They stood beside each other, studying some critter made out of glazed brick from the lascivious city of Babylon. Desire tugged at her to reach out and touch him, but she respected protocol. She tapped on a tape recorder borrowed from the museum for a self-guided tour and shrugged her shoulders as if she couldn’t get it to work. She pretended to ask Yurij for help.
“Maggie, too many years have wedged between us for me to believe this is a casual visit.”
“I think we share a common interest,” she said.
“We always have.” He took the recorder from her, removed the tape and tightened it. His hair had gone from blond to distinguished platinum.
“I know you people don’t like what Gorbachev is up to. And, to tell it to you outright, I don’t, either. What’s the point in being a Bible smuggler when Bibles are everywhere, but no one’s reading them? I can’t imagine the spy business is too rewarding nowadays, either. If Gorbachev keeps doing what he’s doing, we’ll both be victims of history.”
“Then there won’t be anything more to keep us apart, will there?” Yurij said with a smile.
“Only God and your wife-and I know the one you fear,” Margaret said. “But I don’t have the right connections to round up enough of what I need. I need you to bend a few rules.”
“I don’t bend rules.”
“I recollect you’re more apt to break them.” Margaret gestured toward a dragon figure, carefully watching Yurij out of the corner of her eye. He was as fit as always, though he’d added a few pounds to his butt. She still remembered what it was like to squeeze those tight buns.
He randomly pushed buttons on the recorder. “What do you want?”
“Landmines. Lots of them.”
“Impossible. What would you do with anti-personnel mines?” Yurij’s left eye twitched.
“Military types call it ’territorial denial.’ I call it protecting some innocent folks from genocide.”
“You’d be better off giving them assault rifles.”
“I’d never forgive myself for giving someone offensive weapons they could hurt someone with. I want something purely defensive so I can sleep at night.”
“What the devil are you doing?” He put on her headset as if testing the equipment. “You’re not getting mixed up with the Caucasus, are you? It’s worse there than the Balkans ever were. At least the Serbs feel some guilt when they slit your throats-the Tartars feel only pleasure.”
“I’ve got to try to save them. Children are dying and it’s not right. God had to take a very special lady from me to get me to listen to Him. Right before she died in my arms, she delivered a message from the Lord.” Tears pooled in Margaret’s eyes. “That girl was just like my daughter.”
Yurij gingerly pushed back her hair and placed the earphones on her head. “I’ve seen your daughter. She has her mother’s beauty and her wiles.”
“You stay away from my girl.”
“You two haven’t talked in years.”
“She’s still my baby. Look me in the eyes and promise me you’ll leave her be.” She faked a smile for anyone watching.
“I’ll arrange the Moscow contacts you need to acquire the mines. I don’t have the funds to underwrite you, so you’ll have to finance them yourself.”
“Promise me?” Margaret said.
He shook hands with her to maintain the façade of two strangers and slipped her a hotel key. “You know I can never resist you, Maggie. Meet me there in a half-hour. I’ve waited on you for so long.”
Jesus forgive me, but my flesh is weak. Margaret wrestled with the guilt of rapture as she formulated her prayers for forgiveness.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A single death is a tragedy,
a million deaths a statistic.
– STALIN
EAST BERLIN
1:17 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 25
Faith knelt in the muddy shallows, coughing and gasping for life. She ripped off the blindfold and stumbled to the riverbank. She lay on the ground, hacking, purging the water from her lungs. With each cough, white pain shot through her side.
She crossed her arms and pressed them against her shivering body to preserve heat. Wet hair clung to her face. They had her glasses, but they would have been useless in the pounding rain and darkness. She looked around, but could make out only shadows. The sky glowed in one direction. West Berlin. Thank God for capitalist decadence. She pushed herself up and dragged herself toward the light, toward the West-even though she had no way of crossing the Wall.
She wandered through the woods for what seemed like hours. She stepped into a hole, jarring her entire body. Curling up and sleeping was all she wanted to think about, but she pushed on. The rain pelted her and melted the forest floor into mud. Her foot sank several inches into the muck, but her next step met resistance. A sidewalk. She cried tears of relief as her foot tapped against the concrete. She followed it with renewed determination when she saw lights flickering through the trees.
Even without her glasses, she could recognize a familiar figure, a titanic Red Army soldier protecting the child. At that moment she wanted to take the child’s place. She told herself she’d be okay and, for the first time in days, she believed it. She knew where she was-Treptower Park. Back on familiar ground, her thoughts were free to move beyond survival. She realized she’d done it-she’d convinced them she had nothing to do with the KGB. Faith Whitney had beaten the Stasi-at least in this round. The rush energized her and she picked up her pace.
The rain slacked off as she reached the S-Bahn station. It was deserted except for several stray cats. No suspicious cars were parked nearby. She collapsed onto a bench and waited for a train. Her tormentors were probably at home, sleeping off their fun. She’d never truly desired to kill before, but she wanted them dead. Most of all, she wanted to get Schmidt. Maybe he was the one who took her father from her. He was old enough to have been there. She craved revenge for herself and for her father as she stretched out on the hard bench and quivered with rage, chill and pain.
Faith had no visa, no passport and no money, but she hoped she had a friend. She clung to the shadows as she darted into Jürgen’s apartment building. She removed her shoes so she didn’t leave a muddy trail for the Stasi to follow. She knocked on the door, too depleted to worry about his reaction. No answer. When she couldn’t wait any longer, she pounded. A light switched on.
“Faith, it’s three in the morning.” Jürgen slurred his words. A hasty knot held his bathrobe barely closed. “Come in before the neighbors-”
“Thank you.” Her voice was raspy, her throat raw. A test pattern flickered on the black and white television. Cigarette ashes floated in a glass beside an empty whiskey bottle. Jürgen rustled through a stack of old newspapers and spread a Neues Deutschland on the floor for her shoes.
“Sorry about the hour. I need help.”
“I see that. Don’t worry about it. I haven’t gone to bed yet.” He rubbed his glassy eyes.
“Hakan and I had a fight.”
“You here to talk about it? I’m the last person you want to talk about relationships with.”
“Any signs after the embassy visit that the Stasi’s been here?” Each word was an effort.
“Come to think of it, Friday, when I came home, the place didn’t feel right. I haven’t thought any more about it, but it struck me at the time that some things were a little off, a chair in the kitchen, some papers on my desk. What’s going on?”
“You checked for cameras or bugs?” She steadied herself on the back of a chair and lied to herself that she was safe. Her ribs ached with each breath.
“Faith, are you all right?” Jürgen reached out and steadied her, then helped ease her down into an armchair. “Hakan didn’t beat you up, did he?”