The German shook his head. “Dresner is a powerful man and I suspect has the resources to discover where they came from.”
“But you have something?” Randi said. “You have the Stasi records on him?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in them?”
He hesitated. “I know this goes without saying, but I’d ask you to be very discreet.”
“As always, Johannes.”
He sighed quietly. “There is a great deal of information. The Stasi were fanatics for recording every detail of people’s lives — particularly ones they considered important or subversive. Can you give me an idea of what you would like to know?”
“What did he do for the Soviets?” Smith said. “Bioweapons research?”
“Not at all. At the time, you’ll remember that the East Germans were quite dominant in athletics…”
“He doped athletes?” Randi said, surprised.
“Doped them, created training programs for them, studied their physiology. Along with a young psychologist named Gerhard Eichmann, Dresner is largely responsible for East Germany’s success during that period.”
“I was expecting something a little more sinister,” Randi said, sounding a bit disappointed.
Again, Johannes seemed to speak with reluctance. “You might be surprised, dear. The Soviets were very committed to their athletic program. Like the Nazis, they saw it as a way to showcase their superiority. Many of these people were experimented on in ways that would never be allowed now. And not only adults. Often gifted children were taken from their families, separated into test groups, and subjected to different programs to judge which was best. Between the strain, the unproven drugs, and the psychological abuse — brainwashing you would say — many didn’t survive. And the ones who did were never the same.”
Smith kept his face impassive, unsure how to feel about what he was hearing. In fairness, the young Christian Dresner wouldn’t have known anything other than the communist machine that dominated every aspect of his life. And when he’d finally come to understand what he was doing, he’d escaped and devoted the rest of his life to making the world a better place.
“Gerhard Eichmann,” Randi said. “He’s the one who escaped with Dresner, right?”
The German nodded. “Theirs was a very close friendship. No evidence exists that either ever informed on the other. A rare thing in a country where everyone was on the Stasi payroll in some way or another.”
“It must have been tough for two people who were so important to get over the wall,” Smith said. “I’m surprised it went so smoothly.”
“Not entirely smoothly. On the way out, Dresner went to the orphanage where he was raised in order to face the man who ran it.”
“Face?” Randi said.
“More accurately, beat to death with a cane.”
They both must have looked a bit shocked, because Johannes seemed to feel compelled to elaborate.
“He was a cruel man, you must understand. The abuse the children suffered at his hands was truly horrible. It was a fitting end, I think.”
Smith remembered what Klein had told him about Dresner — the fact that he’d been too mentally unstable to hold a job after his escape. In light of this hidden history, it wasn’t surprising. What would it be like to grow up like that and then suddenly have your position changed from victim to victimizer? When he’d looked into the faces of the children he was experimenting on, had he seen his own?
“What about Eichmann,” Randi said. “Do you have files on him, too?”
“Of course,” Johannes said, turning toward the back of the cavernous building. “If you would follow me to the terminals, we can begin sorting through the information you’re interested in.”
His phone rang and Konrad picked up immediately, speaking softly, though he knew that nothing said in his office could be heard in the warehouse. “Did you receive the photos I sent?”
“I did,” the electronically altered voice on the other end responded.
He’d been contacted by the anonymous man only a few weeks after he’d taken the job with Johannes. The request had been simple: Notify him if anyone should ever come asking about Christian Dresner.
Konrad had initially refused, but when the subject of payment was raised, his resistance had faded. Three million euros for a simple phone call.
He’d begun to wonder if he would ever have an opportunity to actually earn the money he’d been paid, but then a few minutes ago, a subtle alarm on his computer had sounded. Christian Dresner’s name had been entered into their network’s search function.
“Are they alone?” the voice said.
“I think so, but I can’t be sure. They arrived on foot. I never saw a car.”
The line went dead.
40
The wind had died down and, while there were no stars visible, the rain still seemed to be holding off. Smith and Randi stayed in the center of the empty road, taking a different route back to their car. It was quiet enough that they could hear Johannes throwing the deadbolt on his door and Smith felt a little regret at the sound. He could have spent the next ten years in that place exploring the secret history of the Cold War. And of Christian Dresner.
Randi finally managed to connect with Star and he leaned in toward her phone as they walked.
“Hey, Randi. How’s Germany?”
“Cold. I need you to find someone for me. Gerhard Eichmann. He escaped East Germany with Dresner back in the seventies.”
“An actual name! I like working with you better than Jon.”
“That hurts,” Smith said loud enough for her to hear. “But since you bring it up, how’s that going?”
“Don’t be sad, Jon! You know I love you. But as far as how it’s going, I’m not sure yet.”
Out of the corner of his left eye, Smith spotted a shadow moving between two buildings. It was probably just a stray cat or loose awning, but he immediately began scanning the both sides of the street. “You better hurry. I have a plan and I might just beat you to it.”
“I’m not worried.”
He spotted what looked like a human shape around the side of a van rusting away in an alley just ahead. Randi gave an almost imperceptible nod to indicate that she saw it, too.
Once again, he was missing the Merge that he was becoming increasingly reluctant to use. It was a little frightening how quickly he’d become reliant on it.
“Careful, Star,” Randi said, still speaking casually. “He’s a lot brighter than he looks.”
In the end, he didn’t need sophisticated vision enhancement. Two men emerged from the shadows and ran into the street in front of them as two more closed from the sides. A quick glance back confirmed what he already intuitively knew. One more behind.
“Gotta dash,” Randi said into the phone. “Talk later.”
“Looks like five total,” Smith said quietly.
“Yeah, but they all look like morons.”
It was a fair observation. Each had either extremely close-cropped hair or a shaved head. Neck and face tattoos complemented heavy jackets and boots with jeans partially rolled up. At least one swastika was visible — on a silver chain hanging around one man’s neck.
They kept moving forward, not stopping until they were a meter or two from the men blocking their path. The ones coming in from the sides didn’t seem to be in a hurry and the one in back had slowed to a crawl, giving himself room to intercept if they should make a break for it.
The question was what exactly was happening. Was this just bad luck — the not-so-surprising result of wandering around a bad neighborhood at an hour when the skinheads were just heading home to sleep it off? Or was it something more?