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.”