Everything around her was gray-the high-rises, people’s clothes, the sky-as if color had been banished as another capitalist decadence. She would never let herself blend in. Not in the East. Not in the West. She needed them both. She couldn’t outlast Schmidt. She could probably get herself to West Berlin in the diplomatic immunity of the Nigerians’ trunk, but she couldn’t spend her life running from the Stasi. They had her trapped. They knew it. She knew it. The paprika-coated fries slid down her throat while the low Berlin sky pressed down upon her.
After throwing away half the potatoes, Faith called Schmidt to discuss the terms of her surrender. She followed his directions to a Stasi safe house in the old working-class district of Prenzlauer Berg. The door was ajar and the smell of bacon hung in the air. Before she could knock, Schmidt met her and directed her to the kitchen.
The safe house felt like a seedy motel, stained by the lowlifes who drifted through its doors. As a reminder that the building was constructed before the days of indoor plumbing, a glass shower stall was mounted in a corner near the stove. A Russian front-loading washing machine vibrated so hard that the chubby charwoman on the Fewa detergent box seemed to tremble in fear. Schmidt flipped a switch and the machine fell silent.
“The last one here left dirty towels. I’m reporting them to housekeeping.” Schmidt picked up a fork and turned bacon pieces in an aluminum skillet. “I took the liberty of making you some breakfast. You didn’t have dinner last night and I doubt you found anything proper this morning.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“I know.” Schmidt picked up a cracked ceramic bowl and whisked some eggs, using the top of a tiny refrigerator as a countertop. “Making breakfast in these places is a ritual I’ve missed ever since I left fieldwork. No matter where I was or what the situation, I tried to make myself a real American breakfast of bacon and eggs.”
Faith wondered what kind of ritual he performed before ordering an execution, but decided not to ask. “So you’ve spent time in the States, or did you pick up the taste from an American expat?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it. Get me some spices from the basket-basil and anything that looks hot. I do miss your American pepper sauce-Tabasco, isn’t it?”
Faith selected paper packets from the People’s Own Spice Company in Gera. Schmidt poured the beaten egg onto the bacon chunks and then dumped a heap of paprika into the mixture. Faith sat and studied Schmidt, trying to remember where she’d seen him, now sure it wasn’t in the movies. He dressed more like a Western business exec going casual than someone reliant upon the dowdy clothes selections in the East. Instead of an ill-fitting polyester suit and wide tie, he wore a neat polo shirt, khakis and Italian loafers. He no longer wore the Russian watch, but a Breitling. Either he was at the pinnacle of influence, not far removed from Honecker himself, or he had something lucrative on the side. Most communist countries thrived on corruption, but the GDR was Germany and they prided themselves on running a clean shop. She concluded Schmidt had to be one of the most powerful men in Germany, and what really unnerved her was that, in this part of Germany, power was unbridled.
“So why’s an MfS general slumming with me?”
Schmidt chuckled. “Clever. What makes you think I’m a general?”
She smiled. “What do you want from me, Herr General?”
“Toast bread. Stick it in the toaster oven. There’s orange juice in the cupboard, if you wish.” Schmidt stirred the eggs. “Frau Doktor, I need you to do what you do best. Move some items for me.”
Faith retrieved a can of juice and opened it. “There’s something here I don’t quite understand. The West isn’t my turf. You have free rein in West Berlin and West Germany-and all of Western Europe, for that matter. I’m not the one to help you. My thing is Commieland. And don’t get me wrong; I do mean ’commie’ in the most affectionate, respectful sense of the term.” She smiled.
“I need you to take some items between two socialist states.”
“Come on. You know I don’t do much in Asia outside of the SU. I’d be more lost in China than Nixon was.”
“It’s not China.”
“Vietnam?”
Schmidt shook his head as he turned off the gas burner.
“Your African satellites are too corrupt for you to need me. A couple of bucks and a Pepsi can get anything in or out of those places. North Korea?”
“Europe.”
“Albania? Want me to smuggle out a goat?”
He started to laugh, but stopped himself and let out a snort instead. “The SU.” Schmidt placed two plates on the table. “Coffee?”
Faith nodded. “The Soviet Union? You’re kidding. You have far better connections there than I do. Interflug flies there several times a day. You’ve got passenger, freight and military trains, not to mention diplomatic pouches. There are a billion ways that don’t involve me.”
“We require complete discretion.”
“As in deniability? Can’t you set up the Poles or Czechs? Make it look like they’re doing something when it’s really your guys? Moscow never trusted either of them after the Prague Spring.”
“The Poles with good reason; though, I must say, the Czechs did get their house in order.” Schmidt sat down at the table and scooped up a bite of eggs. “Mahlzeit.”
“Guten Appetit. Delivery or extraction?”
“Delivery.”
Uncomfortable silence forced most people to talk more than they wanted. Faith waited for Schmidt to explain. She sipped the tart Cuban orange juice and was not comforted by the fact that Schmidt was important enough to rate such a scarce luxury item; she’d sampled it only once before, in the canteen of a cosmonaut training facility in a Soviet city closed to all foreigners. Schmidt stopped eating and stared at her. His smile told her he understood her tactic, so she broke her own silence. “I suppose you’re not going to explain why you want to use me.”
“It’s in everyone’s best interest not to question. You receive the goods in Berlin. I’ll make it easier for you and arrange the hand-off for the West.”
“Have there been any prior attempts?” She couldn’t believe she was negotiating with him, but she was relieved to be back on familiar ground. “Do you have any reason to believe that Soviet authorities are aware of your intentions?”
“No to both.”
“I need to know the contents.”
“Knowledge can shorten a life considerably.”
“It determines how I take it in.”
“By the most reliable and expeditious route.”
“What kind of weight and volume are we talking about?”
“Around five kilos and less than a tenth of a cubic meter in volume. And you have a forty-eight-hour window that begins upon receipt.” He sipped his coffee.
“Negotiable?”
“Fixed.”
“Forty-eight is tight even if everything runs perfectly.”
“I found it rather generous. If the goods have not been delivered within forty-eight hours, we must assume you have either absconded with them or gone to the other side.” Schmidt sopped up the egg remnants with a piece of toast. “Either way, we will kill you.”
Faith pushed herself away from the table, knocking over the orange juice. She had to back out while she still had a chance. Staying in Germany wasn’t worth risking her life. The time had come to move on. “Forget it. I’ll find my own way back to West Berlin.”
“Why are you making this difficult? You have the opportunity to learn much from me if you would only cooperate. I can guarantee you a magnificent career with the MfS-more exhilarating and rewarding than smuggling tchotchkes could ever be.”