The KGB technical support staff moved the antenna up and down along the walls of the cultural attaché’s office as if washing a window with a squeegee. Bogdanov noticed him pausing for a moment near a picture of Gorbachev joking with assembly-line workers. For months the cleaning crew had ignored the coat of filth along the frame, but in the few hours that Bogdanov was away in Moscow that morning, someone had been inspired to dust. The technician finished the wall and removed his headphones.
“The room’s clean.”
“Would you mind leaving your equipment behind? I’ll have it sent to you shortly,” Bogdanov said.
“I can’t. I’m responsible for it.”
“Since when is anyone around here responsible for anything? That’s an order.”
He set the device on the table. “I should stay in case you have any questions about how it functions.”
“Dismissed.”
The lieutenant left the room.
“What’s this all about?” Bogdanov’s assistant, Major Alexander Ivashko, tapped his pen on the cherry-wood desk.
Bogdanov held a finger in front of her lips and put on the earphones. She walked over to the print and moved the dial to the highest sensitivity setting, noting the low setting where the tech had left it. She waved the antenna over the corner of the frame. It shrieked. She yanked the earphones off and rubbed her ears. Even with the low sensitivity level the tech had used, the tone was unmistakable.
She removed the picture and found a tiny slit cut into the brown-paper backing. She ripped away the paper, furious someone was checking up on her. A transmitter was lodged in the corner of the frame. She plucked it out. Both the MfS and KGB used the Soviet-designed remote-listening device in their arsenals of tricks, but, with German perfectionism, the MfS had its own improved production line. She recognized its origins immediately.
Made in the USSR.
She dropped it into a cup, splashing stale coffee onto the desk. Without bothering to wipe up the spill, she donned the headphones again and swept the entire room. After her search yielded no additional eavesdroppers, she sat down in an armchair across from the major.
“Us or them?” Ivashko said.
“Who would ever have thought ’us or them’ would mean KGB or MfS?”
“I heard Titov was throwing bottles across the room when he found out you’re reporting directly to Moscow instead of to him. How’d you know the tech was lying?”
“Some of my dust was missing. And the tech jerked his head a little when he got the hit.”
“You think it’s Titov?”
“Probably, but I don’t want to get caught up in residency politics.” And she didn’t want to speculate with Ivashko that Stukoi might even be behind it. From now on, she’d trust no one. “Moscow wants us to find FedEx, fast. She can’t go directly to West Berlin from the East. She’s a known quantity. She’ll somehow get to West Germany and fly to West Berlin. We’ll catch up with her there. I want the officers assigned to both Tegel and Tempelhof to be on the lookout for her. Have them check the arrival manifests for the last couple days. Get them her photo, known aliases. And check with every hotel in West Berlin. Put your best surveillance team on the Turk she lives with. She’ll contact him and the Turk will take us to her.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A lie told often enough becomes the truth.
– LENIN
EAST GERMAN-POLISH BORDER
12:03 A.M., WEDNESDAY, APRIL 26
Faith sat on the bench in the stuffy train compartment staring at the seat numbers, feeling trapped. She hated herself for being so careless as to forget the customs-declaration form. The Berlin border guards never bothered with it and their complacency had lulled her into her own.
The customs official stood before her and repeated his request for her form.
Charbonnier. Je suis Madame Charbonnier. But the real Charbonnier wouldn’t understand the seriousness of her faux pas. So from that second on, neither did Faith.
“Rien à déclarer,” Faith said as she studied the hammer-and-compass state seal on his uniform’s aluminum buttons.
“This one,” the East German customs official said in heavily accented French and held up a declaration form.
“I have none.”
“You fill one out when you arrive in the GDR.”
“No, no. I have nothing like that. I filled out a card and paid five marks. The officer in Berlin gave me the visa. That was all.” She shook her head with stereotypical French indignity.
“Wait here.” The officer stepped into the hall and called his supervisor.
“So what do we have here?” the supervisor said in German.
“The Frenchwoman. She has no customs declaration.”
“What does she have with her?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t have the form.”
“Find out what’s she’s got.”
The official turned to Faith and asked for her luggage in broken French.
“This is all.” She waved her hand over her plastic bag. “My valise and purse were stolen at Bahnhof Zoo in West Berlin. You can contact your colleagues there. I made a police report. There was no time to buy anything or I would have missed my train.”
The officer translated for the supervisor. The older man shook his head. “Tell her she should have gone shopping in the West when she had the chance.”
Exactly twenty-four hours after Faith had left Jürgen’s apartment, she arrived at the Hotel InterContinental in West Berlin-ten kilometers from where she started. She showered and crawled into bed. CNN International repeated a story about the environmental impact of last month’s Exxon Valdez oil spill, but she was too groggy to care yet too wired to sleep. Sometime the next morning, a persistent knock jarred her into consciousness. Every muscle in her body complained of its miserable existence as she jumped from the bed and fumbled with the hotel robe. She rushed across the room and pressed her ear against the door.
“Hey, it’s me. Open up,” Hakan said.
She unbolted the door and shielded herself from view behind it. Hakan squeezed through the crack in the doorway and then she locked the door. She slid her arms around him and didn’t let go even after she noticed her robe soaking up moisture from his drenched trenchcoat. She squeezed too tightly and sharp pain radiated from her ribs.
“You okay?” Hakan said.
“I’m going back to the States.” Her voice was weak.
“I’ve called the Interconti nonstop since the telegram. I haven’t been able to get any of my work done except your backlog. You know, I even considered going East to try to find you.”
“Really? You’d break your vow for me?”
“I said ’considered.’ ” He flashed a smile, but she didn’t return it.
“I would have given anything to have had you there a couple days ago. Your junior-counterfeiter’s kit was a lifesaver.”
“What can I say? You trained with the best. I do have some ideas about things I’ll add next time… if there is a next time.” Hakan placed his wet umbrella in the wastepaper basket beside the writing table and set a small suitcase on the floor. “How serious was it?”
She turned away from him and walked to the window. She pushed back the heavy drapes and peeked out. Sheets of rain nearly hid the bombed-out shell of the Gedenknis Kirche. She jerked the curtains shut before anyone could see her. “It’s over.”
“No way.”
“The goddamn Cold War’s gone hot on me, too hot. I can’t do it anymore. I’m getting out,” she said in a monotone.
“I never thought you’d come to your senses and, honestly, I don’t believe it. You can’t let go that easily. You’re an addict.”
“I just overdosed. I’m leaving Berlin and getting out of Germany and I don’t give a crap if I ever set foot on this screwed-up continent again.”