Overshadowing the toys in quantity and originality were scores of gifts from friendly secret-police organizations. The Jamahariya Security Organization had commissioned a portrait of Colonel Qaddafi crafted from tiles looted from a mosaic in an ancient Roman villa near Tripoli. A jeweled sword right out of the Arabian Nights hung on the wall in honor of the close ties between the MfS and Saddam’s Mukhabarat. A more modest handhammered copper plate with Arabic inscriptions from the South Yemeni Ministry for State Security thanked the MfS for its extensive technical assistance. Kosyk seethed. The plate should rightfully hang in his office. He was the one who engineered the transformation of that remote half-nation teetering on the edge of the Arabian Peninsula into the world’s foremost training ground for international terrorists.
After an indignant half-hour wait inside the manifestation of Mielke’s ego, the secretary reappeared and took him deeper into the suite. He was surprised to find not only Mielke, but Honecker and several of his most trusted allies. When he entered the room, all discussion stopped. Willi Stoph smashed his cigar into the nearest ashtray.
Kosyk knew he was superior to the most powerful men in his country, but they neglected to recognize it with a Politburo seat. If they wouldn’t reward his genius, someday they would be forced to acknowledge his power. He had access to their every dirty little secret. He knew that Honecker wore only garments from the West and had GDR seamstresses replace the imperialist tags with MADE IN GDR labels. He knew about Erika the masseuse. He knew which of Honecker’s trusted colleagues had made a secret play to oust him, but had failed to gain Soviet backing. He knew that Mielke popped amphetamines to get himself going, then barbiturates to bring himself back down. Kosyk shook each Politburo member’s hand and smiled, not out of social grace, but because he knew.
But he didn’t know enough-not yet.
Kosyk took a seat in one of the high-backed, royal-blue chairs. Honecker looked up at him. “Well, report.”
“Operation Friendship is progressing well. I’ve recruited assets trained by the American special forces. They’ll be inserted into Moscow as tourists. I’m in the process of arranging for the transfer of the armaments.”
“And our friends?”
“They suspect nothing. The bulk of the residency here is occupied with some new information I arranged to be shared with the First Chief Division about members of the Second Division clandestinely meeting with Turkish intelligence. I’ve also arranged for one of the Second Division’s informants to give them additional information about suspected ties between the Russian mafia in West Berlin and some members of the First Division. If I understand my internal KGB politics correctly, which I do, the chase after one another is now their highest priority. They’re too occupied to concern themselves with my shop.”
“Keep it that way. Is it running on time? Will we have something to celebrate on International Workers’ Day?”
“Naturally. It is my project, isn’t it?”
“Plans have developed since we last spoke. We’re undertaking an operation in Berlin designed to coincide with the Soviet leadership vacuum. The West won’t intervene because of upheaval in Moscow, since they’ll understand that the Soviets didn’t have the intent to begin the next world war the same day their leader was assassinated. They’ll perceive that the action was ours alone, but they won’t move against us because they understand an attack upon us is the same as one upon the entire Warsaw Treaty Organization. Before our friends have a chance to stop us, we will have united our capital.”
“Jawohl!” the chair of the Council of Ministers Willi Stoph said.
All heads turned to Stoph, unaccustomed to spontaneity in a group whose advanced age and boredom with running a Soviet satellite had long ago sedated their meetings. Kosyk was more astonished with Honecker’s leadership, since he usually ran meetings like a disinterested chairman of the board, counting the days until he stepped down into retirement or until senility eased the tedium.
“May I speak openly?”
“No. It has already been decided at the highest levels. In less than four days, Greater Berlin will be ours.”
And the GDR will be mine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I am not a Marxist.
– KARL MARX
WEST BERLIN
Faith emerged from the U-Bahn at Nollendorfplatz later that evening and zipped around puddles on the sidewalk, unsure that she should be accepting the woman’s invitation for a drink. Hakan had exposed the paper to ultraviolet light and extracted a message from Tatyana-Bogdanov, or whatever her name was. She warned that Faith’s cover identity had been blown and it would only be a short matter of time before the Stasi found her at the hotel. The note also included the place and time for them to rendezvous, but gave no specific directions. Hakan knew the Berlin club scene well enough to get Faith to the correct neighborhood, and a cabdriver directed her to the right doorway and buzzer. Like many chic clubs in Berlin, no sign marked Cornuta’s entrance. She doubted that would make it any harder for the Stasi to find her there in flagrante delicto with the KGB.
A bouncer cracked open the door, frisked her with her eyes and let her in. Faith’s vision slowly adjusted to the muted light in the achromatic club. Whereas East Berlin shunned color for variants of gray, West Berlin abandoned it altogether. Everyone was dressed in black. A woman in a sequined evening dress played a baby grand piano and sang classic cabaret songs from the twenties. A cloud of smoke churned, wending its way around the patrons until its fingers encircled Faith, coating her freshly bathed skin. Stares of women touched her every curve as if sketching a contour drawing. As a nonsmoker, she preferred the stares.
She needed to keep a low profile, but knew everyone was studying her, wondering why she was walking among them. They could tell she wasn’t one of them. She turned toward the exit and spotted her. The woman sat at the end of the bar, smoking a cigarillo and laughing with the bartender. With her deliberate gestures she projected a sexy air of confidence. She wore a sleek short jacket without a lapel, a silk V-neck with a plunging neckline, and tight slacks.
As Faith neared the door, the cool evening air brushed her cheeks and she remembered the fingers caressing her face when she had steadied the binoculars. Faith looked back over her shoulder at her. What if Bogdanov really did know something about her father? Faith spun around, navigated the crowd and walked up behind the KGB agent. Faith shouted a greeting over the loud music and ordered vodka, neat. Both women watched silently as the bartender poured the drink. Faith picked up the shot glass, nodded to her and mouthed, “Na zdorove.” Faith slid a five-mark coin onto the bar and they moved to a more private corner.
For several minutes the two women sat, staring at each other until Faith broke the silence. “I don’t know if I should trust you, Colonel Bogdanov.”
“Why don’t you call me Zara? Sorry about the Tatyana cover.”
“Is Zara your real name?”
“It’s as real as any.”
“It’s not a Russian name, is it?”
“Actually, it comes from the Arabic for ‘flower.’ But in my case it’s Italian. My great-grandmother was Swiss-Italian. She met my great-grandfather when he was living in exile in Zurich before the revolution.”
“Nice legend.” Faith smiled. “Back to business, Zara. I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“It seems to me that you’ve already made that decision or you wouldn’t be here. Now why did you decide to come?”