The car approached the customs area, now out of sight of the Western guardpost. An official wheeled an angled mirror under a waiting car. The Mercedes driver pulled ahead of the others, again showed his service badge, and the customs official waved them through.
“Who are you, anyway?” Faith said.
“You can call me Schmidt.”
She told herself it was Schmidt’s poor choice in cologne that was making her queasy, but she knew otherwise. All her life she had dreaded this day. She knew she couldn’t freelance forever, skirting union rules; the Cold War was a closed shop and it was time to pay the dues. So it was going to be the East Germans. They weren’t a bad bunch to run errands for; the Stasi was efficient, professional and many considered it the best in the business. Not that the competition was fierce, save from the Czechs and Soviets. She could have done worse; she comforted herself as they drove through the last barrier. The bizarre blood rituals vowing allegiance to Ceausescu put the Romanian Securitate in the realm of the mystics rather than intelligence. The Bulgarians had proven they couldn’t pluck the pope out of a crowd-even with his funky hat. And the Poles-one word: Solidarity.
But the Stasi didn’t have Faith Whitney-not yet.
In the People’s Own Cabaret, the black and gold compass-and-sickle state symbol of the GDR seemed to have been sewn onto the faded red stage curtain as an afterthought. Dressed in their Sunday best, middle-aged couples crowded around an arc of tables, each decorated with a solid plastic vase with a wilting carnation. A sign on an easel welcomed the MfS brigade to the cabaret; Faith was taken aback that the Stasi was so flagrant, but she assumed even repressive organizations had their own internal social functions. She rolled the admission ticket into a tiny cone, the cheap paper disintegrating in her sweaty hands.
Schmidt ushered her to a reserved table occupied by a plump woman in her late fifties.
“Where have you been? I had to finish dinner by myself. You missed the entire first half,” the woman said.
“I think you’d like a drink at the bar now,” Schmidt said.
“But you promised me the evening-”
“The bar. Now.” Schmidt pointed to a bar that could have been a remnant from the original Star Trek set. Shiny chrome tubes connected a dozen spherical light fixtures with colored bulbs blinking in sequence. The woman gathered her purse and stomped away. Faith smiled with amusement, but stopped as soon as Schmidt glared at her. He summoned the waiter and ordered vodka for Faith and tonic water for himself. The waiter turned with military precision and left.
“You’ll like cucumber after the vodka. Russian style,” Schmidt said.
“I didn’t think the Russians were in vogue around here anymore.”
“There are always exceptions.”
Faith looked her host over and tried to figure out who he was. He appeared to be someone who had once been in peak physical condition, but had since been softened by fatty German cuisine and a desk job. He was probably a former athlete, but something about him made her doubt he had ever played team sports.
“What does the Stasi want with me?” Faith said.
“Don’t insult us with that Western designation. We’re the Ministry for State Security-MfS.”
“No offense intended. What does the MfS want with me?”
“Enjoy yourself tonight. The People’s Own Cabaret is a special treat.”
“I’m honored. But don’t you think you’ve gone to too much trouble? Wouldn’t a simple phone call and coffee and kuchen at the Grand Hotel have been easier?” She didn’t want to admit it, but part of her relished the extravagance.
“From what I’ve read about you, you seem to like the world of cloak-and-dagger, but can’t quite figure out how to get into the game. I understand you tried to enlist with the CIA once.”
“Before I decided what to do with my life, I had a weak moment when I almost forgot my heritage of neutrality. And they didn’t want me because of my mother and her escapades.”
“That’s what they told you? Their own records say your own extensive ties in the East made you too great a security risk.”
“I liked it better when I could blame my mother.”
The waiter arrived with their drinks. Faith threw back the shot of vodka in a single gulp and bit into the cucumber. The vodka sent a warm wave through her body, but she didn’t dare relax. “I’m assuming you know what you’re doing meeting me in public like this. I prefer it not to get around town I’ve ever spoken with you.”
“Let’s say I have a special working relationship with the management and the guests. Think of this place as a little Switzerland in downtown Berlin.”
“A clean place for dirty business,” Faith said. “Switzerland always gives me the willies.”
“What would Europe be without Switzerland?”
“Flatter.”
“Yes, I suppose it would be.” Schmidt sipped his tonic water. “Suffice it to say, you’ve impressed some people. We’ve watched you for a long time. Some of us watched you grow up. As a matter of fact, as a young lieutenant, I used to be the case officer for your family.”
“I didn’t know we had a case manager.”
“Case officer. You have your mother’s radiant eyes, you know.”
For a moment, Faith thought she saw his face soften. “Did you know my father?”
He nodded. Schmidt had her full attention and he seemed to know it. He paused for a painfully long time and then said, “A brilliant man.”
“I never knew him. Do you know how he died? All she’d ever tell me was that he was following his calling when Jesus took him away from us.”
“I can’t help you.” He motioned to the waiter for another round. “Back to the business at hand. We know what you’re moving right now, but we have yet to ascertain how you’re doing it. Impressive. My boys thought they had you nailed several times.”
From the stage, the microphone squeaked as a small man with the stiff gestures of a marionette slurred his words. “Meine Damen und Herren. My ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome back the loveliest girls in our republic.” The crowd clapped on command and a piano player’s tired fingers tapped a staccato rendition of “Tea for Two.” A buxom woman with legs covered by fishnet stockings pranced onto the stage twirling a cane, the tails of her tuxedo jacket flapping behind her. Her glittery red top hat emphasized high rouge-smeared cheekbones.
“You’ve done some impressive jobs. The KGB has yet to figure out how you moved that kidney for the Circassian millionaire from his brother in Abkhazia to Vienna in time for a successful transplant.”
“There is a short window for transplants, isn’t there? But who said that was my work?” Faith smiled, proud of her accomplishments. “And it was Kabardino-Balkaria. An extraction from Abkhazia would be something for amateurs-it’s a straight shot across the Black Sea to Turkey. Not quite like crossing the Caucasus.”
“You’re considered among the best in your line of work,” Schmidt said, ignoring the spectacle onstage.
“Should I be flattered?” She was, but she wanted more and she wanted to know the extent of the Stasi’s knowledge of her dealings.
“Very well. You have a choice. You can assist us with a special project or you will never live or work or even think about traveling in this country again. Let’s say it wouldn’t be a safe place.”
“No offense, but a lot of people live quite happily without the GDR.” Faith glanced at the stage. A trombone belched “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” while a chorus line of drag queens kicked their way into the Stasi’s icy heart.