“Your mother’s file covering the year and a half before your birth is sealed.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Whatever happened back then must still matter to someone with the authority to block access. I also tried to look at our copies of the MfS files from that period, but it was the same thing. I’m working back channels, but I can’t make any promises other than to do my best.”
“I think we can come to a mutually agreeable arrangement.”
“How far I can go with the Moscow storefront depends upon what you can offer. Right now we know the MfS is running a black op and taking great care to conceal it from us, but that’s about it. That’s not worth much more than assurances we’ll help you out as much as possible.”
“What happened to the import-export business in Moscow, permission to scour the countryside for antiques and all of that?”
“It’s possible, but the compensation depends upon the value of the project. And that depends upon the Germans.”
“I’m not comfortable entering into an agreement without first nailing down the terms, but I usually know what I’m peddling.”
Zara patted Faith’s hand. “You’re going to have to trust me. I promise you I’ll do my best to secure you the maximum honorarium.”
“I don’t doubt you will.” Faith rolled her hand from under Zara’s and ran her index finger along its back, exploring the ridges and valleys of her knuckles. She was aware the alcohol was helping her blunder in a dangerous direction, but permitted herself the sensuality of the moment.
“Before you distract me too much, you need to tell me everything you know about what they’re planning,” Zara said.
Faith sensed something feline about Zara. She suspected she could be purring on her lap one minute, scratching her the next. Faith prided herself on being able to pet neurotic cats, knowing just when to jerk away to avoid the claws. Faith moved her hand away from Zara, revoking her sensual liberties. “They want me to move something from Berlin to Moscow and they want it done quietly.”
“To Moscow? Your price went up.”
“Substantially.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“All I know is they want it done quickly-there’s a forty-eight-hour window before they start hunting me down if I don’t deliver. I’ll bargain for more time when I receive the item, but I don’t have the impression they’re too flexible. I also got the sense it’s an important piece of a bigger puzzle they don’t want associated with the GDR.”
“When’s the hand-off?”
“Tomorrow-somewhere between Checkpoint Charlie and the Reichstag. Now I’ve given you something. I expect something in return.” Faith forced down several gulps of water to dilute the alcohol.
“We don’t know what they’re planning, but it gets our attention anytime the man you know as Schmidt gets involved in a project. You do know who he is?”
Faith shook her head.
“Kosyk, Major General Gregor Kosyk of the MfS.”
“Sorry.”
“You know of Markus Wolf?”
“The spymaster who was behind infiltrating Willy Brandt’s cabinet and stuff like that.”
“Kosyk is more dangerous. Wolf is a traditional spy. He runs agents who use proven methods-usually sex-to place informants in high governmental positions in the West. Kosyk-your Schmidt-is from the dark side of the business. He believes the future of espionage isn’t with cloak-and-dagger, but terror. He made his name in seventy-two in Munich. He arranged contacts for Black September to get the weapons into the Olympic Village. There were two additional terrorists in that mission the West Germans never knew about, and Kosyk got them out through the GDR. He’s fostered the Red Army Faction in West Germany-sort of adopted them once Baader and Meinhof were apprehended. Remember when they blew up the Lufthansa jumbo and the other planes in the desert? He helped with the training in Yemen. He’s behind the GDR’s support for Carlos the Jackal, Abu Daoud, Abu Nidal, among others. Recently, he worked with the Libyans on the bombing of La Belle.”
“The Americans haven’t been able to definitively pin that on anyone, have they?”
“Reagan bombed Tripoli over it, but they haven’t been able to hold anyone legally responsible. Your government loves those show trials in The Hague-a legacy of Nuremberg, I suppose. Anyway, Kosyk reports directly to Mielke and has his own small group of operatives. It appears only a few in the Politburo know what’s going on.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It gets worse. Kosyk’s funds do come from the Stasi, and all the Stasi’s resources are at his disposal, but for practical purposes Kosyk controls his own black organization.”
“A boutique spy shop?” Faith said.
“You should feel honored.”
“I get the impression Kosyk isn’t well respected in the business.”
“I’m from the old school, where you use only as much muscle as necessary and you don’t associate with terrorists. In my book, Kosyk is a terrorist.”
“You make me feel better and better every minute, girl.”
“That’s my intention.” Zara slipped her hand behind Faith’s head and caressed her hair.
“I warned you, I’ve flirted with the KGB all my life, but I won’t go all the way.”
“You’re hardly a virgin. And I’d say you just got knocked up by the Stasi.”
“It was forced. And I’m not easy.”
“Nothing about Faith Whitney is easy.”
“Zara, I think we could be friends, but not like you want, especially not now.” Faith moved away. She threw her head back with the last gulp of cognac. “Now I’ve had a few drinks, I admit that I’m flattered, even a little turned on, and very scared-and I don’t mean scared because of the lesbian stuff. But I am disappointed in you. A honey pot to lure an agent into service is the oldest trick in the book.”
“You’re alone against the resources of the entire intelligence apparatus of the GDR. They’ll kill you unless you do what they want, and they’ll probably dispose of you even if you cooperate. The KGB has offered help and protection, and all we ask is to be kept informed about what the MfS is up to.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
STUMP NECK, MARYLAND, USA
Max Summer molded enough plastic explosive to bring down an airliner into the shell of a Sony radio. His thumb sunk a blasting cap into the doughy substance and then he twisted its wires into a receiver. He taped the receiver to the radio and then tossed it to the young Arab.
The Arab slipped it between a faded pair of jeans and a University of Oklahoma sweatshirt. Faded USDA inspection stickers and airline-security markers from international flights were the only clues to its owner’s identity. He closed the suitcase and shoved it inside a Pan Am 747 cargo container. It blended into the Samsonites and American Touristers.
The young man secured the cargo container and signaled to clear the area. They drove a short distance away. “Fire in the hole.” Summer flipped a switch on a radio transmitter.
An intense flash and the container was gone. A loud clap roared through the Maryland woods and the ground trembled. Toothbrushes, clothes and twisted metal rained down while a high-speed camera snapped pictures at five hundred frames per second. Lieutenant Commander Max Summer and Special Agent Maria Fuentes strolled toward the debris.
“C packs a wallop, doesn’t it?” Summer said. “I’d say it was enough to bring down Pan Am 103.”
“Who says these tests have anything to do with Maid of the Seas?” the FBI agent said.
“Doesn’t take a special agent to figure out what’s going on when the FBI sends me a semi with Pan Am cargo containers and wants me to blow them up.” Summer turned to the half-dozen enlisted men assisting the R & D department of the Naval Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technology Center. “I want everything picked up and put into this bin. You’ve got ten minutes. Make me happy in five. Go to it.” He turned back toward the FBI agent. “You need to keep in mind this shows how much damage a given amount of C-4 can do to a filled cargo container. My understanding is that it isn’t that easy to come by for international terrorists. If it was C-4, you should’ve picked up some microscopic markers called taggant that’ll show you what production line it came from. But I’m betting they used Semtex.”