“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.