“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.”