t want to make an official thing of it, that was why Pech hadn’t asked for it, but they didn’t want him to know the time any more.

How long he was alone, Verago didn’t work out, but then the door was unlocked and Kingston limped in. He made his way painfully to his bunk and lay down on it.

“How was it?” Kingston asked.

Verago shrugged. “I don’t think I’m going to get out of here.”

“Is that what Fokin said?”

“It wasn’t Fokin. It was … the new Gestapo.”

“Aren’t they all.”

“How about you?” asked Verago.

Kingston held up his hands. They were bloodied and covered with gashes.

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“I did my chores.”

He sat up. “Tony,” he whispered. He patted his bunk. “Sit here.”

Verago went over. “I know why they put you in here,” said Kingston, his face an inch away, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I think the place is bugged. They hope we’ll say things.”

“I know.”

“So be careful. There’s something else.” He spoke into Verago’s ear. “The barbed wire that they’re using. It’s being supplied by the West.”

Verago looked at him incredulously. Kingston nodded vigorously. “I saw the delivery labels. On some bales. It’s been rushed here from West Germany. They’re using so much barbed wire they’ve run out of it. So the West is sending more.”

“To make street barricades?”

“Christ, man, what the hell do you send barbed wire to East Germany for?”

Verago suddenly felt sick. He kept hearing the echo of Pech’s voice: “Don’t you understand?”

“The Vopos are trying to hide it from us,” Kingston went on urgently. “They’re going around tearing off the tags.”

He looked at the bleeding, oozing wounds on his hand.

“Made in Essen,” he said bitterly. “Courtesy the workers’ paradise and Papa Ulbricht. Doesn’t make sense, does it””

Verago took a long time to answer. And then he whispered. “It’s beginning to.”

“Jesus, what’s going on?”

Verago put his fingers on his lips.

“Listen,” said Kingston. “If you get out of here .

. .”

d`1’ Id

/ - …

“Will you do something for me? Go and see my wife. We live in a small town you’ve never heard of in California. Near the Nevada border. Independence. Can you remember that? Mrs. Irene Kingston, Independence, California’? Tell her … that I’m still alive … and maybe … one day “

He broke off, biting his lip.

“As good as done,” said Verago, and meant it. “But you’ve got to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

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“You invite me to dinner when you’re back with your wife.”

“That’s a date,” said Kingston, trying to sound confident.

“Independence is a nice name,” Verago murmured thoughtfully.

Then the guards switched the lights off.

Monday, July31, 1961

Pankow

IT was going to be a busy day for Walter Ulbricht. At 11 A.M. Marshal Ivan Koniev, the newly arrived Commander in Chief of the Soviet forces in Germany, was due to call on him, accompanied by Mikhail Pervukhin, the Kremlin’s ambassador.

Already the enclave at Pankow was on full alert, the smart, jackbooted guards of Ulbricht’s personal Wachtregiment standing at attention, ready to present arms when the marshal’s staff car swept into the grounds.

Only one thing so far spoiled the morning, a beautiful sunny day. Ulbricht had just finished reading a report marked “Geheime Staatssache” “Secret State Document.” There were only three copies of the document, and they made unpleasant reading.

To date, reported Leuschner, three and a half million East Germans had defected across the border to the West. Bruno Leuschner, Politburo member for economic planning, was blunt:

“We are bleeding to death.”

And he quoted some of the secret statistics: So many men had fled that 80 percent of the working force in many factories was female; one citizen in five who was left was too old to work; old-age pensioners and schoolchildren, the nonproductives, outnumbered the working population by four to three.

“If this goes on,” warned Leuschner, “the DDR will collapse.”

It was just too damn easy to get out, reflected Ulbricht. As the latest SSD briefing had only told him last week, the 163-kilometer border with the western sectors of the city was wide open. The eighty-eight crossing points simply

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couldn’t be supervised adequately, and the elevated railway shuttled scores of defectors into the West on every ourney.

Ulbricht knew all this, but he hated to be reminded of it. Anyway, it wasn’t going on much longer. He glanced at the date ringed in red on his desk calendar, next to the miniature DDR flag. It would all stop on August 13. That was, after all, why Koniev had been brought out of retirement.

His intercom buzzed.

“General Hoffmann is here, sir,” announced the voice of his aide.

“Good, good.” He sat up straight. “Ask him to enter.”

They were old comrades, he and the tough, leathery Karl-Heinz Hoffmann, Minister of National Defense and the man who shared the big secret of August 13. One of the few privileged ones.

Hoffmann wore his best parade uniform, just as Ulbricht had put on the dark double-breasted suit he wore only on state occasions. Marshal Koniev was famous for noting these details, and they knew they would be inspected like the steel-helmeted guard of honor outside.

“I see you’ve polished him,” Hoffmann said dryly, nodding at the silver-framed, signed photo of Nikita Khrushchev. The frame shone brilliantly.

“It’s a valuable frame,” stated Ulbricht, and they both understood each other.

Hoffmann sat down, crossing his jackbooted legs. “By the way, Walter, don’t forget, the old man likes his drop of vodka.”

“I have already seen to that,” replied Ulbricht, nettled. “Refreshments will be served.”

It was a special concession. Ulbricht, a strict teetotaler, refused to have drink in his office and frowned on people smoking in his presence. Hoffmann missed no opportunity to needle him about it.

“We have half an hour,” said Ulbricht, peering at his watch.

“You haven’t you know,” said Hoffmann. “I asked you to pencil Major Pech in for this morning. It won’t take long.”

“Ah, of course. Major Pech.” Ulbricht nodded. “It will be a pleasure.”

“He’s waiting outside,” said Hoffmann. “Very punctual is our Pech.”

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Ulbricht switched on his intercom. “Please send in Major Pech,” he instructed.

Almost immediately the knock on the door came, and Pech entered. Both men stood up. It was a rare token of appreciation. Pech snapped to attention and stood rigidly straight.

“At ease,” said Hoffmann, with a wave of his hand.

Ulbricht came forward with outstretched hand. “Major Pech, my compliments. I have been looking forward to this. I am so sorry it is such a casual occasion but, of course, men in your work appreciate that they do not receive public acclaim, more’s the pity.”

He shook Pech’s hand, a loose, moist grip. and behind his pince-nez his shortsighted eyes blinked. Ulbricht never felt quite secure in the presence of double agents.

“I am honored,“said Pech.

Hoffmann cleared his throat. “On behalf of the armed forces of the German People’s Republic, I wish to congratulate you on your marvelous work while sub rosa.” He thought it was a neat phrase for treason.

“I have here a little token of our appreciation,” said Ulbricht, picking up a small box. He took out a medal and pinned it on Pech’s uniform.

“I am honored,” Pech said again.

“It carries with it a small pension,” added Hoffmann, ever practical.

Ulbricht stepped back. “I am sorry of course that you had to surface,” he added. “You were very useful over there. But I am sure you will continue the good work on this side.”

“Right now,” intervened Hoffmann, “the important thing is there must be no leaks. The world must know nothing. Once it’s happened, nobody will do anything, but until then … I look to you to make sure nothing can, or, embarrass us.” A thought struck him. “I hear you’re holding an American officer. I hope that won’t cause any complications.”

“It won’t, General.” said Pech. “I don’t think you will hear from him any more.”

“I leave that to you,” said Hoffmann.

Ulbricht glanced at the ornamental clock next to the silken Chinese tapestry hanging on the wall. “Major, would you excuse us now? I’m sorry to cut this very pleasant moment so short, but we have a rather important vmtor coming.”

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Pech sprang to attention and clicked his heels.

He did it very smartly. It made such a change from the way they did it on the other side.

Hohenschoenhausen

“How do you feel?” the doctor asked solicitously. Under his white coat, Verago could see the grey Volksarrnee uniform.

“I’m okay.”

- The doctor shook his head doubtfully. “Let’s take your pulse again.”

The hospital wing of Hohenschoenhausen stood in a building apart, and Verago had been marched there under armed escort and then taken to a cubicle.

“Take your shirt off, please,” requested the doctor who came in. He was gray-haired and had a furrowed brow, like a man who worried a great deal.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” protested Verago.

“No harm in making sure,” said the doctor.

He jammed the cold stethoscope to Verago’s chest.

“Well?”

“Open your mouth,” instructed the doctor, and peered inside with a penlight. “Yes, you’ve got good teeth. Your American dentists know their job.”

“Doctor, what the hell is this about?” demanded Verago. The entrance to the cubicle was guarded by a soldier with the ever-present machine pistol.

“We just want to make sure you are in tip-top condition,” said the doctor. “You’re going back to your friends, aren’t your Well, we don’t want to give them a sick man. It would be a bad advertisement for us, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe you ought to give people better food then. Or stop them twisting barbed wire bare-handed….”

But the doctor shone his penlight into Verago’s eyes. “You’ve been under a strain, haven’t you?”

“You surprised?”

“Sleeping badly?”

Verago snorted

“I think you need a good rest, a really good rest,” said the doctor

“You know what I need. To get out of this place.”

“Yes,” agreed the doctor. “It’s not a holiday home. But

I don’t think you’ve been badly treated. Have you ever been in Mosbit?”