John Cheney

CITY OF SPIES

FACT:

Operation STOSS (later named ZENTRUM) was a real plan for the invasion of West Berlin.

From 1985 to 1988, East German armed forces carried out Border’s Edge exercises, simulating this invasion.

During the 1980s, GDR military leaders ordered hundreds of the Bluecher Order for Bravery to be pressed. This medal was to be awarded only in time of war.

While the actual Operation STOSS documents were destroyed prior to German reunification in 1990, several former National People’s Army officers have confirmed the plan’s existence.

Most of the locations described in this novel were actual sites.

1

May 1995

The three men watched the growing dawn in silence, their motorboat cutting through the river’s still-dark waters toward an island at the heart of Berlin. Ahead lay the stately dome of the Berlin Cathedral, and just beyond it, their destination. It was a massive modern structure across the avenue from the Cathedral. The sun’s first rays brilliantly glinted off the bronze-mirrored facade of the building, long known as the Palace of the Republic.

No one noticed the three men dock the small motorboat on the riverside embankment of the Palace. While two men climbed onto the patio on the east side of the building, the boat pilot watched traffic move on the bridge above. The first man ashore was George O’Neill. Middle-aged, balding and paunchy, he wheezed slightly as he pulled himself up from the boat. Behind him was Sebastian, nearly fifteen years’ George’s junior and a far superior specimen of athleticism. Had he been raised in the 1930s, the Nazis would have used Sebastian as an Aryan poster boy. Sebastian easily jumped ashore with a large bag of equipment.

George glanced at his watch and looked to the third man, still at the helm. “Thirty minutes?”

The man nodded in agreement. Then he throttled the engine and soon disappeared under the bridge, heading upriver.

Sebastian pulled two white clean suits and respirator masks from the bag and threw a pair toward George.

“What’s this?”

“For the asbestos,” Sebastian replied. “They’ve already started pulling out fixtures on the interior.”

“Oh. Great.” George pulled on the suit. He hoped he would not become overheated before accomplishing his task. It was a balmy spring morning, and the sidewalks were already warm by seven o’clock. George ran a hand through his thinning black hair and hyperventilated as he pulled on his mask. Masks made him claustrophobic, but the prospect of having to wear all of this gear while moving through the ghostly building was even more distasteful.

The Palace, the former parliamentary seat of East Germany, had been closed since 1990 on the grounds of asbestos contamination. Many people, however, suspected this was merely a political maneuver, affirming the West had won in the process of German reunification.

Sebastian and George looked up at the bronzed-glass windows of the Palace looming before them.

“Here,” Sebastian pointed to their left.

George looked around, already shuffling uncomfortably in his suit. “I have no idea why we’re doing this,” he muttered to himself.

“What?” Sebastian turned to him, surprised.

George reddened under his mask. “Uh, nothing.”

Still, the mission seemed bizarre to him: why go after a document, supposedly hidden in a theater chair in the Palace of the Republic ten years ago? It had not been found in this many years, and more than likely the building would be razed before anyone else could go in and locate it. This was a needle-in-the haystack kind of assignment. An even larger question loomed on his mind: why would this document matter six years after the fall of the Wall? The Cold War was over, and the world had rapidly moved forward. But here he was, wearing a stifling asbestos-proof suit, hunting a museum piece.

Sebastian led George to a small door hidden in an enclave. Using a security key, Sebastian opened the padlock that chained the door shut. Sebastian pushed the door open. A whoosh of dusty and stale air came through the unsealed door. George followed Sebastian inside, closing the door behind them. Immediately they sensed they had breached a tomb. The inside of the Palace was considerably darker; only a dull light penetrated through the dusty golden windows. The noise of the traffic had faded.

The two men walked through the basement, passing empty information desks and newsstands now covered in dust and grime. Sebastian led George up a flight of stairs. They emerged in the grand foyer, an expansive room lit from the windows that ran from floor to ceiling in the front of the hall. In GDR times, this was referred to as the “lantern shop” because of the hundred globular glass lights that covered the ceiling. The foyer was decorated in a sparse but not altogether cold socialist aesthetic: off-white marble, beige and gold trim, with red paintings and furnishings. The room had faded far from its former glory. While the socialist murals remained, workers had haphazardly ripped out sections of wall and furnishings in the beginnings of their asbestos removal. A graffiti artist had even somehow broken his way into the building and spray-painted a message across the balcony in German: “Anarchy lives! All else crumbles.”

Feeling the pall of the building, George grumbled, “That makes sense.”

In a far corner, one of the lamps had fallen from the ceiling. Its glass lay in shattered bits on the parquet floor. George and Sebastian ascended the grand staircase to the third story.

Before them, a directional sign pointed toward two large doors: “Great Hall.”

“Here,” George called to Sebastian.

Sebastian shook his head. “Noch eine. It’s in the balcony, no?”

George grunted in agreement. They climbed yet another stairway, and now stood before two large oaken doors on the fourth floor. George pulled at a handle, but the door would not budge. Sebastian slipped another key into the lock, and with some effort, turned it. The two men pulled together. The doors creaked with dust and disuse. Finally they saw the looming dark cavern of the Great Hall. George pulled out a flashlight and let its beam pierce through the pitch black of the hulking room. The Great Hall had 5,000 seats. All still remained intact, though two of the lower sections were folded upwards on an embankment. Like a high school gymnasium, the Great Hall had served as a multifunctional facility, and all of the lower seats could be raised on six separate embankments to make space for banquets and dances.

As George scanned over the seats, his jaw dropped. “How are we ever going to find it in this?” he said to himself, loud enough again for Sebastian to hear. “Uh, it’s B-37.”

“Over here,” Sebastian gestured, and the two men moved left along the balcony walkway. They headed down the aisle, focusing their flashlights on each of the rows, looking for the appropriate numbers. As their eyes adjusted, they noticed one pale shaft of light fall on a bank of seats on the right side of the Great Hall.

Looking up, George could see a hole in the ceiling. He wondered if it went all the way up to the sky. As far as he could tell, no water dripped from the hole, something he’d have expected if it extended through the roof. Two sections to the left, a bank of seats were covered with a blue tarp. George sighed at the massive number of chairs and shuffled his way down an aisle to begin counting the row and seat numbers. As he worked, his suit clung to him like a suffocating synthetic skin. He snarled into his mask as frustration surged through him. The Company finally sends me out to do something in the field, and this is it? A glorified usher in a toxic empty theater?

At that moment, George would have rather been in Bosnia, Somalia, Iraq, or wherever was conceivably the most dangerous place in the world. It was a truly irrational thought, but he had an overwhelming need to recapture the sense of adventure that had brought him to this career in the first place. Without it, his life had drifted and lost purpose. If I could only have mastered Arabic, he thought, they would have sent me someplace where there’s action.

Sebastian slowed in his own search along the seats as something began to dawn on him.

“None of these numbers match,” George burst out in exasperation.

“Wait… ” Sebastian said. “We’re in the wrong hall. It must be the People’s Chamber!”

The two men exited the Great Hall and headed up one more flight of stairs to the fifth and top floor of the Palace. George was winded from the exertion in his suit, but he hurried along, sensing he was finally nearing the goal of this wasteful mission. They hurried through a corridor and turned right to another set of double doors. This time when the men entered they were not enveloped by darkness. Somewhere above was a skylight that kept the People’s Chamber in a drab and dusty shroud of natural light. George and Sebastian turned off their flashlights as they descended the aisle before them.

From the balcony, they could see the entire breadth of the People’s Chamber. The room was strangely undisturbed: the representatives’ desks, the Politburo seats at the front, and the podium all remained. Even the red-carpeted floor and cushioned seats were still there, albeit dusty from five years of disuse. The Chamber was arguably the best-preserved room in the palace. It was this condition, and the room’s one-time purpose, that left George and Sebastian with a decidedly eerie sensation. For fourteen years, the East German government debated and made policy in this room. Now it stood as the tomb of communism. The people—whom communism ever claimed to represent—had brought its extinction.

George and Sebastian stood transfixed for a moment, then brought their minds back to their task and moved down the aisles. George glanced at the side of the seats along one aisle. To his disappointment, there were no markings at all. He threw his hands up. “None of the rows are marked.”

Sebastian looked over the rows as he thought carefully. Suddenly, he breathed in with excitement. “No, it’s code.” He started to walk down the aisle toward a middle row. “B for balcony… and it’s not thirty-seven, its row three, seat seven.”

Full of a sudden, euphoric burst of adrenaline, George raced down the aisle before Sebastian and began to count seats on the third row. “Four, five, six… seven.” Just as George stopped and knelt in front of the theater seat, he turned back to Sebastian, who was now looking over his shoulder. “How are we sure we counted from the correct side?”

Sebastian shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

George grasped the seat cushion and hard metal base and started to pull them in opposite directions, but could not get enough leverage to pry the parts loose. Sebastian grabbed one end, and together they tore the seat apart. The ripping of fabric and the sharp metallic clang of the base reverberated through the chamber, breaking the funereal silence.

George examined the seat cushion and saw a slit had been cut in the fabric, right above the hardboard base. Sebastian pulled out a Swiss army knife and carefully widened the slit. George reached his gloved hand into the cushion and pulled out two pieces of paper. They were yellowed with age and each folded twice. He opened the papers and read. Both were in German. The first paper was stamped with an official East German Ministry of State Security seal. This was no surprise to George. The Ministry of State Security—Stasi for short—were the East German secret police, and arguably the most effective spy agency in history. Over forty years, the Stasi helped hard-line communists keep a stranglehold on power by invading the lives and secrets of practically all GDR citizens.

As George read, he became confused. The paper was an arrest warrant, issued October 6, 1985, for a Lieutenant Colonel Hans Brandt. The charges were “High Treason against the Republic.” Two hand-scrawled names at the bottom of the paper looked more like notations than signatures. Typed underneath was the first initial and last name of the Minister of the Stasi, and another, more obscure name, “K. Scharf.” George could not understand how this warrant had come to be hidden here in a seat cushion. But the next paper proved to be the bombshell. This document was dated October 5, 1985. George’s eyes were immediately drawn to the body of the document, which read as military orders:

You are hereby ordered, under the authority of the General Secretary and Chairman of the State Council of the German Democratic Republic, to carry out Operation STOSS, the invasion and occupation of West Berlin. The operation will commence on the 7th of October, at 01.30 hours.

George’s jaw dropped. He turned to Sebastian, who had been discreetly reading over his shoulder. This was expressly against the mission protocol, since Sebastian, a mere agency asset, had not been given clearance to know the classified nature of the papers. Yet both men looked at each other in amazement. George exhaled into his mask, fogging its plastic shield. “What is this?”

It was past 10:30 that night when George finally reached home. He had a small house in the leafy suburb of Dahlem. It had long been part of the American Sector after the war, and the American Embassy still stood in a large compound on Clayallee. The houses here had sizable yards with trees and hedges, and this “little America” gave comfort to George and many other foreign service officers who yearned for their home soil from time to time. George had been so tied up with paperwork and other monotonous duties for the rest of the day that he had almost forgotten the strange events of that morning. Now he only wanted to sleep.

George parked his car and entered through the back door of the house as usual, tossing his keys in a dish on the kitchen counter. Then he walked into the living room and clicked on a lamp. That was when he first noticed the man sitting in a chair across from him. The man was thin, about forty, with graying dark hair and icy eyes. The eyes locked on George immediately. They, more than the man’s mere presence, startled George the most.

“Don’t move.” The man spoke English with a German accent.

George now noticed the Makarov in the man’s right hand, comfortably resting on the arm chair, but aimed directly at him. George froze, but he could not help blurting out, “Who are you?”

“My name is Brüske, but that’s not important.”

“What do you want with me?”

Brüske stood slowly, his eyes trained on George. “Who is Hans Brandt?”

George caught himself as he let out a laugh. How could this be happening? Why, after ten years, did he have to find an arrest warrant for this Hans Brandt? Why did it bring this man to him? The Cold War was over. The Wall fell. The West won. It was ancient history, more than five years’ on. How did he run into the one guy who didn’t get that memo?

George watched Brüske and slowly straightened, moving his hand away from the lamp switch. “I don’t know.”

Brüske took a stalking step toward him. “Who is Hans Brandt?” he repeated coldly.

“I don’t know.” George could see he was getting nowhere. Brüske was still advancing, moving in on his prey. “Believe me, you must know more about him than I,” George said. “I’ve never met him.”

“But you know about him.”

Caught, George knew he was in a mess. His laziness had cost him. Now, faced with real danger for the first time since he joined the CIA, he was forgetting all of his training. He was panicking.

“C’mon, I didn’t even hear about him until today,” George protested. It was a stupid thing to say.

Brüske, ever the predator, smelled blood. “My country was betrayed from within, by traitors like Brandt.” Brüske was moving closer, and now George was retreating, slowly backing away around the lamp so he could still see Brüske and the gun clearly.

“Why do you think I should know anything about him?” George snapped.

Brüske struck in a flash. Lashing out like a snake, Brüske swung a telescopic cosh out in his left hand and slammed it hard into George’s temple. George collapsed, knocking the lamp over with him.

Before he could collect himself, Brüske’s foot was suddenly pressed against his throat. George lay in a daze, bleeding from his head. The harsh light of the unshaded lamp shone on his face.

Brüske now stood over him, a silhouetted menace that spoke in a frenzied hiss. “Hans Brandt is a traitor and murderer. He helped destroy my country. And he was never brought to justice for his crimes. I want to know where he is…” Brüske cocked the Makarov as he pressed down on George’s neck. “…Or I will kill you.”

2

March 1985

Hans Brandt looked out the window of the East German guard tower toward the West. On the other side of the Berlin Wall, a group of children were playing soccer at the edge of Tiergarten. Hans watched the children, a sense of wistfulness building inside of him. There was a carefree energy and innocence in their play, and he wished life could be that simple again.

A voice behind him interrupted his thoughts. “Comrade Lieutenant Colonel? Is everything in order?”

Hans responded without turning from the window. “Yes, very good, Comrade Sergeant.”

Hans was an exceptional soldier. He stood six feet tall, lean but powerful, and fit sharply into his gray gabardine officer’s uniform. At the rare age of thirty-two, Hans was a lieutenant colonel in the Border Troop corps of the GDR. His face was youthful, but his eyes hid a deep reservoir of secrets. He had learned the value of observing before speaking, of carefully watching the world around him. Paired with wisdom that exceeded his experience, Hans had made himself a formidable figure among the ranks of the Border Troops. Some observers were comparing his career to Markus Wolf, the head of the East German foreign intelligence agency, who became a general by the time he was thirty-two years old.

Now Hans’ eyes tracked from the children to the hulking gray mass of the Berlin Wall. It was twelve feet of four-inch thick reinforced concrete. On the eastern side, where Hans stood, the Wall was whitewashed—a security precaution making it easier to see anyone attempting to escape. In front of this stretched a fifty meter death strip zone—laced with mines, vehicle obstacles, and a lighted patrol road. Finally, there was a second wall, only eight feet tall but effective enough that it was the closest most GDR citizens ever came to the border. Hans looked out toward the next tower in a line that stretched to the horizon.

“Your procedures are excellent,” Hans said as he checked his watch. He turned to the sergeant and the other guard in the tower. “You’ll excuse me, comrades, but I’m due for a meeting.” The two guards acknowledged with a salute.

Hans quickly descended the ladder and exited the guard tower. He walked toward a gate in the rear wall, thirty feet away. There a soldier unlocked the gate and let Hans through, leaving the unworldly silence of the border zone behind. A black Zil, a Soviet-made town car, was waiting for him on the other side. On its front fenders were two small East German flags. Hans climbed into the backseat. The driver pulled out onto the street and headed north along the border. There was something always eerie about emerging from the border zone, and Hans sat in reverie looking out the window as the car passed the magnificent Brandenburg Gate. Situated in the heart of the city, the 18th century gate once stood as an icon of the city. Now it was isolated behind the Wall, in the middle of the border zone, inaccessible to anyone but the border troops.

The car turned right onto Unter den Linden and headed past the Soviet embassy. Hans rolled down the window and let the air of the city wash over him. The streets of East Berlin reeked of a combination of coal dust and diesel fumes, with a trace of cigarette smoke—but these pungent aromas helped bring him back to the world. He had encountered them when he first arrived in Berlin, and embraced them as part of the liveliness of a metropolis. Hans no longer found city life so invigorating, but the Berliner Luft had a distinctive fragrance that never failed to awaken him to his surroundings.

In minutes, the car reached the Lustgarten. The glimmering facade of the Palace of the Republic was directly in front of them, but the driver turned right again, to the Staatsratsgebäude. This was the State Council building, where the highest ministers of government met. The red and white facade of the building was rather austere in its appointments. Awkwardly placed as the central entrance was a relic from an earlier time: the Eosander portal from the demolished City Palace. Because Communist hero Karl Liebknecht pronounced the founding of a socialist republic from the portal in 1918, this one piece of the Palace was saved from demolition. Ironically, Liebknecht’s proclamation came two hours after the social democrats proclaimed the founding of the Weimar Republic at the Reichstag. Civil war would declare the democratic socialists winners, but the victory was short-lived. The Weimar Republic’s wobbly economic legs eventually caved in under massive inflation. Hitler and the Nazis would rise from the wreckage. The car stopped at the front entrance, and before the engine had even turned off, a military escort opened Hans’ door. Hans climbed out and returned the salute of the other guard who flanked the building’s entrance. Glancing at his watch, Hans hurried inside.

As Hans climbed the grand staircase, he passed a grotesquely pseudo-religious stained-glass window that ran the entire height of the wall. It depicted a disturbing mix of images: while young girls danced barefoot and doves flew peacefully above them, a group of armed guerrillas with red armbands were blowing a black eagle, the federal symbol of West Germany, to bits. The most dogmatic of political statements was inscribed below: “And whether or not we will be alive, when our goal has been reached, our program will survive. It will be the redemption of mankind,” then, hammering in the message with large letters on a red background, “in spite of everything!” In these halls, there could be no mistake―communism required complete devotion.

Hans reached the top of the staircase and came to a large door. He straightened his uniform, then, taking a deep breath, pulled the door open and entered the chamber. It was a large room with a socialist mural on one side. A large U-shaped oaken table, nearly forty feet in length, filled the room. A dull roar came from the thirty or so ministers that sat at the table, making small talk with one another. Most of the senior government leaders were there, including the Minister of Defense and the Chairman of the Council of Ministers. Only the old man himself, Erich Honecker, the head of state, was absent. Besides the Minister of Defense, Brandt had only met one of these men prior to today: Wolfgang Müller. Müller caught Hans’ eye from across the room and gave a small smile in greeting.

Müller was sixty-five, a senior Politburo member and deputy chairman on the State Council. He had considerable influence and yet was remarkably even-handed. Pragmatic, but also compassionate, Müller had spent most of his professional life in the Party working to improve his country. Müller also sought to find a more moderate way to preserve communism. He was a dedicated socialist, but not of the same breed as hard-liners like Honecker and the head of the Stasi. At heart, Müller was more a moderate socialist than a true communist, but he was far too private to ever reveal such a political identity. Müller liked the new General Secretary of the USSR, Mikhail Gorbachev. He was youthful, energetic, and poised to open a new dialogue on socialism. Perhaps now there would finally be a new direction for the Warsaw Pact, a rejection of the Stalinist policies that kept the East clenched within a tight fist.

The Chairman of the Council of Ministers stood at the head of the room and loudly rapped his knuckles on the u-shaped table, calling the meeting to order. As the chatter quieted, Hans quickly moved toward a seat by the wall behind the Minister of Defense.

The Chairman cleared his throat. “Comrades, I call this meeting of the State Council to order. I will conduct these proceedings as General Secretary Honecker is currently traveling in Czechoslovakia.” The Chairman cleared his throat again as he settled into his chair. He adjusted his glasses and glanced at an agenda. “We will begin with the economic report.”

The meeting progressed in a prearranged, stiff recitation of facts and analysis. Most of the information was already known to the ministers through written reports, but the meeting ensured information was distributed universally. With Honecker out of the country, the meeting ran mechanically as minister after minister gave their reports with little commentary.

It was finally forty minutes into the meeting when the Chairman asked the Minister of Defense to report. The Minister stood and spoke with energy, looking at each of the semi-comatose ministers around him. His brusque military voice reverberated off the wood-paneled walls, immediately bringing the room to life. “Comrades, next year will mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the building of our Anti-Fascist Protection Wall. While the Wall has been a considerable success, we know it is necessary to constantly see to the improvement of our security measures in order to prevent border breakthroughs.” These were the political euphemisms which the East Germans used in referring to the Berlin Wall. To escape was considered “treason against the State.”

The Defense Minister continued, “Therefore, I have seen to it that we consider a major technological upgrade of the border defenses. I am establishing a commission to develop these technological upgrades. But first, we will undertake a complete study of the border defenses. This in-depth study will help us honestly assess our strengths and weaknesses. Then we will be able to appropriately upgrade our borders, so that we may remain secure for another twenty-five years.” He now gestured toward Hans. “I have appointed Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Hans Brandt for this duty. He will be Special Liaison to the State Council on Defense Matters.” Hans stood ramrod at attention as all eyes fell upon him. The Defense Minister concluded, “He will report directly to myself and this council.”

In a matter of minutes, the meeting was adjourned. Müller came over to congratulate Hans on the promotion. They had first met ten years before, when Brandt was assigned to Müller’s security detail at a party function. Their brief conversation that night had turned to many in the following years. Müller saw the potential in Brandt. Hans had the makings of a great officer, but knew nothing of the political world. Müller would give him that education, developing a mentor-protégé friendship of sorts. He was genuinely pleased to see Hans progress to a political post. It would be good to have another ally in the den of wolves.

Müller shook Hans’ hand and smiled. “Congratulations. I believe they chose the right man for the job.”

“Thank you, Comrade Müller,” Hans said.

Yet Müller added with a wink, “Don’t prove me wrong.” Hans couldn’t help but smirk at Müller’s ribbing.

A minister in a dark suit approached Müller. Wolfgang acknowledged him with a nod, then turned back to Hans. “Would you join us now? We have a subcommittee meeting, more of an informal affair.” Hans agreed and followed Müller into an adjoining smaller room.

A circular wood table dominated the space. Around it, a dozen of the ministers and officers from the council meeting took seats. Hans quickly realized he had been invited to an exclusive club. While none of the men were top officials, they all had positions just below the highest authorities. Here were the men who actually implemented the orders. Convention suggested these men did not make policy, but Hans saw their ability to influence it. These were the men who carried out Honecker’s orders, and they had enough authority to put their own spin on them.

Müller leaned over and whispered to Hans, “These are technically unofficial meetings. They give the ministers or their deputies a chance to speak openly, to discuss policy, and debate amongst themselves without the fear of reprisal or censorship by their superiors. But be careful what you say—these discussions can have consequences.”

Hans nodded solemnly and took a seat at the table.

Comrade Richter, a rotund, white-haired man, spoke first. He was an undersecretary in the Finance department. He weighed his words carefully, hesitating as he spoke. “The economic situation is… disastrous.”

Martin Junker, a forty-something Politburo member, spoke up. “How long can we hold out?”

“Honestly?” Richter paused. “Four, maybe five years at most. By then we’ll be crippled.”

A murmur erupted throughout the room. “What’ll we do then?” Junker asked.

Richter shrugged. “Well, then… the game is over. We fold up, give in to the West, or we face the likelihood of total societal collapse.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Herman Vogel, another Politburo member, barked sarcastically.

Richter leveled with him. “It means we’ll have total anarchy in the streets. Chaos and revolution, but this time we’ll be the Kaiserists.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Vogel retorted.

“You tell me how we’ll finance the Wall, the social programs, the police, the army, housing, or anything else when the money’s gone,” Richter answered, the panic in his voice rising. “We are losing billions of marks a year, and it will run out. You tell me what we should do then!”

A voice sounded from the other end of the table. “I have a radical suggestion.”

All eyes turned to a trim dark man in his mid-forties. He looked almost too debonair for a communist, yet a coarser dimension also pervaded through his appearance to make him a passable member of the proletariat. There was something serpentine in his demeanor and movements; behind his piercing black eyes lurked formidable danger, and yet his smile exuded charm, his form charisma, so that the overall effect was beguiling. Here was, perhaps, the offspring of the serpent that once corrupted man.

The man leaned back and grinned. “West Berlin has billions. Meanwhile, it has posed a security threat and a strategic menace to the heart of our country for thirty-five years. I suggest we take it.”

Some of the men sat silent, yet others audibly groaned at the suggestion. Richter was the first to address the man. “You’re talking about an invasion of West Berlin.”

The man shrugged, still grinning. “Yes, why not? We’ve had the military plans drawn up for years, updated over time.”

“Why not? It’s bad policy.” Werner Fass, a blondish thirty-eight year-old Politburo member, now took the man on. “Those plans are only to be enacted on the contingency that NATO carries out an act of prior aggression. We just can’t do something this major without consulting the Russians.”

Junker chimed in: “And the Americans won’t stand for it. They tolerated defensive measures when we built the Wall, but they won’t tolerate an act of aggression against the West.”

“And it’s not just bad politics,” Fass continued, “We haven’t even addressed the likelihood of such a mission’s colossal failure. How could we get in enough men to occupy West Berlin before the Allies see us coming and snuff us out? Do you expect to win by sheer numbers, bathe the streets in blood like Hitler did in 1945?”

The man leaned forward, eagerly engaged. “Hitler failed because he was greedy and foolish. Had he never invaded the glorious Soviet Union, he would not have brought vengeance on Germany. But his early tactics, the blitzkrieg, worked. And like that, we bring a massive lightning strike… infantry, artillery, paratroopers… all at once, converging on the center of Berlin. After all, we caught the West unprepared when we mobilized thousands of troops in the dead of night to build the Wall; we could do it again to take the city. The operation would work. West Berlin would be ours.”

Junker groaned. “This is all academic.”

“Well, comrade, actually…” the man cleared his throat. “Let me remind you, our defense ministry likes to leave nothing to chance. The plans are constantly critiqued and revised. Our soldiers are consistently drilled for war, held at a high readiness for combat, able to go into action within a few hours’ notice. We are prepared to deliver such an attack.”

“Could these plans that you speak of,” Fass said, his words dripping with scorn, “name you, Comrade Scharf, as the Stasi’s provisional leader of an occupied West Berlin?”

“That’s sensitive information!” an obscure Stasi major blurted out.

“Well,” Fass countered, “I figure if we’re here to have a frank and honest discussion, we should all be in possession of the full facts.”

Scharf eyed Fass with a clear eye of disdain, but his next words surprised many at the table, even turning them back to his side. Scharf delivered them with a politician’s ease and an actor’s earnestness. “I do not advocate such drastic measures for personal profit, Comrade Fass. I do so because the situation is dire. I am familiar with the details of this plan, and believe me, it is the best chance we have to rescue our country from free-fall. What would you rather do? Watch as it crumbles around you? Comrades, to stop the bleeding we must dress the wounds! At the very least, occupying West Berlin gives us leverage with which to work ourselves out of a complete downfall.”

Junker shook his head and tried to bring clarity to the discussion. “Look, regardless of our motives and theories, the plan simply won’t work. There’s no way to ensure there’ll be no NATO casualties. The American garrison measures five thousand men alone, not to mention the British and the French…”

“To hell with the French,” Scharf spat.

“But not the Americans,” Fass protested. “It’s an act of war. They’ll be committed to answer.”

Scharf stared at Fass, a look that was piercing. “What answer would that be? A nuclear attack? Impossible. The doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction ensures neither side will initiate a nuclear attack, even after a maneuver of conventional warfare.”

“But what about conventional retaliation, perhaps along the border?” Junker argued. “That could lead to escalation.”

“That is why they can’t do it,” Scharf said. “Believe me, comrades, as much as NATO claims they are committed to Berlin, they won’t engage in a third World War over it. The Soviets are our allies. They’ll have to back us, but they’ll do it successfully with no more than diplomacy and threat of power.”

“That’s an assumption,” Müller finally said. As the ultimate authority in the room, his words, though rarely heard in these meetings, were gospel. “And there would still be hell to pay. A move like this changes the game.”

The room fell silent. The men understood Müller’s statement as a debate-ending decree. Yet Scharf could not resist one more challenge to authority. He looked into the eyes of each of the men surrounding the table. “It is time for a radical change. The survival of our country depends on it. Moscow will not save us. We must do that alone.”

When the meeting adjourned, Hans followed Müller out into the corridor. He waited until they were out of earshot of the other officials before quietly addressing his mentor. “What just happened in there?”

Müller paused at the top of a stairway and turned to Hans. He eyed the far end of the corridor carefully as he spoke in hushed tones. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? We can discuss everything in detail then.”

“Fine.” Still bewildered, Hans watched as Müller jaunted down the staircase.

Müller paused just before moving out of sight and looked back at Hans. He gave a short nod of assurance, and then was gone.

3

That evening, Hans drove to the Politburo compound in Wandlitz, an exclusive, Western-like community outside of Berlin. Here Honecker and all the top officials lived in houses that were lavish in comparison to the average GDR apartment. The compound was secured by guards of the elite Felix Dzerzhinsky unit, a specially trained military force at the Stasi’s exclusive command. Hans checked in with the guards at the main gate before proceeding to Müller’s two-story home. Müller greeted Hans warmly at the door and ushered him inside. After offering Hans a drink, the two men proceeded to Müller’s patio. There, lit only by the light from the living room, the two men talked openly.

“I suppose you’re wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into,” Müller said. Hans nodded as he took a gulp of his drink. Müller laughed. “Well, now you know, despite all outward appearances, our government is no united body. Comrade Richter was correct—the economic situation is dire—there’s just no consensus on how we can effectively fix it.” Müller noticed the look on Hans’ face and continued. “But that’s not what you wanted to ask me about, I’m sure.”

“No, it isn’t,” Hans said. “What about the other man—I believe I heard someone call him Comrade Scharf.”

“Karl Scharf,” Müller nodded as he sat across from Hans. “A colonel in the Stasi. There’s something you need to know about him.” Müller leaned forward. “He was orphaned in the firebombing of Dresden. Wandered the streets for four years as a child. They say, when he was ten years old, he bashed another boy’s head in.”

Hans blinked in response.

“The boy stole Scharf’s bread,” Müller explained. “He was finally taken into a state orphanage when he was twelve. They became his surrogate parents. Scharf knows nothing but survival and the communist party. That combination enables a rise to power.”

“And you think it shouldn’t?” Hans asked.

Müller twitched, as if he wanted to shake his head, but resisted the notion. “He’s won favor with the Minister of State Security, and the support of numerous colleagues. But a man who quietly gains that much power should be watched carefully.”

“That can’t be easy to do when he’s got the Minister of State Security backing him,” Hans said. “But I still can’t understand why Scharf would openly propose such a radical plan.”

“Scharf’s objective is not secrecy,” Müller explained, “at least in getting the plan to go forward. He doesn’t need it. What he needed to do—and did extremely well—was determine the points of greatest opposition. There were many ministers in that meeting who agreed with him. They didn’t say anything, because he wanted to see who was against him.”

“You spoke up.”

“I had to,” Müller said. “I’m the presiding authority at those meetings. Scharf can’t get to me yet—but believe me—he will get to those he can.”

“Then what should I do?”

“For now, nothing. But soon we’ll have to watch Scharf very closely.”

“It was much easier just being a soldier,” Hans said ruefully.

“You’ll have to get used to how things work in politics, Comrade Brandt, if you’re to stay in your new position for long. Politics is a whole different battle.”

Karl Scharf sat perfectly ensconced in his office at the Normanenstrasse Stasi headquarters complex. He looked impeccable in his gray Stasi service uniform; his abundant service ribbons were just as sharply ordered as the rest of the outfit. The ensemble exuded an air of authority and strict order, but Scharf was in fact something else: coiled on his seat like a snake ready to strike, the man was mayhem precariously encased within a shell of order. Scharf stood and looked out the window toward the next closest building in the complex. The afternoon sun brilliantly reflected off the windows, almost creating the illusion that the building was engulfed in an inferno. Scharf’s eyes glazed over as he watched the tableau. Though it did not register as a conscious thought, the illusion of fire triggered a faint emotional response, a memory in his senses of the inferno that began to forge his own identity long ago.

Scharf turned from the window as Brüske, his new protégé, came into the office. Just like Scharf, Brüske had started out rough and unsophisticated. Scharf, however, was molding him into a superb acolyte. Brüske’s brow creased with concern.

“I’m not sure what we’ve achieved,” Brüske said. “By disclosing our plans, we’ll never be able to get enough support. Not with this many Politburo members against us.”

“So the operation is dead?” Scharf asked, cloaking his own opinion in a tone of ambiguity.

“I don’t see what other option we have. Operation STOSS is far too big to be successful when faced with opposition from within.”

STOSS, German for ‘thrust’, was the codename of the operation to invade West Berlin. It was an angry, violative name, describing an act like rape, but the allusion did not bother Scharf at all. Any city fighting was bound to be messy, but Scharf was convinced the invasion was necessary. In addition to creating leverage with the West, Operation STOSS would show the world the tenacity of the East German forces. Scharf believed they were not, as many in the West had assessed, an artificial, satellite army held under the thumb of the Soviets. These men could fight of their own will, and for their own victory.

Scharf reflected on Brüske’s words for a moment, then reached into his desk and pulled out a file. Scharf opened it and took out a dossier and several photos of Werner Fass. “Do you know the best way to overcome resistance?” Scharf showed his devilish grin. “Leverage.”

The next morning, Müller called Hans at his office and invited him to lunch. Müller had a car pick up Hans shortly before noon. As Hans climbed into the back seat, he looked over to Müller and noticed he looked subdued.

“How are you handling your new position?” Müller asked.

“I’m managing, so far.”

“Good.” Müller turned toward the window.

“Something on your mind?” Hans asked.

Müller turned toward Hans and forced a smile. “How about a walk?” Hans nodded in agreement, and Müller leaned forward to his driver. “The People’s Park,” he ordered.

Hans and Müller walked a circular path that gradually led up a tree-covered hill in the Friedrichshain People’s Park. The driver tailed the two men at a distance, an obvious security measure.

“Werner Fass was arrested early this morning,” Müller said quietly.

“Fass?”

“The Politburo member who most opposed Scharf in our meeting,” Müller explained. “I told you there could be consequences.”

“What are the charges?”

“Embezzlement, Treason against the State… some kind of trumped-up mess.” Müller waved his hand dismissively.

“Then it won’t stick,” Hans said.

“No, but it will be enough for Fass to lose his position.”

Hans raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh yes,” Müller said. “It will be quite enough to do that.” The two men walked on in silence.

“Scharf is moving faster than any of us thought,” Müller said finally. “I’ve talked with several other ministers, and we’ve decided for everyone’s protection, we’ll need to know what Scharf is up to before he makes his next move.” Müller stopped and looked directly at Hans. “I need to ask you a great favor.”

Hans listened intently.

“I want you to follow Scharf. Keep your distance—just let me know what he’s doing.”

“Why me?”

“Because Scharf doesn’t know you. You’re not a politician. I’m sure you’ll be able to use more skill and tact than any of us.”

Hans thought for a moment, weighing the proposition.

“I know it’s risky,” Müller said, “and an added burden to your duties. But we need someone like you, someone we can trust. Someone who’ll succeed. Because if we don’t know enough to stop him, there’ll be no safe place for the rest of us. Karl Scharf’s the most dangerous man I’ve ever known.”

4

Two days later, Brüske burst into Scharf’s office with a note in hand. Scharf was busy at his desk, but seeing Brüske’s expression when he looked up, forgave the interruption.

“There’s been an incident,” Brüske said. “The Soviets shot an American major, a member of the U.S. Military Liaison Mission. He was spying on a tank storage facility outside of Ludwigslust.”

The Military Liaison Mission was one of the unusual aspects of Cold War politics. Established immediately after the war, the USMLM was given the initial directive of working with the other occupying powers to oversee German occupation. Each of the conquering nations—Britain, France, the U.S., and the Soviet Union—had a unit of military intelligence officers who could travel to other sectors to monitor and improve relations between the occupying forces. Those relations strained with the start of the Cold War, but the military liaison missions remained. American military liaison officers could travel throughout the GDR, and similar courtesy was extended to Soviet liaison officers in West Germany. Although certain areas were deemed off limits, the relative autonomy of movement gave these officers key intelligence roles—most importantly, to confirm the other side was not making preparations for offensive action, such as an invasion.

“When did this happen?” Scharf asked.

“Just this afternoon.”

“And they know he was spying?”

“He was taking pictures. He and his aide were sneaking through the forest.”

“Then it’s justified.”

“But the Americans are furious. He had diplomatic immunity.”

“The officer is dead?”

“Yes. And it’s already raising tensions between the U.S. and Soviets. Things could escalate quickly.” Brüske inhaled, trying to calm his nerves.

Scharf, however, remained perfectly calm. He sat in thought, rubbing his chin. “Then it’s an opportunity.”

Hans parked his Jeep-like P3 military vehicle in the wasteland that was once known as Potsdamer Platz. Before the war it was one of the most bustling squares in all of Berlin. Now it sat in the middle of the no-man’s land, a hundred-meter expanse in the border zone cleared of all buildings. Hans stepped out next to a weathered round sign, a white S on a green background that marked the former S-Bahn station. Hans descended a battered staircase, once the public entrance to the subway station. Before him was a steel wall with a single door. Hans knocked rhythmically on the door and waited. In a moment, he heard a padlock and chain being released. Slowly the door creaked open.

A border guard dressed in raindrop fatigues stood before him and saluted. Hans recognized the man’s subdued shoulder boards denoting the rank of sergeant. Gray wisps of hair were visible under the man’s drab overseas cap. “Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt, we’ve been waiting for you. I’m Sergeant Koch.”

Hans followed Koch into the abandoned station.

“I believe you will find the security measures as strong as we can make them,” Koch said. “Until they permanently re-route the West Berlin S-Bahn—which they haven’t done in twenty years—this is as secure as we’ll ever get down here. But of course, it’s your duty to check these things out.”

Hans and the guard arrived at a landing in the staircase. Hans paused for a moment, scanning the mezzanine level of the station. It was deserted, closed up, and dimly lit. There was a confounding silence in the place, only broken by the occasional sound of dripping water. Hans spotted a puddle near a pillar and scanned above to where the water was dripping, then followed the sergeant down to the platform level.

“In the early days,” Koch continued, “we would patrol the platforms out in the open. No walls, no bunkers. Then, there was no protection. If the train stopped, and anyone got off, well… you had a problem. And drunks, capitalist bastards, would throw beer bottles at you. We had little protection against provocations.”

They stopped at a barrier of thick concrete walls, a bunker on the platform. Horizontal observation slits were set every few feet at eye level.

“Now,” the sergeant patted the concrete wall, “we have a much better system.”

Hans peered through an observation slit out onto the platform. Potsdamer Platz was one of Berlin’s “ghost stations,” a fitting name. Fading advertisements from August 1961 crumbled on the walls. There was an ad for a brand of shaving cream that no longer existed, a shoe repair shop on Torstrasse that had long gone out of business. Time had stood still here from the night the Wall had gone up.

The ghost stations resulted from a cumbersome maze of logistical issues when the Wall was created. Just like the rest of Germany at the end of World War II, Berlin was divided into four sectors by the victorious powers of Britain, France, the U.S. and the USSR. These divisions were made along city district boundaries. When relations soured between the Soviets and the Western allies, the four sectors became a de facto two: East and West Berlin. As the Wall went up in August 1961, it was built along these district lines. Yet the S-Bahn transit system, a combination of above- and below-ground trains, traversed over these boundaries. The district of Mitte, in particular, arced out into West Berlin, through the heart of the city. Initially all train transit was stopped between East and West Berlin. But as heads cooled, the GDR allowed S-Bahn trains to traverse these lines, going from West to West without stopping at those underground stations that lay in-between, under the East. As a result, the north-south S-Bahn line and two U-Bahn lines had several East Berlin stations sealed off from the public and patrolled by the Border Troops.

There was also an earlier, more literal, and gruesome reason for the “ghost station” name: in the waning days of World War II, Nazi troops detonated charges near the Landwehrkanal and flooded the train tunnels from Friedrichstrasse onward. It was a desperate attempt to prevent the advancing Soviets from using the tunnels, but the action came far too late; the city was already lost. Tragically, hundreds of civilians and soldiers who had taken refuge in the tunnels drowned. Young border guards were often frightened to patrol the dim tunnels late at night, when rumors of ghostly activity had been reported.

Hans learned that Sergeant Koch had served in more of these underground posts than any other active member of the Border Troops. Years ago, Koch had run afoul of one of his superiors, and the officer had branded him with the derogatory nickname, “The Sewer Rat.” The name stuck, and Koch, though a competent soldier, was never allowed to advance to an above-ground post again. He made the best of his lot, earning the respect of new superiors until he distinguished himself as an invaluable postenführer. Ironically, officers who might have been sympathetic to Koch’s underground sentence could not let him move up. As the most experienced soldier in the ghost station posts, they needed him to stay put.

“We patrol the platform and in the tunnels after the trains stop running at one a.m.,” Koch explained. “We head south first, make sure the tunnels are clear, then north and rendezvous with the patrol from the Unter den Linden station. We look for anything unusual, but all you ever get is the trash thrown from the trains. We have a concrete collar built at the exact point of the border. That is particularly effective, if simple; it creates a passage so narrow that only the train itself can pass through, so if a fugitive manages to grab hold of a passing train, they will be forced off at that point. But you should already be aware of those measures. It would be a good system except for when a train breaks down in one of the tunnels,” he sighed. “Then we have to call up a special team to help escort the passengers out, and observe the maintenance crew while they fix the problems.”

“Does that happen often?” Hans asked.

“Fortunately, no. Just once in the last year. But it’s hard for us to get the maintenance crews down here to keep the tracks in shape. That requires another special patrol to supervise them. Frankly, I wish we’d just seal off these tunnels entirely and sell the rest of the line to West Berlin. Then it would just be the “Wessies” problem. But temporary solutions have become permanent, and now no one wants to pay out to change the status quo.”

Hans murmured something in response. The sergeant took it to be a sign of agreement.

A stream of light illuminated the tunnel from the southern end of the station. Hans heard the rumble of an approaching train and watched as the light grew. The sound reverberated off the tiled walls, growing louder as the train approached. Soon it was joined by the screech of the train wheels rounding the last corner before the station. Hans felt the air blow through the tunnel, pushed by the oncoming train. An old advertisement, peeled back at one corner, started to flap on the far wall. The train broke into the station, slowing as it passed the platform.

On board, a beautiful twenty-five year old blonde woman named Anna sat by the window. She ignored two purple-mohawked kids that made obnoxious noise across the aisle. But as the train drove through the station, the car fell silent. Everyone felt the eerie presence of the barren station, bathed in dull sodium light. Some stared at the peeling paint on the walls and the corroding advertisements. Others looked at the rotting wooden benches. Anna brushed back her long hair with one hand and watched the concrete bunkers. She could see shadowy figures moving behind the slits.

Hans watched the train pass from within the bunker. He scanned the cars, watching the passengers looking out into the station. Their expressions reminded Hans of a tour bus passing a horrific accident. He caught sight of Anna. His eyes discreetly followed her until the car passed into the darkness of the tunnel, headed toward the next station.

Anna Svobodova climbed the steps from the underground S-Bahn platform and entered the maze of the ground floor at Berlin’s Friedrichstrasse train station. Passing a newsstand, she glanced at the headlines. One caught her attention: Soviets kill American Officer: Claim Major was Spying. Anna tensed. As she fell into line at the East German customs checkpoint, her fear grew. It was unusual for her to feel nervous―she had been through this procedure countless times. But while she retained a serene, almost bored surface, a gnawing anxiety festered under her calm exterior. Anna tried to dismiss her nerves―perhaps it had just been too long since she last visited East Berlin.

Toward the front of the line, two customs agents looked over the travelers. The younger man stared at Anna, looking her up and down. It was lecherous behavior, but Anna had grown used to it. She was a strikingly beautiful woman: Czech by birth, about five-foot-eight with honey blonde hair. She was trim, but had a sinuous, womanly figure. Men always looked at her; the East German customs agents stared.

Anna reached the front of the line and approached a booth where an East German border guard stood. She handed him her West German passport, sliding it under the glass window that separated them.

The border guard scrutinized the papers, then looked at Anna. “Else Schaeffer?”

“Yes,” she replied, softly clearing her throat.

The guard looked at the passport photo again. The border guards had been trained to recognize over thirty different facial identification features. They were exceptionally good at recognizing discrepancies from passport photos and disguises.

“How long have you had this address in Hanover?”

“Six years.”

“And what is the purpose of your visit?”

“To see an aunt. She lives in Prenzlauer Berg.”

“Address?”

“Schönhauser Allee, Number 153.” Anna waited patiently, looking down at the passport, then up at the guard.

When he lifted his eyes to match hers, he stopped short. Her eyes were icy blue like a frozen ocean. To the guard they seemed alluring and intoxicating all at once. Yet Anna looked at him with a guileless expression, and the border guard immediately felt a pang of guilt. He looked down and stamped the passport. He didn’t dare look at her again.

“Twenty-four hour pass. Return to this checkpoint for exit.” He slid the passport over to Anna. Still averting his eyes, the border guard cleared his throat and waved to the next person in line. “Next.”

Anna was out of the checkpoint in moments. She headed for the S-Bahn platform on the eastern side of the train station. A huge steel wall divided the station from platform to roof. On one side, western trains arrived and returned. On the other, eastern trains arrived and departed. The station was the convergence of two worlds, but the giant steel wall between the platforms and the maze of customs checkpoints below preserved the purity of the division. Such was the world of Cold War East and West Berlin. Anna had arrived through the S-Bahn station below, which was accessible to Westerners but closed to GDR citizens. If border guards ever questioned this route, given her West German address, she explained that she had visited friends in West Berlin before proceeding on to the East. Her train would have first arrived at Zoo Station on the other side of town, allowing her to use the U-Bahn and S-Bahn systems throughout the city’s Western sector. In reality, Anna lived in the West Berlin district of Kreuzberg, so the S-Bahn provided a more direct route to the checkpoint.

Anna took the S-Bahn to Alexanderplatz, the heart of East Berlin. There, she transferred to a tram. She had spotted the tail the Stasi put on her as soon as she had cleared customs—a scowling middle-aged woman and a balding middle-aged man. The two kept their distance from each other, but they moved simultaneously, in coordinated movements—a clear give-away. It was usual for the Stasi to follow and observe foreign visitors in the GDR; most of the time, it was essentially a silent harassment of tourists, but occasionally, they would spot the odd spy here or there. Anna was wise to their movements. The two followed her onto the tram, standing in the back, two cars down.

Anna rode the tram three stops down the line. There, they encountered another tram, waiting to head the opposite direction. Anna watched the two tailing her, and just before the doors of her tram closed, she hopped off. Quickly, Anna ran over to the next tram. She could see the man and woman cursing as their tram headed off in the the opposite direction. One of them seemed to be talking into a radio. Anna doubled back two stations, then took the S-Bahn to Warschauer Strasse. She watched carefully as she zig-zagged through the neighborhood streets near the station, making sure she was not followed. Then she turned and headed down a new street, passing a sidewalk café. There, outside at a small table, she saw a man she recognized. He was reading a newspaper and did not seem to take notice of her. Anna walked on, heading to Lehmbruckstrasse.

It was a row of old pre-war apartment houses, run down from disrepair. Some were haphazardly painted in pastel green tones, but it didn’t do much to lift the street’s depressed image. She stopped at the last building at the end of the street. Beyond was a main thoroughfare and the Spree river, the boundary between East and West. A high fence kept the river off limits. Anna entered the building through the front door. She waited by the mailboxes, looking up at the stairway above her. There was silence. She breathed softly, trying to be quiet as she waited. Looking out the dirt-streaked window by the front door, she saw a car pass, then nothing.

After a few minutes, she heard a quiet noise from the back door. It opened slowly, and she caught a glimpse of the trash cans in the back courtyard, but no sign of anyone. Then, from the shadows beneath the stairs, she heard footsteps come toward her. Slowly, a figure emerged. It was a man, dressed in a brown coat. The man she had seen at the café. As he stepped into the dim light of the foyer, she saw him clearly. It was Hans. She moved toward him swiftly, embraced him, and they kissed.

5

Anna exhaled quietly as she slept, her natural Czech beauty radiating through cheeks and her skin. She pressed her forehead against Hans as her exquisite lips curled slightly at the corners in a smile of contentment. He could feel her warmth next to him.

Hans and Anna had met three years ago on the island of Rügen, when Hans was on leave from the Border Troops. There was an immediate magnetism between the two. It was clear Hans and Anna connected in a deep emotional and spiritual level, a rare kind of intertwining that one might call fate, if he or she were to believe in such a thing.

While they bonded on a common chord, Hans and Anna also offered one another what they deeply needed. For Anna, Hans made her feel free. He treated her as a partner of equal standing; never as an object to be conquered or subdued, and never tried to fragment her physical beauty from her personality or intellect. His patience, his unusually keen sense of observation, and his desire to know her deeply were a unique combination of traits she had never seen in another man. To Hans, Anna was the only woman he had ever found so intoxicating and still inspired his best traits to flourish. She offered a vital escape from the pressures of the emotional and intellectual turmoil of his work, and the promise of something greater in his life. Their passion for one another was equally matched and closely guarded. Yet for Anna and Hans, the only truth in their lives was their stolen moments together.

Hans listened to Anna breathe softly as she slept. Meanwhile, he sat up in bed, lost in thought. Presently, Anna stirred. He looked at her and gently smiled. Anna stretched and gave a small catlike yawn.

“Are you hungry?” she asked sleepily.

He shook his head. Then, after a moment, he reached for a piece of paper and a pencil. He took a picture frame off the wall behind him and used it as a writing base. Hans scribbled a note: “Any news?”

Anna was sure he had heard about the American military liaison’s death, but decided not to breach the subject. She shook her head.

He scribbled more on the paper, “New assignment. Overlooking border defenses. Will give details as come. Have already examined underground S-Bahn and most Stadtmitte sections of the Wall.”

Anna took the pencil and wrote, “Any plans or documentation?”

Hans hesitated. She waited for him, watching a flicker of doubt run across his face. Only she could read him so well. Hans stood, walked over to his coat, and pulled out a carton of cigarettes.

“I didn’t think you—” she started to say, but Hans shook his head, silencing her.

Indeed Hans did not smoke—as a spy, he considered it a liability. Smokers could leave the scent of nicotine wherever they went, and if he broke into a secure facility or was forced into hiding, he wanted no sign to give his presence away. However, since cigarettes were ubiquitous in Europe, he found them to be a perfect disposable means of concealing information. He sat on the bed next to Anna and pulled one of the cigarettes out. He pointed to the seam on the paper wrapping the cigarette, right in the middle.

“Microfilm,” he mouthed silently. He handed her the carton, then picked up the pencil and wrote again. “Be careful. Burn if necessary.”

She looked into his eyes, inviting him to share his thoughts with her. Yet Hans pulled away, crumpling up the piece of paper. He walked to the large coal furnace in the corner of the room, opened the fuel door, and threw the paper inside. He watched the paper catch and be consumed in a rapid burst of flame.

Anna held the cigarette pack in her hand and tapped its side with one of her fingers. As she considered the pack, her face began to darken. When Hans returned to bed, Anna was sullen.

“What’s wrong?” Hans asked.

“You should have seen the way they looked at me at the checkpoint today,” Anna said. “It was like I wasn’t even human.”

“Relax,” Hans said. They’re just trained to look that way.”

“Are they?”

“It’s more for show than anything. They’ve got to project authority.”

“Is that what they’re doing when they shoot someone who is trying to escape? Is that for appearances too?” Anna pressed, standing.

Hans wasn’t about to back away. “You know how I feel about that,” he said as he rose, his tone more argumentative than it should have been. Anna’s sudden attack had caught him off guard. “Why are you suddenly concerned about this?”

“Because you can’t go on living like this forever,” Anna said. She thought of the headline she had seen at the station. She knew Hans’ position could be even more precarious—he wore the uniform of his enemy. “What if they ordered you to shoot someone? What would you do?”

“That’s not going to happen—” Hans started to say, but he was cut off.

“Could you refuse?” Anna would not relent. “Or would you be just like the Soviets that drove their tanks over my Uncle Marek in Prague?”

“You know where my loyalty is!” Hans suddenly bellowed.

It was the wrong response. Hans’ aggression said more to Anna than his words, and at that moment it was as if he had personally commandeered the tank to crush her beloved uncle once again. Ashamed, Hans turned and walked to the window. When he finally regained some composure, he spoke quietly. “I’ve given fifteen years of my life for this work. You know the commitment I’ve made, and it’s not to them.”

Anna looked to her bare hand where a ring normally would have been, had the circumstances of her work not forbidden her wearing it. “I’m not just talking about commitment,” Anna said softly. “But identity.”

Hans turned back to Anna and looked into her eyes. “You know me. If there’s anyone who really knows me, it’s you.”

Anna saddened. “But you don’t know yourself. You don’t see it, but I do. There’s a part of you that’s fading, something that was there long before you were a soldier. You made a promise to me, and yourself, that it would always be there, but it can’t be when it’s always hidden. What will you be when it’s gone?”

Hans sighed. “I can’t leave now. I can’t hand this off to someone else. I’m in a position to act where only I can, and where I’m needed now. I knew what I signed up for, and so did you.”

Hans would not admit that it took him years to discover just how much of him was required in this service. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a more specific date. When things stabilize, when I’m no longer needed, that’s when I can go. But I’ll always remember who I am. Only you and I know that I am not Hans Brandt.”

Hans slept restlessly. The argument had not ended well. Anna insisted Hans needed to give more thought to his future. She agreed to give him some time to consider her concerns, and planned to return to meet him the following week on the island of Rügen. But she would not promise to come after that.

Hans had a vivid dream. In it, a nine year-old boy was standing with his father in a park. The father was dressed in a green American army service uniform, with peaked cap. Though he looked stern with his close-shaven haircut and angular face, the army officer leaned over to the boy and smiled.

“I’ve got a surprise for your birthday, Johnny,” the officer said.

“What is it?” the boy asked in anticipation.

“It’s a treasure hunt. I’ve put your present underneath a bench at the other end of the park.”

The boy, anxious to begin his search, started off when his father caught him by his shoulders.

“Wait a minute. It’s not quite that easy. In order to get your present, you’re going to have to watch out for a few things.”

“Like what?” the boy asked, somewhat perplexed.

“This is no ordinary treasure hunt,” the father said. “There will be other people looking for something too.”

“Will they be looking for my present?”

“No,” the father laughed. “They’ll be looking for you!”

“For me?”

“Uh huh. And you can’t let them get you before you get to your present, or they’ll win.”

“What happens if I don’t win?”

“Well, you won’t get your present.”

“That’s not fair!” the boy protested.

“Hey,” the father said as he gave his boy a sporting pat on the back, “that’s life.”

“But you can’t take away my birthday present!”

“Listen carefully,” the officer said, ignoring his boy’s protests. “You have to watch out for a man with a red balloon, a girl with a dog, and an old lady with a newspaper.”

The boy looked despondently toward the crowded park. “How am I ever going to spot them?”

The father looked at his watch. “You’ve got ten minutes to get to your present. Go!”

The boy started out across the park, keeping close to a grove of trees for cover. When he reached a large opening in the park, he dashed behind a clump of bushes and stayed there to watch the crowd. Forty feet to the northeast was a row of benches, all of them occupied by various people. The boy scanned over them until he noticed two with newspapers. One was a middle aged man who sat leisurely slouched with his legs crossed. He was smoking a pipe and casually turning the pages of the paper as he read. The other person held the paper open as he or she read, concealing his or her features. After watching for some time, the boy discovered that it was an old woman, discreetly peeking over the edge of the paper.

The boy crept behind the bushes to elude the old woman, then hurried up a small embankment to a gravel path where he continued through the park. He followed the path through a tree-covered section until he reached the next clearing. Suddenly he heard the sound of children laughing and running footsteps behind him. The boy dashed into the bushes and hid as a group of children ran past. None of them, however, had a dog with them. The boy looked out from the bushes and saw a girl out on the grass some seventy feet away. She was running in circles, laughing and chasing around a yappy terrier dog.

As the boy scanned ahead, he found much less cover. There were only two oak trees and a small clump of bushes where he could hide as he crossed the field. Though the girl seemed distracted by the dog, he would still have to hope for the right timing as he made his run between the trees out in the open. Taking a deep breath, the boy watched the girl and then darted to the first tree. He glanced out from behind the trunk, seeing that girl had not noticed him. The run to the second tree went as well as the first. But on the sprint to the bushes, he heard the dog bark and start to run in his direction. The boy tore from his cover and flew down the path, charging through another grove of trees and bushes. He heard the girl call out behind him, but he didn’t stop to see if she had spotted him or just been alerted to his movement by the dog.

The boy continued to sprint all-out, rounding a small pond on a dirt path, until he reached the benches at the far end of the park. He saw a package underneath one of the benches, and raced toward it. He dove for the package, not caring when he scraped his knees on the dirt and gravel as he skidded to a stop. The boy clutched his prize to his chest. Only then did he remember he had not seen the man with the red balloon.

A booming, gravelly voice sounded behind him as a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Gotcha!”

Scared, the boy turned to see a ruddy-faced man holding a red balloon in his left hand. The man lowered his large right hand from the boy’s shoulders and held it out, gesturing toward the present. “Give it here, boy.”

Johnny’s eyes welled with tears as he reluctantly turned over the package.

Suddenly, there was a tremendous crash behind them. Both the boy and the man turned to see a surreal image—a Soviet tank—the same kind of tank that had run through the streets of Prague during the invasion of 1968—plowed through a wooden kiosk stand, smashing it to pieces, the wreckage spilling like a box of matches. The tank drove on, coming directly for the man and the boy. The engine growled as the metallic treads squeaked in their rotation. Johnny and the man were frozen for a second, held in shock, but as the tank surged toward them like a menacing beast, the two fled. The man let go of his balloon, and before it could rise into the sky, the tank caught it under its treads and shredded it with a loud pop.

The two ran frantically, but the tank pressed on. Suddenly the boy became aware they were not alone—there was a whole multitude of people shouting, screaming, desperately running from the tank. But there was no escape. With the loud snapping of tree limbs and the crunch of park benches, a dozen other Soviet tanks drove into the park, crushing everything in their path. There was the loud roar of the tanks, the spewing clouds of their exhaust, the horrific screams of the people as they were run down, and the sickly-sweet smell of death. Inevitably, the tank knocked the boy down and spun him violently under the tracks. Before slipping into the darkness of the abyss, the last thing the boy felt was a crushing weight on his chest.

Hans awoke in a cold sweat. The room was dim. For a moment he was completely disoriented. Calming his racing heartbeat, he reached across the bed and felt the cold, empty sheets. He rose and looked around the room. Anna was gone.

6

Scharf drove his Trabant to the Defense Ministry headquarters in Strausberg, just east of Berlin. He was dressed in his Stasi uniform, which was almost identical to that of the army, but marked with maroon shoulder boards. The guard at the front gate hastily checked Scharf’s papers and let him through. Scharf parked the Trabant, then walked into the administrative offices. He sought out General Heinz Dietrich. Scharf entered Dietrich’s office and found it empty, but he heard the sound of running water coming through the open door of the private washroom. Scharf was about to call out, but Dietrich’s voice came first, from out of the washroom.

“You’re early, Scharf.”

“I didn’t feel like waiting,” Scharf replied.

Dietrich appeared at the doorway, wiping his hands with a towel. His field uniform was spattered with mud. “I just got back from maneuvers,” Dietrich explained, then added with some annoyance, “but of course you know that. Everything has to work on your timetable, doesn’t it?”

Scharf ignored the barb and sat in front of Dietrich’s desk. “We need to talk about Russian support.”

“The Soviets are under a lot of pressure after shooting the American.”

“All the more reason for the Americans to launch an attack,” Scharf argued.

Dietrich shook his head. “There’s no way we can bring this up with the Soviets at the moment. Meanwhile, we need to handle our own business. We’ve got more thanks to that stunt of yours last week. Do you think it was wise to let the whole Politburo in on our plans?”

Scharf shrugged. “It served its purpose.”

Dietrich leveled a steely eye at Scharf. “You keep taking chances with our security, and we’ll all be done.”

Scharf sniffed. “Not at all. That’s nothing to worry about. The Russians, however—”

“Yes?” The annoyance in Dietrich’s tone was growing.

Scharf straightened, cleared his throat, and continued. “We need to know they’ll be fully committed. True, this shooting may make them more reluctant to participate. And this new man, Gorbachev, is different. I’m not sure we can count on Soviet support as we have in the past. We need to make sure they’ll have to back us.”

Dietrich considered Scharf’s argument. “What do you have in mind?”

Scharf stared at Dietrich with earnest solemnity. “Can we get Soviet uniforms?”

Dietrich drew back at the suggestion, then shook his head at its brashness. “There will have to be a lot of them,” he said, sounding doubtful.

“At least a third of a regiment,” Scharf said, not giving Dietrich’s words a chance to set in.

“And we’ll need more of our own troops,” Dietrich added, again casting doubt.

“Visibility will be the key. We’ll send those troops straight through Tiergarten,” Scharf countered.

Dietrich threw up his hands and ran them along his thinning hair at the sides of his head. “It’s just making a bigger headache—”

“The Soviets will have to back us,” Scharf said confidently. “They’ll have to, if their own tanks and troops are seen invading West Berlin.”

Scharf’s dogged persistence was slowly winning Dietrich over. Finally Dietrich shrugged, relenting. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Scharf left Dietrich’s office smiling. He was so pleased with Dietrich’s response that he did not notice the officer who passed him in the corridor. Hans was following Scharf closely, and yet he had not been detected.

Hans looked up at the sandstone facade of the Brandenburg Gate. The icon of Berlin stood for nearly two hundred years as the city grew around it. Originally the western entrance to the imperial city, the Brandenburg Gate now stood directly in the heart of Berlin. Like everything else in the city it was fraught with contradiction. A Prussian King built the gate as a symbol of peace. Now the scars of World War II’s heavy devastation marked its facade. The communists tried to restore the structure, but only achieved in creating a patchwork appearance to the sandstone. Most of all, the Berlin Wall made the Brandenburg Gate’s function as a thoroughfare obsolete. Directly east lay Pariser Platz, a landscaped area that once complimented the grand architecture of the monument. Now it was a buffer zone, occupied only by Border Troops. Hans looked up at the ornate carvings as he, General Dietrich, and a captain escort passed the massive columns of the gate.

The captain was a squat, short-necked man. He spoke rapidly, trying to hide his nervousness. It was only his second day at this post. He was told the Brandenburg Gate was frequented by VIPs, but he hadn’t anticipated that such high-ranking officers would immediately conduct an inspection.

“Security has been a priority here ever since the Wall went up,” he said, trying to be assertive. “We have made every effort to control the integrity of the border. But this is a landmark, and it draws the most pedestrian traffic of any non-checkpoint spot along the length of the Wall.”

The trio emerged on the western side of the gate and stood on an empty concrete expanse. In front of them, the wall curved out in a semi-circle. The captain pointed out: “A hundred meters to the right is the observation tower, our primary watch site. We used to climb up to the top of the gate, along the quadriga, but we rarely find that useful anymore. Only on special occasions do we need such a vantage point.”

Hans looked up at the gate, then over to the guard tower. He was silent, but his eagle eyes scanned over the defenses, looking for exposed and potential weaknesses. Dietrich took a more casual, tourist-like approach, which helped put the captain at some measure of ease.

Hans gazed back toward the Wall and scanned its length. The long line of the front wall, topped with concrete piping, ended at the semi-circle. Here, the Wall became shorter and significantly wider. At the northern end of the semicircle, the thinner, pipe-topped wall continued on, passing the Reichstag. Dietrich watched Hans scan the Wall, then lingered for a moment on the West German flag fluttering above the Reichstag.

“Comrade Captain, why is the Wall shorter here?” Hans inquired.

“Ah,” the captain said sheepishly, “that was engineered from the beginning by General Secretary Honecker himself. He felt it was important to show the West we control the Gate, so he wanted them to see it better. The wall here is closer to two and a half meters than three, and about three meters wide. That’s to avoid any sort of vehicle breakthrough. I’d venture to say even a tank would have a hard time overcoming that thickness.”

The men returned to the eastern side of the gate, passing once again through the giant pillars. Hans looked beyond the security checkpoint, at the end of Pariser Platz, to a meter-high ‘baby’ wall that separated tourists and pedestrians from the secure zone. It was topped with a railing, but one that a thin person or youngster could squeeze through.

“So,” the captain continued, “as you know, we keep our station housed in the old guardhouses at the gate, and have constant patrols throughout Pariser Platz. It’s an effective enough measure just to be seen. We’ve really never had a problem with anyone approaching from the eastern side.”

Dietrich now frowned, already bored with the inspection. “You’ve had problems with people from the West, then?” His tone was more cynical than truly probing.

The captain shook his head and nervously smiled. “No, hardly get any problems from there either. Just a few occasions of drunks throwing bottles over the wall at night, mostly. We’re vigilant. We know how important this gate is as a symbol.”

The East German flag that flew atop the Brandenburg Gate was indeed an ensign of the GDR’s territory, but it ironically carried on a militaristic tradition that the East Germans claimed to reject. The Brandenburg Gate had been draped with Prussian military flags during the wars of German unification, then famously during the Nazi regime with swastikas, and finally, at the end of the horrific battle for Berlin, the flag of the Soviet Union. Now another flag adorned the Gate, another marker on this claimed territory. The captain looked up at the flag and smiled. For him, it was a comforting sight.

Hans and Dietrich left the captain at the edge of Pariser Platz and climbed into the general’s private car. The driver pulled away, heading east on Unter den Linden.

Hans shifted in his seat. “Comrade General, there’s a matter I need to discuss with you.”

“Is it terribly important?” Dietrich yawned.

“I’ve been hearing reports regarding Operation STOSS.”

“Yes?” The general’s interest piqued.

Hans continued carefully, “If I’m to understand it correctly, the Stasi is seriously considering its implementation.”

“We merely consider all possible scenarios in drawing up military strategy. That does not mean we intend to pursue every single plan,” Dietrich tried to deflect.

“That’s not what I heard,” Hans insisted. Dietrich did not reply, but Hans continued to press. “Where does that leave us, Comrade General? I can save myself time from examining the border defenses if we’re going to invade the West and make the border obsolete.”

“It’s a far more complicated issue than that, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt.”

“Yes, Comrade General, but our focus has been on defensive measures. It’s another thing to make them suddenly offensive in nature. And I do not believe that is a tenable position given current conditions.”

“No?”

“No, Comrade General. There are too many variables to control. The garrisons of NATO forces in West Berlin, for instance, the three West Berlin airports, and the nature of two million West Berliners who won’t just sit by while we take over their streets. A coordinated strike may be able to invade the heart of West Berlin, but it would take the full effort of all our military forces to hold any territory gained. That’s a risk we cannot afford to undertake. And none of this even considers the how our unilateral actions will tip the balance of Warsaw Pact unity. We don’t need the Soviets’ permission to protect our own country, but if we act without consulting them, we leave our allies in the cold. A chain reaction of military conflicts could start here. Our situation may be growing desperate, but that could prove disastrous.”

“Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, you worry too much. Besides, these matters are in the hands of capable men. Don’t concern yourself with issues that are beyond your responsibility,” Dietrich said, trying to bring finality to the discussion. He was overtired and in an especially foul mood.

Hans would not be deterred. “You should know, Comrade General, the Soviets will not support such an operation.”

Dietrich’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I’ve spoken with Colonel Neski of the 6th Army,” Hans continued.

“Yes? And?”

Hans lowered his voice. “A year and a half ago, we almost went to war, all on account of two incidents that were colossal misunderstandings. They scared the Soviets. The first occurred three weeks after the Korean airliner was shot down over Kamchatka, when tensions were especially high. A lieutenant colonel Petrov was in charge of the early-warning bunker near Moscow. One of their satellites registered five nuclear launch warnings.”

“What?” Dietrich said.

“Five warnings. Petrov didn’t believe the Americans would start a nuclear war with just five birds. It would be a massive attack. So he cross-checked his information, and eventually disabled the system. Turns out the satellite had been registering reflected sunlight from high-level clouds as missile launches. But if Petrov hadn’t taken the time to think it over, not just react―well, you can imagine the result.”

Dietrich sat up. Hans had his full attention now.

“But that was only the first incident,” Hans said. “The second was six weeks later. NATO was running a communications exercise, Able Archer, in West Germany. The Soviets were monitoring the exercise as part of their Operation RYAN, designed to give them early warning of a nuclear attack from NATO. Andropov didn’t want the Soviets to be taken by surprise, not after what happened with the Nazis in the last war. So they listened in on Able Archer, and although they heard every transmission was labeled “exercise,” they didn’t believe it. They thought it was a cover. The Soviets went on high alert, and were just waiting for a missile launch warning to strike at NATO. They were within moments of launching their missiles and blowing us all to hell. But the intel was all wrong. NATO ended the exercise and nothing happened. It scared the Soviets when they realized how close they came to a war, and all for nothing.

“Neski assures me that because of these incidents, the Soviets will not participate in any initiating offensive maneuver directly against NATO forces. Nothing official, he says―have to maintain an image of solidarity with our Warsaw Pact allies―but if we were to invade West Berlin, we would be alone. The Soviets will not assist us, because they are more afraid of a nuclear conflict than anything else. In fact, they may condemn such a maneuver if there is enough time to contain it. Believe me, Comrade General, if we invade West Berlin, we will be on our own, and the condemnation of the world will fall upon us. You remember Sun Tzu said, ‘Never fight a battle that cannot be won.’ Well, Comrade General, we may be able to win an invasion of West Berlin, but it is a fight we will ultimately lose.”

Hans held his breath as he waited for Dietrich’s response. The general turned, looking out the window, lost in thought. When he finally spoke, it was after a short grunt.

“Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, I thank you for your candor in this matter. I’ve helped strategize this plan over and over. You know we need to be ready for every contingency. But I won’t be the one to start a war.”

Brüske moved with purpose through the thick underbrush of the forest near Wannsee in southwest Berlin. He had crossed the border through a gate hidden in the frontier fences near Klein Machnow. It was a heavily forested section of the border, and the East Germans often used it to infiltrate spies into West Berlin and bring traitors over to the East. Brüske carried forged papers, a small knapsack, and a penknife as his only utilities. He was no stranger to these missions into West Berlin—Scharf had often sent Brüske over for various duties. This time he was planting half a dozen small radio transmitters throughout the city. He started with a park in Schӧneburg, placing the thumb-sized transmitter in a clump of bushes. He planted two transmitters in apartment buildings—one in the attic of a building in Kreuzberg, the other in an abandoned mail slot in Wilmersdorf. Now he was placing the last one in the woods near Wannsee, far from any buildings.

Each of the devices used western parts and were programmed to send periodic radio bursts at varying intervals. They would transmit coded messages on a frequency once known to be used by western agents. It was an old frequency that the Americans no longer used, but the Soviets and East Germans had intercepted a number of secret messages on that band in the past.

Brüske knelt by a tree trunk and pulled out a knife. He carved a slot into the trunk and slid the transmitter into the void. It was held tight in the narrow crevice. Finished, he stood and brushed the dirt and leaves off of his knees. Brüske wove his way back through the underbrush to the main trail. He had gone a hundred meters along the path when a man dressed in jogging shorts and a sweatshirt zipped past him. The jogger stayed focused on the trail ahead, his breath shooting out huge clouds of steam in the cold. Neither man acknowledged the other. Brüske kept his head down and quickened his pace.

On the other side of the city, Scharf entered the pavilion at the base of the Fernsehturm, or Television Tower, at Alexanderplatz. He boarded the elevator and used a special key to select the fifth level. Within moments, Scharf was shooting 200 meters skyward within the narrow stem of the tower, the tallest building in Berlin. The iconic silver ball on a needle-like spindle could be seen from almost all of East and West Berlin. The tower had five levels within its ball; the lower two levels were open to the public, where an observation deck and revolving restaurant offered spectacular views of the city. GDR citizens could stand in the tower and look far beyond the wall into the untouchable West. Upon the tower’s completion, then-GDR chairman Walter Ulbricht hailed the Fernsehturm as a heroic modern achievement of the state. However, he could not escape an embarrassing irony: whenever the sun shines directly on the disco-ball like silver tiles, the image of a cross is reflected. Reagan would refer to it in his famous “Tear down this Wall” speech, derisively claiming GDR authorities had vigorously tried―unsuccessfully―to remove the reflection.

Scharf could care less what the building reflected. What was on the fifth level gave the East Germans the last laugh. Directly above the restaurant lay two engineering levels for television and radio broadcasting equipment, but the fifth and highest level was a secret high-tech observation post. Here the Stasi could intercept radio and telephone messages from anywhere in the city. In the West, the Americans’ Teufelsberg observation post monitored the East; here was the fitting Cold War countermeasure. The first time Scharf learned of the post, he looked up at the tower and smiled. If Berliners only knew how big brother really was watching them.

Scharf exited the elevator and stepped into the observation post. Seven Stasi officers manned a number of radios and computers, screening the flood of signals in the ether. He had barely taken in the room when a young lieutenant in shirtsleeves stepped up to him.

“Urgent message, Comrade Colonel. We intercepted it just half an hour ago from a signal burst near Wannsee. It was coded, but we’ve broken it. I don’t think the Amis have a clue.” Ami was the nickname East Germans gave Americans. It was a scornful nickname, like Yankee Doodle.

Scharf glanced at the message and feigned alarm. “Military?”

“Yes Comrade Colonel.”

“I’m going to get this to Defense Command immediately.” Scharf picked up the secure phone. As Scharf dialed, he knew Brüske had succeeded in setting the hook. It was now only a question of whether he could draw in the prey.

7

General Dietrich drove from his home in Strausberg to the prearranged spot not far from town. It was a quiet meadow with thick, tall grass at the edge of a wood. Dietrich had driven off the main road nearly ten minutes ago, and now only the sound of gravel under his tires and the sharp angle of the morning sun kept him awake. It was barely six a.m., yet Scharf had insisted on meeting him here this morning. Dietrich rounded a curve and saw Scharf just beyond the bend, leaning against his car.

The general had barely stepped out of his vehicle when Scharf addressed him.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“It’s a bit early, Comrade Scharf. What’s so urgent to bring me all the way out here, now?”

“We’ll talk about that.” Scharf inhaled the crisp air. “Let’s take a walk. It’s good for the circulation.”

There was no snow on the ground, but the cold still bit into Dietrich’s boots as they crunched through the frost-covered tall grass. Dietrich was thankful for his long wool coat. Scharf seemed to be more at ease with the cold, though he wore a short leather coat and gloves. Scharf led Dietrich down a narrow path in the meadow, taking them into a thicket of reeds that stood above their heads. Only a spare, small tree could be seen above the wall of grass. Dietrich could no longer see his vehicle. Scharf finally stopped in a small clearing. The reeds still obstructed their view, and the path forward and back twisted enough so there was no clear line of sight.

Dietrich shivered in the cold. “You didn’t bring me out here just for exercise, Scharf. You said it was urgent.”

Scharf reached into his pocket and pulled out the radio dispatch. “We received this last night. Signal burst out of West Berlin.”

Scharf solemnly handed the dispatch to Dietrich. The general read the message, then audibly scoffed. “Has it been to analysis?”

Scharf shook his head. “It’s fresh. I felt the urgency required —”

“How do you know it’s authentic?” Dietrich interrupted. “It’s probably disinformation.”

Scharf swallowed, then pulled a handful of messages from his other pocket. “These came in the hours after. Five in all. Within twelve hours. I hope you have Operation STOSS ready, Comrade General.”

Dietrich read the other messages carefully, then re-read them. He rubbed his chin, then finally shrugged. “This is too irregular. NATO doesn’t send out chatter at this kind of volume without movement.”

“Exactly,” Scharf said excitedly. “They could strike at any moment.”

“No,” Dietrich said, shaking his head. “There’s not been any sign of NATO movement, let alone preparations to move. I don’t know why you brought me out here for this. This should go directly to the Minister of Defense. If it’s accurate.”

“It is. That’s why I brought it to you. You’re the man who will have to act. You have the plans. Prepare them. I’ve sent copies of these messages on, but I assure you, Comrade General Dietrich, there will be no other option than an invasion. Now the West has forced our hand. We have to stop them before they get to us first. We joined together because we’re men of initiative. When our country needs us to act, we do so. And the moment to act is now.”

Dietrich grew irritated. “What is wrong with you, Scharf? I told you this is probably disinformation, and now you want to rush ahead with STOSS. Frankly, I’m rethinking the entire operation.”

“What do you mean?” Scharf asked, alarmed.

Dietrich sighed. “Maybe the invasion isn’t such a good idea after all.”

Scharf turned his back to Dietrich, seemingly deflated. He paused a moment, then with his back still turned, looked up. He watched a black crow streak through the clear blue sky, cawing as it flew. When Scharf spoke again, it was quietly.

“Then you won’t help me?” He waited for what seemed a long pause.

“No,” Dietrich growled. “You’re on your own, if you want to start a war.”

“Pity,” Scharf said, turning.

He swiftly pulled a Walther PPK from his jacket and fired into Dietrich’s chest. Shocked, Dietrich stumbled backward and fell to the ground. Suddenly the chilly frost against his back was met with a warm wetness. Dietrich coughed, his lungs filling with blood as he writhed on the ground. He looked up to see Scharf standing above him. Scharf coldly aimed the pistol again. There was an expression on his face that frightened Dietrich.

“Then I no longer have use for you,” Scharf said.

A second gunshot rang out in the cold morning air.

Scharf pulled the magazine out of the gun with his gloved hands. Then he flung both the pistol and the clip into the reeds. Quickly he pulled a half-burned cigarette out of his pocket, a Gauloise, and dropped the stub into the grass at his feet. He made a quick survey of the area, then hurried back to his car, watching to ensure he left no footprints along the trail. Within moments, Scharf was on the road.

It was late afternoon, two days later, when Dietrich’s body was found. A man walking his dog came across the body on the trail. He immediately called the People’s Police. Within in a matter of minutes, the Stasi and a contingent of military police also arrived on the scene. Altogether over twenty officers and the coroner were gathered with their vehicles on the road along the meadow. The scene quickly became a jurisdictional mess. Policemen scoured the scene and found the cigarette stub quickly. The pistol was harder to find, but after sweeping through the tall brush inch by inch, they found it and the magazine clip too.

Scharf arrived at the scene just as the gun was being bagged for evidence. A Stasi officer named Fehlborn had taken charge of the investigation. Scharf approached him immediately.

“Who found the body?” Scharf asked.

“A local who was taking a stroll,” Fehlborn replied, pointing toward a white-haired old man who was seated in the back of a police car. The door was open and a whole gaggle of police had surrounded it, asking the man questions. “Would you like to question him?”

Scharf looked toward the crowd and waved his hand, declining. A police technician handed Fehlborn the bagged gun.

“You should see this, Comrade Colonel,” Fehlborn said, his voice low.

“Western-manufacture.” Scharf examined the gun. “Hmm. Walther PPK. Get it to the lab immediately for analysis.”

Dietrich’s death sent shock waves through the GDR’s defense ranks. The next morning, an emergency meeting of the Defense Council was held. Hans was present, as were Müller and Scharf. The Minister of Defense led off, recounting the discovery of Dietrich’s body in the field. He explained that analysis of the gun revealed no fingerprints or serial number.

“So where do we stand?” Müller inquired.

Fehlborn, who brought the test results directly to the meeting, answered. “The gun itself suggests a security breach. A western-manufactured weapon used to commit murder here in the GDR. This is the work of the Dark Forces.” The Dark Forces was the Soviets’ favorite term for the CIA. Communist propaganda always preached of the danger of ‘imperialist conspiracy’; accordingly, the Dark Forces had to be at the heart of any mischief in the East. Fehlborn’s investigative mind, however, prompted him to add a qualifier. “They, at the very least, are accomplices.” This news troubled the council.

“That’s not all,” Scharf continued, adopting sober tone of warning. “We intercepted a message three days ago from somewhere within our part of the city. If the coroner’s time of death is accurate, it came only four hours after Dietrich was murdered. It referred directly to his death as an assassination.”

The generals were floored.

“This message was also confirmed by Comrade Major Wendt’s listening post. The facts do not lie, comrades. General Dietrich was murdered with a gun manufactured in the West. He was shot at close range.” Scharf let the words hang. Around the room, the faces of each of the ministers darkened. None of them wanted to contemplate the obvious. “He knew his murderer. And this person confirmed Comrade Dietrich’s death via secret radio message to his fellow conspirators in the West. Comrades, we have a mole within our ranks.”

An explosion of chatter filled the room, ranging from outrage to mutterings of shock and fear. Hans sat perfectly still, though his stomach dropped.

Scharf concluded, “This is a matter of utmost national security. The Minister of State Security has appointed me to head the search for this man.”

After the meeting adjourned, Hans followed Müller over to his office. Both men felt uneasy about Scharf’s new investigation.

“This is not the usual way to seek out a mole,” Hans said.

“No. Discretion is usually required in these matters. Otherwise, it spreads fear like a pathogen.”

“Scharf wants to spread fear.”

“Yes,” Müller concurred. “He’ll use it to scatter his opposition, just like Fass. The wolf drives the herd to flee, then singles out his prey.” Müller paused for a moment, then looked at Hans. “Tell me, Comrade Brandt, are you a wolf?”

“No.”

“What are you then?”

Hans thought for a moment, then nodded. “I’m a shepherd.”

“Hmm,” Scharf grimaced. “But the shepherd must think like a wolf to protect the flock.”

That evening, Hans returned to his secret apartment on Lehmbruckstrasse. Alone, in the light of a desk lamp, he laid out his covert equipment. He began to retool his weapons and surveillance devices. Hans wanted his tools to be easily at hand, available whenever needed. Taking the belt from his uniform, he fashioned a concealed, spring-loaded gun in the buckle. Hans remembered from his CIA training that the Nazi SS created a similar device during World War II. Unlike the Nazi device, which could house four separate firing chambers, Hans’ belt buckle gun could only fire twice. Still, Hans knew the importance of this weapon. He would not be prey.

8

Hans had a restless sleep that night. He woke before dawn, packed a small suitcase, and drove three hours north to Stralsund, a city on the Baltic coast. As Hans approached the city, he caught sight of the dramatic spires of Stralsund’s three Brick Gothic churches. The towering medieval structures were built when Stralsund was a member of the wealthy Hanseatic League of merchants. Hans drove through the cobblestone streets of the old city and across the Rügendamm bridge to the small island of Dänholm. The island lay between Stralsund and the much larger island of Rügen. Dänholm had housed a naval garrison since the Prussian empire, and in the 1950s, the GDR established its naval college on the base. Hans reported to the small port where a Coastal Border Brigade patrol boat was docked. He boarded the vessel and was greeted by Lieutenant Strelitz, the officer in charge of that section of coastline. The cruiser motored out of Dänholm into the Strela Sound.

Hans stood on the port side gunwale and looked out at the grand seaside view of Stralsund. A heavy wind chopped up the waves across the sound, making the patrol boat bounce across the water as if it were on springs. After a few minutes, he returned to the bridge with Lieutenant Strelitz.

“So you’re here to evaluate border defenses, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt? We’re doing the best we can along the coast,” Strelitz said. He brought Hans over to a table and spread out charts detailing the entire GDR coast. “Despite hundreds of kilometers of coastline, our defenses are quite adequate. Between us and the regular navy, the coast is thoroughly patrolled. We’ve been quite effective. In the last year alone, we stopped twenty-nine incursions of the border. Eighteen of those were small boats from non-Warsaw Pact nations assisting the escape of GDR citizens. Altogether one-hundred-and-five persons were taken into custody, seventeen boats were seized, and the rest scuttled.”

“Excellent,” Hans replied.

Strelitz smiled.

“And what recommendations do you have for improving the border, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt?”

“We are considering a high-tech system to be implemented in several phases. Buoys with sonar and motion detection lining the entire coast.”

Strelitz looked at his crew. “I don’t see how that would be worth the investment, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. It sounds like a lot of money for automating a system we do just fine manning by ourselves. What does Admiral Wurtz say about it?”

“We haven’t discussed it, as yet.”

Strelitz smiled again. “We’re doing fine, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.”

Strelitz left the cabin and headed toward the bow. Hans followed him, feeling the cold sea breeze in his face as the patrol boat cut through the waves.

Hans stayed the night in the Dänholm officer’s barracks. The next morning he drove across the bridge onto Rügen. He headed toward the military base at Prora on the eastern side of the island. Hans’ thoughts weighed on him as he drove along a narrow road through heavily wooded forest. He began to feel numbed by his new assignment. Never before had he spent so much time analyzing the border defenses, and despite his years of training and patience, this duty wore on him. He was on edge—largely because of Scharf’s mole hunt—but also because every inspection felt like another brick being laid to seal him in. He and his fellow soldiers were suffocating the people, making the noose around the GDR tighter and tighter.

As Hans’ thoughts began to wander, he remembered the last time he had spoken with his father, over fifteen years ago. Dwelling on that conversation, he felt a strange detachment from those events—he remembered the details vividly, but it was if they had happened to someone else. They had been in a cabin, not far from the inner-German border, and spoken by the warm light of a fireplace. Still, in Hans’ memory, he felt cold. He remembered his father’s angular face lit by the dancing flames of the fire, a strange effect that gave him a mystical visage.

“Until now, we’ve never been able to successfully plant a deep cover agent behind the Iron Curtain. But you’ll succeed. I’ve prepared you your whole life for this,” his father said. “When you’re over there, never forget: you have a rare opportunity to make a major impact in the greatest struggle of our age. Communism must be defeated because it runs an inverted society. It proclaims the progress of society while it crushes the rights of individuals. They proclaim there is no rich, no poor, that everyone is provided for and happy. But there can be no happiness without individual freedoms. The only way anyone is happy in a communist society is if he or she becomes a functionary, and exercises his little authority to its maximum, so one can feel the selfish pleasures of being drunk on power. It’s a society that’s rotten to the core.”

“I know all of this already,” Hans protested.

“But now you’re going to see it,” his father said. “You’re going to know it, from the inside out. You’ll know the very soul of their rotten society, and you’ll know why they have to be defeated. No one should have to live like that, let alone half the world.”

For a moment, they were both silent. Hans watched the flames leap and crackle in the fireplace.

“You must always remember,” Hans’ father said, “that this is a war. It may be a cold one, but you’re going to be fighting in enemy territory. Back when I was there, I met a man who was the best soldier I’d ever seen. He was there from the beginning, when the Nazis fell. He told me something I’ll never forget. He compared war to an inferno, and he said, ‘the fire is out, but it’s still smoldering. It can easily ignite again, and if it does, we’ll all be burned.” Hans’ father leaned forward to his son, trying to ingrain the lesson. “Our job is to prevent that from happening, but remember—when tending to the smoking coals—that smoke is insidious. Most people die from smoke inhalation long before the flames reach them.” Hans now understood those words more clearly than ever before.

It was clear Scharf would have to be stopped. Scharf’s closeness with the Minister of State Security was troubling, considering his power grab had begun to clear out anyone who opposed him. Dietrich’s death and the whole mole hunt reeked. Hans suspected his conversation with Dietrich had likely convinced the general to break off the invasion plans, and Scharf had probably killed him for it. Events were unraveling too conveniently in Scharf’s favor. The mole hunt now posed a very real danger to Hans, and more importantly, Anna. Scharf would bulldoze his way through the government ranks to find his way to the top, but he was smart enough that if he uncovered any trace of a real breach, he’d sniff out the source.

The Prora base was a complex of old Nazi buildings along the wooded coastline. The entire complex stretched for almost seven miles, set just a hundred meters back from a golden sand beach. Hitler had commissioned the five-story structures in 1936 as a vacation resort where the Aryan nation could play. Despite the charming natural surroundings, the complex was dour and gray; it seemed as if it was always destined to be barracks.

Hans reported to the base headquarters, where he was escorted to the office of the base commander, General Thorwald. The general and his chief of staff, Colonel Grossmann, sat Hans down. The men had little interest in his official duties, though they were eager to hear of news from Berlin.

“What is the status on the Dietrich case?” Thorwald probed.

“The Minister of State Security has assigned a special unit to find the murderer,” Hans replied, his throat dry.

“Do they have a suspect?” Grossmann chimed in.

“Not that I know of, though they are building a profile.”

“Who is in charge of the investigation?”

“Comrade Colonel Karl Scharf.”

Thorwald relaxed, loosening his shoulders as he looked over at Grossmann. “Scharf is good. He’ll get the bastard.”

“How do you know?” Grossmann countered.

“Because Scharf is relentless. I’ve heard about him. He’ll succeed. Whatever the cost, he succeeds.”

Hans arrived at his hotel in Binz just as the sun was setting. It was a small bed-and-breakfast affair on a wooded hill just above the beach. The place was nearly empty; it was off-season, only the first weekend in April. The weather had been so cold and cloudy that even the spring vacationers stayed away. When Hans checked into his room, he was surprised to see Anna had not yet arrived. He waited there until nine o’clock, then walked down to the local pub. Hans found he had no stomach to eat or drink, so after half an hour he made his way back to the hotel. Anna had still not arrived by eleven. Hans turned an easy chair to the seaside view of his room. He looked out the window at the reflection of the moon in the waves, waiting past one o’clock. Gradually, Hans fell asleep.

Hans had a strange and fitful dream. He was at the border, at night, with heavy fog lying over the death strip between East and West Germany. He saw and heard a frenzy of action: searchlights piercing through the fog, the blaring of alarm sirens, a shrill scream, the flash of a gun, the barking of watch dogs, the shouts of the damned. Hans stirred in his sleep, but he did not waken.

This dream was no strange figment of imagination, but fragments of an actual memory, long buried in his past. It was August 1974, just after Hans had received his commission as an officer. Hans was stationed in his first post along the southern inner-German border. Joining him there was another graduate of his officers’ training class, Friedrich Stoller. Friedrich and Hans had become friends during their training, a genuine friendship that was rare for Hans. They were the best swimmers in their class, and a healthy competition raged between the two in the pool. Hans won more freestyle races, but always by a narrow margin.

Once Friedrich challenged Hans to a boxing match. The two men fought five full rounds. Bruised and exhausted, the match was declared a draw. When the two unexpectedly had to go on a ten-mile march the next day in full gear, the error of their full-blown bout was clear to them. Every muscle was strained in agony, though the drill sergeant continued to push them on, not letting the two men with bruised faces fall behind. He assumed they had engaged in a sore fistfight, and was determined to drill more discipline into these ragged soldiers. That episode, with the shared experience of sheer pain, bonded their friendship fast. Eventually, they would laugh about the experience, but they swore from then on to keep their competition to the pool.

After graduation, Hans and Friedrich were surprised to receive the same posting to Thuringia; usually friends in the Border Troops were separated to prevent any risk of collusion to escape. Hans and Friedrich were the exception. They both had outstanding marks on their tests and were destined to excel. Their superiors saw a bright future for these new officers.

Yet Hans and Friedrich’s friendship would come crashing down on that fateful night in August 1974. A cool and damp cloud of heavy fog shrouded the border defenses. It seemed otherworldly, especially in contrast to the warmth of that summer’s bright days. The death strip was heavily illuminated by lights, but on this night, the fog only served to diffuse their glow into a haze, making it difficult to spot anyone approaching the border. Hans was the officer on duty in this section of the border and was stationed in an office in the local headquarters. When necessary, he would be called out in a P3 to one of the guard towers.

The night watch was usually very quiet. Hans would busy himself with paperwork or take a soldier escort with him and make a motor patrol along the border in the P3. On this night, however, he received a call from the tower that Friedrich had been supervising. Lieutenant Stoller was sick, the soldiers said. Hans rushed over in the P3, his headlights barely illuminating the narrow patrol road in the death strip through the fog. It was a dangerous drive—there were mines not far from either side of the road, but Hans’ concern for his friend pushed him to drive faster than was reasonably safe.

When Hans reached Friedrich’s tower, he was immediately met by a soldier.

“Comrade Lieutenant Stoller’s collapsed at the base of the ladder,” the soldier said.

“Did he fall?”

“No, I don’t think so. He was going down, and just collapsed at the bottom. I wanted to call a medic, but he refused. He insisted I call you, Comrade Lieutenant Brandt.”

Hans looked up at the tower’s windows. “Who else is up there?”

“Nobody,” the soldier replied.

“Then get back to your post. I’ll let you know if I need help.”

“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant.” The soldier turned and scrambled back up into the tower.

Hans walked through the door of the guard tower, a concrete structure some four stories tall. There was nothing but a ladder inside that lead to the observation floor above. Friedrich was slumped next to the wall, leaning against the ladder. The light from outside the tower fell on him, revealing his flush and sweat-covered face. Hans was immediately concerned. Despite the cool night, Friedrich looked as if he had spent an hour in a sauna.

“Hilf mir,” Friedrich whispered. “Help me, Hans.”

Hans knelt beside him and opened Friedrich’s collar. “What happened, Friedrich?”

Friedrich did not answer; he shook his head, seemingly delirious.

“I’ll get a doctor,” Hans said, as he stood to go to the radio.

Friedrich grabbed Hans’ sleeve in a strong, firm grip. “No. No doctor.” He pulled Hans closer to him, and spoke in an even lower tone. “I’m not sick,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I need your help,” Friedrich implored, his eyes frantic and begging.

“Why? What’s happened?”

Friedrich glanced up toward the observation floor, ensuring that he was out of earshot of the guard above. “You remember the escape that happened last week at the checkpoint in town?”

“Yes, though we didn’t learn about it until this morning,” Hans said.

“I know. Nobody noticed. I was on duty then. None of us saw anything.”

“If no one saw anything, Friedrich, then they can’t single you out for punishment. It’s a failure, yes, but one of us all.”

Friedrich hesitated, then continued, haltingly. “Only, that’s not true. I did see something. The girl who escaped, Eva, was in her boyfriend’s car. He’s a West German. I let the car through. I knew she was hidden in there, and I did it, because she’s my girlfriend’s sister. I couldn’t let Katrin’s sister go to prison.”

Hans leaned back, stunned. “How did you know about this?”

“Katrin asked for my help. I couldn’t refuse her.”

Hans didn’t know what to say. He could only muster, “I see.”

“But now the Border Control and the Stasi will find me, Hans. I know they will. Please help me.”

“What do you want me to do, Friedrich? I don’t know what I can do to help you.”

“Help me escape. Help me get across. I can’t go to prison!”

Hans grit his teeth in frustration. Ruefully, he hung his head. “I can’t do that, Friedrich. I’ll help you any way I can, but I can’t do that.” The situation was spiraling out of control much faster than Hans could anticipate, but he knew he was in a terrible dilemma. He had worked nearly five years now in deep cover, something Friedrich could never have known. And yet, because of his mission, Hans had to deny helping Friedrich obtain the thing he told himself he was fighting for: freedom.

Friedrich started talking faster, more frenzied. “You could even come with me. There’s good jobs in the West. We could make good lives for ourselves. Travel, even. I can’t spend the next ten years in a cell.”

Hans shook his head in anguish. “I can’t do that, Friedrich. If they press charges, I’ll help you beat them. I’ll stand by you. Testify for you. They won’t have enough evidence to convict you. But I can’t help you escape.”

Hot tears streamed down Friedrich’s cheeks. He clenched his jaw in frustration. “They know, Hans. And I won’t have a chance. This is the only chance I have.”

Friedrich stood and looked out the door. The fog was thick across the border fence. Friedrich reasoned he could disappear before the guard in the tower could get a bead on him. He wiped the tears from his cheeks, exhaled, then steeled his composure. “I wish you could come with me,” he told Hans. Then, motioning to the guard above, “But at least give me a head start.”

Hans shook his head, admonishing him to stay. “No, Friedrich.” It was to no avail.

Friedrich darted out the door. Hans reached out for him, but Friedrich slipped through his hands. “No!” Hans shouted. He was stunned, only for a moment, into standing frozen in place. Friedrich took off possessed toward the fence. Hans heard the guard stir in the observation deck above and then bolted after Friedrich, hoping to tackle him before the guard could fire.

The next few seconds were a blur. A shrill order to halt came from the tower above, followed by the piercing beam of a spotlight in the fog. It took a moment for it to find Friedrich, but then it locked onto his back. The shrill klaxon of the border alarm sounded through the mist. Hans continued sprinting after Friedrich, knowing either of them could step on a mine at any moment.

Hans, though incredibly fit, could not keep up with his friend. Friedrich was running for his life, and it drove him with more furor and purpose than he ever had before. Hans was relying more on instinct, though terribly conflicted. He didn’t want to deny Friedrich his freedom, but he also didn’t want him to die. Even worse, Friedrich had put him into a terrible position. Whether or not Hans helped him escape, if Friedrich was successful now, Hans’ career could be in serious jeopardy. He could not let Friedrich escape on his watch.

Everything felt wrong, and somehow, Hans could not bring his legs to push fast enough. As he watched the spotlight hold on Friedrich’s back, Hans realized the guard would shoot at any moment. Hans stopped and pulled out his Makarov. He fired a warning shot into the air, hoping to both stop Friedrich and delay the guard in the tower from shooting. Friedrich flinched at the report of the gun, but still he ran on toward the fence. As Friedrich reached out to the wire, Hans realized the one danger he had not reckoned, and shouted one last, deep, loud, and desperate cry to Friedrich. “No! Stop!”

But it was too late.

As Friedrich pulled himself up the fence, his foot brushed against a trip wire. An explosion sounded, sending a deep shudder through Hans. An automatic firing device had launched a cone of shrapnel into Friedrich’s body. Friedrich went limp, then fell from the fence like a rag doll. Hans ran to his side, but his friend’s fate was sealed. Dozens of shrapnel fragments had pierced Friedrich’s body, pulverizing flesh and severing veins and arteries. There was nothing Hans could do. Friedrich bled out silently. In the distance, barking watch dogs and the hum of motorized reinforcements joined with the shrill border alarm to create a symphony of death. They were sounds Hans would always remember.

9

Hans awoke early to the sound of knocking. He rose, stretched, and rubbed at the knot in his back he had gotten from slumping in the chair. Brushing off the cobwebs of sleep, Hans went to the door. He was grateful when he opened it to find Anna standing before him. She embraced and kissed him before he could utter a word. It was a good welcome.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “The train from Berlin broke down, and I had to spend most of the night in Neubrandenburg.”

“There wasn’t another train to transfer to?” Hans asked.

Anna shook her head. “Mm-mm. They were doing track maintenance beyond Neubrandenburg, and all trains were stopped.”

Hans embraced her tightly, breathing in her soft perfume. “Let’s take a walk.”

The sandy beach was too cold for Hans and Anna to remove their shoes, but the air was fresh and the sky was clear. The sun was coming up in beautiful reddish-gold hues on the eastern horizon. Hans and Anna walked nonchalantly, but he scanned the beach and tree line to determine if they were alone. Gulls flew sporadically over the water, and a boy ran with his dog far down the shore, but otherwise they were alone. Satisfied, Hans stopped and embraced Anna, then whispered in her ear. He spoke clearly, so she could hear him over the sound of the sea, but at a volume so low the waves would have obstructed his words to anyone else.

He told her of Dietrich, of Scharf and Operation STOSS. He told her how Scharf was now orchestrating a mole hunt to find Dietrich’s killer. Anna listened intently, noting all of the details.

“So I can’t leave now,” Hans said. “But as soon as I can neutralize Scharf’s threat for good, I promise, I’ll go.”

“Good,” Anna said, “We’ll finish this business with Scharf together, and we can both go.”

Hans shook his head. “Absolutely out of the question. I want you to go back to West Berlin, and stay there until I join you.”

“You can’t ask me that. This is my duty too,” she said.

“This is different. Scharf has already killed one person. He won’t hesitate to kill another to achieve his plans.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be here either,” Anna countered.

Hans looked out over the waves, then steeling himself, turned back to Anna. “I can’t let him find you. If you were captured, or harmed, I couldn’t live with it.”

“But I have to live with you taking that same risk? Don’t ask me to carry a burden you’re not willing to bear yourself,” Anna said.

“You don’t understand,” Hans said, his frustration building, “I can’t abandon my duty when I can’t be replaced.”

Anna stood erect, beautiful but angry, the early sun touching her blonde hair and turning it gold. It swept across her face in the wind, and she furiously threw it back over her shoulder.

“Do you think I’m any less committed? You didn’t have a family member slaughtered by communists because he wanted nothing more than freedom.” The words stung far more than the cold sea breeze. “You’re so sworn on taking this on by yourself you don’t see it will destroy you,” Anna continued. “Your duty isn’t a prison sentence—and it’s not a war you have to fight alone.”

“You wanted me to think about our future. I’m doing that,” Hans said. Anna allowed him to touch her shoulders, gently rubbing them to warm her in the morning chill. “But I can’t have much to hope for if you’re not safe, and I can’t take on Scharf if I’m worrying about you. I’m not trying to be a hero, Anna, that’s simply the truth.”

She brought his hands down and held them. “You’re not seeing this clearly,” she said. “You think the only way you can handle this is alone. If you fight them alone, they’ll destroy you.”

Anna drew back from him. It was a gesture that was meant to lessen the barb of her words, but instead Hans felt them more palpably as she withdrew from him. She looked into his eyes with sadness.

“It’s one thing to make a sacrifice, but you’re throwing everything away.” Anna turned and headed down the beach.

The wheels in CIA Berlin Station Chief James Crandall’s head were turning. He was always on the lookout to turn a situation to his advantage, and now he was forming a scheme that would do just that. A courier had just brought an alarming new report from the East. After quickly considering the information, Crandall called a meeting with three of the most skilled western intelligence officers in Berlin.

Crandall began his intelligence career in the army, working in conjunction with Special Forces in Vietnam. After the war, he immediately joined the CIA. He participated in the failed Iran hostage rescue attempt Operation EAGLE CLAW in 1980. Then, in 1983, Crandall was assigned to Berlin as a case officer, running agents. Crandall was tough and uncompromising, traits which made him unpopular especially with subordinates. But his fortitude and reckoning had won the admiration of his superiors. There was something definitively bird-like in his physique―he was tall and scrawny, yet powerful. His visage and tactics had earned him the nickname “The Hawk” by his colleagues, but none would dare utter the moniker to his face. In 1984, when he was forty-five years old, Crandall was promoted to Berlin Station Chief.

The three intelligence officers—Charles Danforth, Mike Griggs, and Sean Mason—quickly gathered in Crandall’s office. Danforth was about forty, the typical Ivy League-educated CIA officer. Griggs was younger, about thirty-five, and wore a mustache. Mason, in his sixties, was the oldest of the group, distinguished by his beard and neatly combed silver-white hair. Mason was British MI6, the most senior of western intelligence officers operating behind the Iron Curtain, and had served in the Special Air Service during World War II. He had been in eastern Germany from the start of the Cold War, eventually rising to the highest status in the intelligence community.

“Gentlemen,” Crandall began, “I need not remind you how to handle highly sensitive information. There is a threat that must be handled immediately.” Crandall paused for dramatic effect, looking over the three men. “In this extreme circumstance, Langley has authorized me to brief you on Sunrise.”

“Sunrise? What’s that?” Griggs asked, leaning forward.

“Not what, but who. You see, even the simple confusion of that codename is deemed necessary for security, because Sunrise is our only deep cover agent operating behind the Iron Curtain,” Crandall explained.

“Deep cover,” Danforth reiterated the words, weighing their magnitude. “Didn’t we try that before?”

“Yes,” Mason said knowingly. “In the sixties, but it failed. Our own British agents didn’t take either.”

Crandall went on: “Naturally, it is quicker and easier to recruit agents throughout the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe. It takes years to develop a deep cover agent, and the effort is rarely successful. Sunrise is the only deep cover plant that thrived. ”

“How long has Sunrise been in play?” Danforth asked.

“Fifteen years. In that time, he’s risen to the top of the GDR’s ranks,” Crandall said.

“How is that possible?” Griggs asked, doubting.

“His mother was German. His father’s American. He could blend expertly into his surroundings, and he was trained from a very early age for this purpose,” Mason said.

Griggs and Danforth shot him a look. How did he know that?

“What’s the threat?” Danforth inquired.

“A Stasi colonel named Karl Scharf has begun a mole hunt. Scharf has already proven his reach and effectiveness. Sunrise and all our other top level agents in the GDR are facing possible exposure.” Crandall pressed the intercom on his desk, paging the secretary outside his office. “Please send Anna in now.”

Anna entered, and Crandall introduced her to the three men. Anna was not the only one who had met Sunrise. Mason knew all about the agent, and had even met him. At first, he only received filtered bits of Sunrise’s information, but an emergency in late 1981 forced him to be read fully into the case. When Sunrise’s primary contact disappeared, CIA heads suspected their agent was blown. The then-Berlin Station Chief, seeing time was of the essence, turned to Mason, already in East Berlin at that moment, to contact Sunrise. With his mastery of tradecraft, Mason safely established contact and gave him the warning. Together, Mason and Sunrise determined the contact had died in a tragic but coincidental accident when a semi-truck collided with the tram he was riding on as a passenger. For the next few months, Mason became Sunrise’s primary contact until Anna stepped in during the summer of 1982. Knowing Mason’s long experience and acquaintance with Sunrise, Crandall called Mason into this meeting for advice and to enlist his aid. Still, Crandall was keen to assert his position as the final authority in the room.

Prompted by Crandall, Anna related all of the information Hans had given her. The men listened intently. When she was finished, Danforth took a deep breath. “We can’t risk the exposure of our agents.”

“No,” Mason replied.

“Well, what do we do?” Griggs asked.

Crandall spoke decisively, “We take Scharf out. End the mole hunt and his push for invasion all at once.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Danforth asked.

“Seizure. We kidnap or eliminate him,” Crandall stated.

“Wouldn’t that confirm a mole has penetrated the East German ranks?” Griggs countered.

“Not if we concoct the proper cover story for his disappearance,” Crandall argued. “And as I understand it, Scharf’s list of enemies is growing. There are enough in the GDR who will want to see him gone.”

Griggs nodded, accepting this. “All right. When do we begin?”

“Immediately. I want Scharf gone as soon as possible,” Crandall ordered.

Mason shook his head. “Jim, it’s too aggressive. You need to consider the consequences, play out the possibilities, before going forward. You rush into this, and you might make it worse.”

“There’s something else,” Anna said, “concerning Sunrise.”

“Yes?” Crandall crossed his arms.

“I’m not sure how long he’ll still be a viable source,” Anna said.

“What are you talking about?” Crandall seemed puzzled.

“I’ve noticed he’s begun to distance himself. I think he’s lost,” Anna said.

Now Griggs and even Danforth were surprised. “What?” Danforth said.

“You’ve run his life since he was seventeen. No interruptions, no vacations, no respite. He’s on an open-ended, continual mission, and it’s become harder for him to maintain balance,” Anna asserted.

“Really?” Crandall barely concealed his contempt.

“Its all he’s known. I’m not sure he knows what he’ll have to come back to when he’s finished,” Anna said.

“He knew what he signed up for,” Crandall challenged.

Anna stared at him. “The longer he’s out in the cold, the greater the danger of his capture. I can see it’s wearing on him. And either he will be exposed, or he’ll cease to function. A man has to have some part of his life that is his own. We took his from him fifteen years ago, and if you don’t give it back, there won’t be anything left of him.”

Crandall almost snorted in response. Anna was undeterred. “I know him better than you. I meet with him. All you’ve had for the past year is the reports I’ve given to you.”

Crandall pinched his nose and stood. “All right, Anna, thank you.”

The men stood and waited for Anna to leave. As soon as the door closed, Danforth spat out in surprise, “She’s in love with him.”

“I’ve been aware of it,” Crandall replied.

“Why did you allow her to keep seeing him?” Danforth asked.

“It worked as a control mechanism. On Sunrise. Never been a problem,” Crandall answered.

“Until now,” Griggs said.

Crandall paced the room. “Well, I have an answer for that. And we might be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

“I think it’s clear she can’t continue to make contact with Sunrise,” Danforth offered. Crandall only murmured in response, already thinking out his plan.

“I have a better solution. We offer an ultimatum—an immediate transfer, or be bait to catch Scharf,” Crandall declared.

“A honey trap?” Danforth scoffed. “You’ll never get her to do it. Besides, I don’t know if it would work.”

Mason also groaned at the suggestion.

“She worked on Sunrise,” Crandall argued. “Tell me honestly that she wouldn’t work on any of you.”

“But she still won’t do it—it’s beneath her,” Danforth exclaimed.

“Well, we sweeten the deal. Offer her anything she wants,” Crandall deflected.

“She’ll want to keep contact with him,” Griggs said.

“Of course,” Crandall acknowledged, sitting back at his desk.

“Maybe even ask for his release from duty,” Danforth said.

“It’s possible,” Crandall admitted.

“Well,” Griggs prodded, “what will we tell her then?”

“We’ll tell her anything. Promise her anything she wants. All we want is for her to accept the mission. It won’t matter after that,” Crandall said.

“But we can’t remove Sunrise from his post,” Danforth protested.

“Of course not. We won’t,” Crandall said firmly.

Mason shook his head, astounded at the direction the conversation had turned.

“Crandall, you’re digging a hole so deep, you’ll never see the light again.”

“What happened to you?” Crandall snapped as he rose to his feet. “Did you go blind or just get scared in your old age?”

“It’s wrong,” Mason impugned, staring at the three men. “It’s all wrong.”

Crandall strode toward Mason and stared directly at him. “Our work is about expediency. If you can’t turn opportunity into an advantage, then you have no business making decisions here.”

Mason glared at Crandall. Seeing further argument was futile, he left the room without a word.

Danforth sighed. “It’s pretty harsh to speak to him like that. The man’s a legend.”

Crandall shrugged. “He doesn’t have the fortitude for intelligence anymore.”

“Mason’s got a point,” Griggs said. “Lying to our own agents will only create a backlash.”

Crandall turned to Griggs and gave a cold, calculating stare. “I’ve thought of that.”

10

Within days, Operation JAVELIN―the plan to catch Scharf―was put into effect. Anna, Danforth, and Griggs were the primary players. Crandall oversaw the operation from West Berlin via radio reports. Griggs had served in Special Forces in the military, and was used to these sort of operations. Danforth was a bit rustier. A good friend of Crandall, he had come on board to run the operation at Jim’s request. The operation was hastily assembled, but the men had scouted out Scharf’s favorite haunt―a kniepe or pub a short distance from his apartment in Lichtenberg.

The plan was simple: Anna would meet with Scharf in the bar, seduce him, and either lead him back to her fictitious apartment, or if he was unwilling, to his own apartment. If Scharf went for the former plan, Griggs and Danforth would ambush Scharf in the lobby of “her” apartment building. If it was the latter, Griggs and Danforth would ambush him even before he reached home. They could not let Scharf get a chance to escape in his own building, where he could easily move about and evade them should something go wrong. If Scharf was wise to the trap, Danforth and Griggs wanted room to maneuver. That way they still could eliminate Scharf, or if that was impossible, escape themselves. It would only take Scharf a moment to get help from the People’s Police or other Stasi members. Danforth and Griggs would have to move like lightning to capture their prey. A fourth agent would conduct surveillance from a car and give Anna, Danforth, and Griggs a quick getaway once they were finished.

Perhaps the most controversial point of the planning was whether Anna would be allowed to carry a weapon herself. Crandall insisted she could not, that the risk of Scharf suspecting something wrong and finding it on her person was greater than the danger to Anna herself. Danforth and Griggs would always remain close by, and could easily act in her defense. Griggs argued Anna could keep a weapon well concealed, and her ability to attack Scharf would only enhance their chances of success, but in the end, Crandall prevailed. Hans was kept completely out of the loop on the mission, as Crandall knew he would object to Anna’s use as bait.

So, on a drab evening in late April, Scharf walked into his favorite pub and spotted a pretty blonde in the corner. She made furtive glances at him as he drank and chatted with the bartender. Scharf noticed at first with amusement, but as time wore on, he became intrigued. She was stunningly beautiful, and as far as patronage in an East German pub went, exotic. She did not appear to be from the West, nor as far east as Russia. Usually, Scharf might consider such glances from a lone woman to be a threat, since he was constantly wary of deception. This time he found it to be a challenge. After all, Scharf reasoned, he was rather distinguished-looking; why wouldn’t a woman be innocently attracted to him? Finally, he sauntered over to her table.

“You’re not from here,” Scharf said.

“No. I’m from Czechoslovakia,” Anna answered pleasantly.

“Ah. I would have thought Hungary. May I sit?”

“Please.”

As Anna and Scharf conversed for the next two hours, she plied him with round after round of beer. She told him she was a graduate student at Humboldt University. She had come to the pub to get away from the fatheaded students who constantly preened on their own intellects. Do something in the real world first, then preen, she said. It was an argument that appealed to Scharf, but more than that, he admired her energy. She was an engaging mystery, and he found the tight edges of his awareness unravel as he immersed deeper in conversation. As he drank, he also became more entranced with her beauty. She was wearing a conservative white wool sweater, but one that accentuated her figure nicely. Scharf mentally planned how he’d ravish her later that evening.

He told her of how he had been to Paris, though he claimed to have been sent there on a trade mission from the office of foreign affairs. That was his official cover for the foreign intelligence assignment he once had. He could see she was intrigued that had been to the West. When she asked about his job, he told her he was a trade official. She seemed impressed. Finally, he suggested he walk her back to her apartment. Standing to leave, Anna explained she lived only a few blocks away. She had recently moved out of a student ghetto where she had to tolerate her roommate’s awful music. It was further now to go to the university, but at least she now had peace to study. Scharf almost smiled to himself. Loud music or not, she would not be studying tonight.

Anna and Scharf headed out onto the street while Griggs watched from a doorway thirty meters away. He lifted his sleeve, where he had concealed a small radio, and whispered into it. “Humpty Dumpty is on the move, heading in your direction.”

“Copy,” came Danforth’s reply.

When Griggs felt he could tail Scharf without being spotted, he headed out into the street. Another pursuer—one that no one had anticipated—followed Griggs. It was Hans. He had been watching Scharf’s movements for the past few days, and on this evening, he had watched him from the third floor window of a building across the street. Hans caught sight of Anna walking alongside Scharf and knew something was terribly wrong. Scharf began to feel an uneasiness too. Now, out in the fresh air on the street, his head began to clear, and his senses returned to him. Something made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He and the woman were not alone. He reached his hand into his pocket, where he kept a small weapon. It was a single-shot gun disguised as a fountain pen. The KGB had devised a similar “lipstick gun” for its female agents; this was Scharf’s equivalent. He also kept a switchblade, and though he did not reach for it now, Scharf prepared to make use of it.

From a hundred meters away, Hans watched Anna lead Scharf toward an apartment building. Though there were a few other pedestrians out, Hans spotted Griggs immediately. It was an instinctive recognition, but Hans noted out of the people on the street, Griggs moved in paths subtly coordinated with Anna and Scharf. Half a block from the target building, Griggs darted into an alleyway. He would race to rendezvous with Danforth before Scharf and Anna got to the building. Hans saw Griggs move and ducked into a side street, sprinting toward the back of the apartment block. Hans knew the area well, as a friend had once lived on this block. He entered the adjacent apartment building and made his way through the courtyard, hoping to make a circuitous route that would allow him to spot Griggs without being detected. It worked. Climbing onto a coal storage shed, Hans took a position where he could see the courtyard of the next building. He watched as Griggs came through a side door and ran toward the lobby.

Griggs arrived at the ambush point just moments before Anna and their target rounded the corner. He took a position in the alcove under the stairs and screwed a silencer onto his gun. Danforth stood in the shadows to the side of the door and prepared a syringe. The preferred plan was to grab Scharf by surprise, inject him, and let him appear to have suffered a sudden heart attack. Griggs had his gun as a backup plan.

Anna and Scharf reached the front of the four-story building. Anna smiled, invitingly. “This is it.” She stepped forward, but Scharf hesitated at the door. It was slight, but Anna noticed it. Scharf, like an animal tuned to danger, was now alert. He slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. His right hand gripped the pen gun, while his left fastened around the switchblade. Anna pushed open the door. “Shall we?”

Scharf gestured with a nod for her to lead on. The two stepped into the foyer.

A flurry of action erupted. Danforth sprang from behind the door, but Scharf saw the flash of movement and kicked the door back at him. Griggs whirled around the stairs, gun aimed. Scharf moved like lightning, firing the pen gun. Before Griggs could get a shot off, Scharf’s bullet pierced his throat. Dazed, Danforth swung wildly at Scharf with the syringe. Scharf dodged and went low, countering with the switchblade into Danforth’s ribs.

Anna, unarmed and now without support, turned and ran. Scharf wheeled on her, stabbing down with his knife. He slashed her coat, but Anna slid out of it unscathed and bolted for the courtyard.

Gravely wounded, Griggs grasped his throat as he aimed one last shot at Scharf. But Scharf was faster. He charged at him like an enraged animal, slashing with the knife. Scharf sliced Griggs’ wrist, tearing veins and tendons. The gun dropped to the floor with a clatter. Scharf was now on top of him, viciously stabbing with the knife. Danforth lay by the door, unable to render any aid. His lung was punctured, and blood flowed from the hole in his side.

Anna sprinted across the courtyard toward the adjoining apartment building. She reached the shadows of the foyer when she heard an animalistic roar behind her. Anna whirled around to see Scharf, spattered with her colleagues’ blood, loom in the doorway behind her. She let out a shriek of uncontrolled horror as adrenaline pushed her on, racing to the street. Scharf charged in hot pursuit.

Suddenly, as he rushed toward her, hands reached out from behind the back door and flung him into the wall. The force was shockingly brutal as Scharf crashed head-first, knocking him out cold. The switchblade in Scharf’s hand drove into the hard plaster and snapped in two.

Shocked, Anna turned to see Hans towering over Scharf’s lifeless body. Hans pulled a Makarov from his pocket. With one bullet, he could stop Scharf. Hans armed the pistol and aimed.

Immediately, the wail of police sirens pealed from around the corner, racing toward the front building. Hans looked across the courtyard and saw a green-uniformed policeman running toward them. The policeman could not yet identify Hans, who was silhouetted in the shadows of the foyer, but he was closing fast. Hans grabbed Anna’s arm.

“Run!” he shouted, as he pulled her alongside him.

They headed out of the building and across the street. Passing through another apartment building, they climbed over the back wall in the courtyard and into a back alley. Hans and Anna ran down the alley and across a main street. The sirens now multiplied in a cacophony of dissonant alternating wails. They heard revving car engines and screeching tires, but they were becoming more distant. Hans and Anna ran with urgency, the sound of the sirens quickening their pace. They flew across a pedestrian bridge spanning train tracks, then bounded down a flight of stairs.

“Here!” Hans shouted, pointing to his car, parked in a small vacant lot.

Within moments, they were driving toward Hans’ apartment in Friedrichshain.

11

Danforth awoke in a bare room. Collecting himself, he realized both hands were manacled to a hospital bed. His side was bandaged, but he still breathed with considerable difficulty and pain. An IV was attached to his arm. Taking in the room, he realized this was no ordinary hospital. The single door was heavy and metal. A security camera was perched in a corner near the ceiling.

Outside in the corridor, Scharf caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a stainless steel hospital bowl. The image sickened him. His forehead and eye were black and purple, swollen and misshapen. Scharf hated to see his appearance diminished, but the greater wound was to his pride. These bruises were a reminder that he had let his opponent get the best of him. Worse, these wounds showed his vulnerability. Scharf could not let anyone take advantage of his weaknesses. He steeled himself with the thought that Danforth’s capture gave him an opportunity to regain his prestige. Better yet, he could obtain revenge.

Scharf entered Danforth’s room with a nurse and prison guard. The nurse held a tray in her hand. Scharf came over to the bed and sat next to his victim. Danforth, noticing Scharf’s bruises, allowed himself a small grin. “You look almost as bad as I do, I suppose,” he said.

Scharf didn’t take this lightly, but decided to ignore it. He, after all, was in control. He cleared his throat. “You may feel somewhat disoriented,” Scharf said, “so let me catch you up. Your male colleague is dead. We also caught up with the girl. She resisted, and unfortunately, was also killed.”

Danforth stared in anger, but said nothing.

“You don’t believe me?” Scharf turned back to the nurse, who brought the tray. She leaned down, allowing Danforth to see two syringes laid out. Scharf picked one of them. “Well, believe this: if you don’t tell me what I need to know, you’ll never leave this room. And I assure you, you’ll find your colleagues were the lucky ones.”

Hans played the situation over and over again in his mind. What if he had just squeezed the trigger? He could have ended Scharf’s menace in one blow. Yet Hans knew he had made the right decision. Refusing to fire—and fleeing with Anna—had saved their lives. The policeman was too close. Hans would have had to kill him too, and killing a policeman and a high-ranking Stasi officer would have painted a target on his back. Even if they were lucky enough to escape the police net that would fall around them immediately, they would never make it out of the country alive. Yes, Hans had made the right choice, but it frustrated him that he had no reasonable alternative. He hated having to make decisions with his back against the wall, and he swore he would use more foresight to avoid such a scenario again. Hans turned his anger to the man who had put them in their current predicament.

“What was Crandall thinking?” he spat. “If Scharf didn’t know his opponents were willing to kill him, he certainly does now. You have no idea how much more dangerous that makes him.”

Anna tried to regain her composure as she washed her face in the bathroom sink. Her hands were still shaking.

Hans could barely contain his anger. “Anna… why were you there?”

She looked in the mirror, then closed her eyes and exhaled. “For you.”

“What?” Hans was incredulous.

“It was Crandall’s plan,” she said, haltingly. “He promised he’d let you come home if we succeeded.”

Hans returned to the bedroom, slumped onto the bed and buried his head in his hands. “Oh, Anna, how could you have agreed to that? Look at the mess we’re in.”

She came into the room and sat next to him. “It was a poor plan, but I didn’t have another choice. You wouldn’t listen! I’m your contact. We could’ve made a plan together. Instead, I had to rely on Crandall.” Anna shook her head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done.”

Hans grit his teeth. “Anna, Scharf sleeps with one eye open. Now he won’t sleep at all. By now every Stasi office and border checkpoint have your description. You can’t stay here any longer. Somehow, we have to get you out.”

“And you?” she asked.

Hans shook his head. “I’ll help you get out, but we can’t go together. I have to find another way to counteract STOSS, or none of us will be safe.”

Getting Anna out was not going to be easy. They quickly ruled out a sneak escape through the border. Going directly over the Wall was suicide, and hiding her in a truck, which the guards would be expecting, was far too dangerous. The latter had, in fact, been the contingency plan for Anna’s mission. Yet with the operation’s colossal failure, Hans knew security measures would now be far too tight. The most viable way to extract Anna—though still significantly dangerous—would be to disguise her and bring her through a checkpoint. Hans knew the Border Troops’ thirty-three point identification system to detect disguises, but with careful planning and his help at the checkpoint, she could make it through. Hans had an emergency makeup kit, including latex ears and noses and hair dyes for disguise. He also had all of the photographic equipment needed to create a new identity photo of Anna in disguise. What they needed was a passport.

Hans would use a CIA emergency dead drop to request a passport. The dead drop was a steel tin buried in the Friedrichshain People’s Park. Hidden in the ground behind the arches of the fairy tale fountain, the dead drop had been used, undetected, for over two years. There was an elaborate but secure method for its utilization. When Hans wanted to signal he had loaded a message into the dead drop, he would place a fist-sized rock at the base of the Hans im Glück statue on the right side of the fountain. When his contact had loaded a message or material for him, smaller rocks would be placed on the back of three of the decorative stone turtles along the left side of the fountain. To most passerby, the rocks would go unnoticed, or seem like child’s play. Hans requested an Austrian, West German, and Norwegian passport for Anna. He knew from experience that only the finest forgery would fool the border guards. Hans figured it was best to give Anna some options. It would take several days to receive the passports, and until then, Anna would stay hidden in the apartment. Hans hoped the heat would die down by the time they were prepared to make their attempt at the checkpoint.

Over the next few days, Danforth was held on an excruciating see-saw of nursing and torture. Scharf and his cohorts tried to draw information out of him using sodium thiopental. When that did not work, they tried harsher interrogative methods; yet the results were dismal. In the early days of the Cold War, when the Soviets controlled all prisons in eastern Germany, physical torture was the norm. The East Germans had developed a more finessed method of investigation—psychological torture. But these methods required time, and time was the one thing Scharf did not have. Danforth’s injuries made it difficult for Scharf to press him as hard as he needed. Scharf wanted to find Anna and uncover any trace of the network that had plotted against him. Soon it would go underground for good. It was clear now that a real spy was in his midst. As long as he could eliminate the threat, Scharf could use this information to his advantage. It legitimized his mole hunt and gave him even more leverage to purge his opposition. But Danforth proved to be difficult to break, even in his fragile state. After three days, he admitted only that he was an American citizen. He did not confess to being a CIA officer, but he gave up challenging the accusation. Scharf decided it was time to increase the level of torture.

It took almost a week for the passports to arrive. In the meantime, Hans kept up with his normal schedule while Anna lay low in the apartment. They carefully constructed a new identity for her, complete with false nose and graying hair. With makeup they added some wrinkles to her appearance. It was painstaking work, for this makeup had to withstand close scrutiny for possibly hours on end. The penalty for being caught was unthinkable. Anna spent hours adjusting the disguise before finally coming to a version she and Hans both found acceptable. Altogether, she looked some fifteen years older. They decided not to apply any padding to change her body’s appearance, but Anna developed a workable slouch to her posture, making her look more humble and less assured. It was a decidedly anonymous middle-aged disguise that Hans felt would fool the guards.

The May Day holiday came, and along with it the large parade in East Berlin from Alexanderplatz down Karl-Marx-Allee. Berlin was swarming with troops. Hans was called at the last moment to sit on the parade stand behind the generals and Politburo. The next day, Hans and Anna discussed final plans for her escape. Of the eight checkpoints into West Berlin, Friedrichstrasse, Bornholmerstrasse, and Checkpoint Charlie seemed best. Eventually, they ruled out the last two because of too much open space. For a pedestrian, a long walk of nearly a hundred meters was required to reach the safety of the Allied guard posts. Hans could watch, but do little else. Friedrichstrasse, with its rat maze of customs processing, compacted the masses better. If something went wrong, she could hardly run—but with Hans observing, he might be able to step in and help her escape through the labyrinth of back corridors.

Sharp hot pain shot through Danforth’s limbs. He had endured excruciating torture for nearly twenty hours straight. They had done everything they could that would not endanger his life. But now he lay on a cold cement floor, his body bruised and bloody, his head bowed in sweat. As Scharf came over to him and lifted his head, Danforth knew he was looking into the eyes of a monster. Danforth was well-trained to resist interrogation, but nothing could have prepared anyone for this. Scharf had broken him, bit by bit. Danforth eventually revealed Anna’s identity. He hoped Scharf was right and she was dead, or possibly that she had already escaped. In the next few hours, Scharf delivered crushing news: he had lied about Anna’s death. She was still alive, and being hunted by the Stasi. At this revelation, Danforth resolved he would not reveal another single word.

“How will she get out?” Scharf asked him for the twentieth time. “How?”

Danforth clenched his teeth. He had to resist, no matter the cost. He knew Hans’ and Anna’s lives depended on his silence. Yet Scharf had lost his patience. He ordered two guards to seize Danforth. Stretching him out on a table, the guards broke his arms with sharp, forceful blows. His left arm had a compound fracture, with bone jutting out of his forearm. Danforth screamed in unbelievable pain.

“Tell me!” Scharf bellowed, not ready to quit. Danforth blew out short, pained breaths, but could not speak. By now, he was in tears.

“Not ready to talk?” Scharf motioned once more to the guards. A further volley of blows reduced Danforth to more pulp than man. His arms were crushed, forever unusable. He knew he stood on the precipice of death, and for the first time, he embraced it as a comfort. His whole life, he had feared this moment, but now, he only wanted one thing—to end the pain. As he looked up at his tormentor, he realized that Scharf knew this, too. Pushing Danforth to the limit, Scharf let Danforth suffer half an hour in agony. It was the longest 30 minutes of Danforth’s life. Then, finally, Danforth whispered what Scharf wanted to know about the dead drop. Scharf probed for as many details as possible, and when finally satisfied, he thanked his captive. Scharf stood and smiled. A guard handed him a pistol, Scharf aimed—and became the merciful executioner.

Brüske immediately went to the dead drop in the People’s Park. Using the details Danforth had given, he located the tin behind the arches of the fairytale fountain. He found the dead drop already loaded with the passports. Carefully, he examined them and recorded each of the passports with a pen-like Minox camera device. Developed by the KGB, it allowed him to roll the camera over the surface of a paper and copy it. Brüske placed the passports back in the dead drop and returned it to its original state, careful to not show any sign it had been disturbed or compromised. Then he took the film for development, while another Stasi agent, Rolf Meinert, took up surveillance on the area. Rolf positioned himself on the roof of a building on Friedenstrasse, just across from the park. Two plainclothes Stasi officers were on the ground—Michael Kassel at the edge of the park, and Tomas Bonhöffer, across from it on Am Friedrichshain street. They expected to wait hours, perhaps days, for the dead drop to be visited.

Meinert and his two officers settled in for a twelve-hour surveillance shift. Brüske would send another team to relieve them at six the next morning. By eleven o’clock, boredom had set in. Meinert had done surveillance work before, but at 29, he was only on his third watch as team leader. Tired of watching through binoculars into the darkness, Meinert soon dozed. At three o’clock, Kassel spotted a man walking along the sidewalk, away from them. The man appeared to have come out of nowhere; he hadn’t passed the team as he headed east along Friedenstrasse.

Kassel immediately radioed Meinert. “Someone’s moving along the sidewalk.” But Meinert did not respond. He now lay asleep, his head slumped against his binoculars.

“Comrade Meinert,” Kassel called into his radio a second time. Receiving no response, Kassel decided to act.

Rushing up to the man, he called out, “State Security!” Calmly, the man turned to face him. “Your identification, please,” Kassel demanded.

The man calmly handed him a Border Troop military ID card.

Caught off guard, Kassel hesitated. “Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, what are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I decided to go for a walk,” the man said.

Kassel looked over the papers, and then again at the man, carefully examining him. It all seemed in order, but he decided to take his time. “You shouldn’t be walking around at this time of night, comrade.”

“Are you saying it’s not safe?”

“No, but it doesn’t look exactly… innocent,” Kassel said.

The man’s tone darkened. “Do you intend to charge me with something, comrade? You should know I report directly to the State Council. If you take me into custody, I’m sure you’ll hear from them. I should be free to clear my head and take a walk when I have insomnia.”

Frightened, Kassel shoved the papers back into Hans’ hands. “My mistake, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. Have a good evening.”

Kassel turned his attention back to the park. Within moments, Hans reached the next block on Friedenstrasse and turned the corner.

Just before daybreak, Kassel went to check on the dead drop. To his surprise, the tin was empty. Bonhöffer had seen nothing from his position, and neither had Meinert—though the latter man sheepishly hid the fact he had slept for over two hours that night. Altogether, the three men had seen fewer than four people in the hours between eleven and five, none of whom had entered the area of the fairy tale fountain. Their report was just not good enough for Scharf. He flew into a rage when told their quarry had given them the slip. Scharf immediately demoted Meinert and promised to report him to the Minister of State Security, guaranteeing the man’s career was doomed. Scharf saw only one bright note in the fiasco—Brüske had returned with the developed film from the Minox camera.

12

That Friday, Anna made her way to the checkpoint at the Friedrichstrasse train station. As planned, Hans made a visit to observe and detail the security at the station. He stood in a control room that had one wall covered with video monitors. There were a number of border guards and Stasi agents on watch in the room. Most of them sat in front of the monitors, though two supervisors stood back like Hans, taking in the entire view. In one corner Brüske watched the monitors. Hans paid Brüske no notice, having never met him or seen him with Scharf. Each of the monitors showed the processing lines and the booths where the border guards examined the passengers’ passports.

Presently, Anna came into view. Anna took slow, calming breaths and focused herself, determining not to show any signal of deceit. The disguise appeared to be working; not a single guard gave her a lingering or second glance.

Hans watched Anna on the monitor until she was nearly at the guard booth. Then he worked his way through the maze of corridors and back rooms to the customs booths, where he could stand behind the guards and observe. He scanned over the crowd, and while he did not focus on Anna, he did take notice of her. Anna did not look to the left or right, but moved patiently in line, appearing to stare absentmindedly at the people in front of her.

Scharf entered the control room and conferred with Brüske. The past few days had seen a flurry of activity as Scharf and his team of Stasi agents canvassed the checkpoints with copies of Anna’s passports and waited for her to cross over. People’s Police were also given composites of Anna, but Scharf doubted they would be of much use. If they were going to catch her, it would be at the border. There was nothing new for Brüske to report. Scharf went over to the monitors and watched.

In the customs checkpoint, Anna approached the guard booth. She slid her passport under the glass and quietly held her breath as the guard examined it. The guard looked over the passport, first examining the photo and biographical details, and then the stamps. He returned to the photo and looked up at Anna. She resisted the urge to nervously tap her fingers and held her hands together to control herself. After a long moment, the guard reached for his stamper, but hesitated. Hans came up behind the guard and inquired whether there was a problem. Put on the spot, the guard did not know how to answer. The biographical details were similar to those in the copies Scharf had distributed, but they were not exactly the same. He had no idea that the lieutenant colonel standing behind him had carefully altered the passport, finessing the forger’s work to perfection. Stammering, the guard finally shook his head. “No Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Carry on then,” Hans said.

In the booth, Scharf watched the exchange. He carefully studied Anna’s features.

“Clever… too clever,” he said finally to himself, quiet enough that no one else heard. “Brüske,” he barked.

Brüske came over and watched the monitor. They saw the guard stamp Anna’s passport, then wave her on.

“Follow her,” Scharf ordered. “See where she stays in the West, who she makes contact with. Observe only, then report.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

In moments, Brüske was on the platform, following Anna as she boarded a train to West Berlin.

The next morning, the Defense Minister called Hans into his office. Hans had been sending regular reports to the council and had been present in many meetings with the Minister. This, however, was the first time since his appointment that he had been summoned to the Minister’s office alone. The Minister greeted Hans with a handshake and gestured for him to take a seat in front of his desk. Hans took a seat and placed his visor cap on his thigh.

“I read your recommendations for technological improvements to the border,” the Minister began. “Very good. You have some insightful suggestions. The only question, however, will be how we can get funding for their implementation.”

“Yes.”

“Your ideas are innovative; they look toward the future. That is what we need. But how we secure funding in the council or the Politburo—well, that is another matter. The realities of our duties are difficult.”

Hans nodded in agreement.

“I want to increase the scope of your duties. You have done well with evaluating the defensive condition and recommending a course of action for our Anti-Fascist Protection Wall—but I’d like you to also examine the advantages the Wall may give us from an offensive standpoint. Are you familiar with the details of Operation STOSS?”

“Only generalities.”

“We’ll be holding a large-scale exercise this summer in Magdeburg. It will simulate an offensive invasion of West Berlin. We’re naming it ‘Border’s Edge 85.’ General Thorwald will take charge of this exercise. I want you to work alongside him. Familiarize yourself with the details of the operation. I want you to apply the same kind of analysis you have done with your reports to this new assignment. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

That night, Hans wrote a postcard to Anna. On its face was a picture of the Neptune fountain in East Berlin. The TV Tower loomed in the background. On the back, Hans wrote:

’Staying longer after the funeral. Finalizing the estate plans.

Enjoying time with old friends.

Opa’

It would be the only notice he could give her that his duties were not yet finished. Now he had an opportunity to get the Operation STOSS plans directly into his hands.

At the Normanenstrasse Stasi headquarters, Scharf conferred with Brüske in his office. Brüske had just gotten back from a day-long surveillance on Anna in West Berlin. Another Stasi agent had taken over, tailing her movements while Brüske gave his report. “Now that we’ve verified the attempt originated in West Berlin, shouldn’t we strike?”

Scharf shook his head. “No. Now, we can wait. I want to see the scope of the network. Who she’s working with… especially her contacts in the East.”

“I don’t think she’ll come back here.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t rule out contact with them. Watch her, monitor her movements. Then we can ferret out the conspirators.”

“What about the invasion?” Brüske asked.

“This attack has given us all the justification we need to move forward. We don’t need to create a NATO false flag operation when there are already imperialist bastards penetrating our security and assassinating our officials. But I’m not going to present this to the council until we have proof. Besides, we can afford to wait. We’ve convinced the Defense Minister to conduct an exercise this summer simulating Operation STOSS.” Scharf smiled. “Why not let our boys have a rehearsal?”

Brüske nodded in agreement.

13

The last weekend in June, the command group for Border’s Edge 85 gathered in a village outside of Magdeburg. They stationed their headquarters in a small theater. Hans sat with the brigade commanders and other officers in the theater seats and waited for General Thorwald and his generals to arrive for the initial mission briefing. A large map was projected onto a screen on the stage. Although the map read “Magdeburg,” the features were clearly that of West Berlin. The city was divided into sectors labeled “American,” “British,” and “French,” and the border crossing checkpoints were clearly marked.

Within moments, Thorwald, the Minister of Defense, and several generals, including the head of the Soviet 6th Motorized Rifle Brigade, approached the stage. With the sharpness of military protocol, the soldiers filling the theater seats stood and snapped to attention. Thorwald stepped forward. “Be seated. Comrades, the purpose of this exercise is to determine our organization, execution, and decision-making in joint operations in a major urban area. The scenario here is based on an escalation of provocations from the West, and a NATO action against our Warsaw Pact allies. In order to eliminate further provocations, especially within our immediate geography, we are to invade, divide, and conquer a Western garrison holding the city of Magdeburg.”

Thorwald turned toward the map. “Our forces number approximately 35,000 men, including our comrades-in-arms, the Soviet 6th Motorized Rifle Brigade. Principle units include the 1st Motorized Rifle Division, the Border Troops, paratroopers, People’s Air Force, artillery, and Alert Units of the People’s Police. I will explain the details of your assignments in a moment.

“First, your objectives. Magdeburg is to be conquered in four days’ time. You will divide the enemy within the first two days of the operation. Once divided, any pockets of resistance will be destroyed in the following two days. By day four, the city will be occupied by our forces. Now, comrades, this is urban warfare. Our objective is to avoid building-by-building combat. A swift and skillful application of overwhelming force, in addition to the psychological work of political organs should give us a decisive victory in short order. That, comrades, is the supreme objective.

“As this is an exercise, most of our movements will be conducted on training fields and a partial mockup of a town we’ve created outside of the city. All movements, however, will be coordinated from here, and each of your assignments will be considered part of the consolidated attack on the city, as shown on the map. Our attack will commence with a nine-minute simulated air strike on Allied command and communications centers, as well as the airport. Next, three artillery bombardments of varying duration will commence. Their objective is to neutralize enemy artillery, anti-air and anti-tank capabilities, and eliminate any tactical nuclear weapons harbored within the city. Our shock paratroopers will seize the airport by air drop and helicopter delivery.

“Now, for the ground forces: in order to not alert the enemy to our intentions, all tank and troop units must maintain a line of departure from 1 to 3 kilometers from the “East German-Magdeburg” frontier. A half hour before the 1st Motorized and 6th Rifle Brigades begin to move, engineer units will clear the border defenses to enable tanks and armored vehicles to pass through.”

Hans leaned back slightly as he listened to the briefing. Even as an exercise, Operation STOSS was a massive undertaking. He was certain the operation had to be stopped before it ever got underway. If Operation STOSS went into motion it could be dangerously too late to rein it back in.

Anna uneasily returned to her cover in West Berlin. It was a mundane existence, full of routine. She continued to teach English classes at a gymnasium in the Wilmersdorf district, maintaining little contact with Crandall. Small annoyances plagued her work, including a mathematics teacher who consistently made overtures to her. She declined politely every time, telling him she had a beau in West Germany, but the man was persistent and would not get a clue. Anna tried to find small pleasures in her existence. She awaited Hans’ return, and to a lesser extent, the end of the school year in July. Hans’ postcard let her know she would have to wait longer for his return, but she could not say how long that would be. It was impossible to go back to the East now that she had been marked by Scharf. When she initially returned to West Berlin, she conferred with Crandall about the possibility of Scharf coming after her. Crandall considered it unlikely. Anna decided to use some measure of caution, however, and changed her address. She moved from her comfortable middle-class apartment in Wilmersdorf to a more rudimentary apartment in Kreuzberg. Kreuzberg was a distinctly rougher neighborhood, filled with Turkish immigrants and punk rebels. Anna figured it would be the last place in the city the Stasi would look, though she still used an abundance of caution when she left her apartment and ventured onto the streets.

There was a sort of well-worn charm to her block that stood not far from the elevated U-Bahn train station at Schlesisches Tor. The buildings were of pre-war construction, and were merely maintained, rather than renovated, unlike much of West Berlin. The brown exteriors were plain, but the tall leafy trees that lined the streets added natural color to the place. There were also trees outside Anna’s windows in the courtyard, and in summer, their leaves gave cool shade to her apartment. She was also only a few blocks from the Spree river, which was also the line between East and West Berlin in this portion of the city. Anna once took a walk along the river bank, hoping to catch sight of the apartment building where she and Hans had often stayed across the river. Wistfully, she hoped to catch some glance of Hans. But she was left disappointed—the only view of the eastern bank was dominated by the Wall. There was no human sign at all, only the mechanical visage of a military jeep driving along a patrol road between the Wall and a fence at the edge of the Spree. The sight depressed her, and she never walked along the river again.

The soldiers scaled the nine-foot brick wall and scattered in the courtyard. They moved swiftly against the wall, reaching the doorway and windows of the building. In groups of four, the soldiers broke windows and smashed the doorway open, throwing flash bang charges into the rooms to stun any occupants. The troops stormed the building, tearing up the stairwell and barging into the offices above. Hans stood on an observation platform thirty meters away, watching with a major. The radio in the major’s hand crackled to life. “Building secure, Comrade Major.”

“Good work, Comrade Captain,” the major replied.

Hans looked at his watch. “Less than ninety seconds.”

“Yes, we take pride in our position as one of the elite units of the Border Troops. We drill constantly.”

“You can expect resistance to be tougher in real-world conditions,” Hans countered. “Even civilians will not take kindly to having their homes and offices invaded.”

“You’re saying we should expect to confront an angry housewife with a frying pan? I think we can handle that.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Hans said.

The first night of the exercise, Hans went to the headquarters building to review the operational documents. He had already noted the differences between this exercise and the actual plans for Operation STOSS as related to him in briefings, but now he would examine the STOSS documents firsthand. Security was tight in the document room. The STOSS documents were contained in a safe that required a six-digit key code to enter. The room was kept under constant guard, with 24-hour watches posted both directly at the door and on constant patrol outside the building. Hans had prepared to copy the plans by using a Tropel camera, a small device that was hidden in a pen and could take ninety pictures. He planned to make the copies over a series of visits to the document room, so as to not arouse suspicion. Hans would use the pen to make notes on the Operation STOSS plans; after all, the Minister of Defense had appointed him to evaluate their usage. He was allowed to make notes concerning the plans, but could not record specific details in the files themselves. Hans held the pen near his temple when not writing, resting it in his hand against his head. With the light of the desk lamp, he was able to make high-quality photographs of each page. Hans would gently squeeze on the pen to depress the shutter. Despite his cautious execution, the task was still dangerous. Other officers would occasionally enter the room, and the sentries posted outside would glance in to observe all actions were according to standard procedures. Hans had to use considerable nerve to keep his copying inconspicuous.

After three nights, Hans had managed to copy all of the Operation STOSS documents and had taken several pages of notes. He hid each of the three tiny film canisters in a void in the bottom of his cigarette lighter. This allowed him to keep them on his person at all times, and hopefully, safe from discovery. During the Border’s Edge exercises, Hans was stationed in the officer’s barracks and had little time to himself. He would have to wait until he returned to Berlin to develop the film.

Anna’s teaching duties at the gymnasium finally ended in the second week of July. By now she had grown concerned that Hans had been captured. Two months had passed since she crossed over at Friedrichstrasse. The failed mission to capture Scharf had considerably soured her relationship with Crandall. Not only had he used her, but the hastily-assembled mission had cost the lives of two of her colleagues. Anna had little to say to him, but now she felt she had no other choice to learn about Hans’ condition.

So, on the first day after finishing at the gymnasium, Anna took the U-Bahn to the Dahlem district of West Berlin. She walked the final block from the Oskar-Helene-Heim station to the American embassy and checked in at the front gate. The security officer immediately phoned Crandall’s office, announcing her arrival, but Anna still had to sit in a waiting room for hours. Crandall, too, was not anxious to see Anna, and he kept her waiting, hoping that she would tire and simply go away. Yet Anna sat and waited for a full five hours. Finally, after three o’clock, an embassy staff member approached and told her to follow him. Leading a circuitous route through corridors and back stairwells, he eventually took her to Crandall’s office.

Crandall stood, dwarfed by the tall, brightly lit windows behind his desk. He greeted her with a sheepish look of resignation. “Anna,” was all he would say to acknowledge her.

Anna was through waiting, and she spoke even before the escort had stepped toward the door. “Where is he?” she demanded.

Something changed in Crandall. It was small, by degrees, but Anna perceived it immediately. It was the overcompensation that one who is loathe to seem weak and admit his mistakes creates in an effort to seem strong again. “He’s over there.”

“But have you heard anything?”

Crandall made a small nod to the escort, and the man pulled Anna toward the door.

“What have you heard?” Anger burned in Anna’s eyes.

Crandall was stoically mute. The escort now grabbed Anna by both arms, treating her far more roughly than was necessary.

“Tell me, Crandall!” Anna demanded, but it was no use. He slid his hands into his pockets and watched with contempt as the escort dragged Anna into the hall. The man wrapped his arm around her and held her tight as he pulled her toward the stairwell. Reaching the stairs, Anna pushed herself free. “Stop,” she demanded. The escort blocked her path back to Crandall’s office. Resigned, she walked down the stairs and left.

As Anna boarded the U-Bahn to return home, a woman in a crisp summer dress sat across from her. She was in her early forties. Her graying sandy hair was pulled back into a ponytail, giving her angular face the unintended effect of appearing bony and pale. Anna hardly noticed her, but the woman looked at her and broke into a smile. “You were at the embassy, weren’t you?”

Anna, slightly taken back, looked blankly at the woman.

“That’s right, I saw you as you left. I was there too,” the woman said.

“Oh,” was all Anna could answer.

The woman extended her hand. “I’m Inga.”

Anna felt a strange formality in the woman’s handshake that belied the amiability with which she spoke.

“Did you also have to wait there forever?” the woman gushed. “I was there nearly all day. My daughter is in the U.S. on a foreign exchange program, and she wanted to get her visa extended. Normally, she would have to report to someone over there, but since I’m her mother, I try to help out where I can. I thought it would be a simple process of talking to one person, but no, it’s a full day of being shuffled back and forth between an endless line of offices until someone can really answer my questions. And then it takes even someone else to point me in the right direction. Needless to say, I’m exhausted!”

Anna managed a smile. Inga didn’t talk like a woman who was exhausted. In fact, Anna almost pitied the embassy staff that had faced her. With her energy, Inga must have run circles around them. Perhaps it was karma.

“I thought America was all open, very simple!” Inga continued. “We’re the ones who are supposed to be regimented and bureaucratic.”

The train conductor’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker: “Next Stop, Fehrbelliner Platz.”

Anna stood. “Excuse me, this is my stop.”

Anna departed the train and walked toward the stairs. This was not her stop, yet Anna somehow had felt inclined to leave. She would catch the next train and carry on. Now, walking across the platform, she began to feel foolish. Am I getting paranoid? she thought. She just seemed like a chatty woman. Yet somehow the woman’s conversation, or attempt at one, seemed invasive to Anna. Perhaps it was the result of the day’s events, but Anna felt more isolated than ever. This is the curse of living your life in secret, she told herself. You can’t even have a conversation on the subway.

Hans entered the apartment in Lehmbruckstrasse for the first time since Anna’s departure. Hans rarely used the apartment on his own; he kept an official residence in a high-rise building in Stadtmitte. Now, he glanced around the dwelling, taking inventory and seeing that nothing had been disturbed in his long absence. Satisfied, Hans went into the kitchen and opened the cupboard under the sink. He reached in and removed a panel on the back wall of the cupboard. Behind it was a small recessed space where he had hidden bottles of photo developing chemicals. He moved quickly, with purpose, and replaced the panel concealing the hiding spot. As he re-entered the main room, he stopped. Catching sight of the bed caused a visceral reaction. Though it was neatly made, he remembered when it was last used, when Anna slept there. He had not allowed himself to miss her while he was away on exercises, busying himself with his work. But now the feeling was palpable—he longed for her.

Hans came back to himself, realizing he still held the bottles of photo chemicals in his hands, and headed to the bathroom. There, he locked the door and stood on the edge of the bathtub to reach up to the wall-hung flush tank high above the toilet. Lifting off the cover, he reached in and pulled out a black plastic canister about the size of a thermos. It was a specialized canister for developing the Tropel film. Hans set to work, preparing to unload the Tropel film rolls. He turned off the light in the windowless bathroom and loaded the canister in darkness. Then, with the lights back on, he poured developer into the light-safe canister and shook it to wash over the film. He dumped the developer fluid into the sink, then added fixer, and continued until he had finished developing the film. Hans hung the small strips of film by clothespins over the bathtub to dry, then went into the main room and picked up a copy of Sputnik, the Soviet equivalent of Reader’s Digest, to read while he waited.

Hans tried to read an article on ocean exploration, but could not concentrate. A sudden realization was burgeoning within him. It was a sense of finality, of a passage from one stage of life to another, a feeling that was new to him. It was the realization that this would be his last mission. If he successfully turned the Operation STOSS plans over to the West, it could prevent the operation from ever happening. If the moment proved right, the Americans could even leak their knowledge of the plans to the East Germans, showing they were watching their every move. It was a crucial piece of data that created a deterrent to enemy action. Scharf might be neutralized. When Hans had promised Anna he would follow after her, his primary objective at the time was to see to her safety. To Hans, it was merely a wish. His reality was his duties, and he did not know when they would end. Now Hans saw what Anna had warned him of―his vision was narrowed to only his duty, his whole life engrossed in it. And it was also robbing him of a real life. Was he to go on forever fulfilling the wishes of his father? Here was an opportunity to escape, and with Anna, he could build a genuine existence.

So, for the first time, he felt he was entering a true passage of life, the ending of one significant era and passing into another, of his own volition. It was the kind of sensation most people feel at graduating high school or college, when obtaining their first salaried job, or starting a family. Hans knew none of these—he was taken out of school by his father at seventeen, before he could graduate, to begin his training. That was the only true passage of life he knew, and it was the ending of his childhood and the immediate beginning of his adult calling. Hans had submitted, and not unwillingly, but he never realized at the time how much he had let his father determine his course for him. He did not realize how it would so starkly mark his life from then on. Every new accomplishment—the finishing of his training, his graduation from the People’s Army boot camp, and even officer school—was tempered as merely being part of his assignment, a further step in the charade that had become his life. He knew the hours he spent with Anna freed him from all of that, but he did not consciously allow himself to realize how much he needed her, until now. Anna was truly his redemption.

Anna arrived back at her apartment building past five o’clock. Several Turkish children ran and played in the streets, and two houses down young teenagers kicked a soccer ball back and forth, bouncing it off of the walls. She looked up to her apartment window and saw it was closed. In the heat of summer, Anna usually left it cracked open, even when she was out. At four stories up, Anna had little fear of burglary. She wondered for a moment if she had indeed closed it that morning. She made her way through the building’s atrium and up the well-worn staircase. The old wooden floorboards creaked whenever anyone walked up or down the stairs. The staircase was considerably narrower in the corners, and an old woman, carrying bags packed full of cooking garbage, nearly ran into her just before the third floor. Anna stepped to the side and let her squeeze by, trying to avoid the grease and foodstuffs that were soaking through the bags.

Anna approached the top of the stairs and stared in surprise at her apartment door. It was open—just a few inches, but certainly not how she had left it. Swiftly, she pulled her Beretta pistol from her pocket and approached with caution. As she pushed the door aside, she could see through the darkened hallway and into the main room. The late afternoon sun only shone in speckles here and there—most of the apartment was left in shadow by the shade of the large linden trees outside. As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she saw the apartment was in complete disarray. Chairs and tables were overturned, drawers pulled out and their contents strewn across the floor, and the sofa cushions were ripped wide open. Anna held the Beretta before her and entered the hallway. Suddenly, a flash of movement came from behind her to the right. She swerved around to meet it, but was too late. Arms clamped around her, and a hand fastened to her face. It was as if she was caught in the tentacles of a ferocious creature. Anna struggled but had little time to react. A sharp chemical smell filled her nostrils and suddenly everything went black.

14

Anna awoke feeling drowsy and heavy-headed. She immediately sensed she was in a dark, claustrophobic metal enclosure. Suddenly a fear gripped her like she had never known. It hit her in the pit of her stomach as panic shot through her veins. Anna tried to move and found her hands were cuffed in restraints. She barely stifled a scream, then started to hyperventilate. Stop, she told herself. Anna closed her eyes. She slowed her breathing, calming herself. Assess. Anna began to go through the steps of the survival training she had received. This was the first time she had to use them; she had never panicked like this before. With her eyes closed, Anna took inventory of her body; other than the grogginess in her head, and the constriction of the restraints on her wrists, she was unharmed.

As Anna took stock of herself, she now realized the enclosure was moving. Opening her eyes, she examined her surroundings. She was seated in a metal locker box. The steel walls gave her only inches to move from side to side or to lean forward, and as she looked up, she could see the roof was a less than six feet tall. There were slats cut into the door in front of her, near the top of the box, for breathing, but the air was still stifling. The slats showed the only light. As she sat in the darkness, Anna wondered how she had been captured. How was she followed to her new apartment? Was Hans captured as well? Was he dead? Anna felt fear, more than any time when she was on a mission. But she knew she must control her fear. Most of all, she would not let her captors see it.

Anna now recognized the vibration of a diesel motor, and felt the gears downshift as the vehicle began to slow. Suddenly the vehicle lurched to a halt. Muffled voices sounded from behind the slats. Abruptly, the metal door opened. A guard, dressed in a gray uniform, loomed in the entrance, blocking out the light. Anna tried to adjust her eyes to see him, but he quickly grabbed her and pulled her to her feet. He pushed her down the corridor of the vehicle, where she caught a glance of six other lockers, lined up facing one another. She heard a cough from one of the lockers and realized it was a prison transport vehicle. Another guard at the front of the corridor pulled her by the arm and led her out of the truck into an enclosed garage. Anna was blinded by the harsh fluorescent lights in this room, far brighter than the interior of the truck.

The guard led her up a short flight of steps to an entrance room, where two other prison guards sat at a control panel in front of a wall of video monitors. One of the guards picked up a telephone and barked out a short set of orders. Anna was led on into a processing area. The guard held her arm and stood by her as they waited at a counter. In the next room, a prisoner was having her mug shot taken. The camera clicked and whirred strange noises that made the frightful prisoner flinch in her seat. Annoyed, the photographer barked at her. “Don’t move.” The prisoner flinched again at the command, then nervously tried to regain her composure. Anna attempted to watch, but a wall partially obstructed her view, and the prisoner was facing away from them. It was strict GDR prison policy to separate prisoners and minimize their contact with one another.

Brüske approached and scowled at the guard. “Did you not receive instructions on this prisoner?”

Befuddled, the guard gestured toward the processing area. “All prisoners are to be processed here on arrival.”

Brüske shook his head and stepped forward to emphasize his authority. Quietly, he ordered, “U-boot. Special circumstances as ordered by Colonel Scharf.”

The guard snapped to attention and gripped Anna’s arm like a vise. He then pulled Anna into a corridor. Brüske followed immediately after. They walked down a short flight of stairs and out into the courtyard.

For the first time, Anna could really measure her surroundings. It was night, and though the courtyard was bathed in a yellow light, it felt darker than the bright glare of the processing room. The prison walls were brown and bars ran vertically along the entire exterior of the stairwells and windows.

Isolated within the truck and now these prison walls, Anna had no idea exactly where she was in East Germany. In fact, she was in the Stasi’s Hohenschönhausen Detention Center, a prison inside a much larger Stasi-secured compound. The area never appeared on any East German map; it was always a blank space, a black hole in the GDR’s capital city. Visitors who had legitimate business within the compound had to enter through a gated checkpoint two blocks away. All Anna knew was she was in an East German prison, and that might as well be a hopeless state. The Hohenschönhausen Detention Center was the closest thing to a bottomless pit.

They entered the oldest building in the prison grounds, a structure that dated back to the end of the war. The conquering Soviets had immediately turned a Nazi catering facility into an internment camp for German POWs and Nazi officials. Soon the facility became a full-fledged prison, where the Soviets brutally tortured their captives.

The guard and Brüske led Anna down another flight of stairs into the cellar. Windowless and damp, this place had earned the nickname U-boot, or submarine. In a perverse way, the name also referred to the Soviets’ preferred method of torturing their prisoners here―water. Although all of the cell doors were closed, they were empty. By the 1980s the guards had largely discontinued use of the U-boot, only sending prisoners here for special solitary confinement. Here Anna would not only be isolated, but kept without the knowledge of most of the prison staff. The guards led Anna to a windowless cell less than five feet wide and eight feet long. There was a wooden bed on one side, with no mattress. In the corner a metal can the size of a wastebasket stood as a toilet. Compared to the Soviets’ treatment of prisoners in the 1940s and 50s, Anna would face an experience that, in its own way, was much more terrifying.

Hans returned the next evening to his apartment on Lehmbruckstrasse. He cursed himself, for he intended the night before to pocket the film negatives and slip over the border. Instead, sleep had gradually overtaken him. When Hans awoke, it was morning, and he was running late for a meeting in the Defense Ministry. His absence at the meeting would certainly be noted, making his attempt to cross at the border, even with forged papers and a disguise, all the more risky. He would have to wait until evening, when he was free, to try again. Hans had phoned the Ministry, explained that he had been ill throughout the night, but despite continuing stomach problems, he would arrive at the meeting, albeit somewhat late.

The Minister of Defense was not pleased at seeing Hans arrive 45 minutes into the meeting. He was anxiously awaiting Hans’ final report following the Border’s Edge exercise. The news was not good, Hans reluctantly told him. The Wall provided little offensive advantage to GDR troops―in fact, it would be a definite hindrance to the beginning of any offensive maneuver. In order to move troops and vehicles through the barriers, engineers would have to blow holes in the Wall. Fortunately, most of the mines and all of the automatic firing devices, including the one that had killed Friedrich Stoller, had been removed from the Wall and the Inner-German border in 1983, following international pressure. These could no longer hinder the advancement of East German troops. Yet the only offensive advantage that the Wall could give was a containment of the population of West Berlin―a role which many viewed the Wall already played. It was not the brilliant and creative kind of assessment that the Defense Minister had been hoping for, but Hans could find no other alternative.

Hans’ report was not well-received. The Defense Minister suggested perhaps another viable alternative had not appeared to him because he had not thought hard enough to come up with it. It was a glaring condemnation, not an entirely unjust one, but Hans realized there were other unknown political pressures that motivated the Defense Minister’s lambasting of his report. Hans reckoned the Minister had to report something to Honecker about the usefulness of the Wall, given the astronomical cost to constantly fortify and upgrade its defenses nearly twenty-five years’ on. Ironically, Honecker was the architect of the Wall, personally signing the order to start building on the night of August 13, 1961. Despite abundant political rhetoric and fanatical belief, Honecker and his ministers always needed another reason to justify the Wall’s existence.

Hans tried to deflect the Minister’s criticism, noting before the other generals that he was working on the development of a new “high tech” border, where electronic measures could disrupt and prevent escapes without shooting. Inwardly, Hans hoped adopting such a system would create a more humane border and prevent deaths such as Friedrich’s. With this technology, Hans reasoned, the Wall’s fortifications may even be able to be changed to create a more flexible terrain for offensive maneuvers. The actual Wall could, in some places, even be dismantled. “We’ll see how much that costs,” was the Defense Minister’s only reply.

The remainder of the day was an interminable wait for Hans, with mundane but pressing duties at his office. Hans could not wait to leave work, grab the film, and bolt.

Hans strode up the stairs nearly three steps at a time and burst into the apartment. He felt almost elated to be free of his constraints here in the East, and it was only a matter of hours before he would be reunited with Anna. Yet, as Hans flew through the door, he stopped dead in his tracks. There, standing in the center of the room, was Crandall. To his right, leaning on the windowsill, was Sean Mason. Hans furrowed his brow, hiding his shock. “What are you doing here?”

“There’s been an incident,” Crandall said.

Hans dropped his keys.

Crandall looked nervous. He had never seemed nervous before, but now, staring at Hans, he was finding it hard to explain. “Anna… she—”

Hans’ eyes widened, rage beginning to seeth inside him. “She… what?”

Crandall cleared his throat, stammering. “She…”

Mason stood up and pushed himself away from the windowsill. It was Crandall’s fault, and his responsibility to tell Hans, but he had watched Crandall’s horrible charade of gestures long enough. Someone had to tell Hans straight, even if he could see Hans zeroing in on Crandall like a bull at a matador.

“She was kidnapped yesterday,” Mason said, his tone explanatory but otherwise flat.

Hans sprung at Crandall, covering the distance between the two men in less than a second. “You bastard!” he bellowed.

Hans grabbed Crandall, flung him against the wall, and pinned him there. Crandall flailed his arms, trying to loosen Hans’ grip, but it was to no avail.

“The dead drops have been compromised!” Crandall shouted, gasping for breath.

“That’s impossible! This is your fault!” Hans spat in rage.

“We think she was followed. She was taken from her apartment in West Berlin, a new apartment!” Crandall tried to explain.

“How do you know that?” Hans shouted, his head spinning with anger and disbelief.

Mason spoke up. “A neighbor saw two men put her into a car and drive away. She called the West Berlin police immediately, but they lost trace of the car.”

Hans now pressed his forearm against Crandall’s throat. “Whatever happens to her, you’ll get it worse.”

Mason laid a firm hand on Hans’ shoulder. It was not enough to pull him off Crandall, but it diverted his attention. “If you two keep screaming like this, we’ll have the Vopos here in two minutes. Then we’ll all be screwed.”

Crandall managed to smirk with contempt at Hans. “I’m sure the Stasi could find you a cell next to hers.”

Hans crashed his fist hard against Crandall’s jaw, jolting the spark out of him.

“Hans!” Mason shouted, pleading.

Hans relented, releasing Crandall, but he glared at him, his eyes burning with hatred. Crandall straightened his shirt, collecting himself. “I wouldn’t be here if there was another way to tell you, but… the dead drops, Hans. Our channels of communication are no longer safe.”

“They were secure before your mission failed!” Hans shouted.

Crandall slipped out of Hans’ shadow and carefully started toward the other side of the room. He was giving Hans a wider berth, but also regaining his own composure. “Getting Scharf is now more urgent than ever. We don’t know how much has been compromised, but if you want to rescue Anna, the only way to do it now is to stop him first.”

Hans’ response surprised both Crandall and Mason. Hans threw his head back toward the ceiling, closed his eyes and appeared to cry—but no—this was something else. Slowly, building from an inaudible shake to a full chuckle, Hans began to laugh. “Is that why you really came here? To convince me it’s my responsibility to take out Scharf?”

Crandall ignored the taunt. “We have a rapidly closing window of opportunity, Hans. While he doesn’t know your identity, you are the best chance we have to eliminate his threat and rescue Anna.”

Hans shook his head. “You know, Crandall, you really are unbelievable. You come here to tell me to clean up your mess, and yet I can’t figure out why you ordered that operation in the first place. What logic led you to that conclusion? You didn’t even inform me about it!”

“At the time, you didn’t need to know.”

“You used Anna as bait. You just threw her out there for Scharf. She’s been nothing but loyal!”

“I’m not so sure about her loyalties,” Crandall said.

“What? Her loyalties?” Hans grabbed Crandall and threw him against the wall again. “You sold her out!”

Crandall gently grabbed Hans’ hands as he pushed them away, trying to reassure him. “No, Brandt, I didn’t sell her out. But I have doubts about her operational effectiveness.”

“What?” Hans had no idea what Crandall was playing at.

“I’m not sure the nature of your relationship with Anna was stable enough to warrant continued operational contact. It seems you two are as much involved in your own personal interests as those of the United States.”

Hans let out a hiss of disbelief. “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

“That’s my job, Hans. I don’t know an agent who can’t be turned on some issue, who doesn’t have some part of their life that could become the hinge that swings them over to the enemy’s side. I have to know those weaknesses so I can exploit the enemy’s against him. But even more important, I have to know a friend’s weakness. I have to, because I have to lock it away before the enemy can open that door. I have to protect our side, even if it means making a decision that seems cold or ugly, because you never let a stranger into your house.”

“You use your own people as pawns. You’re sick, Crandall.”

“You don’t understand. Distrust keeps me alive.”

“It keeps you alone. Don’t you see? There’s no one left on your side. It’s paranoid bastards like you that keep the world on edge.”

“You’re wrong. Distrust keeps us safe; it keeps our country safe. If you want to stay alive, you’ll need to develop a better sense of distrust.”

Hans shook his head in a violent gesture of disbelief. “No, you don’t understand! Your own people! We collect information at risk to our lives, but somehow you still manage to screw up your analysis, misjudge the enemy, and alienate your own agents. What good is your knowledge if you understand nothing?”

Crandall suddenly became livid and animated. “Fine, hate me, but I think the situation is pretty clear, Hans. And it’s time you listened. You know if we can’t stop Scharf it will mean war!”

Hans strode toward Crandall and narrowed his eyes. “If Anna was followed, you could have been too. You’ve risked us all by coming here. And I swear, if I ever see you on this side again, I’ll kill you myself.”

Crandall saw Hans’ burning hatred and knew there was nothing more to say. The two men stared at one another in silence until Crandall screwed his lips together and gave a short nod of recognition. Without a word, Crandall walked out of the apartment.

Mason waited for the air to settle, then quietly approached Hans. “What will you do?”

The question hit Hans hard. He lowered his eyes and remembered a flash of Anna’s smile, a mental photograph. It was an ordinary moment, trivial among the hundreds he had spent with her here, but something triggered this one in his recollection. Here, in this corner of the room, she had sat with her arms folded around her knees. The sun splashed against the wall in a trapezoid of morning light, and yet her smile was warmer and more luminous than the sunshine. The answer came instantly with the image. “I’ll find her,” Hans said.

“And Scharf?” Mason gently prodded.

“If he gets in the way.”

“You’re done then?”

Subdued, Hans nodded. “Yes.”

Mason thought for a moment, then gave a slight shrug. “I wouldn’t blame you.” He turned and headed toward the door, then stopped short. “Can I contact you, if necessary? I think it’s wise you leave at least one channel of communication open.”

Hans, his back still to Mason, nodded. “Just you.”

“Of course.” Mason turned and walked out. The door closed quietly with a click.

15

Hans quickly prepared to evacuate the apartment. He realized he should never have engaged in a shouting match with Crandall. The neighbors could have easily overheard, and Hans and Crandall had spoken far too openly about clandestine matters for prying ears to gather. Somehow, Hans’ anger overcame him, and he had let fly. Besides the shouting match, another concern weighed on his mind: he had never told anyone about the apartment, and to his knowledge, neither had Anna. Yet Crandall and Mason had found him there. If they could follow him, the Stasi could just as well. As Hans swept the apartment to remove all traces of his presence, he felt an inner shame. He swore to himself he would never let his emotions get in the way of his training and tradecraft again. Hans dumped the photo developing chemicals in the sink, burned one of his wig disguises in the coal furnace, and packed his remaining tools into an attaché case. It was weighted at the bottom, so if he had to throw it into the river, it would sink. Hans then wiped his fingerprints from all surfaces and looked for any hair or clothing fibers on the carpet or bed surfaces. It was painstaking work, but he moved swiftly, not knowing how much time he would have.

As Hans worked, he considered his security. Gradually, he began to feel some measure of relief. Mason would not have come with Crandall if they were not both sure of their safety. It also seemed that the two men had safely made their exit. The stairwell and the rest of the apartment building had been silent, and as dusk fell, Hans saw the street outside was deserted. Still, Hans was trained to be cautious. When he was finished cleaning, Hans turned to look at the apartment one last time, then left.

Anna did not sleep at all her first night in Hohenschönhausen. The guards regularly uncovered a peephole in the door every three to five minutes, but they did not come in. After an hour, Anna realized they would most likely not enter the cell. She lay on the hard wooden bed and looked up at the ceiling. It was mottled gray, with damp water stains along the cement. A single uncovered light bulb in the center of the room threw glaring light into her eyes. The guards kept it on all night. As Anna closed her eyes and tried to rest her body, her mind began to turn. How was she captured? She had come no closer to an answer. She crossed her arms over her chest as she pondered. She suddenly realized she was still in her own clothing. She moved her hands down to her pants’ pockets, but found they were empty. Sometime, while she was unconscious, they had removed everything. They had probably also grabbed her purse. She now also understood the ransacked state of her apartment, but none of her belongings or anything on her person would give them information about her real occupation or contacts. Anna knew what would come next. She would be interrogated.

It was hours later—Anna did not know how many—that a guard came to the peephole and barked out a series of orders. “Stand up. Face against the wall. Hands straight against sides. Do not move.”

Anna did as she was told. The heavy iron door clanked open, and a prison guard entered. He laid a firm grip around her upper arm and pulled her toward the door. “Come,” he ordered.

Anna walked alongside the guard, following his lead as he held her in a tight grip. He led her out of the U-boot, up a flight of stairs, and back across the courtyard. It was still night; to Anna, the darkness seemed endless. She had thought after so many hours in the windowless cell it would be day by now. The air was cool and moist with dew. For a brief moment, she wished she could see the stars, but heavy cloud cover and the glare of the sodium lights blotted out any chance to see them.

“Eyes forward,” the guard barked.

He led Anna into another wing of the prison. This one had the same heavy gray iron doors, but they were not cells. As the guard led Anna to an open room, she saw a space that looked curiously like an office. The walls were covered with brown patterned wallpaper, a popular communist aesthetic. The curtains were white and red. A table and desk were arranged in a T-form. At the tail end, facing Anna, was a chair.

“Sit,” the guard muttered. Anna sat down. “Hands under thighs,” he ordered. Anna followed. She looked toward the end of the table, where a lamp shone in the otherwise dim room. There, sitting at the desk, in the middle of the “T”, was Scharf. He looked far more formal—and menacing—in his gray gabardine Stasi uniform, but his smile was sly and almost becoming.

“You don’t look happy to see me again, Anna,” Scharf said. “But I see you’ve arrived, after your long journey.”

Anna swallowed and clenched her jaw. She had nothing to say to him.

“You should know,” Scharf continued, with an ease in his tone that contradicted his appearance, “that you have no idea where you are.”

Try as Anna might, she could not deny this. She had no idea which prison this was, nor its location within East Germany. How long had she been blacked out? How far had she really traveled? Realizing she could answer none of these questions, she dismissed them. They did not change the simple fact she was in the enemy’s hands. There were other questions to face first.

“Anna,” Scharf continued, “We know so much about you. Much more than on our first meeting. Your colleagues, Herr Griggs and Herr Danforth, especially, were able to help us in that regard. But we know more about you than what they told us. I hope you will learn a lesson from them.”

Scharf opened a folder on his desk and removed two glossy 8x10 photos. He threw them on the table in front of her. She stared at Scharf defiantly, refusing to lower her gaze to the pictures. “Look,” Scharf invited, quietly. But Anna still glared uncooperatively at him. “Look!” he suddenly and violently bellowed, his voice reverberating off the walls. Anna glanced at the photos, her eyes glazing over. She would not focus on their images. She could see enough that they were postmortem photos of men who had been violently beaten. She knew they were Griggs and Danforth, even if she would not look at their battered faces.

“You will never leave this place,” Scharf hissed, “unless you cooperate with us. You may find that a repulsive proposal, but I assure you, it is the only way your life will ever be your own again. Consider that,” he said, pointing to the pictures, “and the alternative.”

Anna somehow found the strength to remove herself mentally from the room. Flatly, she responded, “There are things that are more important than my freedom.”

Scharf laughed, a sudden outburst that startled the guard standing behind Anna. “An idealist. How refreshing. I thought the prevailing notion is that you all become jaded within the course of your work. But I’m surprised. All your side ever talks about is freedom. What on earth could be more important to you than that, I wonder?”

Scharf, turning into the amused psychiatrist, made a teasing, almost flirtatious look at Anna. She would not play along. Still, Scharf enjoyed the irony—she had toyed flirtatiously with him when he was in her trap; now she was in his. He studied her face for a moment, then his smile faded. “I caution… no, urge you,” he said, with genuine concern, “this is the last time we will be able to have a civil conversation. If you have anything to say to me, say it now.”

Anna felt a strange disgust. She had dealt with solicitations from many men, but this one, however surprisingly earnest, sickened her. After witnessing Scharf’s animal depravity, Anna could not abide this sudden turn toward compassion. She turned away, no longer able to face him.

Scharf nodded, understanding. He was rejected, yet resolved. “Very well, then.”

With a slight nod of his head, Scharf signaled for the guard to escort Anna away.

The next few days grew from monotonous to terrifying. Anna was kept isolated in her cell for hours on end. Three guards were posted on a constant round-the-clock watch, each working in eight-hour shifts outside her door. They continued to check on her through the peephole every three to five minutes. At first, Anna had to avoid embarrassment and humiliation at their hands. She tried to time her toilet usage between the moments they looked in on her, but the intervals were irregular.

Once a guard caught sight of her sitting on the simple toilet can, laughed, and stared. Anna turned her head away, covering her face with her hands. The guard rapped on the door angrily. “Hey! Hands down!” It was a completely unreasonable, but forceful order, and Anna did lower her hands, though she would not face toward the door. It was humiliating, but she at least took comfort in the fact she had not been assaulted. She still wore the same clothes as when she was arrested, and after three days, they felt extremely uncomfortable. But the guards did not offer prison clothing.

For the first three days, the guards brought no food. Despite her growing hunger, Anna might have refused it. The guards did place a mug of water on her bed several times, but she resisted that for the first day, afraid that it could be laced with drugs. Finally, when she was completely parched, Anna sipped at the water. Despite the distinct taste of copper pipes, the water seemed otherwise pure. Slowly, she drank the rest of the water. Within half an hour of finishing, Anna began to feel queasy. Her stomach churned and her head began to spin. She slumped next to the wooden bed, half-sitting, half-leaning against it for support. After that, she refused any more water.

The worst part was her inability to sleep. Whenever Anna started to doze off, the guards rapped loudly on the door. She became fatigued, irritable, and her lucidity began to slip away. Her head ached in a constant state of dizziness and pain. Finally, Anna could not keep awake anymore. She began to doze. Suddenly, the iron door flew open, the guard came in, and gruffly pulled her to her feet. Shaking her violently, he drove her out of sleep and flung her against the wall. Without a word, the guard walked out and locked the door. Anna slumped down to her knees and began to cry. It was a reaction she had resisted ever since her capture, but now she reached a breaking point. She sobbed and collapsed on the floor, crying until she had to take big, convulsive gulps of breath. Gradually, she blacked out, and for the first time in days, finally slept.

Anna awoke nearly ten hours later. Another guard came into the cell, and far more gently than his comrade, woke her by taking her arm and slowly pulling her to her feet. Having rested for the first time in days, Anna felt considerably better, though her head still throbbed. The guard escorted her to the interrogation wing and a room similar to the one where she had met with Scharf. This time, however, the room was empty when they arrived. The guard ordered her to sit down as before, with her hands under her thighs.

A new interrogator, a woman, walked into the room. She was dressed in the Stasi’s female uniform, gray like the men’s, but with a long skirt. She had her hair pulled back neatly into a bun, but in a way that exposed the bony features of her face in a too-striking manner. As the woman sat at the desk, Anna reeled back in surprise. It was Inga, the woman she had met on the U-Bahn after leaving the embassy. Inga did not acknowledge their previous meeting at all. Now unmasked, she was stiff, business-like, and unforgivingly stern.

“I think we’ve given you enough time to consider your situation,” Inga began.

Anna was hardly listening. She now realized how she had been captured. She had probably been under surveillance for some time—how, she did not exactly know. Yet her visit to the embassy triggered Inga and other Stasi agents into action. The unsuccessful meeting with Crandall had been even more ill-advised than Anna had previously reckoned.

Inga now stared at her with cruelty in her eyes, the vestige of an unfathomable malevolence. Anna drew back in shock. “Now,” Inga continued, “you will cooperate, or things will become significantly worse for you.”

Anna turned her eyes to the floor and slowly shook her head. As long as she had strength, she had to resist. She did not know Hans’ condition, and she steeled herself with the memory of what the Soviets had done to her uncle. She could never let the communists have the satisfaction of seeing her bend to them.

“No?” Inga raised an eyebrow. “Very well.”

Inga opened a drawer in the desk, while the guard reached over her shoulder and pinned her down like a seatbelt. Anna struggled against his hold, desperately trying to fight back with what little part of her hands that were free. The guard clamped down on her left wrist and pinned her right arm against the back of her chair, holding her fast. Anna tried to kick her legs off of the floor and push herself back toward the guard, hoping to send him off balance, but he bent his knees toward her and braced himself against the chair. It was then, when Anna knew she couldn’t escape his grasp, that she turned her attention to Inga. The afternoon daylight that filtered through the white drapes now silhouetted Inga as she approached. It was only at the last moment that Anna saw the syringe in Inga’s hand, a long needle dripping at the tip with fluid. Inga aimed the syringe at Anna’s neck. Anna darted her head away, resisting, but it was too late. The needle met a vein in her throat, and with speed and precision, Inga injected its contents.

Anna’s stomach turned immediately. She slackened, and the guard loosened his grip. She bowed herself to the right, and for a moment, thought she was going to vomit. Her momentary malaise was enough for the guard to let go of her to fasten handcuffs between her wrists and the legs of the chair. Anna felt like a veal chained in a slaughterhouse, unable to straighten itself. It was a pathetic sight.

Inga walked back and sat behind the desk with a smirk, satisfied with the subdued condition of her prisoner. “Let’s begin,” she said as she pressed the record button on a reel-to-reel tape deck. “Who assigned you to capture Comrade Colonel Scharf, and why was he your target?”

Over the next day, Anna was barraged with a series of interrogations. She continued to resist, saying little to nothing. Inga and the guards continued to inject her with drugs, including sodium thiopental. It only caused Anna to babble incoherent answers. After hours of unsuccessful questioning, Inga determined that a break was needed. Suddenly they realized Anna was severely dehydrated. Inga scolded the guards for not letting her know this before she had begun questioning, telling them they had wasted her time. Anna was immediately injected with a sedative and taken to the prison’s infirmary, where she was injected with IV fluids to restore her nutritional health. A guard was posted by her bed for the entire duration of her stay in the infirmary. When she regained her strength, Anna returned to her cell.

For nearly a week now, Anna had been held captive and interrogated by Stasi personnel. Their results were disappointing—Anna had revealed far less than Danforth. Scharf’s only solace was the fact that he could keep her indefinitely. He believed he could eventually wear Anna down. It would be a slow process, but the Stasi’s core techniques of isolation, disorientation, and time were highly effective. Anna, however, had much greater fortitude than they had expected. In her first days of captivity, she started to devise a false story with fictitious names of contacts and agents. She rehearsed it over and over in her mind, pushing the truth further down. Knowing Stasi interrogators took memorized sentences as a sign of deception, she devised these fictitious details in such a way that they could be frequently reformulated without contradicting herself. Anna knew she could not deny she was working for the CIA, but her list of officers and contacts was a total fiction. Anna told them a woman officer at the embassy ran her as an agent. The kicker was the contact that supplied the information about Scharf was an informant within the Stasi, known only by his codename, Knife. By claiming the breach was within the Stasi itself, Anna knew that Scharf might become paranoid and distrustful of his own colleagues. At the very least, he would certainly have to waste time investigating the story. If Hans had been captured, the whole story would fall apart, but she had little option other than to continue to bide her time with the ruse.

Inevitably, Scharf’s patience wore thin. Something had to be done to raise the stakes of his interrogation. He could not waste the advantage Anna’s capture had given him, but squeezing genuine information from her was a laborious task. Scharf met with Inga and Brüske in one of the interrogation rooms to discuss what was to be done.

“Why, comrades, have our methods failed to this point?” Scharf asked, scratching his forehead with annoyance.

Inga and Brüske paused, not wanting to answer rashly and invoke Scharf’s wrath. Scharf waited for a moment, then threw a file onto the desk. It was Anna’s dossier. Scharf had begun the file during the Danforth interrogation. They learned little from him, however, and the bulk of the file’s information was collected by Brüske and his team while Anna had been under surveillance prior to her kidnapping. It was filled with reports full of minutiae about her habits and observed behavior, but revealed little useful truth about her. Scharf knew that most of what had been observed was her cover. Anna led a cautious existence, so the only valuable detail the surveillance had obtained was the location of her residence. As Scharf thumbed through the file, his frustration grew. “Well, comrades?”

Inga spoke first. “I think we have not been hard enough on her. She has proven she has excellent endurance. We should press harder.”

Scharf weighed her answer, then cast an expectant look at Brüske.

“With due respect, Comrade Colonel,” Brüske said, straightening, “I believe we have not asked the right questions.”

Inga took this as a personal affront. “What are you talking about? Your contribution, Comrade Brüske, has been the most disappointing.” Inga felt a rivalry between her and Brüske for Scharf’s approval. Though she and Brüske were both the same rank, as a woman, Inga felt her value was always minimized. She contended that men were always placing roadblocks in her path, and felt the need to prove herself at any opportunity to her superiors. She was no longer young, yet Inga was driven to rise as far as she could within the ranks of the Stasi. If nothing else, she hoped for a larger pension and greater respect.

Brüske, however, ignored her completely. He turned to face Scharf, cutting Inga out of the conversation. “We have been asking, ‘what does she know?’ The question we should ask ourselves is, ‘what does she fear?’”

Scharf’s eyelids narrowed with predator-like focus. Brüske was pleased he had given Scharf something useful. “Hmm,” Scharf nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s good.”

Finding Anna was no easy task. Hans figured she would be held in a maximum-security Stasi detention facility, though he could not be sure which one. There were dozens throughout the country, and several within Berlin. Hans had known of certain special prisoners being sent to safe houses in the country, but he gambled that she was still in Berlin, so Scharf could easily interrogate her without adding extra security and fuss. Anna had likely not been booked, so finding any record of her imprisonment would be difficult. Hans reckoned she was most likely in a cell in the small prison at Stasi headquarters in Normanenstrasse, or in the Detention Center in Hohenschönhausen. Getting into either facility would be difficult. Access to the cells was restricted to prison guards and Stasi personnel, though Hans figured his high position in the Defense Ministry might give some advantage.

His first move was one of the most risky. Hans established contact with a Sergeant Hasselmann of the prison guards and inquired about Anna, discreetly explaining there was a rumor in the Ministry of Defense that a most beautiful woman had been taken captive by the Stasi and held in a secret cell somewhere in Berlin. The next part sickened Hans, but he had to play the ruse out. He told Hasselmann the rumor was the girl was now being kept as a kind of slave for certain high-ranking individuals. It sounded too fantastic to be believed, Hans said, but a salacious interest had been piqued among his colleagues. There was a heavy bet now riding on the veracity of the information. Hans stood to lose a month’s pay to an army general, who boastfully claimed there was no such prisoner.

The sergeant said he would check it out for Hans, though it would cost him a carton of fine-quality cigarettes. “Small potatoes, compared to a month’s wages,” Hasselmann reasoned.

Hans agreed, on condition that the sergeant spoke to no one about their conversation. This kind of betting was not encouraged within the National People’s Army, and the sergeant knew Hans and the general would be in hot water if he reported them. For a moment, the sergeant thought he might have great leverage with two high-ranking officers. To Hasselmann’s surprise, Hans revealed a secret he had learned about him. Hasselmann had stolen a number of gold rings that had been seized from prisoners and had them melted down to make a necklace for his wife. Hans assured the sergeant, however, that he had nothing to worry about if he did as he was told.

Hasselmann returned in a week. “You can relax about your paycheck,” he told Hans. There was indeed such a woman, beautiful but bruised, in the basement cells at Hohenschönhausen. He even provided Hans with a prisoner identification number, though only select guards used it verbally to identify her. For his trouble, Hans gave him two cartons of cigarettes. Hasselmann reiterated his promise to keep his lips sealed, and Hans thanked him. Still, Hasselmann could not help but ask how Hans had learned of his malfeasance.

“If you want someone to keep a secret,” Hans said with a cryptic smile, “you keep theirs.”

16

Anna awoke in darkness. After suffering for days with the constant glare of the open light bulb above, she immediately felt disoriented in the complete black. She felt the surface beneath her. It had a strange rubbery cushiness to it, though it remained as cold as concrete. It made her feel lighter, and in her disorientation she could almost imagine being inside a giant balloon. Anna was unsure if she was delusional, if the guards had moved her to another room, or if they had played some sort of trick on her by upholstering the floor of her cell. For a moment she remembered hearing of old Soviet methods of water torture, where prisoners were kept in a cell that was flooded with two feet of freezing water. Perhaps this was why they had changed the flooring. She felt a pang of fear as she half expected a geyser of water to hit her in the dark, but when nothing came, the fear passed. Anna sat up and waved her hands outward, but felt nothing. Slowly getting to her knees, she crawled across the floor, searching for any object at all. After crawling several feet, she knew she was no longer in her usual cell. Where she had anticipated the wall, the wastebasket-like chamber pot, or the wooden bed, there was nothing.

Finally, as she slowly made her way through the void, Anna reached a wall. To her surprise, she felt a padded cushion. She felt up and down the the surface of the wall, feeling the cushion and its seams. The wall was entirely padded. There was a plastic-rubbery feel to the padding, like the cheapest fake leather upholstery. Anna very carefully got to her feet and continued to feel her way around the room, walking slowly so as to not trip over any object she did not detect in the darkness. The walls were curved significantly, and the corners were difficult to detect. Anna could not be sure, but she believed she covered the entire circumference of the room.

Just as she tried to ascertain if she was indeed back to where she began, a sharp, painful screech came from above. It was the ringing of a telephone, modulated to a higher frequency tone and played at a volume that was at the threshold of pain. Anna jolted at the noise and immediately clenched her hands over her ears. The piercing noise continued, the ringing insistent. It lasted for one full minute, then two, then three. The ringing went on and on. After about five minutes another series of noises were added, a high-pitched screeching, played with such a bizarre quality that it was impossible to tell if it came from an animal or machine. Soon there was the screech of car tires, the solid, sickening thud of a collision with a body, and the blood-curdling scream of a woman in extreme despair. It seemed like the wail of a mother seeing her child killed before her, but Anna could not know for sure. There were only the screams and sounds—no words—no explanation.

The audio assault continued: sharp buzzes, wails, and screams were continually added every few moments, until it was a cacophony of aural pain. Anna clenched her hands tightly over her ears, but the sounds were piercing, driving into her brain with sharp, unyielding fury. While her ears and head ached, the rest of her strangely began to feel detached and ethereal. In the black void of the cell, she seemed to lose sense of herself and the world around her. The noises continued, minutes stretching to hours, the hours building, until she had suffered the constant audio assault for almost a full day. Anna had managed any previous torture well, but now she felt a strange detachment from herself. It was as if the Stasi had effectively, using only psychological techniques, drawn and quartered her entire being. Anna felt hopelessly fragmented, caught in a strange netherworld that was neither existence nor death.

Twenty-three hours after Anna first awoke in the padded cell, the blaring dissonant noises suddenly stopped. Anna tried to peer into the darkness, wondering what had silenced them and what would come next. After a few moments of deafening silence, there was a slight sound of pressure at the wall. A door opened, throwing a shaft of light into the room. To Anna, it was surreal—the void was suddenly connected to the real world. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light. Anna strained to see, her eyes were blinded by the darkness that had enveloped her for so long. The figure moved toward her, then stopped, still in the shaft of light from the hallway. Then Scharf’s voice came, falling toward her in nearly a whisper. She strained to hear the words, her ears ringing from the assault they had taken.

“Anna,” Scharf said, “we’ve captured your contact. He was foolish enough to come looking for you. But since he clearly cares so much for you, I’ll give you a chance to reciprocate. If you tell us what we need to know, I will let him live. In fact, if you cooperate completely, I could grant both of you your freedom. Just tell me what I need to know.”

Anna pushed herself up and tried to look into Scharf’s eyes. They were hooded in shadow, and she could not distinguish any features of his face. Still, she did not believe him. “No,” she said, trying to sound firm. She had not spoken for so long, her voice nearly croaked. “I don’t believe you.”

Scharf shook his head. “Anna,” he said, sounding like a lecturing schoolteacher, “this is your last chance. Don’t dismiss it.”

“You’re not holding anyone else. You’ve only got me.” Her eyes narrowed, and through a hoarse voice, she hissed at Scharf. “And I’m through talking with you.”

Scharf’s head lowered. “Very well, then.”

Scharf retreated into the hall. The door closed, and the light surrendered once again to the darkness that enveloped Anna.

For a few moments there was complete silence in the blackness. Then, from an air vent near the top of the wall, there came a wail. Slowly, it grew louder in volume and intensity. It was a man’s voice, harrowed with pain. Could it be Hans? Anna doubted it, but after suffering such a long assault on her senses, she could no longer discern clearly. The screams continued, growing louder and more urgent. This man was in significant pain. But was it Hans? Anna did not want to know. She could not bear the thought that Hans was in their clutches, suffering at their hands. She did not want to believe the wails she heard came from him. No, she told herself. They had to be lying. This had to be a ruse, a nasty trick to get her to talk. But how did they know about him?

Scharf said they had captured a man, and he spoke with an assurance that seemed to indicate he knew of Anna’s relationship with Hans, that it went further than a professional exchange. Was he bluffing? There was no way to know. Meanwhile, the man’s screams had reached a new level of intensity, driven to an almost inhuman pitch. They were destroying him. Anna clamped her hands over her ears, trying to block out the sounds of incomprehensible suffering. It couldn’t be Hans. It couldn’t be. She tried desperately to drive the thought away, and yet the screams tore into her. Finally, when she was sure the man was dying, her mind exploded.

“No!” she screamed, a long, powerful wail into the darkness.

She screamed until she drowned out the man’s cries, until her vocal chords were shredded, and she began to lose all consciousness. Soon, the blackness enveloped her, and the screams of the dying faded into the suffocating blanket of night.

17

Scharf stood at the beginning of the next Defense Council meeting. “Comrades, you have long awaited the results of our investigation into the death of Comrade General Dietrich. You will be pleased to hear we have now brought the culprits to justice. Two of the assassins are dead. They attempted to murder me as well, but comrades, I was more fortunate. A third assassin remains in our custody. We have been questioning this person assiduously.”

On the other side of the room, a cold bead of sweat formed on Hans’ temple. But he remained still as Scharf continued, “There is more. You will not be pleased to hear it, but it must be told. We have confirmed the plots to murder General Dietrich and myself were hatched by agents of the United States’ government.”

A murmur sounded through the room, an uneasy wave of doubt and fear. Scharf raised his hand. “Comrades, it’s true. The last of the assassins was captured after making contact with CIA handlers at the U.S. embassy. So now we are faced with two problems: we must answer the United States’ attempt to destabilize this country, and we still have a mole within our ranks.”

“Perhaps the Americans overestimate your value,” Politburo member Vogel scoffed.

“You should all know my value, comrades,” Scharf sneered, his eyes ablaze. “And you will thank me when we have rooted this traitor out of our midst. From the information I have gathered, these assassins have intimate knowledge of the workings of this council.”

Vogel snorted. “Are you suggesting the mole is sitting here in this room?”

“Perhaps.”

Hans held his breath and sat perfectly still. He knew he must not give himself away by any movement, but his mind raced to think of what he could do if accused. There were few options. Without moving his head, Hans scanned the room. If Scharf revealed Hans’ identity, there would be no hope of escape. Yet Hans would not go so easily. A dark thought filled his mind. If accused, Hans would rush at Scharf and use every ounce of strength to snap his neck before he could be tackled by the others.

Vogel’s voice broke in. “What is that supposed to mean? Is he or isn’t he?”

Before Scharf could answer, Müller spoke. This startled Hans, who was seated next to him. “I’m sure Comrade Scharf would not bring such accusations before this council if he were not prepared to share his evidence.”

Hans’ heart leaped in panic. For an instant, he feared his friend was casting the noose around his neck. Then Hans saw Scharf’s cold stare. Müller had called his bluff.

Furious, Scharf spoke with measured words. “Comrades, this is highly sensitive information. I will share it with the council, but only after I have had the opportunity to do so with the Ministers of Defense and State Security in private.”

Vogel grunted in derision. “Oh come off it, Scharf, if you’re going to accuse one of us, then do it! Don’t just banter about. We’re not schoolchildren. You can’t bully us.”

“Comrade Vogel, mind your tone,” Scharf replied confidently, “even here, there are few men above suspicion. You are not one of them.”

“You have no evidence—” Vogel protested before the Defense Minister cut in.

“What are you suggesting, Comrade Scharf?”

“I recommend that we heighten the security measures of this council. Every member should be accompanied by a security detail in all business functions. I also recommend that we put the military on high alert, given the nature of the U.S. intrusion.”

The Defense Minister shook his head. “I will order no action until we’ve examined the threat in full. The Minister of State Security and I will see your evidence immediately following this meeting. Pending the outcome of your investigation, we will take further action.”

Scharf gave a slight bow from his shoulders, a gesture that was as much out of shrinking embarrassment as obeisance. “Of course, Comrade Defense Minister.”

The Defense Minister nodded curtly and moved on to other business. Across the room, Hans slowly breathed again in silent relief. Scharf glared at Vogel, a fierce rage burning in his eyes.

When the meeting adjourned, Hans walked with Müller to his car. For a moment, the two were absorbed in their own thoughts. Foremost in Hans’ mind was what Scharf had just done. Most of Scharf’s moves could be described as brash but calculated; this one was downright impatient. What did it mean? Scharf had the perfect opportunity to launch an accusation. He had not only had he failed to do so, but he was also openly criticized for his failure. What did this mean for Anna? Had Scharf also failed to manipulate her? Or had something worse happened—was she no longer usable? Was she—and the thought was truly unthinkable to Hans—dead? Hans and Müller were halfway down a flight of stairs when Müller finally spoke.

“Scharf must feel some urgency,” he said, his tone hushed. “He didn’t seem to have anticipated the reaction today.”

“That’s true,” Hans concurred. “But we still have to be careful. He must still have the full support of Minister of State Security, or he wouldn’t have been so careless.”

Müller nodded. “If that’s true, Vogel doesn’t have a chance.”

“Just like Fass.”

“What about this so-called assassin he has in custody?” Müller asked.

“He hasn’t given anyone access. No one knows the person’s identity. I think he intends to keep it that way. If he can’t get what he needs out of his prisoner, it will be easier to manufacture evidence from a suspect no one has ever seen.”

The thought sent a chill up Müller’s spine.

“I intend to find out the truth,” Hans said. “If he convinces the Minister of Defense to put the military on alert, it will be much easier to launch Operation STOSS.”

Müller climbed into his car. “Watch yourself,” he told Hans.

“You too.”

Müller’s car sputtered to life and tore out of the parking lot.

Hans went to the prison as soon as was possible. After the meeting, he needed to know she was still alive, and yet he was reluctant to see her condition. It sickened him to think Anna had suffered in Scharf’s clutches for so long. He desperately hoped that, despite all of the horror she must have experienced in that time, they had not broken her. There was an unfathomable thought that lurked in Hans’ subconscious: the notion that her ordeal had irrevocably changed her body and spirit. He had to bury the thought, for he knew the rage it could unleash in him. If his fears proved true, Hans swore he would wreak a terrible vengeance on Scharf. Hope remained, however, in the unknown. The possibility existed that Anna was resisting, surviving, and would ultimately overcome her oppressors. Hans knew that possibility would decrease with time, and he felt a great urgency to act. As the information on Anna’s whereabouts slowly came, Hans fought an emotionally draining battle in secret. He strained his mind to come up with a plan that could successfully release her from the prison, but with the news that she was under constant watch, he knew there were few options.

The plan Hans settled on was direct and lacked the kind of flexibility that is needed to counter an opponent in covert operations, but it seemed to be the only viable option. There was one advantage of being direct, and Hans knew this from his years’ of experience as a covert agent in the military. If you could project the image of a convincing authoritative figure, you were likely to be given the cooperation and access needed. It was a simple truth that members of the military followed the orders of their superiors. Still, Hans would need a good amount of luck to be successful.

Hans reported to the Hohenschönhausen prison compound, carrying official papers from the Minister of Defense. He had forged them, but the papers called for the immediate transfer of Prisoner 227, also known as Anna, to the custody of the Ministry of Defense, so that she could be interrogated under the ministry’s supervision concerning matters of national security. The Stasi would immediately question the request. Yet with the Minister’s signature affixed to the order, and Hans’ position as special liaison to the Politburo, Hans figured it would carry enough clout to be followed. The universal fear of GDR personnel, Hans knew, was to face reprimand from powerful higher-ranking officials. He only gave a cursory explanation to the guards at the outer compound. Hans gave a similar explanation at the gates of the prison itself, though here he was required to allow the guards to examine the papers. Hans commanded the full respect of the guards. A lieutenant colonel was to be respected, and one on the direct errand of the Minister of Defense to be obeyed.

The first obstacle was the guards at the processing desk. When Hans sternly handed the falsified release order to the guards, they responded with confusion.

“There is no ‘Prisoner Number Two-Two-Seven’,” the first guard told him.

“First name Anna?” Hans inquired.

The guard and his companion sorted through several processing books, their rigid organization suddenly breaking down under the withering glare of a lieutenant colonel.

“No record at all,” the second guard said finally, exasperated from his frantic search.

Hans appeared to lose his patience. “Where is the U-boot?”

The first soldier opened his mouth to respond, but Hans pointed to a third guard, standing to his left outside the processing booth. “You, Comrade Soldier, take me there.”

Snapping to attention, the guard complied.

Hans was led into the dark basement of the U-boot, a place that made him want to shudder. Anna’s detention here had to be horrible. Outwardly, Hans remained cool. Hans’ escort led him around a corner and into a more isolated part of the cellar. At the end of the corridor, a guard stood watch outside a cell door. Hans figured this must be Anna’s cell. As Hans approached, the guard on watch snapped to attention and saluted.

“Can I help you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel?”

“I represent the Minister of Defense,” Hans began, “and I’m here to see about a prisoner. A blonde woman, about twenty-five. Is that who you are guarding?” Hans looked at the door, sensing that Anna was behind it. He steeled himself to be ready for what condition he would find her in.

“I’m sorry, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel,” the guard responded, “but I cannot answer that question.”

“The Ministry has declared this a matter of national security,” Hans explained. He moved toward the peephole and slid the cover aside, wanting to look in to verify Anna was there. It was nearly an impulsive action. Though he dreaded seeing her condition, Hans had to know she was alive. The guard caught Hans’ arm and pushed the cover back over the peephole.

“Excuse me, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel,” the guard said, his tone firm, “but I cannot allow you to do that.”

Hans glared at the guard, and noting the rank on his shoulder boards, railed into him. “Don’t forget your place, Comrade Corporal. You touch an officer again, and you’ll end up in one of these cells instead of guarding them.”

“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel,” the guard replied, chastised.

Assured that he had sufficiently subdued the man, Hans handed over the papers. “I have direct orders from the Minister of Defense to take custody of this prisoner.”

The guard gave them a cursory glance, unexpected at this point of the process. “I’m sorry, but all movement of this prisoner must be initiated by Comrade Colonel Scharf. His direct order.”

Hans grit his teeth, trying to maintain the appearance of an officer who is inconvenienced by bureaucracy. “This supersedes that. This is the Minister of Defense.”

The guard seemed to sweat under his collar, but stayed firm. “I understand, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, but Colonel Scharf must be notified before I can allow her transfer.”

Hans had lost his patience. He snarled, ready to blast into the guard. Yet suddenly, one of the guards from the processing desk came running down the corridor. His footsteps landed heavily on the concrete, reverberating off the walls and destroying the grim quiet of the cellar.

“Comrade Lieutenant Colonel!” the processing guard shouted, the words clumsily falling from his mouth. The messenger now stood before him, winded, but straightened to attention. He did not seem to acknowledge he was interrupting them.

“There’s an urgent message for you, from Comrade Müller of the Politburo. He’s on the telephone for you.”

“I’m busy,” Hans said, annoyed.

“He said he needs to speak to you now, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel,” the guard pressed.

Hans could see the man’s earnestness. He turned back to the guard at Anna’s door, and pointing a finger of accusation, declared, “I’m not through with you.”

Hans followed the messenger to the processing booth, but was surprised to find the telephone was back in its cradle.

The second guard handed him a hand-written message. “Comrade Müller couldn’t wait,” he explained, “but he wants you to meet him right away, at the memorial in Treptower Park.”

Hans reeled at the news. It didn’t make any sense. Müller had never called him in an emergency, and they had never met in Treptower Park. Hans shook his head. Treptower Park was in the southeastern part of the city. He would have to cut through the middle of the city and cross the river to get there. He read the message once again, and for all its oddities, he could not ignore its urgency. Resigned, Hans ran to his car.

18

The Soviet Memorial in Treptower Park lay just a few hundred meters from the Spree River. Though meant as a reverential tribute to those who fell in the victory over Nazism, the ground was as much a banner on conquered soil. The Soviets’ conquest of Berlin had been one of the bloodiest and most barbaric invasions in modern history. Enraged by the toll the war had taken on the Soviet Union, Red Army troops wreaked vengeance on civilians—raping, murdering, and plundering at will. For many Berliners, the Soviet invaders brought terror and the last cruel indignity of war. Anyone who had experienced or witnessed those acts would find it impossible to reverence the conquering dead as saviors.

Hans parked his car and walked through a large stone arch at the northwest entrance to the grounds. He followed a long tree-lined causeway until it opened up at the main avenue of the memorial. The first thing he saw was a white stone statue of Mother Russia, her head bowed in sorrow. Beyond the statue stretched an avenue of bare gray paving stones, lined on each side with rows of weeping willows. Their drooping branches, along with the overcast sky, only added to the mournful atmosphere. Two more statues, these of soldiers kneeling with their heads bowed in reverence, stood as sentinels to the main grounds beyond, where 5,000 Soviet dead were buried. Beyond the large field stood a large earthen mound with steps up to a small memorial chapel. The structure also served as the base of the focal point of the memorial: a giant 12-meter tall statue of a Soviet soldier, a sword in one hand, a baby in the other, standing triumphant over the rubble of a crumbled swastika. The entire monument was bordered by thick green trees and small landscaped hills, setting it apart from the rest of the park and shutting out the traffic and city noise with an eerie silence. Hans, like any visitor, could not help but feel somewhat in awe of the architecture of this formidable ground. Still, he was more preoccupied with finding Müller. He impatiently scanned over the dozen or so visitors spread out among the grounds. None of them was Müller. Where did he go? Hans thought.

Hans stopped between the kneeling soldiers at the top of a short set of steps, the most central point on the grounds. If Müller arrived, it would be easiest to spot him from here. Hans looked out at the field that stretched a hundred meters to the soldier statue, silently contemplating the scene. He did not notice a man approach to his right, standing just at the edge of his peripheral vision. The man looked at a tomb-like marker that lay immediately before them on a direct axis with the triumphant statue. The marker bore two sets of tributes: one in Russian, the other in German. The man read the words aloud in German, a certain irony dripping from his lips.

“Die Heimat wird ihre Helden nicht vergessen. The Homeland will not forget Her Heroes.”

Hans turned to face the man. It was Sean Mason.

“You?” Hans said, hesitating. Now it was clear he was not here to meet Müller at all.

Mason stood beside Hans and shook his head. “If you were planning suicide, they give you cyanide capsules for that.”

“I threw mine away years ago.” Hans turned to Mason, probing. “How’d you know where I was?”

“You may be our greatest secret,” Mason said with a small, cryptic smile, “but you’re not our only one. Forgive the ruse. It was vital that I get you out of there. Perhaps you know now that your plan to rescue Anna will never work. Not while Scharf stands in the way. Crandall made many miscalculations, but in this case, he’s not wrong.”

“I had to try.”

Mason nodded sadly. “I know.”

“Your contact at the prison,” Hans said, “could he help me get her out?”

Mason shook his head. “No. You, of all people, should know that every operative has limitations to what he can do safely. I know you don’t want to hear it, but these agents have different objectives—vital, still—and they can’t sacrifice their missions for yours.”

Hans searched for words to respond, but finding none, fell silent.

A chilly breeze blew across the memorial ground. For a moment, the two men said nothing, merely looking at the scene before them.

Finally Mason spoke. “You know, there were no hills in Berlin before the war. It used to all be flatland. I remember those days. After the war, they piled up rubble, the remnants of ruined trucks, tanks, airplanes, anything and everything—then covered it with dirt, and landscaped it. It’s pleasant, what they’ve done. The Germans value their open spaces. But trees and parks only mask the horror that lies beneath this land. Do you know who cleaned up all that rubble from the war? Women. Well, there were no men, they were all dead or prisoners of war. They called them trummerfrauen―’rubble women.’” Mason paused, letting his words sink in. “I wonder―who will be left to clear the rubble of the next war?”

Hans shook his head. “Why’d you bring me here, Mason?” The older man gestured toward the giant soldier statue with a small turn of his head. “Perspective. This is a dying empire. It’s in its death throes now. But it is still a dangerous creature. The question remains, how will it die?”

As Hans looked out at the stone sarcophagi, the weight of Mason’s words finally hit him. “I’m already at war, Mason.”

“Yes, but you’ve forgotten how long it has been waged, and by many more men than you and Scharf.” Mason watched Hans, seeing his words take, and continued. “If we win this war, there will be no monuments, no medals, no heroes. The only reward will be to see the sun rise again. The world will have a nameless, faceless army to thank for its salvation from madmen.”

“What should I do?” Hans asked.

Mason shuffled his feet, an unusual gesture for a man as assured as him. “There is one option we have not previously discussed. It’s messy, like so much of this business, and there are no guarantees. But it may be your best option now.”

Hans was intrigued.

“There is a man, Kollwitz, one of theirs, in the Stasi—well, he was one of theirs―now he’s rogue. He now works in the black market, selling supplies and equipment to the top buyer. If you can get their surveillance gear, and get close enough to Scharf to get something on him, you may get the leverage you need. Even if he finds a bug, you may put the fear of god into him―let him think that it’s other Stasi officers who have the drop on him. Otherwise, you’ll have to get something good, something you could use to put him on trial,” Mason said.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because it wasn’t viable. None of our other agents could get close enough to Scharf, and we couldn’t risk having you exposed… now, that may only be a matter of time.”

“This Kollwitz… how do we know we can trust him?”

“I’ve worked with him before,” Mason said. “He left the Stasi because of Eigendorf.”

Lutz Eigendorf had been a star player for the Stasi-sponsored Dynamo Berlin soccer club. When he defected to West Germany in 1979, it deeply embarrassed the Stasi. Eigendorf hoped the GDR would allow his wife and young daughter to emigrate and join him in the West. Instead, East German officials arranged for Eigendorf’s wife to divorce him. A Stasi plant, a “Romeo” agent, romanced Eigendorf’s wife and married her in short time. But that was not enough for the Minister of State Security, who was furious and personally humiliated by Eigendorf’s defection. Under the Stasi Minister’s direction, up to 50 Stasi agents spied on Eigendorf in West Germany, watching his every move.

Finally, in 1983, Eigendorf died in a suspicious traffic accident. Like several others in the intelligence community, Hans and Mason knew the Stasi had arranged the accident as an assassination. Stasi agents had taken Eigendorf hostage and forced him to ingest copious amounts of liquor laced with a nerve toxin. Then they placed him in the driver’s seat of his car. Severely impaired but desperate to escape his tormentors, Eigendorf drove away at a high speed. It was night, and waiting down the street, a second Stasi unit sat in another car. As Eigendorf approached, an agent flashed on his high beam headlights. Overwhelmed, Eigendorf lost control and crashed. Eigendorf’s injuries were critical. He died within days.

Mason did not elaborate on Kollwitz’s involvement, but clearly something about the affair had turned him against the Stasi. Hans’ pulse quickened. He sensed this Kollwitz could give him the solution to the Scharf dilemma, but more importantly, for the first time since his failed visit to the prison, he felt hope.

As Hans reached his hand into his jacket pocket for a pen, he suddenly remembered he still had the Operation STOSS microfilm. It was concealed in a pack of cigarettes that he carried with him at all times; the microfilm, as always, wrapped within the individual cigarettes so it could be destroyed as a last resort. His disastrous meeting with Crandall infuriated him too much to hand the microfilm over, but now that Mason had offered his assistance, it seemed appropriate to respond in kind. Mason and British intelligence were trustworthy enough; in time, the microfilm’s contents would land in the hands of the CIA, but probably much higher up than Crandall. This was a perfect way to not only circumvent, but also spite him.

Hans handed the pack of cigarettes to Mason, adding some weight to his cryptic words: “Here. I owe you this, at least—but if you want to prevent a firestorm, I wouldn’t light them.”

Mason took the pack with a small, knowing smile. “You know,” Mason said, almost with a mysterious twinkle in his eye, “it isn’t the flames that kill most people anyway. It’s the smoke.”

Hans blinked, hearing a long-ago phrase conjured up again. Now, for the first time, he fully understood its origin. He also knew that with the small treasure of knowledge it revealed, Mason could be trusted implicitly.

Mason reached out his hand to Hans, and the two shook. Hans felt a slip of paper in his palm. It was Kollwitz’s information. Mason moved to let go, but Hans held on.

“Your source, at the prison,” Hans asked with urgency in his eyes, “did he tell you her condition?”

Mason shook his head. “Focus on the task at hand. You’ll need to, to succeed.”

Hans tightened his grip. “I have to know, Mason, or there’s no point in continuing.”

Mason glanced at Hans’ hand, a look that was enough for Hans to let go. For a moment, Hans felt ashamed, pressuring Mason so, but he had to know. Mason paused, breathed in deeply, and straightened. He seemed to weigh his words for a moment, and then leveled at Hans. “She’s resisting. Get the goods on Scharf. It’s the only way you’ll see her again.”

Silently, Mason walked away. Within seconds he seemed to vanish, blending seamlessly into the sparse gathering of visitors strolling through the grounds.

19

Anna awoke in a windowless cell. The room seemed identical to her original cell, though she could not discern if this was the same cell or another. Feeling extremely drowsy and discombobulated, it took several moments to collect herself. After assessing her current surroundings, she tried to recall what had happened. Her first recollection was of an oppressive darkness, but she did not know where it was. She could not clearly remember the padded cell. There were pieces of memory after the darkness, flashing bits of being kept in a bed at the infirmary again, but they evaporated like the dewy details of a dream when one awakens. There was something that was gnawing at the back of her mind, some lurking danger that she could not quite grasp. What was it? Anna strained to remember recent events, but there seemed to be so many gaping holes she could not even account for how long it had been since she was last in this cell. If the feeling was lodged in her brain, she told herself, the conscious thought, the crucial piece of information had to be too. She struggled to give the danger a corporeal form, and suddenly the thought became clear: Hans!

For several minutes now, the peephole cover in the door had been removed time and again. It was as if someone with an obsessive-compulsive tic was manipulating the cover. Anna ignored it, figuring the guards were trying to play mind games with her, and focused on the problem at hand. Yet the grating of the metal cover being slid across the peephole continued at a rate of several times a minute. Finally, the heavy metal door opened. Anna looked up to see a guard come in alone. For a moment, he stared at her, then shifted his eyes away.

The attack came. He sprang at her with a ferocity and speed that caught Anna unprepared. In her weakened condition, she could not move fast enough to clear the bed. Yet the weight of the heaving, foul-breathing monster on top of her awakened her senses, and Anna fought back. She scratched at his eyes and face as he groped at the buttons on the front of his trousers. Her resistance caused him to grab her wrists to restrain her. He pushed down with the weight of his body, trying to pin her in place. Anna resisted, wriggling her legs and body as much as she could, fighting to keep maneuverability and distance from him. The guard, now enraged, tried to rip at her clothes, but she bent her knee and clawed her foot up his side, trying to gain leverage until she reached his stomach. With all her strength, Anna kicked hard into the guard’s solar plexus, throwing him off of her. Completely surprised, the guard flew back and hit the wall with a sickening loud thud of bone and flesh against concrete. Shocked, but not ready to retreat, the guard snarled in rage. He leaned forward to lunge at her again, but just as he was about to pounce, a booming voice sounded at the door.

“Halt!”

Scharf stood with two other guards, their coshes in hand, ready to fight.

“You are relieved from duty,” Scharf spat at the guard.

A horrifyingly bizarre series of emotions flashed across the guard’s face. It was so brief that one could have missed it in a blink, but Anna, her senses awakened by the struggle, saw them all register on the guard’s face. They were shock, then shame, and then, satisfyingly to Anna—fear. The two other guards took custody of the man, handling him roughly. As they pushed him out the door, Anna saw Scharf whisper to the guards some decree of punishment. She did not hear what was said, but the guard turned ashen-white. As they dragged him down the corridor, his anguished cries of futile resistance echoed back to her cell. With them came the sound of hard blows, driving the doomed guard into eventual submission.

Anna finally caught her breath after the flurry of action. Scharf still stood at the door, looking at her. His eyes seemed to be full of pity, and strangely, remorse. Anna could not understand how he could register these emotions while looking at his captive. Indeed, part of her suspected the whole episode was a ruse to play with her emotions. Her distrust had only grown with time, until she could no longer know the truth about her captors. Anna heard Scharf sigh, and saw his eyes change. It was a subtle but dangerous shift, like the glint in a snake’s eyes before it strikes.

“I am tired of putting up with you,” he said. “You’ve given me too much trouble.”

Scharf lashed out, slapping her hard. Anna’s head jolted to the side with the blow. Her long blonde hair flew out like the strands of a twirling mop head. Blood burst from Anna’s lip. Unleashed, Scharf landed blow after blow. He drove Anna into the corner. She raised her arms in a futile attempt to shield herself from his rage. This time, no one came to her aid.

Hans went directly to the nearest public phone after leaving Treptower Park. Following the instructions Mason had given him in his note, Hans dialed the number and asked for a Herr Riedel. The voice on the other end of the line explained that there was no one by that name at this number. Hans apologized and hung up. Just as Hans turned his back to leave, the pay phone began to ring. Hans answered and was greeted this time by a taciturn male voice. The caller instructed him to go to Blankenburg, a small neighborhood at the northeast corner of Berlin. Hans was to wait at the corner of Banhofstrasse and Krugstege in one hour. From there, he would receive further information.

Hans quickly headed to his apartment in the district of Mitte, where he changed out of his uniform into plain civilian clothes. He then drove to the appointed spot in Blankenburg, arriving just three minutes before the appointed time. He parked his car in a lot half a block away and walked to the intersection at Bahnhofstrasse and Krugstege. The area was fairly quiet; it was nearly five o’clock in the evening, the elementary school across the street was empty, and the neighborhood sat awash from a recent dousing of early autumn rain. There was a small grocery store nearby, but the traffic coming and going was sparse. Hans shivered in the dampness as he waited for ten minutes, then twenty, until nearly thirty minutes had passed. He kept a constant eye out for anything suspicious, but nothing struck him as odd or out of place. Hans began to suspect he was being watched and evaluated, but he did not sense danger.

Finally, after half an hour of waiting, the pay phone in the booth across the street began to ring. Hans jogged across the street and picked up the phone.

The same taciturn male voice spoke. “There is a shed nearby, do you see it?”

Hans looked out from the booth. To the north was a small, quarter-acre vacant lot with high grass. The edge of the lot was lined with thick deciduous trees and bushes, and in the corner, half-covered by the drooping limbs of a tree, was a small shed.

“Yes, I see it,” Hans said.

“Behind the shed, in some tall bushes, you will find a bicycle. Take it and ride north. Turn right on Alt-Blankenburg, then continue on Karower Damm. Ride until you reach Karow, then turn left at the Bahnofstrasse there. Keep riding until you reach Bucher Strasse, turn right, and keep heading past the Berliner Ring. You’ll turn right on the first dirt road that goes into a treed area. When you reach the second clearing, wait there. You’ll have to hurry, if you want to reach it before dark.” The caller hung up.

Hans went behind the shed and found the bicycle hidden in tall wet grass. As he mounted it, he was grateful that he had changed into a comfortable pair of corduroy slacks and a jacket. He did not know the area well, but knew that he would have to travel almost 15 miles. Kollwitz would most likely be watching him all along the way to ensure he was not followed, and that Hans had truly come alone.

Hans rode for nearly two hours, traveling out of Karow and away from any buildings. He rode across large empty fields and through an underpass below the autobahn ring that encircled Berlin. The road led through manicured woods—tall pines lined row upon row with precision, indicating the area had been intentionally forested a generation ago. He rode on until he finally came to a dirt road. Hans turned onto the road and descended into an area of untended virgin woods. He followed along the tree-lined road past the first clearing where the trees made way for thick brush. The day remained overcast and cool, yet Hans had still worked up a sweat. His brow was beaded with perspiration and his shirt felt clammy underneath his jacket. Now the gray daylight was beginning to fade, and though there were no shadows in the woods, darkness began to settle upon them. Hans stopped at the second clearing, a small meadow with tall grass. There was a bend in the road not far ahead, where the grass obstructed the view beyond into more woods. Hans dismounted the bike and stretched, looking around at the area. It was a truly secluded spot, a good place to meet.

For the last half-hour of his ride, Hans had not seen a single soul. Kollwitz had likely tailed him most of the way, but Hans accepted this. Mason would not have recommended Kollwitz if he could not trust him. Nevertheless, Hans had taken one precaution: he had hidden his Makarov sidearm in the inner chest pocket of his jacket. It felt heavy and had pressed uncomfortably against his chest during his bike ride, but Hans was glad to have it with him. Should Kollwitz somehow be compromised, or both of them discovered, the gun was Hans’ only protection.

Hans waited again, this time ten minutes, before he heard the low hum of a car engine slowly approaching. From around the bend, a new black Wartburg 353 approached, its headlights off despite the growing dusk. It moved slowly and nearly silent, like a stealthy predator on the hunt. The car stopped in front of Hans and Kollwitz stepped out. He was fortyish, gray hair and thin, a man in very good shape for being middle-aged. He carried himself with a constant wariness, a tension in his limbs so he could strike into action at any moment. Kollwitz stood shielded behind the car door.

“Stay there,” Kollwitz ordered cautiously. He stared at Hans, scrutinizing his features. “Slowly, pull up your jacket.”

Hans complied, careful not to let his Makarov show a bulge against the chest of his jacket.

Kollwitz gestured with his finger in a circular motion. “Turn around.”

Hans turned, showing Kollwitz that he had hidden nothing in his waistband or on his back. Coming full circle, Hans faced Kollwitz again.

“Lift up your pant legs, one after the other,” Kollwitz ordered. Hans coolly complied, showing he had no weapon hidden by his ankles.

As Hans straightened, he asked, “Should I put my left leg in, or take my right leg out?”

Kollwitz furrowed his brow in an expression that seemed as much a scowl as confusion. Clearly he was not humored. “I am armed,” Kollwitz coldly stared at Hans. “If you make any sudden movement, I’ll blow your head off.”

“That wouldn’t be good for repeat business,” Hans replied.

Suddenly, a change came across Kollwitz’s face. A fire flickered in his eyes and lines formed near his mouth that showed a sense of mirth. Kollwitz left the protection of the car door and approached Hans.

“Our mutual friend told me you would contact me,” Kollwitz began. “Although he did not specify how I might be of assistance to you.”

Hans nodded. He thought for a moment about offering his hand, then demurred, though he made an effort to put Kollwitz at ease as much as possible. Hans understood Kollwitz was more than a suspicious man—he was paranoid, and with reason. The Stasi was a massive, insidious force throughout the country. The average Stasi officer-to-GDR citizen ratio was more than 4 times the average secret police force of most other Warsaw Pact nations, including the Soviet Union. That wasn’t even counting the hundreds of thousands of “unofficial collaborators,” GDR citizens who had been enlisted by the Stasi to spy on their neighbors, their coworkers, their wives and husbands. Having once been a member of that awesome machinery, Kollwitz knew how it could crush him, an individual who now worked against the Stasi. Kollwitz’s elaborate procedures were excessively cautious, but Hans did not question them.

“I need to observe and record an individual,” Hans said plainly.

“Who is the target?”

“One of your former colleagues.”

For the first time, Kollwitz broke into a full smile, though Hans could not tell if this was gleeful pleasure, a chance to get back at his former employers, or a mocking gesture directed at him.

“Let’s see what I have for you,” Kollwitz said as he gestured toward the back of his car. Hans followed him to the trunk. As Kollwitz put his key in the lock, he looked around one last time. It was clearly a paranoid tic, for Hans was sure Kollwitz had arrived well in advance and had scoped out the area before he had driven up to meet. Kollwitz’s glance, however, had also distracted Hans from a small movement of his hand underneath the lip of the trunk, near the license plate. Here he had clicked a dead switch, a safety on a booby-trap near the latch of the trunk. If an individual opened the trunk without moving the switch, an explosive would detonate in his face. It was Kollwitz’s insurance against anyone—Stasi personnel, thieves, or even other black market dealers—who might want to interfere with him or his inventory. Kollwitz opened the trunk with the flourish of a man who is proudly showing off a treasure chest. It was stocked full of equipment, neatly packed in cases or boxes, and organized with wooden dividers separating the items by varying size.

“Visual or audio surveillance?” Kollwitz asked.

“Both. Audio is the priority.”

Kollwitz dug into the trunk, sifting through the equipment. In the growing dark, it was becoming harder to see. Kollwitz pulled a pen-sized flashlight out of his pocket and held it out as he searched through the trunk. Its beam was a strange reddish hue, not very bright, but more than adequate to illuminate the trunk. “Here.” He held up a silver pocket-sized rectangular device. Lifting off the lid, Kollwitz revealed an audio recorder. “Nagra SN recorder. It’s reel-to-reel, but much higher quality than a cassette tape. You’ll also need this.” Kollwitz held up a small wired microphone, the black bulbous receiver end no larger than his little finger. “The Firm’s technical service designed it—has a built-in preamplifier for excellent sensitivity.” Kollwitz still used the common nickname Stasi officers gave their intelligence service, ‘The Firm,’ much like the CIA’s colloquialism ‘The Company.’ “This will pick up a whispered conversation from the opposite end of a conference room.”

He reached into the trunk and pulled out a small zippered leather case, about the size of a pick set. “You’ll want to use this to set the bug. The Russians devised it. You’ll find it’s extraordinarily useful.” Kollwitz unzipped the case to reveal a hand-powered drill set, complete with a dozen bits in progressively smaller sizes. “You drill from one side of the wall, going smaller each time, until you reach the other side with a hole no larger than a needle prick. If done properly, the subject won’t detect it at all. But watch where you drill.”

“And that will be sufficient for the microphone to work through?” Hans asked.

“Absolutely. Just don’t drill so large they see daylight, or let sawdust fall out. Then they’d find your plant either way.” Kollwitz bent down to reach into the trunk, then stopped and turned back. “Forget using any of this on his primary residence. Any member of The Firm will find a bug right away, and he wouldn’t risk saying anything that could be used against him in his own home. Unless you’re trying to intimidate him, it would be a waste. If you want to record anything useful, you’re going to have to tail him to a more obscure location.” Hans nodded in agreement.

“So,” Kollwitz said as he pulled out a hard foot-long carrying case, “you’ll need mobile audio surveillance tools. This will be perfect.” Kollwitz opened the case and pulled out a silver device with an elongated shaft on one end and pistol grip on the other. “Highly directional rifle microphone. With minimum interference it is effective up to 500 feet. You can also tune the frequency with this dial and a pair of monitoring headphones. It will also connect to the Nagra recorder through this connector here,” Kollwitz pointed to a segment just behind the pistol grip.

“Good,” Hans said. “I’ll need two of the Nagra recorders then. One for each microphone.”

“Fine. Now, about visuals… I take it discretion will be a priority?”

“Of course.”

“You’re as likely to be watched as your subject, when you’re taking on The Firm,” Kollwitz said. “I recommend small and mobile, until you know exactly what you’re dealing with. Minox is perfect for that.” Kollwitz held up a rectangular-shaped camera, half an inch wide and about the length of a pen. It had a flat surface with two dials for shutter speed and focus. The camera was a staple of intelligence work, and Hans had been trained to use one, though he had never worked with it in the field.

“This Minox has a few accessories,” Kollwitz explained. He opened a new case, this one about ten inches square. Kollwitz pointed to each of the accessories as he named them. “Tripod legs, camera bracket, assembled individually, clamp for attaching binoculars—that will enable you to take long-range photos while still observing through the other lens—and finally, my own concoction—on the opposite end of the spectrum.” Kollwitz beamed with pride. “This,” he said, holding up another clamp, “will enable you to secure a fiberscope to the lens, so you can take pictures through a hole less than point-three centimeters in diameter.”

“Not as small as the microphone hole,” Hans noted.

“No, but you won’t find a better means at the moment. I’ve used this several times myself, it’s quite handy.” Kollwitz grinned.

“Fine,” Hans said.

“I can provide you all of these items, along with the required accessories,” Kollwitz said, “but it won’t be cheap. This is all top of the line.”

“Money won’t be an issue,” Hans replied. “But there is something else I’ll need—an auto.”

Kollwitz raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. “Not the easiest thing to obtain, but it’s possible.”

“I would imagine you have connections,” Hans gestured to the Wartburg.

Kollwitz nodded grudgingly. Clearly he had pulled some strings to get his own vehicle, and would regrettably have to make a special deal again to get Hans what he needed. Automobiles were difficult to come by in the GDR—most citizens waited a decade before they received delivery of a car they had ordered.

“I need the license plate to be clean,” Hans continued, “nothing that would arouse suspicion when checked.”

“Any particular model?”

“A Trabi will do,” Hans said, knowing that asking for anything fancier would put undue stress on Kollwitz. “When can you have it ready?”

“A week,” Kollwitz said, stress showing on his face, “but the auto must be paid for up front.”

“I can have the money for you tomorrow.”

“That will do,” Kollwitz said, relaxing a bit.

The two agreed upon a price for the equipment and arranged how they would meet again. Kollwitz again insisted on his wild goose chase instructions, though he promised this time Hans would neither have to travel so far or wait so long.

The next evening, Hans paid for the equipment with the operational and emergency cash funds he kept hidden. With the added cost of the car, Hans had used three quarters of the funds, but the urgency of this mission demanded the money. Hans was not going to take any chances of being spotted by Scharf. It only pained Hans that this integral part of the operation would have to wait a week—another week that Anna would have to suffer in captivity. Hans tried to drive the thought from his consciousness, focusing on what he could immediately control, but it still gnawed at the back of his mind. Once Kollwitz delivered the surveillance equipment, Hans went to work, tailing Scharf on foot.

Over the following week, Hans tracked Scharf’s movements. Hans varied his wardrobe and at times even wore a wig and glasses to disguise his appearance. He kept the rifle microphone and tape recorder handy as he followed Scharf, but did not pick up anything useful. The first few days were mundane; Scharf’s habits were regular and insignificant. Hans used an abundance of caution in his pursuit, but found Scharf was not as paranoid as he might have reckoned. By midweek, Hans had relaxed and felt less tension in his surveillance, though he still maintained the same precautions to avoid detection.

Hans followed Scharf home from Stasi headquarters on Normanenstrasse and anywhere else he went. Scharf had moved to a new apartment since the assassination attempt in the spring; now he lived in a high-rise plattenbau apartment in the Mitte district. It was a towering structure, over ten stories tall, and neighboring several other high-rise apartment buildings. Scharf’s other departures were to usual places, including the grocery store, a Dynamo soccer match, and the local pub. Scharf drank alone at the bar and seemed to avoid anyone, especially women―though this was to be expected after his brush-in with Anna during the spring. None of these locations revealed anything to Hans, and soon he found it difficult to keep up with his watch. His duties as Special Liaison to the State Council often interfered with his surveillance, and when Hans could pull away, it was often late in the evening, when Scharf had already left work and was not at home. Hans had no way of knowing where Scharf was at these moments, so he kept watch from the attic of the apartment building across the street, waiting for Scharf to return. With the constant vigil, Hans only got two to three hours of sleep a night, and it began to wear on him. Yet Hans persisted, keeping all-night vigils at the attic for a solid week. He dozed at moments, but generally kept an eye out to see if Scharf made any nocturnal movements.

After a week and a half, Hans’ hope of catching Scharf was waning. Scharf had not kept any unusual hours, appointments, or calls. Though the rifle microphone Kollwitz had supplied was an excellent device, and captured noises from inside Scharf’s apartment from across the street, they were usually just the sounds of the television or kitchen devices. The microphone could pick up noises through a closed window, but the concrete walls were impenetrable. As unlikely as it seemed at first, Hans wondered if Scharf was plotting within the Stasi headquarters compound at Normanenstrasse. Hans contacted Kollwitz once again and received assistance in creating a forged Stasi officer’s identity so he could enter the compound in disguise. It was an unnecessary risk, Kollwitz warned, since Hans was as likely to get himself caught as find anything useful on Scharf. Yet Hans pressed forward, paying all but 100 Deutschmarks of his emergency funds to get the forged Stasi identification. He created a new disguise with a different wig and a civilian suit and went to the Normanenstrasse complex the next day.

Hans easily blended in with most of the workers at the Stasi headquarters, since just as many were plainclothes officers as those who wore the army-like uniform with maroon collar tabs. Closed-circuit cameras were everywhere, but Hans kept his cool and made himself as unobtrusive as possible. He was even able to bring the Nagra recorder and the small wired microphone along by explaining to a security officer that he was returning it to the quartermaster’s inventory after an operation. Hans soon found there was no feasible way of keeping constant surveillance on Scharf’s office; though he passed it in the hall, there was no place to set up a constant watch. He decided to follow his target to the cafeteria at lunchtime, where he observed Scharf sitting and speaking with his apparent aide, Brüske. It was the first time Hans had seen Brüske, and he marked his features closely, committing them to memory. The visit revealed no further information. After weighing the risks of returning the next day, Hans decided against a second visit.

Inevitably, the exhaustion of his spying and cover duties forced Hans to claim illness to the Minister of Defense’s office. Irritated by what he felt was a sagging performance of late, the Minister told Hans to take a week-long vacation and come back healthy and invigorated, or not come back at all. Hans did use the time to rest, sleeping through much of the day when Scharf was at work, then followed him in the evenings. It would take two weeks of surveillance before Hans obtained any useful information.

20

Scharf left the Normanenstrasse complex early on a weekday in the last week of September. By four o’clock, he was at home in his apartment. Hans took his usual watch in the attic across the street, observing Scharf’s apartment windows with his microphone in hand. When the phone rang, Scharf answered and spoke with the slightest affectation of calm in his voice. Hans recognized it, even through the slightly garbled pickup of the microphone from fifty feet away. Scharf was trying to hide his tension from the man on the other end of the line. The phone call was brief, but to the point.

“Are we on for tomorrow evening?” the voice on the line said.

“Yes, of course,” Scharf replied.

“Is everything prepared?”

“Absolutely. Every detail.” With that, the line went dead.

Hans adjusted the microphone for better pickup and barely had time to hit record on the Nagra before the conversation ended. The voice on the other end of the line was particularly hard to distinguish, and though Hans could hear the words, the abundant static from the distance and the phone line would make it difficult to analyze. Yet Hans had little time to worry about the recording as Scharf immediately grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Hans raced out of the attic and down to the street five stories below. He spotted Scharf climbing into his car and ran to the pale-yellow Trabant Kollwitz had provided, which he had parked around the corner.

Within moments, Hans was driving six car lengths behind Scharf, weaving through a maze of streets that led toward the edge of the city. The constant traffic and number of similar cars made it easy for Hans’ Trabi to blend in as he tailed Scharf. As they edged toward the countryside, Hans fell further back, trying to keep his distance and stay as unnoticeable as possible. He let Scharf lead so far that his car was barely within sight. It was a difficult and dangerous game, for if Scharf spotted Hans, there would be no hope of obtaining anything useful. Hans knew that Scharf had learned to be especially cautious after the failed attempt on his life that spring. Now that Scharf was finally doing something out of his ordinary schedule, he would be particularly wary of being followed. Yet if Hans let Scharf out of his sight, he might lose his trail for good.

Scharf led him through the main thoroughfares toward the southeast end of the city, past Köpenick and into the countryside out beyond Müggelsee lake. The road began to curve into a thickly forested area, more so than where Hans had met Kollwitz to the north. It was here, where the traffic thinned out significantly and the road weaved through forest that Hans started to feel a real sense of alarm. Scharf would most certainly be able to see Hans’ car behind him in his rearview mirror, and without the benefit of traffic, there was no place for Hans to hide. Finally, Scharf’s car rounded a bend and passed out of sight. Hans let it go, following an instinctive impulse that warned if he gunned his car to keep up, he would surely expose himself. But when Hans rounded the bend, he found the road was completely empty. Scharf’s car had disappeared. Hans felt his heartbeat pound in his ears. For the first time he felt fear; but he still drove on, keeping a vigil eye out.

Halfway down the forested road, Hans spotted a wooden gate, hidden from initial view by the thick bushes on either side. Beyond it was a dirt road. Hans continued driving until he found a safe spot to pull over some 200 meters away, around another bend. He parked the car under the shade of a thick pine tree, where it was nearly shrouded in darkness. Hans walked back toward the private dirt road. Halfway there, Hans left the main road and forged through the thick brush. He crouched, slowly making his way as he made sure to not disturb the branches. The brush and forest led slightly uphill, and when Hans reached the top, he could see twenty meters down to the dirt road, just under an embankment. Hans followed the road along the top of the embankment, still huddled in the bushes, until he saw it bend sharply to the right. From there, the road left the thickly wooded pines and brush and opened into a more sparsely wooded area with aspens and oak trees. At the end of the road, some forty meters out, Hans spotted Scharf’s car. It was parked in front of a dacha, a small wood-paneled vacation house. There were trees in front of and to the right of the dacha, but the left and rear sides opened up into a small clearing.

After surveying the house and the surroundings, Hans determined the trees and brush to the right hand side were a much better place to conduct surveillance. Hans watched the house carefully for any movement, then ran down the embankment and crossed the road, crouching in the brush on the other side. He approached the dacha, crawling the last forty meters through the brush with utmost skill and silence. If he disturbed a bird or other animal, or even loudly cracked a twig, he feared it would be more than enough to alarm Scharf. As Hans drew closer to the house, he sensed an excitement that this was exactly the kind of location where Scharf could be vulnerable. It was so isolated and obscure that no one other than Scharf and his closest confidants could know of it. Hans had done a thorough background check on Scharf, and knew of no record of him owning a vacation dacha. Perhaps the Stasi Minister or another superior had loaned this place to Scharf, or given it as a secret reward.

Hans knelt in the thick brush and watched the house from thirty meters away. He was well camouflaged in his matte forest green field coat. It was now the darkening of evening, but the bushes were still wet from that morning’s rain. Hans shivered as he watched and waited for almost an hour. As best as he could tell, Scharf was making a careful and thorough examination of the house. Then, just as dusk had finally settled on the place, Scharf turned out the lights, walked out, locked the door, and drove off. Hans waited for a full five minutes—longer than was probably necessary—before he ventured from his hiding spot toward the house. While he had watched from the bushes, Hans had been able to examine the exterior very closely. He saw no high-security measures such as cameras, and Scharf had left too quickly to have set an alarm from inside. Hans carefully wiped the mud off of his feet and double-checked that he had left no footprints anywhere near the dacha. After closely examining the door, Hans picked the lock and entered.

The dacha was luxurious by East German vacation standards, though it was not a large house. There was the main living room, with a sofa and two easy chairs, the master bedroom with a double bed, a small guest bedroom with a single twin bed, a small bathroom, and a functional though unglamorous kitchen. The living room was clearly the heart of the dacha; here the furnishings were most colorful and comfortable, and the tan wood-paneled walls were decorated with pastoral and seaside paintings by Caspar David Friedrich. Two windows and a double skylight let the living room open up to the surrounding forest. During the daytime, the room would most likely be filled with warm sunlight; here at dusk, the skylight only cast dim illumination into the dark shadows of the room. Hans pulled out the penlight Kollwitz had given him and moved carefully around the room. After almost tripping over a footstool, he made sure to scan the light up and down in front of him before moving further. When he reached a table next to the sofa with a lamp, Hans almost clicked on the light, then thought better of it. He did direct the penlight up along the base of the lamp toward the shade, looking for a location where he could plant a microphone. Hans checked behind the paintings, around the furnishings, and scoured the room. Knowing the deviousness of Scharf’s mind, he considered the possibility that Scharf had been checking his own hidden devices as well as looking for those planted against him. Though he ultimately dismissed the notion, Hans continued checking so as to make sure his own actions were not being monitored now.

Seeing the house was clean of any surveillance devices, Hans knew this was not one of the Stasi’s safe houses, where double agents, defectors, and high-profile persons of interest were brought for debriefing. However, knowing how carefully Scharf had examined the dacha, Hans could only assume Scharf would search it again, tomorrow, prior to the meeting he was sure would take place here. Hans rehearsed Scharf’s movements throughout the dacha in his mind. Scharf had clearly paid the most attention in the living room; his search through the rest of the house was far more cursory—at least from what he had seen through the windows from outside in the bushes.

As Hans turned to search the rest of the dacha, a number of possibilities for surveillance ran through his mind. He could sit out in the bushes and try to use the rifle microphone to pick up any conversation through the windows—a good option if Hans wanted to avoid detection, but less reliable in terms of catching as much information from so far away, especially if the subjects moved about. His other options would be to either hide within the house and record a conversation himself, or place a microphone and Nagra recorder to capture the conversation. The bedrooms were sparsely decorated and offered no real options for hiding himself or a device. The bathroom was similarly sparse and dismal. Hans was walking toward the kitchen, back through the living room, when he stopped short. He examined the wood-paneled walls, rough-hewn with knotholes still visible in the rustic wood paneling. Hans noted where the knotholes were located, then examined the kitchen. Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, he looked over both rooms, then estimated where one of the darker and larger knotholes lay—on the opposite side of the wall from the kitchen sink. Hans opened the cupboard below the sink and looked in with his penlight. The bending pipe of the sink drain took up much of the vertical space, but the cupboard was otherwise empty. It was, in fact, just large enough for Hans to crawl into, albeit with his legs somewhat awkwardly bent against one wall.

He returned to the living room and examined the knothole in close detail. It was large, black, and porous; a branch over an inch in diameter had once intersected the tree from which this board was made. It was a perfect place for Hans to drill a small hole, as it would be nearly undetectable in the black pores of the knothole. He took out the drill set Kollwitz had supplied and started to make a hole with the smallest drill bit in the darkest part of the knothole. It was excruciatingly slow work—Hans did not want to break the bit, and in order to make his hole accurate, he wanted to drill completely through to the other side. Fortunately, the bit was so small there were no shavings left on the floor for Hans to clean up. When he finally felt the bit push through, Hans left the drill bit in place and went back to the kitchen. From under the sink, he located the spot where the bit had come through and gently pushed it back out. Then he started to drill with a larger bit, this time only a third of the distance through the wall. He pulled out a smaller bit and drilled another hole, smaller yet, and then a third and fourth bit until he was only half an inch from the other side. Hans worked in the dark, holding the penlight in his mouth to see. It took nearly an hour, but when he was finished, Hans admired his work. The hole was neat and progressively grew smaller until it was little more than a pinhole on the living room side. Hans brushed the sawdust off the floor of the cupboard, and seeing a gap less than an eighth of an inch between the wall and the cupboard floor, swept the sawdust into it.

Satisfied there was no evidence of his work, Hans then set about placing the wired microphone and Nagra recorder. He located a spot on the inside roof of the cupboard where he could tape the Nagra in place. The wire from the microphone seemed to be a visible problem until Hans leaned back. From the outside of the cupboard, looking straight in, the sink plumbing blocked any view of the wire. It was a serendipitous coincidence, and enough for Hans. Hans decided to return tomorrow afternoon to place the recorder, for even though the device was voice-activated, he did not want to waste the batteries now. If Scharf was meeting someone here in the evening, Hans figured he could return by early afternoon to plant the microphone and recorder. Hans returned to the living room, where he collected the small drill bit off the floor, checked for sawdust, and examined the knothole very carefully. He could not find his drill hole in all of the black pores. Satisfied, he decided to leave for the night. Hans made sure he left no trace of his presence, and then, holding the door with the sleeve of his coat, locked up and pulled the door shut behind him.

Hans arrived at the dacha about 1:30 in the afternoon the next day. This time he parked the yellow Trabi a mile away, in a gravel parking lot near a hiking trail. He made his way along the road toward the dacha and then crept the last quarter of a mile through the forest. When Hans arrived at the same spot where he had watched Scharf the night before, he looked around. It was a sunny afternoon, far different than the weather the night before, and splotches of sun shone through the trees to the ground cover below. There was a warm breeze that made the tree branches and bushes sway with a hustling rush, not unlike waves on the sea. The movement of the branches would make Hans’ cover more difficult, as well as his ability to record clean sound with the rifle microphone, but after some consideration, he determined it would still be the most suitable spot for him to spy on the meeting. Here was the best view of the dacha, its front door, living room window, and the road. Using the Minox camera and binoculars, Hans planned to photograph the meeting while collecting sound from both the rifle microphone outside and the Nagra and wired microphone in the kitchen. Hans waited until 2 o’clock, watching the dacha to make sure it was unoccupied, before he approached and once again picked his way inside. He placed the recorder and microphone under the sink and set it to voice-activated record, then made one last quick survey of the house before leaving.

By 4 o’clock, the wind began to subside. Hans had expected the breeze might die off as the warm sunlight began to wane. He ate a quick meal of marmalade sandwiches and sat among the bushes, waiting and listening. At first, he felt an unusual nervousness, one that came with the anticipation of getting the leverage against Scharf that he needed. Yet Hans also felt an urgency like never before. He knew it was because of Anna. He had tried to keep her from his mind during the past few days, fearing she would only be a distraction, but he could not escape the thought of her in captivity. Hans was driven by a real fear—the horror of losing Anna, the only person with whom he now had a genuine and completely honest relationship. Over time, he let his thoughts wander, and he gradually cleared his mind so that all he could sense was the forest around him. It was strangely relaxing, for as Hans listened the the birds singing and the soothing whoosh of the dying breeze through the leaves, he felt at one with nature. The splotches of sun on his body warmed him as he lay in the bushes, and gradually Hans felt released from the confines of his delicately manufactured life. For the first time in a very long time, Hans felt something spiritual stir within him.

It was rare for Hans to put his trust in faith and the intangible—he did not want it to become a pitfall where he might lose his ability to react to real danger by blindly trusting everything would always work out for the best. Hans not had given up on his core beliefs of patriotism and morality, but the dangers of his life as a spy and its precarious and chance experiences had influenced him greatly. In his early years, Hans’ mother had often taken him to church. Within the past ten years, however, he had gradually stopped praying. It had nothing to do with the dogma of his cover. Hans never bought into the propaganda he heard as a soldier in the GDR. He disliked the affirmed atheism of the Communists and the Marxist claim that “religion was the opiate of the masses.” Nevertheless, his experiences as a spy, especially Friedrich Stoller’s death, had affected his faith. God seemed to be less understandable than his mother’s church had taught. Though Hans did not forswear his faith entirely, he came to one conclusion—God had left man’s affairs in the hands of man. This had become his guiding philosophy toward spiritual matters, and as the temporal matters of spy work so dominated his life, Hans had become separated from his faith. Yet now, as he lay hidden in the forest, his thoughts drifted back to Anna with a flicker of spirituality. He found himself willing, in some unpracticed and vaporous form of telepathy, to bolster Anna in her ordeal. It was a spiritual exercise that was not quite a prayer, nor a mystical act. To his rational mind, it seemed somewhat self-delusional, and yet he needed to believe she would survive intact. His work was so plodding and laborious that he felt wholly incapable of rendering the immediate aid Anna needed. This willingness of his soul, to somehow lend her an intangible strength, was the best Hans could do.

A sound brought Hans back from his reverie. It came from behind him, in the distance, but it sent an alarm through the forest. Several birds immediately took flight and a squirrel scurried away into the tall branches of a tree. Hans turned and heard the sound again. It was the bark of a large dog—angry, insistent—and it was drawing closer. For a moment he froze, wondering if he should stay put or run. He hoped the dog would not notice him and pass by, but as he heard the barking again, he realized the dog was coming straight for him. Hans felt little physical danger from the dog itself. He had his Makarov pistol in his coat, and if attacked, could easily eliminate the threat. What distressed him was the possibility of blowing his cover. If the dog was with humans, they were likely Scharf’s comrades, and his entire operation could be blown. Hans quickly looked for shelter as the dog continued to bark, making a beeline for his spot in the brush. There was only one place where he could escape—the lion’s den, the dacha itself. Hans bolted for the house, frantically picked the lock and wiped his feet before diving inside. He had barely shut and locked the door before he saw a large German Shepherd crest over the top of the bushes and pounce on the spot where he had been. The dog sniffed around the area, clearly trying to catch Hans’ scent. As Hans watched through the base of the window, he saw a man emerge from the forest beyond. It was Brüske. He joined the dog at the spot where Hans had lain, watching the German Shepherd’s movements and examining the area.

By now Hans’ heart was pounding rapidly. He pushed away from the window slowly and tried to steady himself by breathing long, slow, and quiet breaths. Meanwhile, he turned toward the only place he could think of to safely hide—the cupboard under the kitchen sink. Hans climbed in and was immediately uncomfortable. He folded his long frame into the tight space with his shoulders touching one wall of the cupboard, his knees bent toward the ceiling, and his feet awkwardly folded along the other wall. In the middle, almost pressing down on his bent abdomen, were the sink pipes. It was sufficient enough for Hans to close the cupboard doors and be unseen, but Hans wondered how long he could keep himself here. Hans knew Brüske was here to sweep the area prior to the meeting. He could only hope the dog would not track his scent well enough to find him here.

Hans waited for nearly half an hour, wondering if he would be found. He heard the dog’s occasional barking for the first fifteen minutes, but then only the occasional creaking of the house and rush of wind against the windows. By the time 45 minutes had passed, Hans’ fear subsided. His legs, however, began to ache. Knowing there was little he could do to move them, Hans tried to ignore the growing stiffness in his joints and decided to drill another hole into the wall, this time to use the fiberscope and to take pictures with the Minox camera. A single pinhole view into the living room would be significantly less desirable than Hans’ earlier vantage point outside the dacha, but he knew, folded like a pretzel under the kitchen sink, that this was now his only option for taking pictures. Hans reached into his pockets for the fiberscope. To his horror, he felt only the bare fabric of his coat pocket. The fiberscope was gone. Hans’ mind raced, trying to determine if he had lost it in his rush to the dacha or some other, earlier time. After thoroughly scanning his memory, Hans realized he could not be sure where he had lost it. For a brief moment he considered the possibility that Brüske and the dog had located the fiberscope, and as a result they would call off the meeting or ultimately find him, but Hans told himself he was obsessing, and let it go. He would have to wait out the evening, and possibly even most of the night in the cupboard. His course was now determined, and there was little changing it.

Hans jolted awake with a start. The sound of footfalls and muffled conversation from the adjoining room had wakened him from his light sleep. Hans held up his watch and carefully cupped his hand over the face as he pressed the illumination button. It was four minutes to nine-thirty. Hans nearly cursed himself for sleeping, yet as he came back to consciousness, the dull pain in his pretzeled limbs shot back with new sharpness. Wincing silently, he now was grateful that sleep had given him a moment’s respite from his confinement. Quickly, Hans plugged an earpiece into the Nagra recorder and listened as the conversation in the other room became intelligible.

“I assure you, we can talk,” Scharf said.

“You’re sure. Here?” the other voice, one that Hans seemed to recognize but could not quite place, asked.

“Here more than anywhere else. I’ve seen to it.”

“I need to speak frankly, so we’re clear. You understand, we have to, before moving forward. I trust you. I just don’t want that trust to be misplaced.”

Scharf could be heard to make a sound of agreement, a murmur like “mmm,” as the man spoke. “Yes, comrade, candor is necessary,” Scharf said, “and I understand your concerns. That is why I have my man ensuring the privacy of our discussion. I give you my word, here, in my dacha, is the one place where we may speak freely in the GDR tonight.”

The man hesitated for a moment, then a briefly cleared his throat. “Fine.” There was a shuffling of footsteps, and the unknown man moved to the other side of the room, away from the microphone. “I’m convinced of the success of STOSS… I know the plans and my men, and I have full confidence in them… what I’m not convinced of is the aftermath. When we’re successful, what then?”

Scharf answered without skipping a beat: “Then the Americans and the West will have to begin a new round of diplomacy with us. They’ll be forced to recognize our strength and capabilities. The international community cannot condemn us for—”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I don’t fear what the West will do. But if I’m sticking my neck out, I don’t want the old bag who’s sitting on top of the heap waiting to chop it off. Scharf, we may save our country, but become enemies of its leaders. They’ll see us as a threat, having acted without their approval, and may gladly use any international backlash to justify our execution. I admire your ambition, but I don’t know how you couldn’t see this wrinkle coming, and unless we address it, the mission isn’t worth the cost.”

Even from the darkness of the cupboard, Hans could envision Scharf’s devilish smile as he heard him laugh. “I have no doubt you’re the right man for this task, comrade.” Scharf’s words ran smoothly, with the effect of liquor. “And I can allay this fear for you, but once I tell you there will be no turning back. Understood?”

There was another pause. No doubt the two men were studying one another, searching for earnestness in their words, a compact of truth between two men who were conspiring in secret. Hans regretted not having the fiberscope now, as he sorely wished he could see the two men and photograph them. It was like having to experience a movie by sitting outside the theater and listening to the audio track.

Finally, the second man spoke. “I understand, comrade.”

Scharf jumped in, his words coming fast with vigor. “Good. Of course you know being provisional mayor of West Berlin will not suit me for long. I’ve spoken with the ‘Boss’ about a grander vision for the GDR. He has given his tacit approval—of course he cannot say anything explicit, but I assure you it is as strong as if he did say it―of my plan. Our mission will shake things up at the top, start a wave. Naturally, as you have asserted, Honecker and the others will be unsettled. I’m sure some may see this act as bold and reckless, and Honecker will not wear that brand. Even worse is the other, more truthful badge of scorn that he’s too old to keep order. A vote of no-confidence. So, we’ll use that against him. Move swiftly. West Berlin is only the first phase. The second is clearing out the old guard. If we’re successful in the West, we’ll have the Boss’ help in getting rid of all the old farts. Then he can assume the positions of Chairman of the Council of State and First Secretary.”

The second man exhaled in exclamation, a half whistle. “He’s that keen on moving up? And I thought they were old buddies, he and Honecker.”

“Hmm. Well, privately, the Boss and I agree Honecker’s shift toward a purely defensive nature is sapping our strength away. The old man’s contradicted himself; he proclaims ‘always forwards, never backwards,’ but our strategic position has kept us too far back on our heels. We’ll go forward, but the old man’s going to be left behind,” Scharf said.

“And the rest of them?”

“Naturally, gone, too. There are several others waiting to take their places. How would you like to be Minster of Defense?”

The man laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Of course. I don’t merely tell you this theoretically. There are many who are involved in this operation, comrade. The details have been worked out.”

“A putsch?” the man asked, incredulous.

“A revolution,” Scharf said. “One that we, and all of the GDR, have waited for. A chance to truly rise from the ruins of the past. We only wait now, comrade, for you to lead the first wave, to let others know the revolution has begun.”

The second man spoke, his tone somber and resolute. “If I have ever given the notion that I doubted your vision, comrade, I apologize. I am your man.”

Scharf spoke, barely containing his elation. “Thank you, comrade. I trust you can keep to our original schedule, then. The GDR cannot wait anymore for those who are timid in their calling.”

“Absolutely. I, and my men, will be ready.”

In the darkness of the cupboard, Hans could not believe his ears. The conversation had sent him reeling. This recording, that he had worked so long to obtain, was now a two-edged sword in his hands. He had recorded proof that Scharf was involved in treason, more than enough leverage to put him away and secure Anna’s release. However, if Hans failed to stop Scharf, the damage would be astronomical. Scharf’s ambitions were beyond the already enormous scope of an invasion—they were now of an overthrow of the government. And if he was not stopped, such a destabilizing move could set all of central Europe spiraling into chaos. Hans fully realized how carefully he had to handle this evidence. Nevertheless, he felt a soaring burst of exhilaration at the thought of having a single solution to both Anna’s imprisonment and Scharf’s threat. Only one thing tempered Hans’ elation. His foot had fallen completely asleep, and now he felt stabs all through it as if he were wearing slippers made from a porcupine.

Brüske patrolled the outer rooms of the dacha, keeping watch while the meeting progressed. The forest had settled with darkness, and as Brüske looked through an infrared lens out into the night, he listened for the slightest odd sound. On this chilly night, the crickets only chirped at long intervals, while most of the birds and other animals slept. The house, too, was quiet. The only noise was the soft conversation gently lilting out of the living room.

As Brüske stood looking through the infrared lens at the kitchen window, he heard a noise from the sink. Brüske turned and fixed his gaze on it, watching for the slightest movement. He waited, evaluating the sound in his mind. It sounded as if it came from the piping below. He was just about to approach the sink and look under it when he saw a drop form at the lip of the faucet and fall into the basin below. Slowly, a second drop formed and fell like the first. Brüske watched for a moment, analyzing. Finally, confident it was nothing more than the sink mechanism settling, he moved on.

21

Hans awoke for the second time under the sink. It took him a moment to orient himself, then he remembered what had happened. He had waited until he could no longer hear voices or footsteps within the dacha, then to ensure he was truly safe to leave the cupboard, decided he would wait half an hour longer. During that time, Hans had begun to doze, and eventually fell into a deep sleep. Now, as he checked his watch again in the darkness, he discovered it was seven thirty-two in the morning. Hans pushed open the cupboard door and was immediately greeted by sunlight. To his surprise, however, as he started to climb out, he realized he had become paraplegic. Folded awkwardly under the sink for almost twelve hours, Hans’ legs had fallen fast asleep and were now dead weight. He struggled to pull himself out of the cupboard with his arms, first reaching up and pulling himself toward the sink, then leaning back and shuffling his arms like a crab along the floor. Once he had pulled his legs free, Hans bent over and began to massage them back to life. The nerves in his legs prickled with pain as they regained feeling. Hans’ back and hind quarters were considerably sore as well, but for now he focused on his legs. If he was found here in a state of temporary paralysis there would be no hope of escape. His back could wait. It took Hans almost half an hour before he could stand and walk. He gingerly took his first steps, still feeling some numbness in his toes. Once his sore body was fully functional, he allowed himself to reflect on his incredible luck with the recording.

Hans left the dacha, keeping a watchful eye out for any signs of Scharf, Brüske, or the German Shepherd. Yet the forest was devoid of any human or canine life. Only the occasional sound of a songbird punctuated the air. The sun filtered through the trees at a sharp early-morning angle. Bathed in a light mist of dew, the trees cast long shadows across the road and throughout the forest. Hans made his way back through the woods, keeping clear of the road. As he walked, Hans connected the first Nagra recorder to the second and started to dub the tape. He would hold on to the original recording for safekeeping. Hans pondered his next move very carefully. By the time he reached his car, he had made up his mind. Hans drove to the first public telephone he could find and made a call.

“We need to meet,” Hans told the man on the other end of the line. “Ministry of Defense, one hour.”

An hour later, Hans had cleaned up and dressed in his Border Guard service uniform. He looked impeccable, knowing that he could not let a tiny detail such as his appearance detract from the information he was about to present. Hans waited in the foyer on the ground floor until Müller came through the front doors.

“What’s this all about?” Müller asked.

Hans spoke in a low voice: “There’s been a significant development. You should hear this. And… I could use your support.”

Müller gestured for Hans to lead on.

The two men walked directly to the Defense Minister’s office. Hans had phoned the Minister’s secretary earlier and told him he had urgent business, so they were led directly into the inner office. The Minister stood from his desk and greeted Müller and Hans, though his welcome was somewhat colder toward Brandt. The Minister’s faith in Hans had sagged with Hans’ recent performance and sick leave. It was comforting to see Müller there with him.

Hans pulled the Nagra recording from his pocket and laid it on the Minister’s desk. “I have something for you to listen to. It’s… explosive.”

Hans played the tape for the men, who listened in silence.

After a few moments, the Minister inquired, “How did you get this?”

“Firsthand,” Hans answered, somewhat cryptically.

“You’re sure none of what was spoken of was for your benefit?” the Minister asked, still skeptical.

“They had no way of knowing I or anyone else was listening,” Hans asserted.

“Who are these men?”

“Scharf. I’m not sure of the other man. Most certainly a general.”

Müller listened carefully for a minute, then said, “Hmm. Clearly it is Scharf.”

The Minister’s face darkened as he continued to listen to the tape and heard the details of Scharf’s plot unfold. He clenched his jaw, quietly seething in rage. When they heard Scharf speak of a putsch, the Minister could no longer hold still. “Unbelievable,” was all he could manage to say.

They let the tape play out. The Defense Minister and Müller were thunderstruck by what they had heard. “Explosive, to say the least.”

“What do we do?” Müller asked.

The Minister swallowed, thinking carefully as he spoke. “There’s enough evidence here to put Scharf up on charges of High Treason. The problem is finding the identity of the other man.”

“Who could put Operation STOSS into effect?” Müller asked.

“Unauthorized? Any number of generals. Unfortunately, like you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt, I cannot be sure of the man’s identity by his voice alone.”

Müller leaned forward and nodded somberly. “What is this ‘schedule’ they speak of? How long before they put STOSS into effect?”

Hans shrugged. “I don’t know. Soon.”

“Before we can act on Scharf,” the Minister said, “we have to ascertain the identity of the other man. I’m only sure it is not one of the chiefs of the military branches. I know them too well. It’s not any of their voices, and they would never be this disloyal.”

“No,” Hans concurred. “Besides, this is someone with ambition who wants to advance.”

“Could it be a colonel?” Müller offered.

“No,” the Defense Minister said, shaking his head. “No military colonel could control so many forces. Scharf is Stasi—he can plot and organize, but to mobilize the military it must be a general.

“I’ll call an emergency meeting this afternoon, and we’ll discreetly record the proceedings. I want to get all of our second- and third-tier generals on tape. Then we’ll use voice analysis to compare it to this one,” the Minister said.

Müller shook his head. “That could take days.”

“It’s the best option we have,” the Minister countered. “Unless Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt has some evidence he hasn’t told us about.”

Hans sighed, thinking of the missed opportunity with the fiberscope. “No, Comrade Minister.”

“Then we’ll go with the meeting.” The Minister picked up the tape, clutching it like a possession of the rarest stone. “Naturally, Secretary Honecker will have to hear this. Otherwise, not a word to anyone until we issue arrest warrants.”

“May I suggest, Comrade Minister,” Hans ventured, “that we dissect the tape for analysis. We should give the audio team no more than the second man’s words, and no part that clearly elucidates this plot.”

The Minister considered this. “Yes, that would be more secure, although I’m afraid we haven’t much time for that. I also don’t want to risk degrading the audio quality by making a copy. This voice, though intelligible, is not easy to distinguish. I will ensure the technicians work securely but efficiently. They will have to, if we are to act in time.”

Hans waited impatiently for the meeting to start. The Minister had been able to assemble all of his top generals within hours, but the ruse used to justify this emergency meeting concerned Hans. The timing of fictitious NATO activity might alert Scharf’s cabal to the Minister’s plan, or worse, give them the impetus to put Operation STOSS into effect immediately. Yet there were few other alternatives. Hans watched the generals carefully as they listened to the Minister’s briefing on a series of new NATO communications. The first general to speak up was a member of the Signal Corps, General Taube. He protested that his monitors had received none of this information. The Minister held up a hand, interrupting Taube. He explained this information had been received by the Russians and had been handed over to him. The generals looked at each other with some surprise. Hans grit his teeth, sensing the Minister risked losing the faith of his generals with this specious information. Nevertheless, the meeting proceeded with the usual formality. Each general was asked for their opinion, at which time Hans listened carefully, trying to discern the voice of Scharf’s co-conspirator. Finally, when General Thorwald spoke, Hans heard a voice that resonated with him. Hans bowed his head and discreetly closed his eyes to concentrate on the voice. It was Thorwald.

Just before the meeting adjourned, the Minister made a deft stroke against Scharf’s cabal. Declaring a readiness alert, he demanded that all armed forces be prepared for action, but no troops were to be mobilized until the Minister gave explicit further orders. This separated Scharf’s conspirators from the rest of the armed forces like wheat from chaff. If any units mobilized now, they would be members of Scharf’s rogue group. Several generals protested, asserting that they had been authorized to go forward with an exercise just prior to the GDR’s 36th Anniversary celebration next week. It was an occasion to bring units from all parts of the country to the capital. In addition to being featured in the annual parade, the gathering of this many troops was an ideal opportunity for mass exercises.

Thorwald, who was in charge of the exercises, protested the most. “Comrade Minister, if we cancel the exercises, we not only miss a prime opportunity to enhance battlefield readiness. We may also send the wrong message to NATO forces. They expect our exercises at this time of year. If we cancel at the last minute, they may consider it an opportunity to strike.”

As Hans listened, the depth of Scharf’s plot dawned on him. This annual drill of troops just prior to the annual Anniversary Parade would be the cloak to disguise Operation STOSS. The troops would already be in place for the assault. The Minister, however, stifled Thorwald’s argument. He made no effort to argue the soundness of Thorwald’s logic, but merely asserted his authority. “This is a matter of national security. It supersedes any exercises.”

When the meeting adjourned, Hans followed the Minister into the corridor. The Minister was surrounded by a gaggle of generals, all haranguing him for springing such news on them and preventing their further action. Hans moved toward the front of the crowd.

“Comrade Defense Minister,” Hans said, his tone urgent.

“Not now, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt,” the Defense Minister answered, already pressured by the crowd of generals.

“I need a moment, Comrade Defense Minister,” Hans said, emphasizing his urgency.

“See me tomorrow morning, first thing,” the Defense Minister replied, dismissing him.

The Minister headed down the corridor, trying to keep the generals at bay. Hans could only watch him go.

22

Horst Katzenbach stamped his feet, trying to warm his toes that were already numb from cold. It was only early October, but this night was especially damp and chilly. Rain had fallen for several hours around midnight, leaving everything soaked. Now it was four o’clock in the morning, the coldest and darkest hour of the night. Katzenbach was grateful the cold kept him awake. His eyelids were heavy, and were it not for this assignment he would have greatly preferred to be in bed. As a captain in the People’s Police, Katzenbach had carried out many important duties in his twenty-five year career. He had only been a few weeks’ out of the academy when the Wall went up. He was assigned to the police lines along the border, keeping people from both East and West at bay while the workers laid barbed wire. In the following days, masonry workers cemented cinder blocks in place of the wire. Katzenbach had been too green to understand the magnitude of those events; he only understood his orders and the general propagandist line that they were doing a great service to protect the GDR from imperialist provocation.

In subsequent years, Katzenbach’s knowledge and responsibilities grew considerably. He was now widely renowned as one of the best policemen in East Berlin. His superiors had tried to promote him, but Katzenbach didn’t want a desk job; he preferred being out on the street. A desk job would only dull his senses, he figured, and numb him to the reality of the world outside. In time, his ideology had been tempered by an understanding of reality. It was true that justice was a strange and often warped thing in the GDR, but like many of his colleagues, Katzenbach ultimately bought into the idea that the end justified the means. Compared to the West, which had more problems with drugs and violent crime, he saw the East as a haven of serenity. The streets were dreary, but at least they were free of graffiti and other vandalism.

At his core, Katzenbach was a decent man. He tried to treat suspects and prisoners with as much fairness and justice as possible. He did not like to use brute strength and blunt force, and he was cautious to not wield his power indiscriminately. Many of his colleagues saw this as weakness that had emerged in the later years of his career, but Katzenbach understood the health of a society can be greatly influenced by the conduct of the police. He would not be a blunt instrument in the hands of the State.

Tonight was perhaps his most important assignment. Shortly after 11 o’clock that evening, Katzenbach had been called into the headquarters of the Ministry of the Interior, the government branch responsible for all police units in the GDR. There was a strange buzz around the central offices of the Ministry, especially for this late at night. A uniformed aide greeted Katzenbach and escorted him to the outer office of the Minister of the Interior, where he was told to wait. As Katzenbach sat, he saw the aide open the door to the adjoining inner office. Through the crack he could see the Minister of Interior and the Minister of Defense engaged in an intense discussion. Katzenbach waited in the outer office for several minutes before the aide reappeared, carrying a folder in his hand.

“You’ve been selected for a mission of national importance,” the aide explained. “It is a great honor, but also a great responsibility.”

Katzenbach felt the speech was unnecessary; he could already grasp the weight of his task. No one was ever called into the office of the Interior Minister near midnight. The aide opened the folder and showed him an arrest warrant, as well as a file photo of a Stasi officer. “You are to arrest this man, Karl Scharf, for Treason against the State.”

The Ministries of Interior and Defense had outfitted Katzenbach with an elite unit to make an arrest. The men were a mysterious collection of policemen. Katzenbach was sure none of them were Stasi officers. Most impressive was a military policeman named Tietz. A former Olympic bodybuilder, Tietz placed fifth in the 1980 Moscow Olympics, barely missing out on the podium when his knee buckled on his last attempt in the clean and jerk. Katzenbach, who was sure Tietz looked like a giant sack of potatoes in any article of clothing, had more than all the muscle he would need. Nevertheless, he built his arrest strategy more on cunning than strength. Katzenbach was informed three plainclothes policemen were already on surveillance, watching the suspect’s apartment since he had returned home sometime just after ten o’clock that evening. He would post five more undercover policemen on the scene, watch and wait. When they were assured the suspect was asleep in his apartment, they would move in. Katzenbach arrived at the scene around midnight, just as the rain began pouring down.

Katzenbach ordered the three officers to move inside the building, which they did gladly to get out of the rain. One of the men went to the basement of the high-rise, inspected it to ensure it was clear, and then took a position in the main foyer near the entrance. The officer had to sit in a corner near the stairs where he had a vantage point on the main doors and the elevator. His position was the most precarious because he had to loiter where residents and visitors could easily spot him. Most of the civilians would assume he was a policeman, and move on silently in fear, yet his presence would certainly be noticed. The second officer took a position next to the back door, near the courtyard. The third policeman waited in the stairwell on Scharf’s floor. By cracking the stairwell door open, he could spy on the corridor and even partially see the door to Scharf’s apartment.

Outside, Katzenbach ordered the officers to take various surveillance positions. One was on the roof of a nearby building, watching Scharf’s windows through binoculars. The man had to position himself very carefully so as to not be visible. Despite the rain and dark, a glint of glass from his binoculars might alert Scharf to his presence. The other men were on the ground level, watching the building and its entrances from various concealed positions of bushes, low walls, and cars in the neighborhood. Katzenbach waited at the corner, watching from under the overhang of another apartment building’s entrance. Occasionally he would walk to his car, just out of sight from Scharf’s building, and use the radio to check in with the men. All of the men, including Katzenbach, were wired with earpieces and radios, but Katzenbach wanted to remain discreet. The short trips to his car also gave him a reprieve from the damp and cold. Finally, around three o’clock, the man on the roof radioed that the lights in Scharf’s apartment had gone out. A night owl, Katzenbach thought. He waited another hour to make sure Scharf was asleep before signaling the men to move in.

Katzenbach went first, with Tietz and another well-built officer at his side. The other officers closed in on the building’s exits and radioed to a police truck waiting a block away. As Katzenbach exited the elevator on the ninth floor, he felt a twinge of nervous anticipation. This was not only the biggest arrest of his career, but it was against a Stasi man. The aide had left out the details of Scharf’s profession in the briefing, but Katzenbach immediately recognized the Stasi uniform in the file photograph. This was a most unusual and precarious arrest. The Stasi never ceded authority to the People’s Police, but here he was, bringing in one of the Stasi’s own.

Katzenbach hesitated when he reached the door to Scharf’s apartment.

“What is it?” Tietz said, growing impatient.

Katzenbach shook his head. He pointed to the lock and whispered, “Pick it.”

The second officer pulled out a pick set and went to work on the lock while Katzenbach and Tietz pulled out their Makarovs and flashlights. Within moments, the door was opened. Katzenbach signaled for the second officer to go in first. The man crept in, his Makarov and flashlight at ready. Tietz and Katzenbach followed, briefly making sure to clear their sightlines before proceeding. Quickly, they closed the door, not wanting the light from the hall to silhouette them in the doorway.

The apartment was dark and quiet. The men waited for a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dark, breathing quietly as they pressed themselves down or against the wall. It was now, when they could not see, that they were most vulnerable. Finally, with their eyes adjusted as best as possible, the men stealthily made their way through the apartment, careful to watch out for any protruding objects such as furniture in front of them. They could not clumsily knock into any object and alert their prey. When they reached the bedroom, they saw the door was open. Scharf lay in bed, quietly breathing in normal sleep rhythm.

Katzenbach felt relieved. “Ready,” he whispered to the men. The three men pointed their guns at the man in the bed. Katzenbach and the second officer pointed their flashlights at Scharf and clicked them on.

Scharf stirred with the light, then turned and sleepily opened his eyes. Katzenbach aimed his Makarov in one hand while he held his flashlight in the other. “Karl Scharf, you are under arrest for High Treason against the State.”

Scharf blinked once in disbelief, but had no time to react further. Tietz, who had holstered his sidearm, now lifted Scharf from his bed with his bear-like grip. Quickly and unceremoniously, Tietz handcuffed Scharf and led the man, in his pajamas, out of the room. Katzenbach radioed to the other officers that they had secured Scharf. The men now moved into the building, sealing off all exits and clearing the elevator. Scharf was briskly escorted out of his apartment and into the waiting elevator, where one of the officers kept watch. Tietz ordered Scharf to face the back corner of the elevator as they descended. Two of the officers watched the doors, hoping they would not open before they reached the ground.

Within two minutes Scharf had been unloaded from the elevator, swiftly escorted out the front door, and into the windowless cell of the waiting police truck. The entire operation had taken less than seven minutes, but they had been the most nerve-wracking of Katzenbach’s career. Two marked police cars joined the truck before the end of the street and began a swift escort with their lights flashing. Katzenbach radioed the Ministry of Interior from the cab of the police truck, confirming their success. To his surprise, the dispatcher paused, then ordered Katzenbach to travel directly to the Ministry of Defense headquarters in Strausberg, where the prisoner would be taken into their custody. Katzenbach shrugged as he looked at the driver, then radioed to the escort cars their new destination.

The police caravan sped east out of the city. It took half an hour to reach the Ministry of Defense compound in Strausberg, traveling on mostly empty roads. As the caravan entered the gates, Katzenbach spotted another caravan, this one with military vehicles. To his surprise, it was also guarding a similar transport truck, almost identical to his vehicle except that it bore no markings at all. Katzenbach wondered for a moment what all of this activity could mean, then let the question lie. No doubt nothing more would be explained to him; the matters of who and why were far beyond his authority. He looked out at the dark sky, knowing that before long it would begin to lighten with the first inkling of daylight. He exhaled deeply, assured of the success of his assignment, and knew that he had finally earned a good night’s sleep.

That morning, Hans appeared at the Minister’s office a few minutes before seven-thirty. The Minister’s aide arrived a few moments later and stared at Hans in surprise. Hans explained he was waiting. He had spent an agonizing night considering his options and found none appealing. Hans had considered seeking out the recording analysis team, but Müller had wisely cautioned him to not get involved until arrests had been made. It was advice Hans could not ignore. It would also be unwise to press the Minister further, knowing he had already tested his patience in recent weeks with his lagging performance in his regular duties. The Minister had told him to wait until morning, and however unwillingly, he had done just that. Hans understood so much of his true profession—intelligence—required abundant patience, but now he felt an urgency unlike any before. Anna’s fate, and perhaps the country’s, rested on the outcome of the Minister’s investigation.

When the Minister arrived, Hans approached him immediately. The Minister held up a hand, stopping Hans until he had ushered him into the privacy of his office. When they were alone behind closed doors, Hans spoke. “It’s Thorwald. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re sure of it?” the Minister raised his eyebrows. “Not close. Taube. The tapes confirmed it last night.”

“No. It can’t be Taube.”

“Indeed. In fact, he and Scharf were arrested early this morning.” The Minister neatly nudged a pile of papers on his desk into a straight pile. “Around four o’clock.”

Hans could not hide the surprise on his face. “Where are they?”

“At a holding cell here at the Ministry. Until we have interrogated them and discovered the full extent of their conspiracy, we will hold them in our direct custody. I’ll head down there in a moment to oversee the interrogation myself. You may come, if you like.”

“No,” Hans said. “I have some business to attend to first.”

Within an hour Hans was at Hohenschönhausen prison, carrying newly forged orders from the Ministry of Defense. He wasted no time. At the processing desk, he curtly showed the papers to the guards and ordered them to take him immediately to Anna. He asserted his direct authority from the Minister of Defense, showing great impatience for any delay. A corporal escorted Hans to Anna’s cell, where again the guard on duty, a sergeant, protested he had been given no notice of such orders and Colonel Scharf would have to be notified before this prisoner was to be moved.

“Colonel Scharf has been arrested,” Hans barked, stepping into the sergeant’s face. Hans was five inches taller than the guard, and as he towered over him, the sergeant’s face wavered between fear and dogged courage. Like a bureaucrat, the sergeant had placed his orders before logic, and he could not process the fact that new orders had superseded his standing ones. “This prisoner is to be transferred to the custody of the Ministry of Defense immediately,” Hans continued, thrusting the papers in the man’s face. He pointed to the Minister’s signature at the bottom of the orders, a quite-good forgery Hans had created. “Under direct order from the Minister himself. Or would you like to tell him otherwise?” The sergeant’s face was now flush with embarrassment. There was no way for the man to save face. Slowly, he swallowed and nodded, stepping aside.

The corporal unlocked the door for Hans. As it swung open, Hans held his breath, bracing himself for what he would see. Anna had now languished here for over two months, and Hans could only guess what condition she was in now. He was careful to guard himself from showing any emotion, lest the guards suspect something wrong. His first glance at Anna shocked him nonetheless. She was huddled in the corner of the wooden bed, her knees drawn up, her hands clenching them, her head bowed, so that she looked like a curled-up, frightened animal. Her frame was gaunt, her cheeks were pale and thin, and deep dark lines hung under her eyes. Her hair, naturally vibrant, was now stringy and almost stiff. Altogether it was easy to see the trauma Anna had undergone. Yet as she raised her head to see the guards at the door, a fire flickered in her eyes at her first glimpse of Hans. Silently, she recognized her salvation had come. Hans also saw with deep relief that some part of her spirit had remained, that she had successfully resisted the grinding pressure and torture of the past few months.

Hans briefly locked eyes with Anna, then turned down his gaze. He had to keep his composure. “I’m to bring the prisoner to the Ministry’s headquarters now,” Hans explained to the sergeant and corporal.

“I’ll escort you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel,” the corporal volunteered.

Hans nodded. Anna stood and walked toward the door, where the corporal grabbed hold of her arm. The three walked out of the U-boot, up a flight of stairs, and into the courtyard. Anna could not quite remember the last time she had seen daylight and sky, and she welcomed it even as she strained against the bright shift in exposure to her eyes. They led her to a gray truck, exactly like the one that had brought her to Hohenschönhausen, but this time she boarded it from the courtyard. It was a small relief to not have to go back to the dismal garage where she had seen her first glimpse of the prison. The metal locker compartment was just as dark and cramped, but Anna consoled herself that she was being led to freedom. Hans sat next to the corporal on the bench at the front of the corridor. They rode in silence out of the prison compound and across the city. In the dark of the compartment, with the hum of the diesel motor vibrating beneath her feet, Anna smiled for the first time in months.

The truck arrived at the Ministry of Defense headquarters in Strausberg, where the corporal continued to escort Anna and Hans into the main building. They arrived at an interrogation room almost exactly like those at Hohenschönhausen. Anna sat at the edge of the table in the usual prisoner’s seat.

“Comrade Corporal, your performance is exemplary,” Hans said.

“Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.”

“What is your name?”

“Hübner.”

“Good. I’ll be sure to give an excellent report to your superiors.”

The corporal beamed, eager to please and ready to accept praise. “Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.”

Hans cleared his throat, his tone becoming more familiar. “Could you do me a favor, and get me some coffee?”

The corporal, a young and impressionable soldier, stammered for a moment, wondering if he was breaking protocol, but then smiled and agreed. He left quickly and closed the door.

Hans and Anna hesitated for a moment, waiting to be assured that the corporal was gone. Then they rushed toward one another. Hans embraced Anna carefully, feeling her frail and exhausted frame in his arms. Anna did not hold back, kissing him deeply. Her kiss expressed far more than she could muster with words. Finally, when their lips parted, they looked into one another’s eyes.

Anna tried to smile, but felt a wave of emotion come over her. She had kept her composure until now, but her relief, joy, and sudden release from pain now crested. Tears welled in her eyes as she struggled to speak. All she could muster was a weak whisper of simple joy, “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Hans replied.

They embraced again, and she threw her arms around his neck, pulling him tightly toward her. Hans held her in his strong arms, giving her safe assurance.

After a moment, Hans reluctantly pulled back. “Before we completely fall apart,” he said, “There’s something I have to do. We’re not out of this yet.”

Anna smiled and gave a small laugh. She was overwhelmed with delight at being free and with Hans again. He went over to the desk and picked up the phone. Anna reached out for him and held his hand as he dialed a number.

A slightly shrill operator’s voice answered, “General directory.”

“Yes, Defense Ministry headquarters,” Hans said, his tone extremely formal. “Code six-nine-Q.”

“One moment,” the shrill operator answered. There was a brief pause. Anna looked quizzically at Hans, who only cryptically smiled in response.

Another operator answered, “Ministry of Defense.”

“This is Captain Schulz at Hohenschönhausen,” Hans said. “You have a Corporal Hübner who escorted a prisoner transfer. I need him to report back to Hohenschönhausen immediately.”

The operator affirmed the corporal would be paged promptly. As Hans hung up the phone, he winked at Anna.

Hans reached into the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a female Border Troop officer uniform. It was complete with a gray tunic, long skirt, and a small, circular dress cap, much like the type stewardesses wore on airliners in the 1960s. Anna changed into the uniform and put her hair up, trying to look as tidy as a soldier. She still looked frail, and the lines under her eyes still showed stress. Hans pulled out a small makeup kit from the desk and helped Anna as she applied it carefully to her face. The makeup could do little to change her thin appearance, but it reduced the dark lines below her eyes to a more normal shade. Finally, assured Anna’s disguise was suitable, Hans took her prison clothes and stuffed them into a briefcase. The two walked out of the interrogation room together. Anna eased up after they had passed through several corridors without drawing the attention of a dozen or so staff members. They walked out of the building and over to Hans’ car. When they had driven for several minutes outside the military compound, Anna smiled again.

23

Back in the Defense Ministry headquarters, the Minister and a Special Prosecutor, Manfred Lange, were interrogating Scharf in a holding cell. The Defense Minister played the tape for Scharf, who listened without comment.

“Well?” Lange demanded.

Scharf leaned back, strangely calm. He leveled his gaze at the Defense Minister. “It’s a misunderstanding.”

“What?” Lange barked.

“Comrade Minister, I promised I would find the mole who has infiltrated our ranks. The man who gave you this tape is our mole.”

The Defense Minister stood, posturing himself to rip into Scharf. “What are you saying?”

“My colleagues and I arranged for this meeting, this charade, so that the mole would be forced to show his hand. I knew that I’ve been followed recently. I believed the mole wanted to get rid of me, and to test this theory, I set up this trap, this manufactured conversation, to catch him. I only was unable to notify you before he brought you the tape,” Scharf said.

Lange, who had been taking rapid deep drags on a cigarette, now tossed the butt in disgust. “Rubbish!” Adopting an aphorism of his father, who had been a fisherman on the Baltic coast, Lange said: “When a fish is caught in a net, it wriggles until it can find a hole.”

The Defense Minister nodded in agreement. Scharf’s claim seemed like shrewd disinformation designed to save his own neck. Still, the Defense Minister played along, hoping that Scharf would ultimately trip himself up. “You’re saying that you and Taube manufactured false evidence of treason, as a plot to catch a mole?”

“No, not Taube,” Scharf said, cryptically smiling. “I don’t know how you thought it was him. No, the other voice you hear on the tape was my aide. He can independently verify all I have said.”

The Defense Minister looked askance at Scharf, then turned to leave. “Yes, I’m sure he could.”

Lange questioned Scharf for another hour, mining very little useful information. During that time two messengers interrupted the proceedings, but both brought no encouraging news. The first reported that the Minister of State Security had known nothing of the plot, an unsurprising revelation, since the tape established his deniability. The second reported that Taube’s interrogation was a complete disaster—the general denied any knowledge of the plot whatsoever and was shocked and surprised at the accusation. As the questioning continued, Taube became more disoriented, confused, and frightened.

Completely dissatisfied with the direction of the investigation, Lange called off the questioning and sent Scharf back to his holding cell. Lange was one of the most distinguished prosecutors in the GDR, and Honecker and the Minister of Defense had personally requested he take on this case of dire national security. Now, Lange felt it was quickly blowing up in his face. Scharf was mocking him. Lange wasn’t surprised by this reaction, but how Scharf still held the upper hand was baffling and frustrating. As Lange headed back to his office, he contemplated his next move. Still, his personal fears crept in and disrupted his focus. If he failed, at best Lange faced career suicide. At worst, there would be nation-wide chaos.

An hour after Scharf was returned to his holding cell, he had a visitor. The guards were under strict orders to let no one see him, but Brüske, now quickly excelling as Scharf’s protégé, found the perfect method to manipulate the guards. A quick study of human nature and a near-expert in espionage, Brüske learned the guards’ vices and appealed to them. With no time to waste, Brüske made his offer overwhelmingly sublime and assured the guards they would suffer no repercussions from his visit. Brüske also learned the security measures for the holding cell. To his bewilderment the room was rather primitive for such a high-profile prisoner. It offered a secure location, but had no surveillance equipment installed. Scharf looked up with some surprise when his cell door opened, but once he saw Brüske, he smiled. Brüske let the guards shut him in with Scharf, a security measure which Brüske used against them. Now in private, Brüske and Scharf spoke in hushed tones so that the guards could not hear them from outside the cell even if they opened the peephole.

“Good to see you,” Scharf said.

“Don’t worry,” Brüske said, “I’ve got things working already. The tape analyst put them onto Taube.”

Scharf laughed quietly. “I figured someone must be on our side. How he convinced them it was Taube, of all people, I’ll never know.”

“Soon the tape will disappear altogether.”

“Good. Any clue who made it?”

“Not yet,” Brüske said.

“What about who delivered it to the Defense Minister?”

“We’re working on that.” Brüske looked down, suddenly remorseful. “I’m sorry you’re here. I thought I made everything secure for that meeting.”

Scharf accepted the apology, resting his hand reassuringly on Brüske’s arm. “If you get me out of here, everything will be fine. As long as they’re stuck on Taube, we’re still in business.”

Resolved, Brüske sat upright. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find the source of the tape as soon as possible.”

“Of course.”

Scharf nodded, his mind already racing.

“What?” Brüske asked.

“We don’t have time to waste. You’re going to have to do two jobs at once.”

“Whatever’s necessary,” Brüske said.

“Good,” Scharf gave a small devilish smile.

“What do you have in mind?” Brüske asked.

Scharf’s eyes’ narrowed. “Lange.”

Within another hour, Brüske was at the dacha, making a thorough inspection. He scoured the furniture, turned over lamps, tables, and removed the paintings from the walls, looking for some sign of where the room had been bugged. He carried a small investigator’s kit with him. It was rife with tools for examining any evidence he might find. The tape analyst had told him that the tape was made with a Nagra recorder, common enough throughout the world—but that this particular device was Stasi issue. It took several hours for Brüske to comb through the dacha. He checked the light switches and power outlets, removing the covers and searching for any extraneous wiring within the wall voids. Still, he found nothing.

When he had turned the entire living room upside down, Brüske sat down, exhausted. He went into the kitchen to clear his head and decided to get a glass of water. As Brüske turned on the faucet, the tap sputtered and groaned before it slowly came to life with a steady flow of water. The sound of the pipes triggered a thought in Brüske’s mind, and he let the glass fall from his hand into the sink.

Brüske fell to his knees, throwing open the doors of the cabinet under the sink. He looked in the cabinet, but saw nothing extraordinary at first. Taking a flashlight from his pocket, Brüske looked into the deeper recesses of the cupboard and found a spot on one wall that seemed to have been depressed by an object. Examining the spot closer, he saw a one-inch long black mark—a scuff mark from a shoe. With renewed vigor, Brüske analyzed the cabinet, finding a stray short brown hair, but little else. He put the hair into a small baggie, then continued to probe through the cabinet. When he was finished, he clicked off his flashlight. It was then, with his head fully inside the dark cabinet, that he noticed something strange. There was a pinhole of light in the wall. Brüske reached out to the spot, feeling a depression. Turning his flashlight back on, he aimed it at the spot and saw a hole that was progressively drilled down to a fine needle-like point. Brüske pulled out a camera and took pictures of the spot. Then he pulled out a small pin from his forensic kit and pushed it through the hole.

Walking back into the living room, Brüske now saw how neatly the hole had been camouflaged in the black of a knothole. Brüske gave a small nod of recognition to the genius of the person who had made this surveillance pinhole. He took a picture of the knothole, then returned to the cabinet under the sink. There was one more painstaking, arduous task for him here. Brüske pulled out a fingerprint dusting kit and went to work. He had avoided dusting anywhere else, knowing he was likely to only find Scharf’s and the general’s fingerprints. The surface of the inside of the cabinet rendered little useful information—he could not lift even a partial clean print. Brüske even dusted the sink pipes, but to his surprise these also revealed nothing. The spy was either very good, or very lucky. Brüske was determined to change this opponent’s fate.

Before leaving the dacha, Brüske picked up the phone and dialed a confidant in the Stasi’s technical service department. He asked for a list of all Stasi officers who had checked out Nagra recording equipment and a progressive-drill hole set in the last week. Brüske doubted this would lead them to their man, but it was an angle that had to be covered. He would pass on the work of investigating the list to other men under Scharf’s influence. Brüske had another theory to explore. He believed the equipment had come from the black market.

Brüske was heading down the road through thick forest, away from the dacha, when a black Wartburg approached and overtook him. The Wartburg slowed to a crawl, blocked Brüske’s path, and forced him to a complete halt. Brüske tensed and discreetly reached for his Makarov. He could see two men in the Wartburg. The driver was younger, possibly military, while the passenger was older. The passenger door opened and the older man stepped out. Even in a civilian overcoat, his ramrod-straight bearing was instantly recognizable. It was General Thorwald. Brüske released his grip on his pistol and slowly put his hand back on the wheel. The general motioned to the driver, clearly also his security detail, and walked toward Brüske. Except for the two cars, the road was completely deserted. Nevertheless, Thorwald looked around cautiously as he approached.

“Comrade General,” Brüske said, unable to step out of his own car before Thorwald was at his driver’s side window.

“Where do we stand?” the general asked, his tone cautious.

Brüske swallowed. “On hold, momentarily.”

“Momentarily?” Thorwald’s tone was sharp and intimidating. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, until we can free Comrade Scharf.”

“What’s the likelihood of that? I’d say this whole thing’s just about blown up in our faces.”

“We’re at work now, Comrade General. If we find who recorded the conversation, we will accuse him of being a mole. Comrade Scharf has already told the Defense Minister the entire conversation was fabricated just for this specific reason.”

“I doubt he bought any of that.”

“No, but he will. Scharf, as you already know, has been searching for a mole for months. Somehow, this man just got ahead of us.”

“An error we couldn’t afford to make,” Thorwald said with sharpness. “We’re on the clock.”

“You’re safe,” Brüske reassured him. “We fed them Taube.”

Thorwald smiled. “Poor bastard.”

Thorwald had little sympathy for Taube. They fundamentally disagreed on tactics and often squabbled with one another during strategy sessions. It seemed perfectly poetic, that Taube now stood accused of Thorwald’s own actions. “How will we catch this man, the one who made the recording?”

“I’m working on it now,” Brüske said with the earnestness of a promise.

Thorwald leveled his strong gaze on Brüske. “How can I help?”

Hans took Anna to his official apartment in a high-rise building in the district of Mitte. He avoided bringing her here until now, but in her uniform disguise, Anna would draw little attention. The State Council had given Hans the apartment along with his appointment. There were a few other officers who lived in the building, but it was largely civilian. As they stepped into the apartment, Anna looked around. Wanting to put her recent ordeal far from her mind, Anna noticed even the mundane details of Hans’ residence. The apartment was large for a single man, another perk of Hans’ position. There was a kitchen, a living room, a bath and two bedrooms. The faux-wood particle-board wardrobe and credenza furnishings narrowed the space somewhat, yet not enough to make Hans feel overly cozy. He spent little time here, other than sleeping, and as a military man, Hans had taken little time to decorate the place. Anna noticed. “This place needs a woman’s touch,” she said.

Hans headed to the bedroom and changed out of his uniform. He dressed in civilian slacks and a sweater. Anna went to take a hot bath, the first truly cleansing and relaxing one she had taken in months. Hans called to Anna from outside the bathroom door. “I’m going out for about an hour. There’s someone I have to see. I’ll buy you some clothes along the way.”

Anna stuck her head out of the bathroom. “It’s nice to have a man go shopping for you.”

Hans grinned. “Just don’t expect anything from Polo or Jordache.”

Alexanderplatz, the bustling commercial center of East Berlin, was a single tram stop or fifteen-minute walk from Hans’ apartment. Hans decided to walk. It was a beautiful early autumn day. Billowing clouds sailed through the light blue sky. The air had a nip of coming cold, and the leaves had just begun to turn. Hans was glad to see the colors of nature. His world was filled with far too many drab man-made colors, especially the gray of military uniforms and urban buildings. The only vibrant color that communism seemed to embrace was red. The selection of women’s clothes at the large, socialist department store was drab and narrow. Hans made the best choice of ensemble he could. He’d remind Anna they could buy much better clothing once they had escaped to West Berlin.

When he finished shopping, Hans walked out of the department store into the large plaza of Alexanderplatz. As always, it was filled with people. They mulled around, headed to or from the cinema, the congress hall, or the department stores. High above, next to the train station, loomed the needle-and-ball structure of the Television Tower. Hans crossed the plaza, by the fountain, and headed toward the world clock. It was a spool-like structure on a spindle, topped with a mass of orbiting steel planets. Sandwiched in the middle was a revolving series of numbers counting up to twenty-four. Above and below the numbers were the names of major cities in each respective time zone. He stopped in front of the clock, watched it for a moment, then found the nearest park bench. As Hans sat, he checked his surroundings. Discreetly, he placed a piece of white tape on the side of the bench. Then Hans stood and walked over to the bookstore.

An hour later, Hans looked out the window of the bookstore and spotted a man in a black overcoat standing next to the world clock. Hans watched the man closely, noting his demeanor. Then he moved to the front of the bookstore, purchased a copy of Brecht’s Threepenny Opera, and walked out. As Hans approached the clock, the man turned to him and spoke softly. “Time waits for no man.”

“And punishes those who come too late,” Hans replied.

The man was British, about twenty-five years old, with oily black hair and a sly, wiry frame. “I’m Samuels,” he said. “Mason sends his regards.”

Hans shook his hand. “And his help?”

Hans handed the man the book, slipping a note inside the pages.

The man shifted the book in his hands and slipped the note out to read it. When he was finished, he nodded. “Twenty-four hours. If it takes him longer, he’ll let you know.”

24

Brüske was hard at work analyzing the evidence he had collected from the dacha when he received a phone call from Max Lerner. Lerner was a captain in the Stasi, a superb psychologist, and a favorite colleague of Scharf. He was rising fast through the ranks of the Stasi, and Scharf’s guidance only helped propel his ascent. Lerner had been a part of Scharf’s cabal from the beginning, but he rose to new levels of dedication when he learned of his patron’s arrest. Brüske had turned over the Nagra recorder investigation to Lerner.

“I have very good news,” Lerner said. “I’ve found the Nagra supplier.”

That was fast, Brüske thought. Scharf was right about Lerner’s talent. “Do you know who he sold it to?”

“No,” Lerner said, his excitement dropping somewhat. “But once we have the supplier in custody, we can probably get that information out of him.”

Lerner went on to explain how he had gone down to the quartermaster’s office in Stasi headquarters and questioned the staff. One clerk, named Bosch, seemed slightly more put off by Lerner’s questions than the others. Bosch wasn’t trying to be obvious; in fact he concealed his guilt quite well. But Lerner was an excellent student of human nature, and he noticed Bosch would slightly shift his eyes to the side, looking away when he answered Lerner’s questions. Lerner had taken Bosch aside and begun to interrogate him more fastidiously. Soon he learned that Bosch had indeed been part of a black market-smuggling operation, occasionally removing various pieces of equipment he reported as broken or simply missing, then selling them to a dealer.

Lerner knew exactly what pressure points to manipulate in order to get Bosch’s cooperation. Lerner pulled out all the stops, threatening Bosch with immediate arrest and the likelihood that he would be sentenced to twenty years hard labor for his crime. Bosch had a young wife and baby, and couldn’t bear the thought that he might never see his child grow up. Within an hour, Bosch had agreed to cooperate and produce his black market contact, with the promise that if he succeeded, he would merely suffer the dishonor of being fired from the Stasi and given a new assignment as a sanitation worker.

Brüske was elated at the news. Lerner explained his general plan to lay a trap for Bosch’s dealer, and promised to report with further details when they emerged. Brüske told Lerner he wanted to be part of the operation, and to notify him when they were set to begin. He sensed his current lab work would be far less fruitful and wanted to be in on the action. Brüske was more of a blunt instrument than his mentor, Scharf. He hungered for the chance to hold a powerless victim at his mercy.

Catching Bosch’s dealer would not be easy. For one, Bosch didn’t even know the man’s real name. He simply called him Schwarz, as the man had instructed him to do from their first meeting. Schwarz was notoriously paranoid. He made elaborate plans to meet, ensuring Bosch was never tailed. He scrutinized the equipment and even once rejected an item because he was sure the Stasi had implanted a tracking device within it. Bosch suspected Schwarz had once been in the Stasi, given his full knowledge of equipment and procedures, but he never spoke about himself or his past. Bosch once tried to prod such information out of him, casually asking if Schwarz had ever used a particular Stasi-issue item in his time with The Firm. Schwarz immediately cut off the meeting. Bosch had a devil of a time reestablishing contact and continuing their trade. The incident made Bosch look foolish, and Schwarz wouldn’t let him forget it. Reckless talk or inquiries into Schwarz’s life was not an acceptable part of their business relationship.

Bosch was relieved when Schwarz agreed to meet that evening. Schwarz gave him orders to go to pay phone not far from an intersection in the district of Marzahn, on the eastern edge of the city. There he would receive a phone call after 6 o’clock. He was to carry the items he intended to trade in a large black doctor’s bag, as usual. Bosch explained Schwarz’s paranoia to Lerner, who then devised a strategy to counter their prey. Bosch would wear an electronic tracking device, a small transmitter hidden in the heel of his shoe. It was a low-frequency device, so Lerner could reckon with some confidence that their target would most likely be unable to detect the bug. Lerner’s team would follow at a distance, keeping well out of sight until Bosch had finally made contact. The difficulty was Lerner’s men did not know where Bosch would end up. There was no way to plan the entire net in advance. This is why Brüske wanted to be directly involved. Quick action would be needed to seal Schwarz off. Scharf sat in a cell while the clock continued to tick down to zero hour on Operation STOSS. There was no time for mistakes.

Bosch reported to the phone booth as directed. He waited for nearly half an hour before Schwarz called. Schwarz ordered him to walk two blocks to the nearest bus station. If he walked briskly, he would be able to catch the first bus. It would take him to an industrial park at the edge of the city. Once he exited the bus, Bosch would walk north along a large wall at the edge of the industrial park. It would lead him to the ruins of a factory plant destroyed in the war. Bosch was to wait for Schwarz in the center of the ruins. Bosch did as ordered, arriving at the abandoned factory just as dusk was settling. Darkness soon enveloped him as he waited over an hour with no sign of Schwarz. Brüske and Lerner began to grow impatient, knowing that while they were certain of Bosch’s location, they could not move in until Schwarz showed—if he showed at all.

Schwarz looked out from the shell of an old window frame to the courtyard below. He had come, under the cover of darkness, some twenty minutes after Bosch arrived. He watched Bosch and the surrounding area closely, using a passive night vision device that amplified moon- and starlight to see in the near-total darkness. Let him wait, Schwarz thought. If he grows too impatient, I’ll know there’s something wrong, and call off the meeting.

For someone as cautious as Schwarz, it was strange to constantly engage in such a risky venture. He contemplated this as he watched in the night, wondering how many times he could gamble and still come up with a winning hand.

Down below, Bosch tried to remain calm. Inwardly, his nerves were shredded with panic. If Schwarz didn’t show, he would still find himself in a prison cell. It was terribly unfair, hanging his fate on the actions of someone else, and he started to grow angry. Yet Bosch reminded himself to not let any emotion show. He could be watching you now, he said to himself.

Finally, Schwarz approached out of the darkness. Bosch could not conceal a sigh of relief.

“It’s lonely out here,” Bosch said.

“What do you have for me?” Schwarz asked, getting right down to business.

“The new video camera glasses. They have an upgraded CCD and better resolution, as you requested.”

“And the cords?”

“Still there, though I imagine if you want to re-engineer it, at least for a purpose other than glasses, you could operate it by wireless remote.”

“Let me see.”

Bosch opened the doctor’s bag and reached inside. In doing so, he brushed his watch against the side of the bag, pushing down a button on its side. Bosch hoped the action would appear inadvertent, and more importantly, discreet enough that Schwarz wouldn’t notice.

The button activated a silent radio signal to Brüske’s waiting receivers, letting his men know it was time to move in. Schwarz and Bosch talked for a few more minutes as Schwarz examined the items in the dim light of an infrared flashlight he owned. Schwarz gradually became aware of a strange sensation. Something was wrong. He did not know the nature of the threat, but it gnawed at him, growing more urgent until it was shouting through his veins. Just as Schwarz cut the transaction short and turned to leave, he saw something move in the darkness behind Bosch. Schwarz turned to run, but stopped short.

It was too late.

A man emerged out of the darkness, his Makarov aimed directly at Schwarz’s head. It was a man he knew.

Brüske.

He knew Schwarz too.

Brüske smiled, his eyes cold. “Hello, Kollwitz.”

Lange left his office that evening in frustration. It had been a long and unproductive day of work. The investigation was stalled since the interrogations that morning. He read and copiously noted the transcript of Taube’s interrogation, and by late afternoon, had come to an awful conclusion. Taube was indeed innocent. It was clear from his answers that the general knew nothing of the plot, and yet somehow the audio analysis team had identified him as the second speaker on the tape. Taube would have to be released. And, if that was not painful enough, Lange would have to order the tape to be reanalyzed and find a new suspect. This time it had to be correct. Taube’s arrest was a gross enough error to derail most investigations, but now the stakes were higher. These days, even in the GDR, high-profile investigations did not allow for haphazard arrests. There had to be substantial and damning evidence linking a suspect to the crime. Lange didn’t like the prospect of reporting to the Minister of Defense—and even worse, Honecker—that they had made such a colossal error. He had to collect something to offset it, but so far, they had nothing. Lange decided to wait until the next morning before he made his report, hoping his luck would change or he would come up with a solution in the interim.

These matters weighed on Lange’s mind as he headed to the elevator. The building was nearly empty; it was past nine o’clock, and most of the staff had gone home long ago. As Lange descended on the elevator, the door opened on the third floor. A middle-aged man dressed in an overcoat and homburg stepped inside. He nodded to Lange, who barely acknowledged him. The prosecutor was still absorbed in his own thoughts. The two stood for a moment after the doors closed, waiting for the elevator to start. Lange realized they were not moving and reached over to depress the button for the ground floor once again. Without turning, he asked, “What floor?”

The man gave no reply, but swiftly reached his arm out toward the panel. The speed of the man’s movement startled Lange, and he pulled back in reflex.

Lange did not see the man’s other arm reach around his neck, and before he knew what was happening, the man injected a syringe into Lange’s throat.

The prosecutor immediately went limp.

Quickly, the man in the homburg canceled the call to the ground floor and instead depressed the button for the basement. Checking to see Lange was truly unconscious, the man then covered the prosecutor’s head with a hood. Moments later, the elevator doors opened to a waiting accomplice on the basement level. Together, he and the man in the homburg carried Lange out through a narrow corridor. They mounted a steep flight of steps, struggling to balance themselves with the added weight between them, and exited the building through a utility door. The men loaded their captive into a waiting car and sped off into the night.

Lange sat tied to a chair, covered in sweat. Scharf’s men had taken him to a farmhouse twenty miles outside Berlin where they had interrogated him assiduously. It was now nearly four in the morning. Lange had awoken some five hours ago to a cold blast of water. Since then, he had endured a non-stop barrage of questions from men who were skilled in physical manipulation. They were given specific orders not to leave any sign of their work on his body, so although Lange was spared a beating, the experience was just as strenuous.

Finally, when the lead interrogator was assured they had gleaned every bit of useful information from Lange, the men finished their work. Lange slumped in his chair, sweat dripping down his nose and beading on his cheeks and forehead. His muscles were completely spent. It was considerable strain for a man pushing sixty.

The lead interrogator stood and left the room, then headed down a hallway and into the kitchen, where Thorwald sat at the table, smoking a cigarette. His aide leaned against the counter, nervously chewing his lip.

“Well?” Thorwald asked.

“He knows nothing,” the interrogator stated. “He doesn’t suspect you at all.”

Thorwald cast a glance at his aide, who looked heartened by the news. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Thorwald put out his cigarette and nodded. “Good. Then we’re done with him. You can take him to his apartment.”

“Should we make him forget this evening?”

Thorwald stood to leave. “No. Something more permanent.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?” the interrogator asked.

Thorwald walked to the door and donned his general’s cap. “We don’t have time to wait for him to find a connection. I want it clean.”

The interrogator nodded as Thorwald left.

Outside, the aide followed Thorwald to the car. “What now?” the aide asked.

“We go ahead, as scheduled,” Thorwald replied. “With or without Scharf.”

25

Mason’s West Berlin office was on the second story of an old prewar building in Kreuzberg. It smelled of new paint over musty old wood, but the windows were large and allowed a significant amount of natural light into the rooms. Mason had rented the office for decades, using the cover of a small import-export business. He was already at work, with a steaming cup of tea sitting on his desk, when Samuels entered just before nine. Samuels gave Hans’ message.

Mason looked up with concern. “This is nearly eighteen hours old.”

Samuels slumped into an easy chair next to Mason’s desk. “It was a nightmare to get over the checkpoint.”

Mason gazed at Samuels with unblinking fierceness. “Is everything prepared on their side?”

“Yes,” Samuels said nervously, “I did see to that.”

Mason knew full well that Samuels was apt to visit a girl in East Berlin, letting a good time occasionally distract him from his more pressing duties. Mason did not condone such conduct, but the Berlin station had only given him this one charge to assist him. From their point of view, Sunrise was the Americans’ agent, as was Anna―so why were they not taking care of their own people?

Mason’s piercing gaze returned, burning into Samuels’ skull. “Never put secondary matters in front of the mission,” Mason said.

Samuels froze for a moment, taking it in, then slowly acknowledged with a nod.

Mason turned back to his paperwork. “Have them ready at the apartment by four o’clock this afternoon. Go.”

Samuels did not need to be prompted a second time.

Chaos erupted at the Defense Minister’s office. It was early afternoon and Lange had still not shown. There had been reports that morning that a black marketer had been arrested by the Stasi. According to them, he was the man who sold the equipment used to bug Scharf’s conversation. The Stasi had not yet discovered the identity of the person to whom the marketer sold the equipment, but they were closing in on him. The Defense Minister saw this ploy designed to extract Scharf from his current predicament. Hans and Müller had delivered the tape to him, and although they had not revealed exactly how they obtained it, he did not doubt their honesty. The Minister prided himself as a good judge of character, and although Hans had at times disappointed him, he trusted him more than Scharf.

Meanwhile, forces within the Stasi were combining to back up Scharf’s claim of innocence. The Defense Minister heard of a rumor that the Stasi chief was arranging a meeting between the Stasi investigators and Honecker, clearly aimed at exonerating Scharf. The Defense Minister was furious with this end-run and phoned Honecker immediately. To his surprise, he was too late. The Stasi men, led by Brüske, had met at nine o’clock that morning with the First Secretary and laid out their evidence of Scharf’s innocence. The Stasi Minister himself was not present at the meeting, wanting to ensure he did not appear too closely connected with the proceedings, given the implications already made on the tape. Nevertheless, the Defense Minister was sure that the Stasi chief was working hard to clear himself of any suspicion. Furthermore, if the Stasi Minister could successfully produce a mole who had been burrowing deep into the government of the GDR, he would fully restore his status as a faithful servant of the State, a man beyond reproach.

But two greater blows awaited the Defense Minister. The first came in word about Lange.

The Defense Minister’s aide came into his office, breathless. “They’ve found Lange,” he said.

“Where is he?”

“He was still in his bed when his secretary came over at eleven this morning. Apparently he died of a heart attack last night.”

Losing the chief prosecutor in this major case was just the latest blow in an emerging disaster. Somehow, the tape analysts had led his investigators to a terrible error in arresting Taube, and the Stasi chief was leveraging his ministry against them. Now the Defense Minister faced a difficult dual task—to not only discover the truth of Scharf’s plot, but also prevent the political tug-of-war surrounding the investigation from tearing the government apart. The Defense Minister knew he had to act before events spiraled out of control. He was determined to bring the case to a successful conclusion, even without Lange. Scharf would have to be broken, made to confess and name his co-conspirators. Yet just as he ordered Scharf to be brought back to the interrogation room, the Defense Minister received the second, more devastating shock. Phoning down to the cells, the Defense Minister’s aide suddenly looked up with a baffled and fearful look on his face. “Comrade Minister,” he said, “Scharf is gone.”

Hans expected to meet Samuels at two o’clock by the world clock at Alexanderplatz, but when he arrived, Samuels was nowhere in sight. He walked over to the same bench he had sat on the day before and spotted the Bertolt Brecht book he had given Samuels. As he flipped through the pages, he found no note, but certain words had been underlined in pencil. As Hans looked over the words carefully, he found no initial design to the markings. Then he noticed only a portion of some words were highlighted. There was also a pencil line on the title page, just before the first word. It seemed strange for this stray mark to be here, not underlining anything at all. He considered the markings a second time, then a third. Hans realized the underlined words in and of themselves meant nothing—the words that immediately preceded the marked ones, however, were significant. Hans read through these words now and saw meaning. In some cases, it was half of the prior word, but when pieced together with the other parts, a message formed. Hans quickly put the book into his jacket pocket and walked away. He would have to hurry to meet Samuels in time.

Half an hour later, Hans and Anna arrived at the apartment building indicated in the message. It was a large plattenbau structure near the edge of the Hohenschönhausen and Lichtenberg districts. Hans and Anna slipped inside the building and took the stairs, climbing up to the top floor. Anna was still weak from her long prison stay, so Hans helped her along as they hurried to meet Samuels. On the top floor, they walked down a long corridor, then through a door into a vestibule that connected to the next building over. From the street, the building looked like one solid block, but only these few passageways connected one section to another. As they crossed through another door, they encountered a group of children playing loudly in the hall. The cacophony of the children’s shouts echoing off the narrow walls distressed Anna. After her long prison stay, she still felt ill at ease with enclosed spaces and loud noises. Hans took her by the hand and led her into the stairwell. They went one floor down, then entered the ninth floor corridor. Hans glanced down both sides of the hall before he led Anna across it to a small alcove in the corner. Here there were two doors. Hans knocked on the one to the right. Slowly and softly, footsteps could be heard behind the door, and the peephole was covered by a fleeting shadow. The door opened quietly. Samuels ushered Anna and Hans inside.

“You made it,” Samuels said.

“Yes,” Anna exhaled with relief.

Samuels introduced himself to Anna, then locked and bolted the door. He led them from the hallway into the small but comfortable three-room apartment. As they stepped across the threshold of the living room, Samuels whispered in Hans’ ear. “We can talk here, but quietly. We keep a step ahead of them here.”

Hans nodded, understanding.

“Do they suspect anything?” Samuels asked, gesturing toward Anna.

“No,” Hans replied. “I don’t think so. I gave proper transfer orders at Hohenschönhausen, and things have been too busy at the Ministry for anyone to notice. But we don’t have much time. Someone will notice soon, and then we’ll have a much harder time getting across. We have to go tonight.”

“We’ve been working on it,” Samuels said. “I’m sorry you’ve had to wait.”

Samuels felt a pang of guilt and turned away, pacing toward the other end of the room. He weighed his next words carefully. “There is a problem, however.”

“What?” Samuels cleared his throat.

“Did you report to the Ministry today?”

“No, I told them I was going out to do a field report. I stayed with Anna.”

“Then you don’t know…” Samuels trailed off.

“Mason has ordered me to put you two up here for the night,” Samuels said. “It’s safe. There are some things happening, just now, that we’re trying to get a handle on. We’re not sure how it will affect your attempt at the border, but it’s safest to wait, for now.”

“What things?” Hans asked.

“Well, we just received word this afternoon. Kollwitz has been arrested by the Stasi.”

“What?”

“They’re pressing him to reveal to his buyer,” Samuels said.

Hans’ head was swimming.

“That’s not all,” Samuels continued, “Scharf is missing. Somehow escaped from custody. Until we can locate his whereabouts, I don’t think it’s safe for either of you to attempt to cross over. Clearly Scharf has considerable help, but we can’t be sure who exactly is on his side now.”

Scharf’s escape from the Ministry of Defense had been surprisingly easy. Thorwald had been the major player, calling on several of his loyal soldiers who had infiltrated the ranks of the guards to execute the escape. During a change of the watch, two of Thorwald’s soldiers had taken over at Scharf’s cell. Within minutes of assuming custody over the prisoner, they escorted him out to a waiting car. They drove Scharf directly to Stasi headquarters in Normanenstrasse, where he was taken in and kept well-protected by his colleagues. Scharf was given a chance to clean up and shower. Brüske then gave him a neatly pressed new black suit.

Scharf could not hide his gratitude. “Thank you, comrade. I won’t forget this. And when we’ve succeeded with STOSS, you’ll have your choice of assignment.”

Brüske smiled. Advancement was his foremost goal. Then he stiffened and cleared his throat. “They are waiting for you, Comrade Colonel, in the main conference room.”

Scharf finished straightening his tie. “Thank you, comrade.”

Scharf arrived at the conference room within minutes. A dozen generals and half a dozen high-ranking Stasi officials were gathered around a large table, where Thorwald sat at the head. He was one of the few who was in uniform. Most of the other generals had come discreetly, and wore civilian suits.

Thorwald saw Scharf first. “Ah, our esteemed comrade has arrived.”

He walked across the room and shook Scharf’s hand.

“Thank you, Comrade General,” Scharf said.

Thorwald brushed off his thanks with a pat on Scharf’s arm. “What was done, had to be done.”

Thorwald gestured to a chair at the head of the table next to him, inviting Scharf to sit.

“Well, comrades, should we begin?” Thorwald said. “We are now barely thirty-two hours from the start of the operation. You must ensure your troops are ready, while handling this matter with the utmost secrecy. Before we go one last time over the operational plans, I will call roll to make sure each of you have prepared all necessary measures up to now.” Thorwald called each of the generals and Stasi officials by name. Each answered with a terse variation of “Ready.”

Only General Beyer, the head of Frontier Command Central, gave a different answer. “We are ready, Comrade General, but I must raise a question of security.” He turned toward Scharf. “We appreciate that you are with us again, Comrade Colonel Scharf. Furthermore, we would not be here now if not for your bold and excellent leadership in this endeavor. However, before we continue, we must examine the ramifications of your recent setback. We would be lying to ourselves if we did not acknowledge that this can greatly affect us all.”

The room was brought to a sobering silence, and all eyes turned toward Scharf and Beyer.

For his part, Scharf stared directly back at Beyer.

“So,” Beyer challenged, “Where do we stand in terms of security?”

Scharf spoke with calm directness. He knew his answer would impact the confidence of every one of the conspirators in the room. “I understand your concern, Comrade General Beyer. However, it would be a mistake to characterize my arrest as anything more than a minor setback. We have given the Minister of Defense little factual evidence to proceed upon. He only had the tape, which I told him was a set-up to catch our mole. The Minister of State Security has helped us offer an alternate theory to Honecker, and according to our reports, the old man has swallowed it. I revealed nothing further. Our comrades in audio analysis have proffered us with a false lead in Comrade Taube. Now they’ve also destroyed the tape. We have three persons in custody supporting our theory: one of the assassins who attacked me earlier this year, the black marketeer who sold the audio equipment to our mole, and the traitor in our own State Security ranks who sold the equipment to him. Our story will win out.”

“But there is a mole that made the recording. A mole that arranged General Dietrich’s assassination and attempted to kill you. You don’t know the identity of this person, do you?” Beyer challenged.

Scharf shifted slightly. “Soon, comrade. We will very soon.”

“Then I propose that you find this mole before the operation gets underway. Until you find this person, we don’t know how much of a threat he presents to us. Furthermore, the Minister of Defense will still be looking for you. It is safest if you stay out of our company until we have succeeded in our mission.” With these words, Beyer turned the room in his favor. There were nods and quiet grunting humpfs of approval.

Another general spoke up. “Let’s put it to a vote. We propose that Comrade Scharf dedicate himself to eliminating the security threat. We can all handle your other operational duties in the meantime, comrade, and when you are finished, you will of course return to your role of leadership in this mission.”

Scharf soured. He felt he was being pushed aside, but inwardly, he knew he had brought this upon himself. His ostentatious wielding of power had made him a target of his enemies, and contrary to the assertions of his ego, he had learned he was not invulnerable. The council was making a magnanimous gesture by not excluding him entirely. Since they recognized his value in initiating the operation, they only requested he take this leave of absence. Still, Scharf felt it was a patronizing gesture, and though he would not show his pride was wounded, he felt the blow as each of his fellow conspirators voted against him.

The vote was unanimous.

Thorwald stood and approached Scharf gently, offering his hand. “We will see you soon, comrade.”

Scharf stood, dumbstruck. He left, knowing there was no way to preserve his dignity when he was being chased from the room. That was the greatest slight of all.

With Scharf gone, Thorwald continued the briefing. The tension eased as they got down to the business of planning the invasion. An aide slid one of the wood panels along the wall aside, revealing a large map of West Berlin. There were markers indicating specific forces and lines of troop movements. “As you see, comrades, we will divide West Berlin into two sectors of attack.” A line weaved more or less north and south through the middle of West Berlin. “In sector one, the 1st Motorized Rifle Division will lead the attack from the west and south, with the aid of forces from the 34th and 44th regiments of Border Troop Command Central and 5th regiment Border Troop Command North. In sector two, units from the 1st Motorized Rifles will also head from the Brandenburg Gate down the Strasse 17. Juni toward the heart of Charlottenburg. The 33rd Border Troop regiment and the 18th People’s Police Barrack Troops will provide flank for the assault. Meanwhile the 38th and 40th Border Troop regiments will attack Reinickendorf in the north, while the 35th, 39th and 42nd Border Troop regiments attack Neukölln and Kreuzberg in the south. In this sector, we will begin by funneling several units of these Border Troops via underground S-Bahn trains into West Berlin. As they will move in the dead of night, near the time the trains stop running, they should raise little alarm.

“The airports will be a major focus of our attack; 1st Motorized will lead the attack against Tegel from the ground while two companies of the the 40th Airborne will assault from the air. Another company of the 40th will land on Tempelhof. Gatow in the British sector will be the easiest to attack; our engineering forces will demolish the fence directly between Gatow and the GDR along the border, and motorized units of the 1st will invade along with paratroopers. The 34th Helicopter Squadron will provide air support for each of these air assaults. We will have further air and artillery support ready, though our primary objective is to use stealth in inserting an overwhelming force.”

“No artillery barrage?” one of the generals asked.

“That’s one deviation from the official STOSS plans. We want to secure West Berlin with the least amount of damage possible. Its assets are highly valuable. Strike teams will occupy all water, electrical, and communications plants within the first hour, followed by government buildings and the most economically valuable private facilities. Our signals teams will begin jamming the Allied communications an hour and a half before zero hour. Land and air forces will converge from all sides, and the two major assault forces will meet at the rally point at Kaiserdamm bridge.”

The generals nodded in agreement. They all knew their assignments, but felt the electricity of the moment. They were now only a day away from the mission. They had deftly rallied their forces under the guise of assembling for the Republic Day parade, due to be held at noon in two days. The night before, Thorwald would lead these men in an invasion which would change the republic forever.

“Now, our colleagues in State Security,” Thorwald continued, gesturing to the Stasi men, “will ensure that all significant enemy centers will be immediately occupied.”

This ran a huge gamut, from intelligence facilities and police stations to company and party headquarters and research facilities. Anything useful, and anything that could be the point of leverage and revolt against the invasion, had to be secured. The army troops would occupy the Allied military centers themselves, but all other points of interest would be under the control of the Stasi. Nearly 32,000 troops would be involved in the invasion.

“Zero hour is 0100 hours Monday morning.”

That same afternoon, the Minister of Defense secretly called an emergency meeting with the heads of each military branch in Strausberg. The Minister trusted these military chiefs implicitly, and he now called on them for aid.

“There has been a threat issued against the State,” the Minister explained. “We discovered a tape recording, in which a conspiracy to carry out Operation STOSS and a subsequent takeover of our government were revealed. While we know the identity of one of the conspirators―an officer in the State Security―not all of the other leaders of this putsch are known. The threat appears to be imminent, and they may be using our Republic Day festivities as a cover for their operation. As I have already canceled the usual military exercises that surround our celebration, you will know that any movement of troops is unauthorized. I urge you all to take great care in examining your brigades for any rogue action.”

The generals, all long-time career military men, understood the threat and nodded in solemn agreement.

“Furthermore,” the Minister continued, “I will create two elite task forces to deal with this matter. One will be for the protection of our leadership, including the First Secretary and the Politburo as well as the heads of each essential ministry. The other will be tasked with rooting out the leadership of this conspiracy. I need not remind you of the importance of keeping this information absolutely secret, but as one of the key conspirators has already been identified as a member of the State Security, we can trust no one until their plans have been thwarted. I will keep in direct contact with each of you as further information develops.”

The Minister dismissed the meeting and headed to his office. He called the leader of the second task force, who he had already assigned to track down Scharf. While there was nothing yet to report, the men were pressing hard. The Minister knew there was little time.

Scharf was furious with the humiliation he had suffered in the conference room. Now Brüske led him down to the cells where Kollwitz was being kept. As Scharf moved down the stairwell, he fumed with rage. Slowly, however, he found a strange solace in his current task. He realized he could release his anger upon Kollwitz. This was probably necessary, as Kollwitz was bound to resist normal interrogation, but Scharf took especial enjoyment at the thought of torturing his former colleague. They knew each other well, had worked together on many operations, and once formed a sort of camaraderie. But the mission to assassinate Lutz Eigendorf had deeply affected Kollwitz. He felt the act had been petty, cruel, and completely unnecessary. Eigendorf had already suffered enough humiliation for his defection. Kollwitz knew the Stasi planned Eigendorf’s divorce from his wife Gabriele. He knew that Gabriele’s new husband was a Stasi plant. Kollwitz was convinced Eigendorf was assassinated only on the whim of the Stasi Minister, who felt slighted for having one of the best players from his pet Dynamo soccer team defect to the West. Swearing he would never again serve the Stasi Minister’s personal vendettas, Kollwitz suddenly and permanently broke from the Stasi. It was an act of betrayal Scharf would not let pass.

Scharf arrived at Kollwitz’s cell, a dark, cavernous hole deep within the Normanenstrasse complex. There were bars on the doorways in the corridor, and a deep sense of despair seemed to emanate from the place. It was not merely that these cells and corridors were dreary, but the place seemed haunted by the thousands of lives that had all hope extinguished here. Kollwitz was sitting upright at a table in the otherwise barren room, enduring intense interrogation. Scharf could see the guards had already started beating him—Kollwitz’s face and hands were already bruised. Yet Kollwitz sat straight, strangely defiant. Seeing Kollwitz, something changed within Scharf. He no longer wished to mercilessly beat on him until the man was crushed, but reacted to Kollwitz’s defiance with a strange sort of amusement. His anger was swept away with a new calmness, a new sense of objective. He felt like a cat toying with his small, wounded prey. He wanted to smirk down at Kollwitz when he had taken all volition from him. Only then would his prisoner be finally crushed.

Kollwitz’s eyes were on the table in front of him, but he raised them slowly to meet Scharf’s gaze. Scharf smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Kollwitz.”

Kollwitz’s mouth curled into a snarl. “You’re a cold bastard, Scharf.”

Scharf smirked, sat casually across the table from Kollwitz and shook his head. “Yet you turned on the Fatherland to become a capitalist traitor.”

“You know why I left. You’re a pack of wolves that hunts your prey to extinction. It’s only a matter of time before you start to devour yourselves.”

“We do what’s necessary. You know that,” Scharf said.

“Eigendorf wasn’t necessary.”

Scharf sighed, weary that Kollwitz hadn’t allowed bygones to be bygones. Eigendorf was old history; why hadn’t Kollwitz moved on? If he hadn’t made it into such a divisive issue, Kollwitz might still have been among the Stasi’s ranks.

“Those were just orders,” Scharf said. “We didn’t make the decision. Someone higher up did.”

Kollwitz looked at Scharf ruefully. “And yet we followed through with it. That’s when I realized I was a fool.”

Scharf let out a sharp ha.

Kollwitz soured. “But you and your kind, Scharf, you’re just merciless bastards. You stick with it because you like to cause pain.”

Something flickered across Scharf’s face. One of Kollwitz’s words registered with him, but before Kollwitz could discern exactly how, it was gone. Scharf was calm and blank again. He paused, then smirked. “Perhaps you never really understood us. But when you left, you changed sides. That’s a different matter.”

“Anything you do to me will only reinforce the reasons why I left. You Stasi only know how to be cruel.”

Scharf’s eyes glinted like steel as he smiled, a full, teeth-baring grin. “You miss the larger point, Kollwitz.”

“Which is?”

Scharf leaned in, his smile disappearing as fire burned in his eyes. “I’ll be around a long, long time after you’re dead.”

Scharf turned and left.

Eclipsed by the guards’ shadows, Kollwitz prepared to be beaten again. The last thing he noticed before a jarring blow was the sticky sound of the guard’s leather glove crinkling into a fist.

26

Hans slept little that night. He lay next to Anna until she drifted off to sleep, then crept out of the bedroom. He stepped into the living room, where stark moonlight illuminated the carpet in an unnaturally dark hue and outlined the furniture in silhouette. Deep shadows covered the rest of the room in an impenetrably dark void. Hans sat in the darkness and wondered if he and Anna would ever leave the GDR alive. He was terribly discouraged that Scharf was now loose. Hans wondered if all his work had been for naught, but found some comfort when he reminded himself that he was finally with Anna again. Knowing the pain she had suffered over the last two months, Hans swore he would get her out alive at any cost. Refocused with purpose, Hans spent the rest of the night silently planning how he’d get Anna safely to the West.

By one o’clock that night Kollwitz’s face was the hue and consistency of ripened plum. The guards pounded mercilessly on him, a strange combination of sadism and urgency driving their punches. Kollwitz knew their plan and would not give them satisfaction. He was resigned to the fact he would die here in pain. Scharf would not pull from him the last vestiges of his dignity, or the name of the buyer they sorely needed. Finally, the guards relented, their energy spent more than his endurance. Nevertheless, Kollwitz knew it would be a short respite. The guards left Kollwitz sprawled on the concrete floor. Slowly he pushed himself up into a sitting position against the wall. His left eye was swollen shut in dark purple ball. He could only see through the narrow slit of his half-closed right eyelid. His ears were ringing, dripping blood, but Kollwitz no longer cared. He looked through the slit of his eye and called to the two guards across the room. “May I have a cigarette?”

The smaller guard stared at Kollwitz and scoffed. “Filthy habit. Those things will kill you.”

Kollwitz managed to laugh and smiled through blood-stained teeth. Nearly choking, he spit out a glob of blood before he spoke again. “Not much reason to worry about that now.”

The guards looked at each other. Finally the stockier of the two, the real bruiser, shrugged. Why not. He reached into his shirt pocket, fished out a pack of cigarettes, and held it in front of the prisoner.

Kollwitz slowly shook his head. “No, not those. I want mine.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re imported,” Kollwitz explained. “They don’t taste like asphalt.”

The brute pulled his pack away in surprise. Quite a snob, this one. Clearly he had not worked him over enough.

“Where are they?” the guard asked, fishing through Kollwitz’s belongings.

“Left breast pocket of my jacket,” Kollwitz said.

The guard pulled out an expensive silver-lined cigarette case and opened it. The cigarettes had gold-rimmed filters. He looked at the open case and frowned. Clearly Kollwitz’s tastes had turned bourgeoisie when he betrayed the Stasi. The stockier guard pulled out one of the cigarettes and held it under his nose, sniffing it. “Hmm, not bad.” He offered the cigarette to Kollwitz. Then, holding the case in front of his prisoner, he closed it dramatically and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “I’m keeping the rest.”

“Help yourself,” Kollwitz said, struggling not to drop the cigarette from his bruised lips.

The guard held his lighter to the cigarette, then stood back and watched. Kollwitz inhaled a short breath and exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. Slowly he raised his battered hand to grasp the cigarette in his mouth. “Thank you.”

He inhaled again, deeply, then leaned back against the wall and closed his one good eye. Kollwitz smiled and exhaled the smoke toward the guards, a feeling of deep relaxation coming over him.

The stocky guard took Kollwitz’s gesture as an insult, and raised his fist to club him again.

He was too late.

Kollwitz slumped to the side, his back sliding downward against the wall until he lay prone on the floor.

“No!” Both guards rushed over to the prisoner. The stocky guard grabbed the cigarette and examined it, then threw it away in disgust. The smaller guard tried to shake Kollwitz back to consciousness, but the poison in the cigarette had worked fast.

Kollwitz was now beyond their grasp.

Mason arrived at the apartment around seven-thirty in the morning. Anna and Hans had anxiously awaited his arrival, hoping he had an answer to evade the growing net that was inevitably waiting for them at the border.

Mason, however, had startling news. “I don’t think you’ll want to go to West Berlin, at least for now.” He pulled a series of dispatches from his coat pocket. “We just intercepted these last night.”

Hans read the dispatches and looked at Mason in alarm. “Can you verify these?” Hans asked.

“They’re confirmed. All National People’s Army medical units are quietly increasing their blood supplies.”

It was an ominous sign. Hans knew armies had only one reason to increase blood supplies.

Mason turned to Anna. “And while the army keeps eighty-five percent of its units ready at all times, all units around Berlin have canceled leaves as of this morning. That’s not all. With the parade scheduled for tomorrow, it won’t be hard to move more troops into position.”

Despite Hans’ warnings and Scharf’s arrest, Operation STOSS was still going forward.

“Does NATO know about this?” Hans asked.

“What about the Minister of Defense?” Anna added.

“This is raw data, less than two hours old,” Mason said. “We didn’t intercept these orders through electronic signals. I can’t say more. It’s a good chance the Ministry of Defense is blind. All of this started just before dawn. They’re trying to be subtle. We’ve recommended the Allied brigades be put on alert, but no one wants to create a standoff.”

“What about the U.S. Military Liaison Mission?” Hans asked.

Mason shook his head. “They can’t do more than what’s already been done.”

“Are you sure the invasion is on?” Anna asked.

“Definitively, no. But this, taken in context with the information Hans has collected—well, we don’t have the luxury of hoping for the best.”

Hans knew what he had to do. “I have to get this information to the Minister of Defense.”

“No, wait…” Anna pleaded.

Hans shook his head, already determined. “If the Minister doesn’t have this information, someone has to give it to him. And if the Stasi are trying to convince Honecker there’s no threat, then we have to show there’s evidence that backs the case against Scharf.”

“But Scharf is out there, probably looking for you,” Anna said.

“That’s something I’ll have to risk. I’m not going to just sit here and watch the city tear itself apart.” He turned to Mason. “Can I show these dispatches to the Minister without endangering the sources?”

Mason nodded. “You won’t be able to verify them, but they are formatted as official military dispatches. Assuming preparations continue, that will speak for their veracity.”

“Look after her,” Hans said, referring to Anna, “and get her out when you can. I’ll contact you as soon as anything develops.” Hans turned to Anna. “I have to stop this,” he said, then left.

Hans drove to his apartment in Mitte, where he changed into his gray Border Troop uniform. Even on a Sunday morning, he would not be allowed onto the Defense Ministry compound in civilian clothes. The traffic was lighter than on a weekday, but this being a holiday weekend, Hans had to take more detours than anticipated. Crews were dressing the parade route along Karl-Marx Allee, and in some places re-routed the traffic directly into his path. Once he had finished dressing at his apartment, Hans drove again through the holiday traffic, eastward toward Strausberg. He arrived at the Defense Ministry at a quarter to ten. Given the preparations on the eve of the GDR’s 36th anniversary celebration and the chaos of the Scharf investigation, Hans wagered the Minister would be in his office this Sunday.

To Hans’ surprise, the secretary informed him that the Defense Minister had gone north to make a special inspection of the 3rd Air Division in Trollenhagen, just north of Neubrandenburg. This air force unit was charged with the defense of the northern half of the GDR. Hans could not understand why the Minister would now make an impromptu visit to a base far outside Berlin. Perhaps the base commander was good friends with the Minister, and the old man had reached out to his closest allies for support. Or maybe it was a regularly scheduled visit, and the Minister was keeping up appearances. Still, an air force division in Neubrandenburg could offer little help if tens of thousands of troops invaded West Berlin in the south. Hans only knew he had to reach the Defense Minister there.

Scharf was furious when he was told of Kollwitz’s suicide. He could not believe the guards had been so foolish, but there was nothing that could be done now. In truth, Kollwitz’s death was just the latest in a series of events that had kept Scharf off-balance. Beginning with his arrest, Scharf was thrown into a chaotic downward spiral. He believed Kollwitz’s capture and his own release would be the end of his free-fall, but now he was on an even more dangerous precipice. If his co-conspirators had lost confidence in him, it would not be long before someone tried to push him completely out of the picture. He had worked too long and too hard for that. Scharf had always been feared and respected, and now on the cusp of realizing his great invasion, he swore that his comrades would have to return him to his central position of power. With Kollwitz dead, there was only one option to uncover the pesky mole: break Anna. She had proven to be a most difficult prisoner, and would not submit to his pressure. She would have to now.

Scharf arrived at the U-boot wing of Hohenschönhausen. To his horror, Anna’s cell was empty. Scharf sought out a guard and ran into Hübner. “Where is the prisoner?” he inquired.

Hübner looked bewildered. “She was transferred to the custody of the Ministry of Defense two days ago.”

Scharf sank. He never realized how far ahead of him the Defense Minister’s team had been. Scharf turned to walk up the steps toward the ground floor.

Suddenly a thought hit him—how did the Minister’s men know about Anna? Scharf had told them he had an assassin in custody, but he had never disclosed Anna’s full identity or location.

“Wait!” Scharf called Hübner back. “Who took her into custody for the Ministry of Defense?”

“It was a lieutenant colonel in the Border Troops,” Hübner said. He thought for a moment, trying to recall the man’s name. “Um… a Lieutenant Colonel Brandt.”

“Brandt!” Hans Brandt, the Special Liaison to the State Council for Defense Matters. Hans Brandt, good friend of Politburo member Wolfgang Müller, a man who never directly challenged Scharf, but was clearly not an ally. Hans Brandt, who reported directly to the Minister of Defense—had to be the mole. How could he have not have seen it?

Scharf bolted toward the administration building. He rushed into the first empty office and grabbed the phone off the desk. Brüske had spotted Scharf running across the courtyard, and came in soon after, breathless. Scharf dialed the office of the Minister of Defense and asked for Brandt.

“I’m sorry, but Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt just left for Trollenhagen to meet with the Minister,” the secretary on the line told him.

Scharf hung up and turned to Brüske. “Get me a helicopter to Neubrandenburg.”

Brüske nodded and ran off to make the arrangements.

Scharf then phoned Stasi headquarters. “I need to speak to the Minister of State Security right away.”

27

Hans pushed the Trabant’s engine to its limits, hurtling north along country roads toward Trollenhagen. There were only narrow, winding country roads between Berlin and Neubrandenburg, many of which dated back to the time before cars. The roads were paved, but some were in poor condition, and trees lined much of the route just inches from the edge of the asphalt. Hans could not drive as fast as he wished on these roads. A random pothole or errant driver on the opposite side of the two-lane road could be disastrous. Running into a curve at too high a speed brought equal peril.

Hans drove deep into the Mecklenburg countryside. Here were the fertile remains from the last glacial age: numerous lakes, rolling hills, and thick, deep forest. The land had a sleepy, folklorish quality to it, but more than that, it seemed to hold a mystical sense of foreboding. Certainly the land had a strange and dark history stretching as far back as the Bronze Age. There were legends and some architectural evidence that a Slavic holy site stood on the edge of Lake Tollense well over a thousand years ago. Several miles to the southwest, the town of Penzlin was the site of witch trials, torture, and burnings in the 1600s. More recently, the area was haunted by the ghastly actions of the Nazis. In the picturesque village of Alt Rehse, Nazi doctors began the inhumane and criminal medical experiments that would be employed in concentration camps. During the war there had even been a small Nazi work camp in the woods to the east of Lake Tollense. Once again, the land seemed to have a dark mystical pull, and it added to Hans’ unease as he drove on.

He was just a few miles southeast of Neubrandenburg, driving through a small village, when he came to a roadblock. A large panel truck was parked diagonally across the narrow street, completely blocking all lanes of traffic. It seemed the truck had been backed up to the entrance of a small shop to offload wares, but at this moment, no one stood by the vehicle’s open back gate. Hans watched for the driver, but there was no movement in the truck’s cab. Seeing he was hemmed in by the panel truck in front and houses on both sides of the road, Hans sighed and shifted into reverse.

Before the Trabant began to lurch backward, the passenger door opened.

To Hans’ shock, Scharf climbed in. “Hello, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt. Where are you headed?”

Hans knew he had been caught. Still, he vowed to remain calm and play along until he found an opportunity to resist.

“Stralsund,” Hans said.

“That’s exactly where I’m going,” Scharf smiled. “But… my car broke down. Mind if I come along?”

Still reeling, Hans focused on projecting outward calm. “Not at all.”

Suddenly, the panel truck began to move, clearing the road ahead.

Hans shifted into first gear and drove on. Within moments, they were out of the village and back in the rolling countryside.

The men rode in silence. Hans found himself back on a narrow tree-lined road. Again, only inches separated the thick oaks from the edge of the asphalt. Large white rectangles were painted along the trunks of trees to alert drivers at night or in bad weather. As Hans rounded a curve, he felt the torque push the car toward the trees. Hans’ hands tensed on the wheel as he looked to the edge of the road. He contemplated swerving the car into the trees, smashing the passenger side and Scharf with it. But he decided against it, sensing this posed too great a danger to himself.

Hans felt his Makarov against his right hip, hidden by his overcoat. He hoped Scharf would not see its outline. Regardless of its concealment, Hans would not have enough time to draw the gun before Scharf could react. He could not pull his hands from the wheel, reach into his coat, and unbutton the holster before Scharf could stop him. Hans continued to drive and brainstorm his options, all the while glancing off to the side at Scharf.

Scharf was relaxed in the passenger seat. Hans was now well within the jaws of his trap, and Scharf intended to toy with his prey. “You know, it’s a funny business we work in. We both search for weakness. Yours, along the border; mine, with people. Deficiencies, discrepancies, disloyalties—weakness. Our methods may be different, but in the end, the work is the same. Yes, you’re dealing with a problem of engineering and I with psychology, but in the end, it all ends up being about analysis, containment, control. It’s a strange thing, separating people and countries. We can’t always use the most benevolent methods. I’m sure you feel conflicted at times by your duty―I know I do.”

“It is never hard to do one’s duty,” Hans replied flatly.

Scharf laughed, a boisterous eruption that only served to heighten the tension in the car. “Please, Comrade Brandt. There’s no one here to placate. Let us be honest with each other.”

“If you want to speak honestly, you’d be the first member of State Security to do it.”

Scharf stared at Hans for a moment, his eyes turning icy. Then something melted, and his smile returned. “That’s the problem. Too many lies. No one can know who’s telling the truth anymore.”

Hans had enough. “I’m not sure most of you can take the truth.”

Scharf sighed and looked toward the road. “There are many who can’t, Comrade Brandt. But I must. There are no secrets in this country—only lies. Lies the people tell to each other, lies the government tells to the people, lies the people tell to themselves. It is my job to know every lie—and the truth behind it. There are millions of lies, but only one truth.” He smiled his thin, devilish smile. “No, it’s not that communism is man’s salvation. Surprisingly,” he laughed, “that is one of the greatest lies of all. Ideology is a lie, the excuse we make to justify our actions. The only real truth, the only thing imperative to man, is survival.”

In a flash, Scharf pulled a Makarov from his coat and aimed it dead at Hans. “And you, Comrade Brandt, should have learned that.”

Hans braked hard, throwing Scharf forward. Hans curled himself up, trying to avoid the inevitable gunshot, but it never came.

Scharf, caught off-guard for a brief moment, regained control before Hans could act further. Pressed against the dashboard and windshield, Scharf aimed directly at Hans’ heart. “Not good enough.”

Merely annoyed, Scharf ordered Hans out of the car, warning him to make no sudden movement.

They were now in a ravine, the road cutting through the base like a black river. Scharf ordered Hans to walk uphill to the neighboring pasture, all the while keeping his hands visible. After climbing about twenty feet, they came to the crest of the hill. Before them the pasture fell into a rolling small valley. Beyond it was thick forest, already deeply hued with the colors of fall. The valley was perhaps a quarter of a mile wide. Scharf pushed them on, moving out of sight of the road. Hans walked in front with the pistol jammed into the small of his back.

When they reached a point some two to three hundred feet from the road, Scharf ordered him to stop. He circled around to face Hans, keeping the gun aimed at him. “Now, slowly, take off your coat. No sudden movement.”

Hans complied.

“Throw it aside. Hands up. Now, tell me about the girl,” Scharf said. “What was it that made you come after her?” He searched Hans’ face for a reaction. “Was she your lover?” Scharf indulged in the moment, even giving himself to a lie just to add to Hans’ torment and confusion. “She can do amazing things, can’t she? But not worth getting killed over.”

Hans didn’t fall into the trap of reacting. Silently, he watched for an opportunity to act.

“Take off the belt,” Scharf ordered, “but don’t even think about touching that holster.”

Hans removed his belt, dangling the holster at the low end, away from his hand. In his hand, at the belt buckle, was his only usable weapon—the concealed spring-loaded belt buckle gun.

“Should I toss it?” Hans asked, making a mock movement of tossing the belt and holster.

Scharf was not amused. “Ah ah.” Scharf raised his gun toward Hans’ head.

Scharf used his free hand to reach into his coat pocket and pulled out a paper. “So, let’s get to it. I have a warrant for your arrest, Brandt. Attempted murder, espionage, treason against the state… I could go on. There will be a helicopter here in a moment to take you to State Security headquarters.” His eyes narrowed to black pinpoints. “I promise you, the rest of your life will be spent in great pain.” He gripped the pistol tight in his hand as he walked toward Hans. “It will be like your every nerve and pore is on fire. Or, you can tell me what you know now, and I swear, we can forgo all of that.”

Hans’ shoulders fell in defeat. “What do you want to know?”

Scharf lowered the gun from Hans’ head. He was only a few feet away from Hans, standing directly in front of him. “Now,” said Scharf, “who are you working with?”

Hans squeezed a hidden lever on his belt buckle, firing a bullet at Scharf. The bullet grazed past Scharf’s cheek, taking him off-guard. In nearly the same motion, Hans sprang toward Scharf, leaping so quickly into action that it caught the Stasi man by surprise. The Makarov fired, grazing Hans’ arm, but he was already on top of Scharf, swiping at the gun with his left arm as he drove the heel of his right hand upward into Scharf’s nose.

The next few seconds were a violent, frantic blur. Scharf was falling backwards, off-balance, but he bent his wrist inward and aimed another shot at Hans’ head. Hans moved just a fraction of a second early and felt his eardrum pop as the muzzle fired past his ear. Scharf tried to shove his knee hard into Hans’ groin as Hans fell on top of him, but he missed and the blow glanced off Hans’ side. Hans punched Scharf’s nose, sending blood streaming down his face. Scharf finally landed hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him. Hans took advantage of the fraction of a second he had to act and chopped hard at the gun with both hands until it went cartwheeling away out of reach.

Scharf swiveled upwards and to his right, bringing his left fist with the force of his whole body into the back of Hans’ head. He punched hard a second time, but Hans countered by driving his elbow into Scharf’s face. The blow met Scharf’s nose and broke it to the side, bending it in an ugly S-shape. Hans drove his elbow hard again, hitting Scharf in the throat, nearly crushing his Adam’s apple. Scharf used his left arm to grapple with Hans as he reached with his right arm for his hip coat pocket. He pulled out his telescopic cosh and retracted it with the flick of his wrist. Scharf struck wildly at Hans, hitting his hands and back. Hans tried to grab Scharf’s arm and arrest the cosh’s movement, but Scharf broke free. Just as he raised the cosh to swing it at Hans’ head, Hans dove away to his left. Scharf backhanded the cosh into the rear of Hans’ skull.

Suddenly Hans saw only stars and blackness.

Hans desperately reached for the last thing he saw—Scharf’s Makarov. He knew it was in the grass before him, and he clawed through the dirt and grass blades wildly until he grasped the cold steel. Hans’ vision hazily returned as he fixed the gun in his hand with his finger on the trigger. He swerved back on his elbows to see Scharf rising up at him with the cosh, a wild, blood-lust frenzy in his eyes. Scharf aimed for Hans’ temple—he meant to kill, and would have done so in a single stroke—but as he reared up to swing, Hans fired.

The bullet drove with ferocious accuracy through Scharf’s skull. For a moment, Scharf was frozen in a statuesque pose, his arm raised with the cosh held high. Blood started to trickle down his forehead. Scharf gasped in shock, then fell backward, collapsing to the ground in a heap. Hans prepared to fire a second time, but it was not necessary. Scharf convulsed twice in a death roll and was still.

For several seconds, adrenaline still coursed through Hans’ veins. It took him a moment to register that the threat was over. At first, he stared at Scharf’s body with a strange curiosity. A misshapen, lifeless shell was all that remained of the man who had nearly killed him. Hans could not believe this was the end of the man who had threatened to invade West Berlin and overthrow the GDR government.

The longer Hans looked at Scharf’s disfigured, beaten face, a wave of nausea overcame him. Hans turned away, looking toward the horizon where the rolling hills met a light-blue sky. He now felt the throbbing sharp pain in his left ear, accompanied by the hollow gauze of temporary deafness. There was also a stinging pain across the back of his head. Hans didn’t know it, but the blow from Scharf’s cosh had lacerated his scalp. Hans got to his knees slowly, trying to maintain balance. When he finally got to his feet, he looked around. The pasture was still empty, and they were now nearly three hundred feet from the road on a slight slope that led toward the forest.

Hans had little time. He glanced toward the sky for any sight of a helicopter. Not seeing one brought little comfort. With only one good ear to listen for the sounds of the blades and a throbbing pain in his head, Hans considered his senses incredibly unreliable. He turned back to Scharf’s body and decided to search it.

Avoiding looking at Scharf’s face, Hans rifled through the dead man’s pockets. He took the arrest warrant Scharf had shown him and noted it had been personally signed by the Minister of State Security. There was also a small scrap of paper in Scharf’s pocket with only a set of numbers written on it. By their order, Hans guessed it was a radio frequency. Hans took it, wondering if it could be important. The next paper he found was clearly significant. It read, in the specific language of East German military orders:

5.10.1985

Worthy Comrade General Thorwald!

You are hereby ordered, under the authority of the General Secretary and Chairman of the State Council of the German Democratic Republic, to carry out Operation STOSS, the invasion and occupation of West Berlin. The operation will commence on the 7th of October at 01.30 hours. You are to use secure communications to ensure all involved units, as outlined in the operational plans, are prepared and in place to begin at the aforementioned time. Furthermore, you will block all adversary communications beginning at 23.45 hours on the 6th of October. All units under your command are to be placed on high alert prior to the beginning of the operation, although secrecy is of the highest priority.

I send with you, comrade, the highest hopes for success!

With socialist greetings,

E. Honecker

Honecker’s signature, a simple E.H., was on the order, yet Hans knew it was a forgery. It looked, however, surprisingly authentic. More alarming was the fact that operations were indeed to begin tonight, with signal jamming on Allied communications to begin in less than eight hours. As discomforting as this news was, Hans was also contented. He no longer had a case of suppositions, dispatches, and tracking of movements to show to the Defense Minister. Here was definitive proof.

There was also an additional handwritten scrawl in the bottom right corner of the paper. It was only two letters: “BL.” Hans briefly scanned over the document one more time. There was no other indication as to what “BL” meant.

Hans folded all three papers and started to put them in his pocket. Only then did he notice he had smeared blood on them. Hans looked at his hands and saw they were spattered with Scharf’s blood. Hans wiped his hands on the ground and Scharf’s coat, then tried to clear the blood off of the papers. The best he could do was smudge the blood into an iodine-like bronzed stain. The words, at least, were still clearly legible.

The rhythmic sound of rotors sounded an immediate alarm. Hans grabbed Scharf’s Makarov and bolted. Judging that he could not make it back to the car, he headed downslope toward the forest for cover. Just as he plunged into the depths of the forest’s underbrush, the helicopter crested over the horizon. It buzzed over the pasture and took a predatory circle around the field. Then, the helicopter flew low to the ground, taking a closer look at Scharf’s body.

Hans held his breath, knowing he would be hunted as soon as the helicopter recognized Scharf. Suddenly, the helicopter’s nose raised, and like an animal on a scent trail, took a beeline toward the forest.

Hans ran, pushing deeper into the woods, running and slipping down the damp slope of ground. The helicopter hovered just above the treetops, its downdraft causing the forest canopy to sway and heave as if caught in an ocean current. A vortex of golden leaves swirled in the gale, and the top branches groaned and parted enough to give the helicopter pilot a glimpse of the forest floor. Hans had just reached the thickest growth, where the stout trees would not part so easily. Still, to ensure his safety, he quickly concealed himself in a camouflage of dead leaves on the ground.

The helicopter hovered over the area for several moments, and then moved on over the forest, continuing its search. Hans had little time to relax. As soon as the pulsing rhythm of the rotors abated, he heard the shouts of men. They too, seemed to be coming from the pasture, and Hans sensed the men had come up from the road and also seen Scharf’s body. They were too close for him to remain in his current hiding place. Hans looked toward the men, then toward his escape route—the forest in the opposite direction from the helicopter—and ran.

Hans reached a stream at the bottom of a gently sloping tree-covered ravine. He crouched beside the stream and turned his good ear back toward the men, listening. From their shouts, Hans knew he had not been spotted, but they were still on his trail. Hans listened for the barking of dogs, and was relieved when he did not hear them. The men would only be able to track him by sight. Hans scanned his surroundings. The slope on the other side of the stream was slightly steeper, but not far above, the trees were thicker and offered better cover.

Hans charged up the slope, grasping onto tree trunks to gain leverage in the soft soil as he climbed. Armed with another surge of adrenaline when the helicopter first appeared, Hans had run on pure survival instinct. Now, though he felt the ever-present danger, his limbs seemed rubbery. His head still throbbed from Scharf’s blows, and the pain in his eardrum was sharp and piercing. It seemed to take every bit of energy he had to reach the top of the slope.

Exhausted, Hans slumped against the trunk of a large tree to rest. He turned and glanced around the tree to see two men emerge at the top of the opposite side of the ravine. They looked down toward the stream and hurried down the bank. After briefly consulting with each other, then men turned and headed along the stream in opposite directions.

Hans crept out from the tree, moving through the forest away from the ravine.

Suddenly one of the men ascended out of the ravine, some fifty meters away. Hans froze, carefully pressing his back against the trunk of a nearby tree, out of sight. He waited and watched as the man continued through the forest, moving ever closer. Hans gripped the Makarov tight in his hand and prayed he would not have to use it. He had little energy left for another confrontation, and even if he brought down the first man with a bullet, the gunshot would certainly bring others in hot pursuit.

The man edged nearer. Just as Hans was about to turn and fire, the man changed direction and gradually moved off, scanning the forest as he went. Hans watched him until he disappeared, then breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Steeling himself, he stumbled onward into the woods. Hans knew it was too risky to try to double back to the road. By now, more of Scharf’s men would likely be there. He would have to forge ahead.

Hans had gone almost half a mile through the forest when he reached a small hill. Beyond it was another meadow. In the middle of the meadow was a farmhouse.

Hans waited at the edge of the forest, watching the house carefully. The windows were darkened and the house seemed still. After thirty seconds, Hans ventured out of the woods and across the field. He moved swiftly to the back door of the house and removed a small lock pick from his pocket. Hans quickly disarmed the lock and slipped inside.

The first thing he looked for was a telephone. Once he had canvassed the empty house and found the phone in the living room, he knew he was truly alone.

Hans dialed the base at Trollenhagen. “This is the Liaison to the State Council for Defense Matters,” he explained. “I have an urgent message for the Minister of Defense.”

“I’m sorry,” the watch officer on the other end of the line replied, “but the Minister has returned to Berlin. If it is an emergency, you can contact the adjutant general in Strausberg.”

“No, I need to speak to the Minister directly.”

“He will be attending a party function at the Palace of the Republic later this evening, you might be able to reach him there,” the watch officer suggested.

Hans hung up, then stumbled through the house to the bathroom where he grabbed a bottle of aspirin from the medicine cabinet. He swallowed several pills and washed them down with a slurp of water from the faucet. Hans pocketed the aspirin bottle, then went to the kitchen. He took several pieces of ice from the freezer, and wrapping them in a clean dish towel, placed the icepack gently against his bruised head. He had no further time to address his wounds.

Before leaving the house, Hans looked around for car keys, but found none. He took a long black coat from a hook near the door and put it on. It would be prudent to hide his uniform, but he couldn’t change out of it until he had seen the Minister. He looked in the stand-alone garage for a car, but it was empty.

Hans headed down the dirt path that led from the farmhouse toward the main road with caution. Though he had not seen or heard the men or the helicopter in the last thirty minutes, he remained on edge. Along the main road, Hans passed several countryside houses.

As the daylight faded and shadows lengthened, Hans felt the damp cool evening air settle. Several lights turned on in the houses, casting long yellow patches onto the darkening yards.

Hans walked along a fence where a baby-blue Trabant was parked. This car was in considerably better shape than his pale yellow Trabant. Hans broke in and hot-wired the ignition. The engine sputtered to life with an uneven growl. Hans shifted into gear, and the Trabant’s vibrations smoothed as he accelerated down the road. It had only taken him seconds to steal the car. By the time the owner rushed outside, his beloved Trabant had vanished, leaving only a haze of blue exhaust.

Hans did not relish stealing the car, knowing that GDR policies had likely made the owner wait nearly a decade for the Trabant, but he had greater concerns now. He had to get to Berlin to stop the invasion. He also knew Scharf’s men could be anywhere, and now they would be looking for him.

28

Darkness fell as Hans drove back to Berlin. Before long, he was in pitch-black countryside, his headlights illuminating the narrow stretch of road and trees ahead of him. Hans tensed as the headlights of other cars approached. Not knowing how close Scharf’s men were, every car seemed to pose a threat. The drive along the winding two-lane road seemed endless. Hans lessened his grip on the steering wheel when he arrived at the four-lane divided avenues just outside Berlin. Here, the roads were well-lit with sodium lamps. It would be easier to detect a threat—and just as important—easier to maneuver to counter it.

Hans wove his way through the major thoroughfares toward the Palace of the Republic. He parked the Trabant in the large lot to the west of the Palace’s main entrance, but entered the south side of the building to avoid being spotted by Scharf’s men.

It was now past ten o’clock at night, and the festivities at the Palace had ended over half an hour ago. The building was emptying of officials and their guests, though a few still lingered in the main foyer and surrounding areas. Hans made his way up the stairs to the fourth floor. Just as he was reaching the top of the staircase, he ran into Müller, who was coming from the small 250-seat theater.

“Comrade Müller,” Hans approached with a quiet urgency, “I need your help.” Hans drew the forged operational order from his inner breast pocket and showed it to Müller. “I have to speak to the Defense Minister right away, and I could use your support.”

Müller looked at the blood-stained paper with some concern. “How did you obtain this?”

Hans shook his head. “I don’t have time to explain now, STOSS could already be underway.”

Hans and Müller found the Defense Minister just outside the conference room on the third floor and pulled him aside. After they explained their news was urgent, the Minister ushered them into the privacy of the office of the President of the People’s Chamber.

As soon as they were alone behind closed doors, Hans showed the Defense Minister the forged orders. The Minister read it over twice. “My god,” he exclaimed. It was extremely rare for an avowed atheist and communist to invoke deity, but the startling nature of this revelation was enough for the Minister to invoke unseen aid. “They are beginning in just over an hour.”

The Defense Minister paused before turning to Hans and Müller, not sure if he really wanted confirmation. “How did you get this?”

“I don’t have time to explain,” Hans said, “but I stole this from Comrade Scharf himself.”

“Scharf,” The Minister spat. He looked at the orders again, then swore to himself. “Thorwald. I should have known. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you before, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt. What more do you have?”

Hans shook his head. “This. I believe it’s a radio frequency Scharf’s commanders will use for their communications.” He handed the Minister the numbers.

The Minister looked it over and murmured.

“That also came from Scharf,” Hans said as he looked toward Müller.

The Minister moved to the phone on the desk. “While we’ve had little time to prepare for this situation, I do have a plan. It involves three actions, all of which must happen simultaneously. First, I will issue an immediate stand-down order to all armed forces. It won’t stop a rogue operation, but it’s a start. Then, the commanders of each branch of the armed forces will directly order their units to intercept, block, and impede the progress of any rogue troops. Second, I am calling up all elite security units of the People’s Police and military—with the exception of the State Security—to protect the First Secretary, ministers, and Politburo to ensure the continuity and security of our government. Third, I’ve appointed a task force, already at work, to find the leadership of this conspiracy and cut them off. We need only to know where to start.”

Hans pointed to the numbers. “If I’m correct and this is the radio frequency Scharf’s commanders will use, we can use direction finding to locate their position, jam their signal, and take out their headquarters.”

“Yes,” the Defense Minister agreed. “But simply trying to triangulate a radio frequency all across Berlin will take too long. Once those troops enter West Berlin, there’ll be no hope of containing the situation.”

The three men looked at the papers once again. Hans’ eyes caught the scrawled “BL” at the bottom of the operational orders. “There,” he pointed.

“Someone’s initials?” Müller asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Hans frowned. “I think it’s a routing code.”

The Minister lightened. “A location?”

“Perhaps,” Hans said. I can’t be sure, but it’s all we have to go on.”

“Well, what starts with ‘BL’?”

“Blankenburg?” Müller offered.

“Possibly,” the Minister said.

“Hmm. What about Blankenfelde?” Hans asked. “It’s just south of Berlin, closer to the West than Blankenburg, but since it’s not near Strausberg or the center of Berlin, it’s a perfectly obscure spot to locate operational headquarters for an invasion. And it’s very close to the Berliner Ring, so they could move and communicate easily.”

The Minister weighed Hans’ argument and agreed. “We’ll start with Blankenfelde, and send a back-up team to the Blankenburg area.”

All three men knew they were playing a hunch—a risky one given the stakes at hand. But there was simply no time to weigh the situation further. They had to make a gut decision, and Hans’ gut was telling him he was right.

The Minister set down the papers and dialed a number on the phone. He gave the orders he had described to Hans and Müller, then hung up. “I have to see these orders are carried out immediately,” the Minister said. “I’ll meet back with you here in fifteen minutes.”

Hans saluted the Minister, who then left, forgetting to take the forged orders with him.

Hans picked up the paper, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Müller, who looked to have a concern during the conversation, now bore out his inquiry. “Where is Scharf?”

“Scharf’s dead.”

Müller blinked in naked surprise. “Dead?”

Hans nodded. “He discovered I bugged his conversation with Thorwald. It was purely self-defense.”

Müller nodded, not sure he believed it.

Hans paused, seeing Müller’s doubt. Finally, he pulled the arrest warrant from his pocket. “He had this as a formality, but he had no intention of taking me alive.”

Müller read the warrant and saw the Stasi Minister’s authentic signature affixed at the bottom. Alarmed, he looked up at Hans. “Were you followed?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I haven’t seen anyone since Neubrandenburg.”

“But you could have the entire Stasi on your trail. Until tonight is over, there’s no place safe from Scharf’s men.”

The tiny village of Dahlewitz lay just a few miles south of Blankenfelde. On this Sunday night, it was as sleepy and quiet as ever. Few lights shone from the houses, and the streets were empty as most of the residents had already gone to bed. The village was silent except for the distant whir of traffic on the nearby Berliner Ring autobahn.

There was one single farmhouse, hidden on the outskirts of the village between a long field and thick forest, where lights still burned brightly. Inside, General Thorwald was making final preparations for the invasion. In the living room, a large bank of radio and other communications equipment sat on two long tables. Four soldiers manned the equipment, each wearing headsets. Thorwald would communicate orders to the troops in the field from here through coded communications.

In the farmhouse’s small study, Thorwald gathered with his six top commanders—three generals and three colonels, who were overseeing the operation with him. Thorwald was about to make a critical decision—having heard nothing from Scharf for over seven hours, he felt he could wait no longer for his return.

“The troops are set and ready to move,” one of the generals said.

“And the enemy communications jamming?” Thorwald turned to a colonel in the Signal Corps.

“Ready on your order, Comrade General.”

The room was filled with an electric excitement and the men were eager to get underway.

“We can’t wait any longer for Comrade Scharf,” one of the border guard generals said, clearly impatient. “If we wait, we only increase the likelihood of detection.”

Every one of the men knew he was not only talking about NATO, but also the GDR’s own forces under the Minister of Defense. Scharf’s arrest revealed the plan existed, but not the time and date of the operation. The window for surprise was quickly closing.

“Yes,” Thorwald said. “We go now.”

It was 10:45, an hour ahead of the scheduled communications block. They would now move up the start of full operations to midnight. As Thorwald strode into the living room to give the order to the radio operators, he knew there was no going back.

High above the GDR countryside, three Antonov An-26 twin-engine turboprop airplanes flew in a circuitous route toward Berlin. They approached from opposite sides; two from the north, one from the south. Aboard each of the planes were 40 paratroopers, armed and ready to drop on their targets—the West Berlin airports of Tegel and Tempelhof. As the main commercial airport in West Berlin, Tegel would be invaded by two of the planes. Another twelve Mi-8 helicopters headed east from the 34th Helicopter transport base in Briest, near Brandenburg. The helicopters were loaded with 24 paratroopers each. The men would also drop on the West Berlin airports and other strategic strike points. The helicopters were escorted by another fifteen Mi-24 “Hind” gunships, powerful attack helicopters that would provide cover and firepower for the invasion. With their new orders, the paratroopers would launch their coordinated attack on West Berlin starting at midnight.

Hans and Müller stepped out of the office of the President of the People’s Chamber and headed toward the balcony of the grand foyer. The balcony made a complete rectangle along the second floor of the foyer. Two showcase sets of stairs connected to the floors above and below at the front of the building while two more modest staircases were situated to the rear.

Just as Hans and Müller stepped to the railing, Hans caught sight of someone looking at him from the base of the stairs diagonally across from him. It was a simple glance, but as Hans locked eyes with Brüske, they both knew they had been spotted.

Hans turned to Müller and handed him the forged orders and arrest warrant. “Here,” Hans said. “Take care of these. Don’t let anyone find them, and don’t get caught with them.”

“What are you going to do?”

Hans, seeing Brüske now moving up the stairs toward him, had no time to explain. “Get going and they might not see you. They might just aim for me.”

Hans ran around the balcony of the grand foyer, heading for another staircase. He hoped to distance himself enough from Brüske to get out of the building, but Brüske saw his ploy and bolted down his staircase and across the foyer toward him.

Above, Müller saw two of Brüske’s men heading toward him from the front of the balcony. Müller hurried up the rear staircase to the fourth floor and looked for a place to hide. He entered the theater, now completely dark. With the performance over for the night, the theater staff had quickly closed up shop and left. Müller carefully made his way down the stairs, feeling his way along the railing and seats so as not to trip. When he had found a row of seats not far from the wall, he ducked down and hid in the middle of the row.

No sooner had Müller crouched down, then the door opened, throwing a shaft of light into the darkness. Müller held his breath as the two Stasi agents entered and made their way through the aisles, searching for him. One of the men stumbled on the stairs, catching himself just as he was about to topple downward head-first. He swore loudly, catching an abrupt “Shh!” from his partner.

The men stopped to listen in the black void, but finding their search hopeless, gave up within a few moments. “Let’s go,” one whispered to the other. The acoustics of the empty theater carried his words further than expected. “If he’s in here, we’ll catch him outside the doors.” The men left.

Müller waited only a brief moment before moving. He reckoned the men had not seen or thought of the balcony, which was connected to the lower level by another set of stairs at the far edge of the theater. Müller was sure it was his only hope of escape. He moved as fast as he could safely go in the darkness, climbing until he had reached the doorway at the back of the balcony. He was now on the fifth floor.

Müller slowly opened the door a crack and looked out into the hallway. His eyes had adjusted so much to the darkness that he was initially blinded by the strong fluorescent light of the hall. After briefly allowing his irises to close down, he looked again and found the hallway empty. Müller slipped out the door and moved toward the conference rooms. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to his right. There was the door to the People’s Chamber balcony. Müller entered the Chamber and scanned the large room.

All of the lights in the Chamber were on, but like the theater, it was empty. Even the legislative floor below was deserted. Müller glanced at the seats in the gallery and suddenly had an idea. He worked his way along the third row until he found a chair that was well-worn in the seat. He examined the spot where the cushion and metal base of the fold-up seat met. Gently, he began to pull the metal base and cushion apart, just enough that an extra quarter-inch of cushion showed. He pulled out a penknife and cut a small, unobtrusive slit along the front of the cushion. Müller took out the papers Hans had given him and slipped them into the tear. He pushed the metal base and cushion back together, letting the tension of the seat neatly cover up the slit and hide his handiwork. Satisfied the papers were now safely hidden, Müller headed out of the People’s Chamber.

Sergeant Koch sat in his watch post at Potsdamer Platz S-Bahn station and yawned. It was a typical Sunday night; one of the quietest, and therefore most boring watch shifts of the week. In just a few hours, the trains would stop running for the night, and the post would fall silent. Across from him, a young private checked his watch and frowned.

“What?” Koch inquired.

“Comrade Sergeant, it’s five past eleven.”

“So?”

“The train didn’t come. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

Koch leaned back against the wall. “It’s Sunday. The trains only run every fifteen minutes on weekends.”

“Yes, of course,” the soldier continued, his concern still apparent, “but the last train came through at 10:30.”

Koch sat up and frowned. “Hmm. That is unusual. There might be a delay up at Friedrichstrasse.”

Before the soldier could open his mouth to reply, they heard the high-pitch whine of a train coming through the tunnel. Koch and the private rushed to the observation slits. They watched in confusion as the train slowly passed the platform with all of its interior lights extinguished. Peering into the darkened cars, Koch was alarmed. The S-Bahn cars were not empty, but they did not carry ordinary passengers. The train was almost gone before Koch recognized the dark figures clearly. They were a hundred East German shock troops, each in full battle gear and armed with AK-47s. The private’s mouth flapped open in surprise, feebly searching for something coherent to say.

Koch grabbed the telephone and called his superior, still astonished by what he had seen. “Is there an exercise underway?”

“What are you talking about?” his baffled commanding officer, Captain Loeffler, replied.

“Something we weren’t told about? A whole S-Bahn of our soldiers just came through here, headed south.”

Loeffler was at a loss. “You must be joking. There’s no exercise…”

Koch and the private heard another roar coming from the tunnel and watched yet another darkened train pass by. This one was exactly like the last, an S-Bahn fully loaded with armed troops.

“You’re right,” Koch said, now realizing the truth with horror. “It’s not an exercise. It’s an invasion.”

29

Hans raced around the balcony of the grand foyer, looking to escape. He flew down the stairs, but it was too late. Brüske was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase. Hans was cornered.

Brüske reached into his coat, ostensibly to retrieve his gun. Hans knew there was only one direction he could go—straight for his pursuer. Hans gauged the distance between him and his opponent and realized he would have the advantage of height and momentum.

Hans lunged toward Brüske, sending all of his force directly into the man’s chest. Unprepared for the tackle, Brüske flew backwards and hit the floor hard. His head slammed against the marbled floor with a sickening crack, but miraculously, Brüske only suffered a concussion. Hans scrambled to his feet and bolted away before Brüske’s wildly clawing arms could catch him. Brüske gave a frenzied and booming shout, alerting the rest of the grand foyer.

Hans dashed for the exit. Most of the bystanders looked on in confusion, watching a uniformed Border Troop officer flee from a scuffle with a man in civilian clothes. Before anyone could act, Hans was already out the door. But Brüske would not give up. He drew his gun and fired a wild shot through the closing door.

Hans ducked at the report of the gunshot and bolted down the front steps of the Palace. In the parking lot, a uniformed policeman on a MZ TS 250 motorcycle saw Hans running and drove up to him. “What’s going on?”

Hans swiftly delivered an uppercut to the policeman’s chin, knocking him off his motorcycle. Before the policeman could recover, Hans climbed onto the motorcycle, gunned the engine, and sped away. Brüske stumbled out the front door, screaming. Dazed, the policeman tried to collect himself off the pavement.

Müller watched through the large glass windows at the front of the Palace as Hans fled across the parking lot and over the Palace Bridge. Now there was the approaching sound of police sirens. A caravan of police cars flew past the Palace, their blue lights flashing as they followed in pursuit. Müller watched as Hans took a hard left on Oberwallstrasse, just past the old Prussian Crown Prince’s Palace. A new series of blue lights now came from the right, near the New Guard House. Two more police cars joined the pursuit. The dissonant tones of the sirens combined to a cacophony of distress. Hans had a good head start, but the army of pursuers was growing by the minute.

Müller ran to the nearest empty conference room and picked up a phone. He called a contact that he had kept secret for nearly forty years. No one, including Hans, knew of the tightly-guarded relationship between Müller and this western agent. Müller met the man a year after the war had ended, and as their friendship had grown, they developed a back-channel of communications during emergencies such as now.

“Yes?” a voice answered in an unrushed yet vigilant tone.

“Our mutual friend is in imminent danger,” Müller said. “They’re on to him now. He’s made a run for it.”

“Where is he heading?”

“He hasn’t many options. More than likely he’s headed for the gate to nowhere.”

There was the slightest pause, one of understanding. The voice on the other line now spoke with urgency. “Thank you.”

The phone clicked dead. Müller prayed Hans would have just enough room to maneuver.

The milk truck slowly making its way through Dahlewitz was more than six hours’ early on its route, though none of the village’s sleeping citizens would be stirred to notice. Hidden in the normally refrigerated box on the back of the truck was a high-tech mobile outpost. Two soldiers sat at an array of knobs and screens, tracking radio burst signals with headphones. They had the most advanced equipment to intercept every military and encrypted signal. This special team had been given orders just 20 minutes ago to investigate possible radio traffic in Blankenfelde, when they tracked a series of short bursts coming from Dahlewitz to the south. The team raced to the village to try and locate the precise location of the transmissions. The senior technician called to the driver through a small window screen between the box and the cab. “We’re getting close. Take the next road to the left.”

In the farmhouse, less than half a mile away, Thorwald oversaw his invasion. One of his radio technicians reported the latest news. “Signals Corps reports successful jamming of enemy communications, Comrade General.”

“Very good.” Thorwald was pleased. Surprise would be their greatest asset.

“Sector I ground forces are now in position,” another radioman reported.

Thorwald’s officers watched from the threshold of the room. “Goodness,” one general said to another, “if I had known sneaking up on the Amis would be this easy, I would have pushed for this long ago.”

Hans throttled the motorcycle’s engine as he darted through narrow alleyways and around buildings. The cobblestone sidewalks and streets were damp with the night air, and Hans pushed the motorcycle’s thick tires to their limit as he sped away from the pursuing police. He was not far from Checkpoint Charlie, some eight city blocks to the south, but he knew he could not head there. Attempting to break through the checkpoint, with its large vehicle barriers and plethora of armed guards, would be suicide. Hans was also convinced he could no longer retreat into the East; even with Mason’s help, there would be no escape from the ever-closing net of Stasi and People’s Police. He had to make his escape now, and he knew only one place where he could even try. It would be dangerous enough, possibly even suicidal. But Hans knew, having inspected every inch of the Wall in his duties as liaison, that it was the one place where the Wall could be climbed. Hans turned the motorcycle east and made his way along Französische Strasse. If necessary, he would zig-zag his way along side streets and between buildings to avoid the police. Hans headed toward the Brandenburg Gate.

Inside the mobile radio tracking unit, one of the technicians shouted, “I’ve got it! We’re almost on top of them—it’s got to be within 500 feet!”

The driver peered through the darkness and saw the lights of the farmhouse at the edge of the woods. “That’s it.”

The driver pulled over and turned off his headlights. “Give word to teams A and B,” the driver said to the other technician. While the man began to send a message out, the first technician located all radio signals from the farmhouse and began jamming them.

The helicopter was already airborne and only minutes away from Dahlewitz when the call came. In the rear of the craft, eight soldiers sat and armed their weapons. They were part of the Defense Minister’s elite team that would track down and arrest the STOSS conspirators. Another team would be joining them on the ground. The objective was clear: surround the building, neutralize the threat, and use force if necessary. The soldiers were prepared for any eventuality, but were ordered to take Thorwald and his generals alive, if possible.

“Three minutes,” the co-pilot called out to the troops. The helicopter accelerated as it flew south over Blankenfelde.

Thorwald’s radio team was in a state of confusion. They could not tell if their equipment had suffered a power failure or a momentary lapse in signal transmission and reception. The most senior technician had seen many glitches before, but not a total equipment failure. Now all they were getting was electronic snow.

Thorwald was growing irate. “We’re only minutes away!” he shouted at the technicians. “I have units waiting for my order to start breaching the border installations!” He paced the room, his calm and collected veneer melting away. “Solve this, now!”

The three Antonov An-26 planes were now above the city, two minutes from West Berlin airspace. The Mi-8 helicopters had moved into position with them, and they were now broken off into groups heading for each of the Allied airports. In the back of each transport, the paratroopers anxiously awaited the signal to go. Suddenly, a message came through to the cockpit of each of the transports on the emergency band.

The pilot of the lead plane heading toward Tempelhof frowned. “Are you getting this?” he radioed to the pilot of the closest chopper.

“Abort,” the helicopter pilot confirmed. “I can’t believe it. We’re this close. Somebody must have caught wind of our coming.”

In the rear of each transport, the troops felt their aircraft bank unexpectedly as they turned away.

Down on the ground, the motorized and infantry units were receiving the same order to abort. The top field commander of the 1st Motorized Rifles tried to call Thorwald’s headquarters, but received no response. As the emergency message relayed over and over, it was adjusted with greater detail. The order was coming direct from Strausberg, from the Minister of Defense and Honecker himself. As the commanders began to pull back, some were dejected. Others began to rehearse the defense they would have to give for their actions, pleading they were duped into following orders they believed came from Honecker himself. In this case, it was better to plead stupidity than criminal intent.

Sergeant Koch received word from Captain Loeffler that an order had been issued to abort the invasion immediately. Word had been sent via radio to all troops. Koch realized the trains would most likely not receive the message, riding underground without wired communication. The communicator in the engineer’s booth at the front of the train was a civilian transmitter, and it would only operate on a restricted bandwidth.

“They’re not going to know,” Koch exclaimed.

“You have to stop them, Comrade Sergeant!” Loeffler ordered.

Koch’s mind raced. By now, the trains could almost be in West Berlin. There was no hope of physically catching the trains; he had no vehicle to go along the tracks after them. Koch ordered the private to phone S-Bahn Central Control. He hoped they would be able to halt the trains, but the phone rang unanswered.

There was only one option left, and it did not appeal to Koch: he would have to go down the tunnel and shut down the next electrical substation powering the train. He knew that power to the third rail was sent between substations along the tracks, and that to reach the section where the two trains would be now, he had to switch off a breaker that lay at the substation fifty meters down the tunnel.

Koch couldn’t afford to hesitate. He grabbed a flashlight and a crowbar and headed for the thick door between his bunker and the platform.

“What are you doing?” the private asked, amazed.

“No time to explain. Call back S-Bahn control. Keep calling until they answer. Tell them to shut off all power to this line. Then call back Comrade Captain Loeffler and tell him to send as many units as he can to round up those soldiers.”

“Where are you going?”

Koch jumped off the platform onto the tracks, his unease growing. “I’m going to stop a train.”

Thorwald had gone ten minutes without any contact with his troops. At this crucial juncture, he had no idea if the attack had begun. At worst, the attack had gone forward in an uncoordinated, uneven front. Some units might have proceeded, given their last orders, while others waited for permission to proceed. Indeed, the engineers who were to breach the border defenses and create an avenue for the motorized units were to wait until Thorwald’s signal, while the paratrooper and S-Bahn units would proceed as scheduled. Thorwald knew this would spell disaster, and not knowing how the plan was progressing made him sick. Just then, he heard the sound of a helicopter approaching.

To Thorwald, it was the chimes of doom.

“No!” he growled. “No! No!” Thorwald drew his sidearm and walked out of the living room. Searching for a room in which to barricade himself, he headed down the hallway.

A blinding flash shook the house and smoke began to fill the rooms. The generals and radio operators scattered, but quickly became disoriented in the suffocating smoke.

Thorwald found himself cornered in an alcove. Though the smoke had not yet reached it, there was nowhere to turn. In horror and confusion, Thorwald saw the form of a hideous insect-like creature emerge from the mist—its head was gray and smooth, its eyes wide, and it had a long, tubular nose.

Thorwald raised his gun to fire, but heard a muffled voice order: “Drop it, Thorwald! Drop it!” He looked down and saw the muzzle of an AK-47. As the form emerged from the smoke, Thorwald recognized a soldier in a gas mask. The Minister’s commandos had stormed the headquarters.

Within seconds, each of the commanding officers and radio operators were rounded up and taken prisoner. Thorwald and the most senior generals were loaded into the helicopter, while the others were placed in the back of a truck.

As the helicopter lifted off for Strausberg, Thorwald lowered his head in shame. His operation was truly doomed.

Hans turned up Otto-Grotewohlstrasse, passing two columns of Soviet T-72 tanks lining the road. Hans noticed the red Soviet insignia on the tanks, and two thoughts briefly flickered through his mind: had Scharf and Thorwald really enlisted Soviet aid, or was this a false-flag operation? And second, how had they gotten this close to the border without already provoking an incident? He could only hope the Minister’s orders were going forward and the invasion would be halted, but there was nothing he could do now.

One of the tanks fired up its engine, shooting a plume of exhaust out the back of the vehicle. The tank suddenly swerved into the middle of the road, directly ahead of Hans. Hans braked as he pulled the motorcycle into a sharp turn, trying to veer out of the way and avoid colliding with the behemoth. Then, when he had stopped in time, Hans gunned the engine and zipped through a narrow space between the tank and another on the other side of the road. When Hans was clear, he looked back and saw all of the tanks were now moving. Most simply backtracked, but others followed the first tank and were turning around. They were pulling back.

Sergeant Koch headed down the dark subway tunnel, his flashlight barely illuminating the darkness before him. There were occasional safety lights spaced along the walls of the tunnel, but these did little to dispel the gloom. The greater danger lay at his feet. Koch had to move fast through the tunnel, but the railroad tracks were full of uneven patches where he could catch his foot and trip. Koch held the flashlight mainly on the tracks so he could find his way. At first he feared tripping and falling into the deadly electrified third rail, but then another horrifying thought came to mind: what if yet another train came down the tracks toward him? But Koch was already committed—he would have to press on.

He ran fifty meters down the tracks before he came to a railing and a small set of stairs. Koch climbed up and found himself in a small concrete alcove, where three large metal boxes contained the circuit breakers for the rail lines. He knew exactly where to go to find the breakers that serviced this stretch of the rails; in his many years at this post he had often escorted maintenance workers who had come down to work on them. But he had no formal training on the electrical equipment himself. Now, as he looked at the large gray electric boxes, he bemoaned the fact that he never needed to know, until now.

Koch had no idea where to start. He picked one box at random, and set the edge of his crowbar against the lock. Using the butt of his flashlight as a hammer, he broke the lock off and opened the box. There were several rows of circuit breakers, but the numbering system was too technical for him to grasp. He turned to the next box, breaking off the lock, then the third, so that the doors to each of the circuit breakers were now open. None of the panels indicated the exact switches that powered this section of rails.

Koch took a deep breath and reached for a panel at random. I hope I’m not the only one who gets killed in this mess, fooling around with electrical circuits of all things, he thought. Then he shook his head. Stupid. If you don’t succeed, plenty of people will die. Koch began to switch the breakers, using a process of trial and error.

For a moment, several of the lights in the tunnel were extinguished, but the electric buzz of the tracks remained. Koch reset that switch, turning the lights back on. Then he looked to the bottom of each panel, where two large handles were inlaid. Shrugging, Koch grabbed each handle and pulled the switches.

A loud click reverberated through the tunnel as all of the lights went out. Koch listened in the dark for the buzz of the rails, but that was now gone too. Could he have succeeded? By now the trains would be very close to the first station in West Berlin.

Just then, a series of flickering lights came from down the tunnel behind him. Koch turned to see a dozen flashlight bulbs waving wildly in the darkness like fireflies. Seconds later, a group of soldiers came into view. It was Captain Loeffler with the first group of reinforcements Koch had requested.

Koch smiled, feeling much more at ease now that he had company in the dark tunnel. Together, they ran down the tracks until they saw the back of one of the train cars loom up out of the darkness. The train was indeed still, but what about the soldiers? Koch tensed, knowing that their flashlights made his group an easy target. If these were rogue soldiers, would they turn on their own men?

Captain Loeffler called out in the darkness. “Comrades! Comrades! We’ve come to tell you your mission has been aborted!”

The door of the train car slid open, and a voice shouted in reply. It carried weight and authority—ostensibly one of the officers. “What do you mean, aborted?”

“Just that! Direct orders from Comrade Honecker himself!”

“Where’s your proof?”

Loeffler pulled a sheet from his pocket and held his flashlight behind it, illuminating the paper for the officer to see.

“Bring it here,” the officer ordered suspiciously. “Just you.”

Loeffler moved forward, carefully pointing his flashlight at the ground in front of him. This was not only so he could see, but was also meant as a gesture of non-aggression. No doubt the rogue soldiers had their guns aimed at him; it was best to not provoke them. Finally he reached the train and handed the paper to the officer.

The officer read, then seemed to sink with disappointment. “I’ll be damned.”

“Where’s the other train?” Loeffler asked.

“A hundred meters farther down. They’re also stuck. One of their men came back this way when we stopped. I’ll give him the message.”

Koch was relieved to hear both trains had been stopped, though his heartbeat raced when he learned how close the first train had gotten to the West. It was on the final stretch just before Anhalter Bahnhof, some 100 meters from the station’s platform, when all went dark. In the confusion, the soldiers had waited while they established contact with the second train, a move that probably saved everyone from disaster.

It would take almost an hour for all of the soldiers to retreat back through the tunnel to the Potsdamer Platz station. From there, the troops exited the underground ghost station and boarded awaiting trucks in the death strip above. Not wanting to alarm the Allied soldiers watching from the other side of the Wall, the border guards shuttled the soldiers in several small groups.

When they had finished moving the soldiers, the border guards brought in maintenance crews to repair Koch’s work and remove the trains from the tunnels. The S-Bahn was shut down well into the next morning.

“You know,” Loeffler ribbed Koch, “you’re the only member of the Border Troops who has ever single-handedly disrupted the S-Bahn schedule.”

Koch smiled, knowing an unspoken sentiment had passed between them. After this night, Koch knew he should feel exhausted, but all he felt was relief.

30

Hans drove past the Hotel Adlon and turned left onto the easternmost stretch of Unter den Linden. As he turned, he glanced back to his right. The police cars were gone. Perhaps he had lost them just long enough. Before him stretched Pariser Platz, patrolled by the Border Troops, and beyond the Platz, illuminated by floodlights, the historic Brandenburg Gate. Flying high at the very top of the gate, above its greenish copper roofs and quadriga, was the GDR flag. It reminded Hans that he still had a dangerous path to cross. He rode toward the barrier at Pariser Platz, the low barricade ‘baby wall.’ Despite his harried appearance, Hans still had an authoritative bearing in his Border Troop officer uniform. If the guards had not been informed of his fugitive status, he might be able to play out a charade long enough to gain the leverage he needed.

In the building immediately northeast of the Brandenburg Gate, a man was moving fast up the stairs, agile as a panther. Though he had only received his assignment minutes ago, he was now at his destination, the roof overlooking the space between the Brandenburg Gate and the Wall. Mason had given him a single objective, one that had to be achieved at all costs. Hans Brandt could not be captured. He could be sacrificed, if necessary, but under no circumstances should Hans fall into enemy hands.

The man, dressed in black, moved with stealth as he took his position at the edge of the roof. He pulled a Soviet-made Dragunov sniper rifle from a case, loaded it, and began to scope in on his target. He worked with brisk efficiency, all the while slowing his heart rate to the steely calm pulse of a predator. Within moments, he was coldly looking through the scope; his finger crooked just a hair away from the trigger.

As Hans reached the baby wall, a patrol guard spotted him and approached. Noting the rank on Hans’ shoulder boards, the soldier asked, “Can I help you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel?”

“I have urgent news from the Minister of Defense. I need to speak with your commanding officer immediately.”

“If you wait here, I’ll go get him.” The soldier gestured to the movable fence barricade. If Hans moved it aside, he could maneuver the motorcycle through.

“This is an urgent matter of national security,” Hans reminded the guard. “Go!”

The guard nodded, and holding onto the sling of his rifle, sprinted toward the Gate’s northern guardhouse.

Suddenly, sirens blared, coming from farther up Unter den Linden. Hans turned to see a group of police cars swerve onto the avenue from somewhere beyond the Soviet embassy. Their blue lights flashing, the cars took up both sides of the street as they headed directly toward him. Brüske was in the lead car. Having lost Hans at the Palace of Republic, he had no intention of letting him slip away again.

Hans pushed the barrier over and gunned the motorcycle’s engine. Within seconds, he was flying past the guardhouse, where the soldier, his commander, and several other guards first shouted in surprise, then outrage. As Hans zipped between two of the mammoth columns of the Gate, the guards drew their weapons and prepared to fire. But Hans throttled the engine up and flew out the other side before the guards could get an angle on him. They pursued him on foot, trying to get a clean line of fire.

In a guard tower less than fifty meters north of the Gate, two guards watched Hans ride out into the half-circle plaza in front of the Wall. They immediately raised their guns to fire.

Hans accelerated as he raced into the bare plaza, trying to close the distance between him and the Wall. The less time he was out in the open, the greater chance he stood of surviving. But Hans suddenly realized he was going too fast. If he didn’t slow or turn now, he would slam directly into the ten-foot thick concrete Wall. He braked and swerved the motorcycle to avoid the collision.

The velocity was too great to handle. The motorcycle slid out from under Hans and scraped along the asphalt until it hit the Wall with a hard thud. Hans slid after the motorcycle, the asphalt shredding his uniform pants and delivering a searing road burn. It didn’t matter. Hans sprang to his feet and sprinted toward the Wall.

From the rooftop a hundred and fifty meters away, the sniper watched Hans emerge from behind the Gate and slide off of the motorcycle. He saw Hans run as a group of guards emerged from the Gate in pursuit. The sniper calmly aimed the rifle. Hans’ head was directly in his cross hairs. The sniper paused, then swiveled the barrel of his gun toward the guard tower. He could see the guards aiming their AK-47s.

Hans drove all of his energy into his legs, sprinting to the Wall. At the last second, he vaulted on top of the motorcycle, pushing himself higher as he leaped toward the four-inch thick lip of the Wall. He just grasped the top, ten feet up, and pulled himself up by his fingertips.

Without warning, bullets ricocheted off the surface of the Wall next to him. Hans had no time to look back. He strained his arms to pull himself up.

In the tower, the guards had Hans’ outstretched body in their sights. The older of the two guards scowled, his first shot having missed, and readjusted his aim.

Suddenly there was an explosion of shattering glass behind them. The guards instinctively hit the ground, taking cover. Then they looked back to the source of the blast—the rear window of the tower was gone.

On the roof, the sniper watched for the guards in the tower to move. From the corner of his eye, he kept watch on the guards who were running toward Hans from the Gate.

The sniper’s shot had given Hans just enough time to use every bit of strength in his arms and pull himself up onto the Wall. But the guards in the tower were not finished. The older guard looked back toward the broken window, and then rose up just enough to point his rifle at Hans one more time. He aimed, and certain of his target, squeezed the trigger.

At that very moment, a second shot came into the tower, driving through the guard’s shoulder and throwing him off-balance. The bullet exited the guard’s shoulder and impacted the concrete wall in front of him, spraying an odd mist of atomized blood and pulverized concrete into the guard’s face and eyes. He shrieked in pain and immediately fell to his knees.

The guard’s errant shot hit Hans in the left arm just as he had leveraged his right leg to pull the rest of his body up onto the Wall. Hans rolled onto the flat surface on top of the Wall and looked back. The guards on foot were now only about twenty feet away, their guns aimed.

Despite the pain in his arm, Hans began to roll across the top of the Wall, keeping his body as flat as possible to avoid making himself a target for the men below. There was nothing he could do to avoid the guards in the tower, but for now, they had stopped firing.

From his perch on top of the roof, the sniper kept his vigil over Hans and targeted the soldiers on the ground. These guards had little to aim at, with Hans hunkered down above them, but they still opened a barrage of gunfire.

Hans clambered across the top of the Wall, dodging the concrete shrapnel from bullet hits behind him.

The sniper sent covering fire toward the guards, making the men dive for cover.

Hans finally reached the western edge of the Wall’s surface. With his last bit of strength, he flung himself over.

He fell, a drop that felt endless, and landed hard.

Suddenly, there was only intense pain, then darkness.

Gradually, there was light—no, a whole series of lights. They led away from Hans, converging in the air at a brilliantly lit point. As he adjusted his eyes, he could see the golden wings of an angel.

For a moment, Hans thought he was dead. Then, the image slowly came into focus. It was the Siegesaule, the Victory Column, a towering landmark of West Berlin. The golden statue of the goddess Victoria stood aloft on the column, its angel wings outstretched as it pointed westward. Hans now recognized the streetlights of the Strasse 17. Juni, named for the date of the failed GDR-wide anti-communist revolt. The lights converged at a vanishing point somewhere beyond the statue.

Hans pulled himself up slowly and took in the view. He was in the West, finally free.

31

For the rest of the night, GDR authorities struggled to orchestrate order out of chaos. Foremost on the Defense Minister’s mind was keeping the entire Operation STOSS fiasco under wraps. Surprisingly, the Minister immediately ordered that the Republic Day Parade would go on as scheduled at noon. The Defense Ministry conducted a hurried investigation that night, bringing in many of the field commanders to question them about the operation. Most of them claimed they were duped into the operation, believing they were operating under Honecker’s orders. For many of the soldiers outside of Thorwald’s inner circle, this was true. The Soviet military model did not breed initiative. The majority of soldiers only knew how to work under strict orders. The Ministry gave these men a story that the mission had been an aborted exercise. For those who trusted the Ministry’s explanation, they were simply told it showed the readiness of the GDR’s troops. For those who made further inquiries, and could be told, the Ministry admitted that this particular exercise had made the Soviets uncomfortable enough to warrant its cancellation. They were entrusted to not speak of it further. Curiously, the ruse generally worked.

Thorwald and his co-conspirators were secretly placed on trial for Treason against the State. All were convicted, with most sentenced to life imprisonment. But two years’ into Thorwald’s sentence, three guards took him from his cell, telling him they were transferring him to another prison. Instead, they brought Thorwald to a remote location in the woods, then shot him. While the execution was carried out under the State Council’s orders, no single person ever claimed responsibility for the act. The Stasi conspirators also fared poorly, with many of the men also receiving life sentences.

Though the Stasi Minister had plausible deniability, pleading ignorance to the entire plot, he was held at arm’s length for several months by other key members of the government. Within time, the incident was forgotten, as the Stasi Minister proved his ever-loyal devotion to Honecker’s leadership.

Brüske was perhaps the luckiest of the lot; when he learned the invasion had failed, he disappeared that night. Before investigators could catch up with him, Brüske had made his way to Bulgaria, where he spent most of the next four years living a largely secret existence. In 1989, rumors circulated that he had taken up with the Romanian Security Police to try and stop the overthrow of Nicolae Ceausescu. By the end of 1989, Brüske fled to Russia, where he disappeared altogether.

Next to the failed invasion, an even stranger controversy began to brew. The Brandenburg Gate, of all places, had been the location of one of the strangest escapes in the history of the Berlin Wall. A lieutenant colonel of the Border Troops had made a break for the Wall on a motorcycle, and had apparently been aided by an unseen sniper who provided cover fire. As ballistics teams pulled the sniper’s bullets out of the guard tower and the plaza in front of the Wall, they were shocked to find the rounds were East German military-issue—most likely fired by a Dragunov rifle. None of the facts of the case made sense—why would one of the Border Troops’ own escape, aided by another comrade who stayed in the East, but willingly fired on his own comrades?

The disturbing possibility of an enemy in their midst sent waves of distrust throughout the Border Troops’ ranks. Slowly, another discomforting theory surfaced, this one floated by the Stasi—Lieutenant Colonel Hans Brandt was an American mole who had secretly betrayed the GDR’s deepest military secrets to NATO forces. Once exposed, he used his subversive contacts to make good on his escape. The Defense Minister dismissed this claim as ludicrous, though he simply could not bear the idea that he had directly aided the rise of a traitor. Members of the Stasi who believed that Scharf had been targeted by American agents were more convinced.

In early 1986, Stasi officers learned Libyan agents were using their embassy in East Berlin to plan a terrorist attack against Americans. The Stasi officers who first learned of the plot reported it to their superiors, fearing the consequences of inaction. However, nothing developed from the officers’ report, and on the night of April 5, 1986, an explosion rocked the West Berlin discotheque La Belle. Two American servicemen and a civilian woman were killed. Another 230 were injured, including 50 American soldiers. President Reagan retaliated by launching air strikes on the Libyan cities of Tripoli and Benghazi. The incident was a diplomatic black eye for the GDR, as western governments used the event to bolster claims that the GDR supported terrorism. Most Stasi officials who knew of the prior intelligence felt the inaction was motivated by simple anti-American spite. Those few who knew about the Hans Brandt affair considered it retribution.

By dawn on October 7th, authorities were still scrambling to quietly clean up the mess from the night before. Meanwhile, East Germany’s general population was settling in for the beginning of their national holiday, the GDR’s 36th birthday. With Scharf dead and his men on the run, no Stasi agents stood watch for a certain young blonde woman at the border checkpoints.

The guards at the Oberbaumbrücke checkpoint didn’t cast a second glance at the middle-aged blonde woman who approached on foot. She had a scarf over her head, covering almost all of her hair and revealing her fine but well-worn features. Her off-white coat seemed too stylish for the GDR, but as she carried a West Berlin passport, they deduced she had brought it in with her. The woman was processed through customs and the last security checks, then allowed to walk westward on the Oberbaumbrücke bridge.

In the early morning fog, the sky and Spree River melded into one solid mass of gray. Only the red Brick Gothic structure seemed to separate the mire. The bridge’s two castle-like turrets, heavily damaged during the war, stood gaping like broken teeth. Their pinnacle roofs had never been rebuilt, and now, in the dewy mist that flowed off the river, the towers seemed like the ruins of a fairy tale castle, waiting to be dissolved by the fog of a forgotten dream.

A man stood just beyond the western end of the bridge and waited. He was dressed in a black overcoat, its left sleeve hanging empty. His arm was tucked under the coat in a sling. Not far behind him, an American military police officer waited next to a sedan. As the woman approached, the man spotted her white coat, then watched her emerge from the mist. The man and woman saw each other and exchanged a smile. When she reached the end of the bridge, the woman ran to the man and embraced him. The couple walked arm-in-arm away from the checkpoint into West Berlin.

“You look tired Hans,” the woman said.

“So do you,” he said as he helped her into the back of the sedan.

Anna touched her face and laughed. “Mason’s men did a very good job with the makeup, don’t you think? Wasn’t even a problem with the guard’s facial recognition system.”

Hans put his weary good arm around Anna as the sedan began to move. “Who do you think gave Mason that system, huh?”

The American MP drove them to Tempelhof airport, the center of American air operations in Berlin.

That afternoon, while the GDR’s Republic Day Parade went off without a hitch, Hans and Anna flew on an American military plane to Iceland. There, they were taken from a NATO base to a secret CIA safe house. Both were given medical attention for the injuries and strain they had suffered during their ordeal. Then their debriefing began. The CIA Deputy Director came out to personally supervise the proceedings. Anna’s debriefing lasted two and a half days. Hans’ lasted much longer.

The CIA tried to preserve the purity of Hans’ and Anna’s statements by questioning them in separate rooms. At first, Hans was cooperative; he answered each of their questions to the best of his ability and filled in as many details as possible. He even tolerated going back through everything again, and again, until he had explained the same story ten times over. After two weeks, Hans had enough. He told the CIA officers he was not a prisoner, and demanded that he and Anna be allowed to leave. With some reluctance, the Deputy Director agreed.

Hans wanted out of any intelligence work, and refused to take a leave of absence before he was given another assignment. He was burned out, he explained, from living a cover every hour of the last fifteen-some years of his life. He wanted a clean break, and wasn’t going to change his mind. The Deputy Director helped arrange for a $500,000 lump-sum pension. Anna also wanted out, and together they left the CIA safe house, ready to start a new life.

The first step Hans took was to obtain a new name. With his cover no longer necessary, he reverted back to his birth name Jack Holt. It took Anna some time to get used to the name—and since he hadn’t used it in fifteen years, it took Jack some time too.

Jack and Anna spent Christmas with her family in Wuppertal, West Germany that year. In February 1986, Jack and Anna solemnized their marriage for her family in a small resort village in the Bavarian Alps. Their initial wedding had taken place in secret nearly two years before, while still working under cover. This ceremony gave Anna’s family a chance to celebrate with them.

Liberated from the constraints of their life in intelligence work, Jack and Anna decided to take not so much a honeymoon, but a worldwide expedition. They traveled the world for the next year and a half, trying to experience as many exotic locales as possible. They lived off Jack’s pension, living adventurously, but not extravagantly. They traveled to Asia, where they visited Japan, Hong Kong, Malaysia, and Thailand—they avoided Korea, not wanting to set foot in another divided country. Before long they had visited New Zealand, Australia, the edge of Antarctica, Brazil, and Africa. Finally, in the fall of 1987, having spent nearly a third of Jack’s pension, they decided to settle in the U.S. Jack took a job as a security consultant, using references from the CIA. Anna took a job as a translator. Jack’s job was short-lived—he didn’t like how the constant cross-country travel kept him and Anna apart; even worse was how the job constantly reminded him of his life as a spy. By December 1988, just weeks before the terrorist bombing of Pan Am 103, Jack quit.

Anna had always encouraged Jack to explore his own interests, so in January 1989, he began to work as an artist and carpenter. Anna had introduced him the previous summer to a local artist who recognized Jack’s talent and helped mentor his skills. The carpentry, however, was largely self-taught. Jack had an eye for detail—a skill he had long developed in intelligence work—but here he put it to a completely different and creative use. He felt a simple, intrinsic pride in his work, and quickly began to build everything from furniture to housing additions. Gradually, he began to build a profitable business, one that immensely satisfied him. He forged his own path, a clean break from his previous life, and was working in a productive pursuit.

Yet Jack and Anna still sought greater solace. They moved away from city life to a home in the Midwest. It was an isolated but beautiful location, deep within woods and overlooking a lake. Anna continued to work in translation, but only on written documents from home. Jack now had a natural setting where he could feel at ease and work in peace, exorcising his previous existence. In February, Anna learned she was pregnant. She and Jack now felt they would move past their old lives forever. As they waited for their family to grow, they embraced the simple intimacy of their time together as a couple. In the summer, they spent two weeks in a cottage at Lake Michigan. They listened to the water lull them to sleep at night, and woke early to watch the sunrise.

In November 1989, Jack and Anna went to the hospital to await the birth of their son. The nurses sent Jack out of the delivery room for a moment as they helped Anna with her labor. Jack went to the waiting room, a wasteland of empty chairs. In the corner, a dozen people were crowded around a television, watching wide-eyed. Jack made his way toward the crowd and looked up at the television. While the images stunned everyone, Jack stared the most in disbelief.

A live news shot was showing the Brandenburg Gate at night. Hundreds of people were crowded on top of the Wall, dancing, singing, hugging, and drinking. It was as if Berlin was experiencing its biggest party ever. A caption at the bottom of the screen read, Berlin Wall Opens. The news anchor recapped how the scene transpired while the boisterous crowd cheered in the background. Apparently a GDR spokesman had announced that all travel restrictions were to be lifted, and people had flocked to the border en masse to see if it was true.

A sixty-something bald man stood next to Jack. “Unbelievable,” he said, the words uttered toward no one in particular.

It hardly captured Jack’s emotions, which came as a flood of conflicted joy and sadness. He watched in silence, burying his emotion so no one in the room could see. How could they understand how he felt? It had been his profession, his life’s work to make this moment happen, and yet he also felt a strange alienation from the euphoria of the moment. Here was the victory of freedom the German people had always hoped for, and yet he and Anna had suffered greatly in the struggle that proceeded it. There, on worldwide television, people were dancing on the very spot where he had once bled, had dodged a hail of bullets, had crawled, fallen, and escaped within an inch of his life. But that was not all.

Having lived so much of his life secretly invading the corridors of power in the GDR, Jack understood the totality of the situation. His close friend, Wolfgang Müller, would see his life’s work, his dream of a more humane socialist state extinguished in vain as the GDR folded into West Germany. There were others, too, who Jack knew would now see their entire lives thrown into upheaval.

Nothing would be the same.

Over the next few months, Jack would watch the Soviet empire crumble, a fate that he and Mason had known was inevitable. Thankfully, its death was a quiet one. The cold warriors had tired of their long struggle; they and the world were eager to let the conflict pass into history. There was satisfaction enough in the assurance that the sun would rise again. But Jack needed no philosophical musings to come to grips with the new world order. As he held his baby son for the first time that night, he shed every last bit of his old existence. The world was new again.

32

October 1995

Jack and his nearly six year-old son Alex walked up the steps that led from their boat launch to their house. They had spent the morning fishing on the lake, a rare weekday respite from Jack’s thriving carpentry business. It was a beautiful Indian summer day, and the deep colors of fall reflected brilliantly on the lake. For Jack, the time with his son was a reward on its own, but Alex was elated by their catch: a large-mouth bass whose length was nearly half the boy’s height. Alex excitedly carried the fish up the steps, eager to show it to his mother, while Jack brought the fishing poles and tackle box behind him.

“Mom!” Alex shouted as he threw open the back door.

Jack fumbled with the fishing poles to catch the door before it slammed back on its hinges. Alex ran through the house, carrying his dripping prize. Jack shouted a warning to the boy to keep off the carpet, but knew it was hopeless. Alex had already run throughout the house.

Jack smiled and shook his head as he set the fishing gear down in the back hall. He walked to the kitchen and looked out the window. Anna’s car had not yet returned to the driveway. Jack knew she had gone to the post office to pick up a new shipment of papers for translation.

“Alex,” he shouted, knowing his son was somewhere out of sight, “Mom’s not back yet.”

Suddenly, Jack heard the boy shriek, a blood-curdling terrified cry that was cut off abruptly. Jack ran from the kitchen, searching as he called out to Alex.

When he stepped into the living room, he immediately saw what caused the boy to scream. A menacing figure loomed over the Alex, holding an eight-inch knife against his neck. Jack looked into the face of the intruder and recognized the eyes of a man he had seen ten years ago, in the grand foyer of the Palace of the Republic.

It was Brüske.

Jack immediately raised his hands in a gesture of parley. He had no intention of provoking Brüske while his son was held hostage.

“I’ve been looking for you a very long time,” Brüske said. “If you could only know how hard I’ve been searching, Comrade Brandt.”

Brüske tensed, the knife drawing closer to the boy’s throat.

Alex was frozen with fear and confusion, but he still cried out to his father. “Daddy!”

Jack’s heart rent at his son’s cry, but he tried to reassure him as he kept his gaze locked on Brüske. “It’ll be okay, Alex. Don’t move.” Then, to Brüske: “What do you want?”

Brüske laughed. “You should know what I want. A criminal does not commit a crime and expect to get away by pleading ignorance.” He lowered his voice and a strong, guttural roar came from deep inside him. “You murdered Comrade Scharf and betrayed my country. You stole its most vital secrets and gave them to our enemies.” His voice rose as he shouted with rage, a thundering cry that seemed to shake the room. “I want justice!”

Jack tried to remain calm, even as he saw his boy shrink at the monster’s rage.

Alex flinched, almost accidentally pressing into the knife’s sharp blade.

Jack held his palms forward in appeasement. “You’re not here for justice,” he said calmly but firmly. “If you were, you wouldn’t be threatening my son.”

“Justice has many forms,” Brüske said. “Sometimes it’s simple causality, sometimes it takes more. Either way, you deserve to suffer.”

Brüske flicked his wrist, intending to shove the knife into the boy. Jack dove toward Brüske, realizing with horror he would be too late. But suddenly an object blurred with swift motion behind Brüske. Long and metallic, it crashed against his temple with force. Brüske crumbled to the ground, out cold.

Jack looked up and saw Anna standing over the intruder, wielding a poker from the fireplace. She was heaving with adrenaline and rage. Anna had come in during the confrontation and silently crept behind Brüske, providing the boy’s salvation. Alex immediately ran to his father’s arms and held him tightly as he burst into tears. Jack held his son and looked toward his wife, unable to express his deep gratitude.

When he had calmed Alex down, Jack tied and gagged the still-unconscious Brüske, then secured him to a pillar in the basement. Jack and Anna consoled their son until he was calm enough to leave in his room for a moment. Outside in the hall, the couple spoke in whispered tones.

“How did he find us?” Anna asked, fear growing inside her.

“I don’t know,” Jack said. They weren’t comforting words.

“Is he the last?” she asked, seeking more reassurance.

“I believe so.”

Anna’s eyes turned cold. It was a fierceness Jack had never seen before, but he knew it was born of a deep and innate urge to protect her family. “Maybe we shouldn’t turn him over,” she said. Jack knew exactly what those words portended. He started to shake his head, but Anna protested. “If he’s come after us now, after so long a time, can we let him go? Will he ever stop?”

Jack took his wife in his arms and tried to comfort her, but he did not answer.

An hour later, the house was alive with a small army of SWAT officers and dark-coated government officials. Jack had called a contact in the CIA, Andrew Everton, who sent the FBI and a SWAT team to the house to pick up Brüske. Jack was surprised to see Everton himself walk through the door as the team took Brüske away.

“How did you get here so fast?”

“I happened to be in Chicago,” Everton explained.

Within minutes, the small army dispersed. The SWAT team and the FBI agents, along with their captive Brüske, drove off in a caravan of cars. An FBI agent wanted to question Jack and Anna further, but Everton convinced him to wait outside while he spoke with them first. The incident involved extremely sensitive matters of national security, and he needed to vet Jack before he allowed the FBI man to investigate. Anna comforted Alex in his room while Jack and Everton sat down in the living room.

“I should apologize,” Everton said. “We knew Brüske was on the move, but we had no idea where he was.”

“You couldn’t have warned me?” Jack said with some indignation.

Everton reluctantly shook his head. “I know how hard you’ve worked to put your past behind you. From our analysis, the danger wasn’t imminent. We didn’t think he could get anywhere near you. Would you prefer I have you look over your shoulder for the rest of your life?”

“Anyone who’s worked in the field always does,” Jack said.

The men contemplated those words in rueful silence.

“So,” Jack finally said, “what did you find on Brüske?”

Everton cleared his throat and began to lay it out for him. “Six months ago, one of our assets in Berlin ran into trouble with this guy who came out of the blue.”

“Brüske,” Jack said matter-of-factly.

Everton nodded and continued. “He threatened our contact while he tried to draw out information regarding our Cold War operations, stuff that was going on ten years ago. Very unusual. But stranger still, he asked about Müller.”

“What?” Jack sat forward in surprise.

“Yeah. He said he knew Müller had been secretly working in intelligence. No one knew that even after the Wall fell. At any rate, he said Müller had a contact in British intelligence, and before he died he’d told this contact where he’d hidden some files on a high-profile GDR mole.”

Jack was filled with sadness at the mention of Müller’s death. He knew Müller had been diagnosed with cancer in late 1991 and, after a short struggle, died almost a year later.

Everton continued, “Stranger still, he somehow caught wind of our operation to recover the documents—and almost took out one of agents. I guess that led him to Crandall.”

“Crandall?”

Everton nodded solemnly. “He was killed this summer. Poisoned. We’re certain this Brüske did it.”

Jack’s head was reeling with the information. “Was he working with anybody?”

Everton shook his head definitively. “No. We’re certain this guy was a lone wolf, collecting information by capturing and torturing our agents. Brüske’s going away for good. We’ve got enough to convict him of Crandall’s murder—that is if we ever decide to put him up for trial. But either way, he’ll rot in a cell for the rest of his life.”

The brutal reality of Everton’s words gave Jack some comfort, but still one question burned in his mind.

“Andrew,” Jack said, leaning forward and locking his gaze on his friend, “how safe is my family?”

Late that afternoon, Jack, Anna, and Alex were alone again. Everton and the last of the FBI agents were gone by two o’clock, returning the house to its normal solitude. But the peaceful tranquility of the place, the thing that had insulated the family from the world, had been shattered. Jack was determined to have it return. Everton had assiduously promised that his family was no longer in danger; any threat that could blow his way would be intercepted before ever coming to a head like this again. Everton knew the value his friend placed on his family, and felt obligated to protect them as best he could. Still, Jack would not be forever haunted by his past. This, more than anything else, he had to control. His ability to create his own life with his family was what defined him.

Jack and Alex sat on the deck, watching the sun set over the lake. Alex huddled tight in his father’s lap. Jack kept his strong arms wrapped around the boy in a reassuring embrace, a fatherly gesture of protection. Alex slowly relaxed, his head comfortably laying against his father’s chest. Jack looked out on the mirror-like surface of the lake, its orange and yellow reflections now mixed with the glitter of the falling sunlight. As the sun descended behind the crimson and amber forest the light illuminated the trees and reflected off the water so brilliantly that it seemed the world was on fire. Jack watched, his mind troubled. How deeply had this day’s incident traumatized his son? Brüske had spoken frightening words—had called his son’s father a traitor and murderer. In the shock of the event, Alex had only reacted to the physical danger. But sometime, inevitably, questions would arise from those words.

Time had given Jack perspective on the morality of his intelligence career. He reflected on his choices at length and thoroughly deliberated them. Now, as before, he knew he had acted justly. He knew he had acted in defense of a people, in defense of the peace, in defense of his own life. He did not know how to tell his son.

Acknowledgements

In preparing this novel, I have drawn on the work of many Cold War historians. I am especially indebted to Dr. Otto Wenzel’s article in Armor magazine which detailed the actual Operation STOSS plans. Thomas Flemming and Hagen Koch’s book The Berlin Wall: Division of a City provided key information regarding the dynamics of the Berlin Wall, the Friedrichstrasse checkpoint, ghost stations, and the nature of the border guards.

The official East German military handbooks Handbuch für den Grenzdienst, Handbuch Militärisches Grundwissen, and Vom Sinn des Soldatseins were invaluable resources, as was Thomas Forster’s The East German Army: The Second Power in the Warsaw Pact.

For technical information on spy equipment, I drew on H. Keith Melton’s Ultimate Spy. Markus Wolf’s autobiography Man Without a Face: The Autobiography of Communism’s Greatest Spymaster, John Koehler’s Stasi: The Untold Story of the East German Secret Police, and Jens Gieseke’s The GDR State Security: Shield and Sword of the Party provided insider details to the history of the Stasi.

Visits to various locations in and around Berlin were especially helpful. I must thank the Forschungs-und Gedenkstätte Normanenstrasse (the former Stasi headquarters), and the Gedenkstätte Hohenschönhausen (Hohenschönhausen Prison Memorial) for preserving these locations so current and future generations can learn from past events. In particular, I thank the former inmates of Hohenschönhausen, whose guided tours of the prison gave insight to what was experienced there.

Additionally, visits to museums such as the Haus am Checkpoint Charlie, NVA-Museum Prora, Marinemuseum Dänholm, and the Wende Museum in Los Angeles were also great sources of information.

However, this book is a work of fiction, and any errors or alterations of fact and views expressed here are solely my own.

About the Author

From the moment he first set foot in Berlin, John Cheney knew he was in a city of contrasts. On one hand, Berlin is charging headlong into the future — on the other, Berlin is a city haunted by its past. John sensed there was an untold story to be mined from Berlin’s recent history, and when he learned about the Border’s Edge series of exercises that were held in the 1980s, he knew he had found it. Born and raised in Michigan, John Cheney has lived in Germany, England, and Los Angeles. He loves to travel, absorbing the culture and history of every place he encounters. John began his career in film, writing and directing several short films that have played at festivals across the United States and in Europe. City of Spies is his first novel. John’s second novel, present-day thriller The Apocalypse Men, was released in November 2015.

Follow John on Twitter: @JCheneywrites

See a virtual tour of the locations of City of Spies and more at: www.facebook.com/cityofspies

Copyright

City of Spies

By John Cheney

SHURLAND PRESS

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 John Cheney

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Photo: S. Hanusch/Shutterstock.com.

Content

John Cheney
CITY OF SPIES

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