“I’m going to hate myself for pointing this out, but you’re quitting before you get your payoff. You passed their initiation test-whatever it was about.”
“They had to believe I wasn’t working for the KGB.”
“And you convinced them of that now?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Have you thought of any other way to find your father?”
“Even if I could bring myself to ask my mother and if she’d tell me everything she knows-both highly unlikely-she’d never know how to find him now, not thirty years later. Cooperating with Schmidt is the only way unless the KGB comes through for me, but they’ll only help me if I work with Schmidt.” She sighed.
“All you have to do for him is a Moscow run?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you?”
“You know I’ve done it all my life.”
“Then do it. Find out about your father and don’t ever mess with them again.” Hakan watched her and after a pause he spoke. “So, how are you going to do it?”
“I was thinking about using the Estonian mafia through the Gulf of Finland as a backup plan.”
“I thought you were retiring from the business.”
“It’s not a business-it’s a calling.” Faith smiled.
“More like an obsession. Welcome back.”
Someone knocked at the door. Faith jumped. She glanced at Hakan, who shrugged. He stood to answer it. Faith fled into the bathroom.
“For Frau Charbonnier.”
“Go ahead and put them on the desk.” A pause. “It’s okay. You can come out now.”
“What was that all about?” Faith walked over to the bundle on the desk. She folded back the paper. Roses. A dozen long-stemmed red roses. How could he have been so careless to call attention to her-especially now? Hakan had never given her flowers before, and it had been too long since someone else had sent her any. The damage was done, so she might as well feign appreciation. As she picked them up, a pink envelope fluttered to the worn carpet. Hakan sprang from the bed to retrieve it and handed it to her.
“They’re lovely. Thank you.”
“You’d kill me if I did something that reckless-not that I even thought about it.”
“Then who the hell knows Marie-Pièrre Charbonnier?” She threw the roses onto the desk and ripped open the envelope. “It’s in French.” She translated it for Hakan:
My dearest Marie-Pièrre!
Welcome home! I tried to send birds of paradise, but they only had roses.
A friend of your father.
“What’s this all about?” Hakan walked over to the desk and studied the note over Faith’s shoulder.
“If the KGB knows, the Stasi might know, too,” Faith said.
“I don’t get it.”
“Bird of paradise-birds-I went bird-watching with a KGB agent on Saturday in East Berlin. That’s what ticked off the Stasi, but I’ll spare you the long story.”
“What’s that about a friend of your father?”
“There’s got to be something else here, some kind of message. Maybe they have something for me about Daddy.” She held the note up to the light, but couldn’t see anything.
“You’re not looking for some kind of invisible ink, are you?”
“They really do that kind of stuff-microdots hidden behind stamps on letters, secret radio transmissions, dead-letter drops. The East Germans sometimes mark passports with secret stamps that you can only read under a UV light. We’ll find a message if we can get it under a blacklight. You followed all the precautions coming here?”
“I swear. I thought it was wacko at the time, but I’m sure no one knows I’m here. And with this rain you can’t see more than a couple of meters ahead, anyway.” Hakan handed her the envelope from the Stasi. “Don’t forget this.”
Faith ripped it open and shook it until her American passport fell onto the bed. “I’m not sure when it’ll be safe enough to travel on it again.” She flipped through it. “Here’s my entry stamp from the day I last went over.” Faith lowered herself onto the hard bed, staring agape at the document.
“What’s wrong?
Faith pressed the passport shut and shook her head, engaged in an internal dialogue.
“They put an exit stamp in it: Frankfurt an der Oder, 25 April. They knew. I’ve got to get out of this hotel before they find me.”
“You got through, so don’t beat yourself up.”
“Could be they didn’t realize it at the time, but did later when they reviewed the logs. I forgot the customs declaration. I’m too sloppy, Hakan.”
“Where are you going now?”
“Hotel Hamburg. And do try to extract that message for me as soon as possible.”
“Why does it matter? You’re really sure you’re not calling it quits?”
“I have to find out about my father. What if he really is still alive? I need to know what the KGB’s trying to tell me.”
“Long-stemmed red roses are a clear enough message.”
“I thought they were just a cover.”
“He could have sent up dry cleaning or something-not long-stemmed red roses. Faith, don’t go get yourself in trouble.”
“Hakan, are you jealous?”
“I’m quite happy with our friendship, as is. We both know that when it comes to relationships you’re like throwing a match into gasoline.”
“That’s not fair. I was engaged for years and I still care for him. I admit that, after him, it’s been rocky. And, for your information, the KGB agent isn’t a he. It’s a she.”
“Is that enough to stop you?”
“You are jealous.” She stepped toward him, but he held up his hand.
“It’s nothing. I’ll contact you this afternoon when I figure out the message.”
“Thanks; I couldn’t do it without you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Hakan closed the suitcase.
Faith picked up the envelope that her glasses and passport had arrived in. She started to throw it away, but first checked inside. A small piece of paper had escaped earlier notice. It was the right size. Her heart raced. Please be the note from Daddy. She tipped the envelope toward the light and sighed. It wasn’t her note. They’d kept her wallet with it inside. The Stasi had taken her only connection to her father. She closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the bold strokes. Her father was definitely a selfassured gentleman.
She removed the piece of paper, read the message and looked up at Hakan. “The Stasi’s scheduled the hand-off for tomorrow. Says here I can cooperate or they’ll hunt me down. You know, the KGB’s notes are a lot classier.” She folded it, running her fingernail along the crease. “I think it’s time to call an old friend and ask for help.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Who would believe I’ve read Marx?
– BREZHNEV
MFS HEADQUARTERS, DEMOCRATIC BERLIN-LICHTENBERG
THURSDAY, APRIL 27
Rather than use the cramped elevator, Kosyk climbed to the second floor of the imposing gray monolith on Normannenstrasse, preparing his progress report for Mielke. The MfS chief had initially wanted no contact except a signal before the mission went down. Now he demanded a face-to-face meeting. How typical of him to pry where he didn’t belong. He left the stairway and marched into Mielke’s office.
The secretary showed Kosyk into the MfS chief’s office suite and instructed him to wait in the trophy room. The walnut-paneled room was stuffed with the secret police chief’s treasures. Scattered throughout were dozens of figurines of Lenin in every imaginable position: Lenin shaking his fist; Lenin wagging his finger; Lenin pointing into the air. The older Karl Marx was more sedate, preferring to sit at a desk or stand with arms at his side. Kosyk knew that Mielke kept an even larger number of Stalin figurines hidden from public scrutiny. He’s a boy playing with dolls.