“Hakan, never.” Faith shook her head. “They hide them in light fixtures. Any electric plugs go bad lately?”
“Yeah, now that you mention it, one in the kitchen went out late last week. I should get you to a doctor. You look really bad.”
“Check it.”
Faith wanted to soak longer in the tub, but was afraid she’d fall asleep and slip under the warm bathwater. The bruises on her rib cage had turned a deep purple. She forced herself to palpate them. Some had to be cracked. She carefully pulled on a bathrobe and shuffled into the kitchen.
Frayed wires hung from the wall and a tiny camera and microphone were proudly displayed on the table. She sat down and Jürgen draped a wool blanket around her shoulders. She downed two spoonfuls of honey immediately in hopes of quickly raising her blood sugar. Jürgen poured coffee into a chipped mug. “You take cream, don’t you?”
Faith nodded, conscious of the weight of her head. She slopped butter onto dark whole-kernel bread, slapped a piece of cheese on top and downed it in a few hasty bites. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Looks like you could use a friend right now. Want to tell me what’s going on? Why are they watching me?”
The food revived her. “You went to the Soviet embassy. They’re allergic to anything related to Gorbachev.” She bought herself time to think with a mouthful of cheese. She wanted to trust him, but he was a Party member and a man with problems. The Stasi specialized in people like him. “Hakan and I had it out-but he didn’t touch me. I should get my own place. It’s stupid, but it always is. I had to get away, so I came East and went for a stroll in Treptower Park. I forgot how few streetlights there are here. It got dark fast. I fell into the mud and lost my glasses. I got turned around.”
Jürgen studied her face with the care of a palmist reading every line. “You don’t act like this is the first meal you’ve missed. Your eyes are bloodshot like from lack of sleep, not swollen like you’ve been crying. When women fight, they cry. Believe me, I know. So, how badly do you want me to believe this bull?”
“Enough not to want to involve you.”
“You know I stand up for what’s right, but you have to be straight with me.”
Faith took a breath, opened her mouth, then hesitated. Jürgen once wrote a dissertation that his adviser called brilliant, but refused to accept until three politically inappropriate footnotes were removed. He refused and left the doctoral program rather than compromise his principles. Faith supposed she could trust him. She had to. She had to connect with someone and let out a little of the terror.
“I can’t go into details, but I spent time with the Association.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What day is today?”
“Tuesday.”
“Almost three days. I thought four or five.” She devoured another slice of bread with cheese. “They thought I had something going on with the Russians. They kept asking me about our trip to the embassy, implying I was working for the KGB.”
“Are you?”
“No.” She finished the coffee and held out her cup for more. “They dumped me. It’s wretched out there tonight.” Memories of her struggle for breath were too raw to touch. She coughed and it hurt.
“Yeah, it’s been months since we’ve had so much rain.”
“They kept everything, including my passport.”
“So you refused them.”
Faith spread black currant jam on the bread. “I’m sure they’re trapping me here for another crack at me, but I’m not giving it to them. I’ll scale the Wall first.” She sipped the coffee, ignoring the grit.
Jürgen stared at her. “I saw a report on West Berlin TV the other day. A dozen people make it over every month.”
“I was joking. I’ve heard the shots at night. I am getting out of here and then I’m leaving Germany for good. The stakes are too high. Please understand that if you tell anyone I’m here, your words could translate into my death.”
“They talk to me from time to time, you know. I don’t like it, but what can you do?”
“Try not to talk to them until after I’m gone. Please.”
“You know how it is.” He bowed his head, paused and then pushed himself back from the table. “I’ll make you up a bed on the divan. Stay as long as you like. I have a friend I trust who’s a doctor. If you want-”
“Thanks. Some ribs are cracked, maybe broken, but there’s not much anyone can do for that.”
“You’re very pale.”
“I can’t risk it.”
“I’ll get you a sports bandage and something for the pain. It’ll help you sleep, too.”
“That package I left with you before we went to the embassy. I need it.”
“It’s somewhere in my office. The library’s closed at this hour, but I could get it if you really need it.”
“Get it to me right after work-five at the latest should give me enough time. I know a call to the West is out of the question, so could you send a telegram to Hakan?” She picked up a pen and scrawled on the back of an envelope.
Happy Birthday. Weather bad here. Hope your day is clear. Love MP.
She shoved it across the table to Jürgen and hoped Hakan hadn’t again disappeared on another wild date.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sometimes… when you stand face-to-face with someone,
you cannot see his face.
– GORBACHEV
LUBYANKA (KGB HEADQUARTERS), MOSCOW
Colonel Bogdanov entered the new KGB building through the main entrance on Dzerzhinsky Square, masking her true emotions as she had learned to do in Party meeting after Party meeting. The palatial entrance with its towering marble columns, crystal chandeliers, plush red oriental carpets and mahogany paneling was too reminiscent of the opulence of tsarist and Stalinist designs for her taste. The illusion of grandeur only reinforced the feelings of omnipotence among the petty bureaucrats working within those walls. And she had seen too many suffer at their hands.
A few minutes later, she entered Stukoi’s outer office. The warm greeting from his secretary indicated she was anticipating another gift from Germany. Good.
“Pyatiletka, every time I see you, you look younger,” Bogdanov said. In truth, every time she saw her, she not only had aged, but had also added to her babushka physique.
“Did you get my cheese? The one with the peppercorns?” Pyatiletka said.
Bogdanov sat in the chair beside her desk and suddenly found herself looking up at the stumpy woman. She was certain Pyatiletka had sawed off a few inches from the chair legs so that she could tower over any visitors. “Any news for me?”
Pyatiletka took a deep breath, leaned closer to Bogdanov and spoke in hushed tones. “I hear that General Titov isn’t happy about your being reassigned away from his direct command. He threw quite a fit here a few days ago. I’d watch my back around him, if you know what I mean. He has family in high places. Remember what he did to Skorik.”
“How is he?”
“He was here a few weeks ago. He left Afghanistan, but it hasn’t left him. Sometimes I wonder what the point of this place is. What is the point? Everyone’s scurrying around, recruiting agents, stealing enemy documents. We’re all up to here in information.” The fat of her upper arm sloshed back and forth when she held her hand above her head. “And despite all of it, we only write reports of what our leaders want to hear. Now I was talking to a girl in the typing pool-I can’t say who-I think you understand. She says it happens to her all the time. She types up a report from one of our boys and it goes to his supervisor. Three days later the supervisor makes her retype it, only this time, things are all rosy: Socialism is on the march and the imperialists are cowering in fear. And that’s always the report with the distribution list for people at the top. I don’t know how anyone can know what’s really going on in the world from the whitewash that comes out of here.”