Freedom Bridge: A Cold War Thriller (17 page)

Chapter 36

T
he limousine was spacious enough to accommodate four passengers—six, if the jump seats were used. Luka Rogov, enjoying the novelty of sitting in back, sprawled comfortably across two seats.

Ernst Roeder sat as close as he could to a window on the opposite side of the vehicle.

Rogov had upturned his military cap and rested it on one large knee. Chuckling, he began rolling the toy figures around inside the cap, clearly enjoying the sound of wood against wood.

As Roeder stared out the window, a trapped-animal look in his eyes, he automatically dug into his pocket for a small bottle and slipped a pill under his tongue. Barely ten minutes later, no longer able to evade the knowledge that his breathing was much too labored to be normal, he went back to the well and pulled out his pill bottle.

Luka Rogov’s burly arm whiplashed across the aisle and caught Roeder’s wrist in mid-air.

Ernst Roeder recoiled as if he’d been struck by a snake.

“Medicine,” he said hoarsely in Russian. “It is only medicine.”

Luka sniffed the contents of the bottle, shrugged, then dropped the bottle into his cap with the wooden figures.

Roeder sat back and closed his eyes.

He was so ashamed. He had worked hard to prepare for this moment, to meet it without fear. He had calculated the risks well in advance, even preparing himself for the prospect of a firing squad. He could have left East Germany long ago but had chosen to remain—his way of defying his own countrymen and their obscene edicts on how he should live and what he should think!

A poor weapon, his stark photographs that graced the grim pages of underground publications, and now
Das Wort
whenever he could smuggle them out. But he knew that his way of fighting back had kept his spirits up all these years.

He knew also that defiance came with an inevitable price tag. It was time to pay up.

But with dignity, Ernst, with dignity!

Why couldn’t he stop the palpitations? Why couldn’t he forget a certain month and a year—May, 1945—from his mind?

Foolish question. The answer sat on the other side of the limousine.

He forced himself to look at the shaved head. The flat Mongolian face. Slanted eyes that gleamed at the sight of helplessness, of fear.

* * *

Ernst Roeder’s mother had warned him well in advance, even though he was eighteen years old and knew the score. In May 1945, Russians and Mongolians were turned loose on Berlin—the last stronghold of the Third Reich. What they found were mostly old people, women, and children.

The first thing Ernst did after his mother disappeared was to blacken his sister’s face with coal dust. His mother had told him how all the women were doing it to make themselves ugly to the Soviet soldiers.

But his sister hated the coal dust. Complaining that it was itchy, she kept rubbing it off. So he made her wear a pair of his trousers—the baggiest he could find—and as a further precaution, he hid her long blonde hair under a cap.

But his sister was fourteen and her figure was becoming harder to disguise. So he kept her with him constantly while he foraged for food, afraid to let her out of his sight.

He had found a vacant cellar months ago and managed to rescue a dilapidated mattress from a garbage dump, scrubbing it clean with rags. His sister slept on the mattress. He slept nearby on hard cement.

He had trained himself to be a light sleeper—to bolt upright at the sound of a slight noise—and was proud of the fact that he awoke early each morning so the two of them could go on the hunt for food, water, clothing—anything that could help them survive.

But one night, weakened from lack of decent food the last few days, he overslept. He was sleeping soundly when he heard a string of Russian curses followed by boisterous laughter. As he bolted upright, he gagged on the overpowering smell of fish, sweat and leather in time to see his sister stir in her sleep, her cap loosening a long golden strand—

They went at her like a wolf pack, tearing at her clothes, smothering her screams with their laughter.

Roeder flung himself at these savages in soldiers’ uniforms, but he was knocked aside, his head smashing into concrete.

Dazed, sobbing, he kept calling his sister’s name.

He was still calling it after they left, but his sister wouldn’t answer.

He stayed by her side and would not let her out of his sight. Not for five days.

After that, he buried her in a corner of the cellar.

* * *

Ernst Roeder removed his glasses and wiped his forehead and upper lip with the back of his hand. “Please,” he said, “let me have one more pill.”

Rogov ignored him.

Twenty minutes later Roeder’s agitation subsided even without his medication. He had been driven to an unpretentious little house and taken up a flight of stairs and into a room that was half kitchen, half parlor. He was grateful for the overstuffed chair he’d been offered.

There was nothing threatening about Colonel Aleksei Andreyev, who sat opposite him—probably not a good sign. Andreyev’s reputation preceded him, Roeder having been in his presence more than once. Even so, he thought it polite of the colonel to speak to him in colloquial German.

“—so in order to save us both time which, for me at least, is essential,” the colonel was saying, “I will tell you what I already know, and you will then tell me what I do
not
know. I know that you are in the business of selling secrets to the West. I know that one of your partners-in-treason was Stepan Brodsky. I know that the two of you conspired to pass certain information to our enemies regarding the summit negotiations and that your partner was planning, for reasons not yet clear to me, to deliver what I have reason to believe was only a first installment.”

He held up Stepan Brodsky’s cigarette lighter.

“Through my efforts, Brodsky’s lighter has just been found.”

He paused.

“It has recently come to my attention, Herr Roeder, that you were about to finalize the sale—your backup copy of microfilm—with the help of an American courier. The lovely Adrienne Brenner.”

He paused. Leaned forward to scrutinize Roeder’s expression.

“The microfilm you concealed in the wooden toy you passed her is being developed as we speak,” he said.

Roeder looked at the man incredulously. He hadn’t the faintest idea what Andreyev was talking about. He reached into his pocket, his chest pain reminding him that he no longer had any nitroglycerine.

“Who else is involved in your little enterprise? Who are your contacts? I want the name of every person who has any knowledge of this affair.”

“You can trust me,” Aleksei said, sounding as gently forgiving as a father confessor. “I can help you. We can help one another.”

Roeder opened his mouth but no sound came out. A sudden fog had rolled into his brain and he lost his bearings in it . . .

Where to begin? How to explain that yes, he
was
involved, but not in the way Colonel Andreyev was suggesting. The microfilm in the wooden toy had nothing to do with espionage.

“You are wrong,” were the only words he was able to form out of the fog.

Aleksei took hold of Roeder’s arm and led him into the kitchen area, motioning for Luka to follow. He led Roeder to an open door.

“I wish I had time to play the usual cat-and-mouse games, Herr Roeder, but unfortunately you are not a man I can afford to detain too long. Not until I have something incriminating in hand. A confession would do nicely. For that I must rely on my associate, Luka Rogov.”

Luka Rogov advanced like a tank edging into battle.

“Luka does his best work in a cellar. Of course if you were to cooperate—”

A cellar.

Roeder screamed without sound. Gasped, choking, in a futile effort to blot out the laughter—the screams.

Sobbing, rocking in his arms, all bloody and broken, so lovely and golden, so still—

One oversized hand began to claw at his chest.

Chapter 37

C
olonel Emil von Eyssen strode up to a parked car where his sergeant was waiting.

“Which house?” he rasped—and realized the man had noticed his agitation. “My poor brother-in-law has a history of heart disease—scarlet fever,” he explained. “You remember how it was in Berlin right after the war. Prolonged stress. Malnutrition. How long have they had him?”

“A quarter of an hour, not counting the time he was in the limousine. It’s that house over there,” his sergeant said, pointing.

“Wait here unless I call you,” von Eyssen said in a tone that substituted for clenched teeth.

He headed for the house in rapid strides. Took the steps two at a time. Kicked at the front door with his boot. They have had no time, he told himself. They cannot have a confession yet.

A scowling Luka Rogov opened the door.

Von Eyssen rushed in. Ernst was on the floor, Andreyev kneeling beside him, holding his brother-in-law’s wrist.

Taking his pulse?

Aleksei dropped Roeder’s wrist and stood up. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s been a regrettable accident. Your brother-in-law has had a fatal heart attack.”

“Brought on by your so-called interrogation, no doubt.” von Eyssen glared pointedly at Luka Rogov. “You tortured him.”

“I assure you, he was not tortured,” Aleksei said calmly.

“I don’t believe you. Do you have any idea how young my brother-in-law was? He may have looked older—he had a history of scarlet fever—but Ernst was only in his mid-thirties. We were about to celebrate his 34th birthday. You have made my sister a widow,” he said hotly.

“You’re bluffing,” Aleksei retorted. “The fact that you’re here—and so quickly—tells me you know there’s been a security leak.”

“I do,” von Eyssen admitted, unwilling to say more.

“What you
don’t
know,” Aleksei said caustically, “is that ultimately I located Stepan Brodsky’s cigarette lighter. The microfilm inside was intact. The prints of the film I obtained from your late brother-in-law are on their way here. They will prove that Ernst Roeder was a traitor and a spy. That he was about to deliver a backup copy to Adrienne Brenner, who in turn intended to courier the microfilm to the CIA—information about the Four Power summit.”

Stunned by Andreyev’s revelations—microfilm, backup copies, Dr. Kurt Brenner’s wife a courier who passed sensitive information to the CIA—von Eyssen managed to mutter, “You are mistaken. The security leak originated in your office, not mine.”

Aleksei gestured to a chair. “Shall we both reserve judgment until the jury arrives?” he said snidely.

Von Eyssen’s expression was one of disdain, as if to say, Why should I lend myself to this charade? But he sat down.

The doorbell rang. Aleksei stopped Luka with a glance and went to answer it himself. He took an envelope from the uniformed messenger, and with the smugness of a poker player who raises his bet without looking at the last card dealt him, tossed the unopened envelope to von Eyssen.

Hastily tearing the envelope open, von Eyssen quickly scanned the photographs. Frowning, he went through them again slowly.

“But this is nothing,” he said, genuinely puzzled as he waved the photographs in front of Aleksei’s startled face. “Of what significance are a few harmless pictures of Stepan Brodsky on Glienicker Bridge? Or of a German border guard killed at the midpoint? As a matter of fact, Ernst photographed the border guard on
my
orders—a kind of consolation prize for the widow. As for the photographs of Air Force Captain Stepan Brodsky, he was Russian, not German. As I’ve said all along, he is
your
problem, not mine.”

Aleksei grabbed the photographs out of von Eyssen’s hand and studied them. His brain reeled, unable to process the knowledge that his nearly airtight theory was fallacious. That he was left with more questions than facts. Because Brodsky
had
worked for him, his traitorous actions, together with his aborted escape attempt, were indeed Aleksei’s problems!

But if Roeder hadn’t been spying, what in hell had he been up to? Where did Adrienne Brenner and her trusty Minox fit into the puzzle? Most important, who was Brodsky’s Russian confederate?

Von Eyssen stuck his head out the window and yelled for his assistant.

“You have killed a prominent citizen of the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, my dear Colonel,” von Eyssen said in a voice filled with triumph. “You murdered him in a crude attempt to cover up your incompetence and the treason of one of your own people. I will not allow you to point the finger of suspicion—”

Von Eyssen’s assistant burst into the room, revolver drawn.

Aleksei continued to stare at the photographs, his expression that of a man who scrupulously follows a road map and ends up on a dead-end street.

“How many times have we Germans been encouraged to get on the hot line and call critical matters to the attention of our Soviet friends?” von Eyssen said caustically. “Rest assured that the wires between Berlin and Moscow are about to heat up. By tomorrow morning, you will be up to your neck in an investigation—your own.”

“Before you do anything rash, Emil,” Aleksei said—the personification of reasonableness—“there’s something you should consider. You and I are in this mess together. It’s in our self-interest to act accordingly. There’s no getting past the fact that Stepan Brodsky almost pulled off a defection on your watch—and worse, that he managed to push a cigarette lighter with microfilm off Glienicker in order to protect the identity of god knows who. As for your brother-in-law, even if these photographs really
are
harmless, too many people in both East German and Soviet intelligence will continue to be suspicious about what may or may not have been going on between him and Adrienne Brenner.”

“I hate to admit it, but you’re right,” von Eyssen said, scowling. “How do we get to the bottom of this?”

“We track down Brodsky’s confederate, then handle it however we have to. Look, Ernst Roeder wasn’t tortured. I used Luka as a threat—it’s an effective interrogation technique of mine. That’s why I conduct my interrogations in this house. That’s why my co-optee’s report to me here. But rarely have I ever had to go that far. Had I been aware of your brother-in-law’s history of scarlet fever, I’d never have tried to frighten the truth out of him. My sincere apologies to your sister.”

Von Eyssen nodded. “I believe you, Colonel.”

“Under the circumstances, why don’t you call me ‘Aleksei’?”

Von Eyssen clicked his heels and bowed slightly. “‘Aleksei’ it is. I’ll arrange to have my brother-in-law’s body picked up as soon as possible. As to our joint project, please keep me apprised. Let’s go,” he told his assistant.

As he was leaving the building, von Eyssen barely noticed the woman he passed on his way down the steps.

Galya stared after the imposing German officer, wondering what was going on. Something important, that much was clear. Maybe she should leave and come back later . . .

Stop procrastinating, she scolded herself. What you have to tell Colonel Andreyev is important too—and besides, he expects you. A matter of great urgency, you told him.

She came to a startled halt the minute she walked in the door. Cool, imperturbable Colonel Aleksei Andreyev pacing the room?

When she saw why, she gasped. Hand pressed to her mouth to choke off a scream, she whispered, “Is he . . . is Mr. Roeder dead?”

“What does it look like, a beauty nap?” Aleksei snapped.

Galya backed out the door cautiously. Eased her way down the steps and into the street. She’d gone half a block when she gagged, bent over, and threw up her lunch. After that, she walked at a snail’s pace, unaware of distance or direction.

When she finally looked up, darkness was approaching. She found herself on a quiet residential street, deserted except for an old woman who was frowning over the flattened tire of a bicycle.

Galya sat down on an empty bench.

Murderer. You are as guilty of killing Ernst Roeder as if you’d put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger
.

She examined her motives with ruthless unforgiving clarity, forcing herself to name what she had done, and why.

Envy, she thought bleakly. I envied Adrienne Brenner’s good fortune when the woman’s only “crime” had been kindness.

Jealousy. Sensing Kiril’s attraction to Adrienne Brenner, she admitted for the first time that she had always known Kiril wasn’t in love with her. What he felt for her was affection—no, more than affection. He brought to their relationship thoughtfulness and encouragement, a steady gentle optimism.

She let Kiril’s face take form—let it hurt. In exchange for spying on her lover, for being Colonel Andreyev’s most charming co-optee, she had focused only on the prospect of beautiful things, ironically immersing herself in ugliness.

The least of what I owed you, Kiril darling, was loyalty.

Another image began to form.

This time she squeezed her eyes shut to stop it.

But the body of Ernst Roeder sprawled on the carpet loomed . . . only it wasn’t Roeder’s body, it was Kiril’s.

She shuddered violently, knowing she had been a breath away from delivering Kiril to Ernst Roeder’s fate.

She approached the old woman who was still muttering over her disabled bicycle and pressed something into her hand.“I hope it brings you better luck,” she said in faltering German.

The old woman would repeat the story endlessly to family and friends. How a Russian lady, with tears streaming down her face, made her a gift of a beautiful
wrist watch made of
gold
.