“You know what I mean-the American. Whitney.”
“The professor?”
Kosyk snorted.
“Herr Kosyk, you need to control your agents. And I’m surprised with you. The first rule in this business is never to reveal the identity of your agents-even to a friend like me. I think we’re both talking about the one I’ve designated FedEx.”
“FedEx?” Kosyk laughed. “You like the Americans, don’t you?”
“Their government’s the enemy, not the people. But I want to make it very clear I was not the one who initiated contact. FedEx approached me on an unrelated matter with two of your citizens. They were all hot and bothered because you censored one of our magazines-sort of sweet, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t know about it, because I heard you picked up the librarians.”
“Stay away from her.”
“Not an issue.”
“You met with her a second time.”
Bogdanov took a piece of Russian hard candy from a glass dish and unwrapped it. “I thought her skills might be useful in acquiring some materials we’ve been looking for. I had no idea you were interested in her.” Or how interested I would be.
“You took her to a park.”
“It’s a much more effective technique to befriend potential assets rather than to coerce them into cooperation-which I understand is your preferred style.”
“It’s a question of effectiveness.” Kosyk’s left eye jerked to the side; the right one remained fixed on Bogdanov.
“What are you planning with FedEx?”
Kosyk stood to leave. “We agreed you’d handle recruitment in Moscow and arrange on-site logistics. We handle all disinformation and we deliver you the means to strike the target. Upon receipt in Moscow, the KGB takes control. Beyond this, I see no grounds to share operational details.”
“Very well.” Bogdanov twisted the waxed candy wrapper as the water from the spilled vase dripped onto the new carpet. “Then I see no need to go into additional details unless you want to have a seat and remind yourself we’re working toward the same goal.” Bogdanov pointed to an armchair.
Kosyk continued to stand, his arms crossed. “I’m listening.”
“Suit yourself.” Arrogant little bastard. Bogdanov refused to look up to him and instead stared at him as if he were sitting down, but, unfortunately, his crotch was eye level. “Good news from Moscow. We have strong initial support from Gasporov. Our own Spetsnaz unit is with us. Let’s drink to early success.” She pushed the shot glass of vodka across the table to him and picked up the water-filled glass.
Kosyk shook his head. “Too early and I’m working.”
“You’re more German than the Germans. But you’re a Sorb, aren’t you? Your High German’s too pure, too practiced. You grew up speaking sorbski, didn’t you? Tell me, Gregor, did you grow up as Yurij?”
“That’s of no consequence,” he said with force.
“Isn’t it? The thought of native Slavs in their Deutschland never sat well with our German friends. They’ve never seemed to like the Sorb minority in their midst, have they? But then, I guess they’re not too keen on minorities in general. They’ve spent the last thousand years trying to assimilate or eliminate our little West Slavic brothers, among others. With you I’d say they succeeded.” Bogdanov drank the shot of water. “I wonder if Markus Wolf would’ve gotten such a sweet retirement deal from the MfS if he’d grown up an ethnic Sorb in Hoyerswerda.”
“Wolf deserved nothing.” Kosyk’s face turned red and his voice quivered with anger. “He was a politician, not a real spook. Good staff, a lot of politics and Der Spiegel blew his reputation out of proportion. If he were a Sorb, he never would’ve advanced beyond major.”
“But I hear he’s not really retired. He’s a major behind-the-scenes player.”
“He’s nothing. He doesn’t even know-” Kosyk interrupted himself and studied Bogdanov. “You’re not extracting information from me. Crude, Bogdanov.”
“A question of effectiveness.”
“Stay away from FedEx. Understand me: If I believe my asset is compromised, I will eliminate her.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
To learn from the Soviet Union is to learn victory!
– EAST GERMAN COMMUNIST SLOGAN
MFS CENTRAL DETENTION CENTER, [EAST] BERLIN-
HOHENSCHÖNHAUSEN
Chipping gray naval paint and smears of blood and feces covered the cinder-block walls of the Stasi prison. The room contained only a table and chair for the interrogator, a stool bolted to the floor, and a slop pail in the corner. Recessed fluorescent lights glowed overhead day and night in the windowless cell. Her side ached from when she fell off the stool and they’d kicked her awake. At this point she would have welcomed a smelly mattress or even a few moments of peace on the grimy floor. Her thoughts were jumbled, but she was certain of one thing: No one ever left this wretched room the same person she went in-except the Stasi interrogators. They never changed. They had no history, no future and probably no present.
The interrogator slapped her, nearly knocking her to the floor. “What does the KGB want with you?”
“I told you. I refused.” Faith ran her fingers over her stinging cheek.
“How long have you known Tatyana Medvedev?” The voice was flat, as if the interrogator were bored with the repetition.
“Since Friday.”
“Why did you go to the Soviet embassy?”
Faith closed her eyes and turned away. Her mind was numb from fear and exhaustion. She didn’t think she could hold out much longer, but she had to. If they believed she’d even talked to the Russians about them, it was over.
“Frau Whitney, answer my question.”
“Over and over, I have.” Faith sighed and glanced over toward a picture mirror. They had taken away her eyeglasses and everything was a blur, but she knew Schmidt was there, studying her. “Get Schmidt.”
“How often did you meet Frau Medvedev?”
Faith turned toward the two-way mirror. “Schmidt,” she said and paused for a breath. “Stop, please. I’m not working for them. You’ve got to believe me. It’s the truth.”
“Pay attention. How often did you meet Frau Bogdanov?”
“Twice. Wait-Bogdanov?”
“So you do know Bogdanov. When do you meet her next?”
“I don’t know Bogdanov. I’m tired. I can’t think straight.”
“You admit you met Bogdanov twice. How do you contact her?”
“I don’t know Bogdanov.”
“When did you first meet Zara Antonovna Bogdanov, lieutenant colonel in the KGB?”
“Medvedev’s Bogdanov?”
“How do you contact Bogdanov, your KGB handler?”
“I don’t know.” She pressed her cracking lips together to spread whatever moisture remained and stared at the clear bottle of seltzer water on the table four feet away. “I’m thirsty. Please.”
“How do you contact her?” The interrogator looked at Faith with the dissociated gaze of an executioner.
“I don’t know.”
“What did they offer you?”
“A chess set.”
“Why that?”
“I collect.”
“Were you interested in their offer?”
“No. May I have water?” Faith yawned. She struggled to concentrate. Small variations could mean hours more of questioning. Or worse.
“So you were interested.”
“I’ll never work for the KGB.” Her words were halting.
“And why should we believe that you would work for the MfS and not the KGB?”
“You know about my father.” She fought back tears, but they streamed down her face anyway.
“Did you tell her you’re doing a job for us?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What did they want?”