“They could have missed something.”
“Maybe. But just between you and me, we’ve thrown everything we have at this and come up completely empty.”
“Looking to cut Dresner out of the loop?”
Smith shrugged. “Not specifically, but it makes sense for us to have as much control over our system as we can. You can’t be too careful.”
“Do you think Dresner’s responsible for what happened in Afghanistan?”
“Based on everything I know about him, it seems far-fetched. But it’s worth looking into.”
“What about the guy who wrecked the Triumph?”
“Hopefully, Star’s making some progress. But if not, I have some ideas of my own on that subject.”
They made it to the gate and were both relieved to be through it and back out on the street. Damp and muddy, yes. But not picking smelt out of their hair.
“Then we’re off to Germany,” Randi said.
“Germany? Why?”
“Because I have a friend there that I think can help.”
39
It was a part of Berlin that Smith had never been to — old warehouses and dirty streets lit by security lights that came to life as their car drifted by. Randi, on the other hand, seemed to know where she was going, so he leaned back and closed his eyes.
The car came to a stop and he jerked upright, not sure if he’d been asleep or not. “Are we there?”
“It’s about three blocks west,” Randi said. “I didn’t want to park right out front.”
She hadn’t provided a great deal of detail on who they were going to see, only that the man’s name was Johannes and that he might have some records they would find useful.
When Smith stepped out, though, the area didn’t look terribly promising. She’d parked in front of a boarded-up building and it was dark enough that he stumbled a bit as he jogged up alongside her.
“I thought they moved the Stasi Records Office over by Checkpoint Charlie,” Smith said as they continued along the empty street. The frigid wind was funneling between the buildings and through his light jacket, but at least the forecasted downpour hadn’t materialized.
“Johannes doesn’t exactly work for the BStU,” she said using the German acronym. “He’s more of a private consultant.”
The euphemism was classic CIA — entirely ambiguous, yet vaguely official sounding.
“Private consultant,” Smith muttered. “More likely former Stasi.”
“Why devolve into labels?” she responded with a wry smile. “Aren’t we all just people in the end?”
“Christ…”
East Germany’s secret police had the dubious honor of being the most paranoid organization in history. At its peak, it had employed over a hundred thousand people to watch over a population of only sixteen million. According to some calculations, spying on its own citizens had been East Germany’s largest industry.
When it became clear that the wall was coming down, the Stasi started shoveling their literally billions of pages of documents into shredders and incinerators. And when those broke down, they cut them up. And when they ran out of scissors, they ripped them by hand. Eventually, the country’s citizens figured out what was happening and began storming the Stasi buildings, taking control of the records and keeping any more from being destroyed. Now they were housed on the BStU’s endless expanse of shelves, waiting to be organized, deciphered, and disseminated.
The building they finally came to looked as abandoned as the one they’d parked next to. A rap on a steel portal that looked like navy surplus, though, caused an immediate reaction. A bulb hidden in the jamb came to life and lit their faces for a moment before the door opened and they were motioned inside.
“I’m Konrad,” the young man said, glancing out at the empty street before closing them in with the throw of a heavy deadbolt. “Johannes’s assistant.”
Smith and Randi nodded politely but declined to introduce themselves. It seemed to be a custom that the German was used to and he led them down a narrow corridor to a much more modern-looking door — this one complete with a retinal scanner and keypad that he made use of.
When it slid back on quiet motors, Konrad stepped aside. Smith was initially a little hesitant to enter but his reticence faded when Randi strolled casually through in front of him.
“Darling!” the man rushing toward them said. He had a narrow head with a few wisps of gray hair still clinging to it and a spherical torso that suggested a lengthy love affair with sausage and beer.
“Johannes. It’s been too long,” Randi said, switching to German.
They embraced, but Smith barely noticed, instead looking in awe at the room around them. It was probably twenty meters high and seventy-five square, filled with teetering shelves that rose almost to the ceiling. Every inch was covered with some kind of crate, box, or garbage bag stuffed to the point of overflowing.
What little open floor existed was dominated by four huge machines that were a steampunk kluge of copper funnels, conveyor belts, and exposed electric cables. What they did or whether they were even functional, Smith could only guess.
“Colonel!” Johannes said, offering his thick hand. “What do you think of my little recycling center?”
“Impressive. Where did you get all this?”
“Oh, a bit here and a tad there. When East Germany began to fail, I understood that it was time to embrace capitalism. To become a Westerner, yes? But what did I know? What could I do? And then it came to me. I knew the Stasi. I knew the files.”
“The important ones,” Smith added.
“Just so. The rabble became bold very quickly, but I had three weeks before they gained control. And in that time, I managed to spirit away the documents you see around you. To keep them out of their hands and the hands of the BStU.”
Smith tried to calculate how many tiny pieces of shredded paper they were surrounded by. A hundred billion? A hundred trillion?
“Seems like intact files would have been easier.”
He laughed. “Never pay for an intact file, my good Colonel. The Stasi shredded the most important things first. That is where the valuable information is contained.”
“And is that what the machines are for?”
“Exactly! My son built them for me.” His expression transformed into one of pride. “I know that every parent says this, but he is a very fine young man. And a brilliant engineer.”
“So the machines can put it all back together?”
“We used to do it by hand. Unbelievably time-consuming and tedious work. But now we pour the scraps in these machines. They create three-D images of each piece and send the data to my computers. There they are reassembled like a puzzle.”
“Seems like it would have been expensive to develop and build machines like that.”
“Well, I do provide the fruits of my labor to select clients. And they’ve been very generous.”
Smith didn’t doubt it. Individuals, newspapers, politicians, intelligence agencies — even academics — still had a great deal of interest in what had gone on behind the Iron Curtain. Hell, even if Johannes just used what he found for simple blackmail, he wouldn’t exactly be wondering where his next meal was coming from.
“The CIA got in on the ground floor,” Randi said. “And in return for our early support, we get a peek at anything interesting he turns up.”
“And what is it you’re interested in today, my dear?”
“Christian Dresner.”
His jovial expression turned to one of caution. “He has done very well for himself.”
“Have you had requests for files relating to him before?” Smith asked.
“Of course. Many.”
“And have you fulfilled them?”