8
Markus and Gunther sat down on two time-worn and faded armchairs in the corner of Markus’s office, a constant source of surprise in terms of its modest dimensions and rudimentary office furniture. Steaming cups of tea stood on the low table alongside them, and each man held a small glass of clear and viscous schnapps in his hand. It was a meeting of two masters. When it came to understanding the human psyche, man’s weaknesses and desires, they were artists second to none. Gunther, the long-serving field operative, was blessed with a natural talent he had nurtured and polished through the years on end he had spent identifying, recruiting, and handling agents. Markus, who had started out in fact as a political theorist and was fast-tracked into the high-ranking position he currently occupied at the absurd age of just twenty-four, was blessed with a gift from God. He embodied a rare mixture of sensitivity and cruelty, of compassion hardened by icy determination. As profound as it was intuitive, his understanding of the shadowy world of the agents—spies who betray their countries and peoples—was based less on personal experience and more on a unique ability to get a clear reading of the agents’ psyches from the gut feelings and reports of his people. He could always pinpoint the drive behind a particular individual’s willingness to sell his soul and loyalty—money, love, or recognition, and sometimes also a desire for vengeance or simply the thrill of adventure. Both Markus and Gunther were senior officers in the secret service of East Germany, which was and still remained not only an ally but also a faithful servant of the Soviet Union. Both bore military ranks, with Markus a general and Gunther a colonel. But they donned their festive dress uniforms, adorned with gold aiguillettes and military decorations, only on a handful of occasions during the year, mostly to party events they were required to attend. Despite their shared hatred of formalities and superfluous pomp and circumstance, they identified fiercely with their country. They both knew that the mighty and historic triumph over fascism could only have been achieved thanks to the endless sacrifice, bravery, and daring of the communist faithful. Despite their gripes from time to time about the party’s bureaucracy, about its conservative approach and random brutality, they hadn’t forgotten the tremendous accomplishments, the huge progress that had been made, and primarily the immense strength of spirit that had instilled the socialist ideology in the masses, in the common people, who were the very salt of the earth. Above all, however, they loved their profession, which they viewed both as a calling and as a form of complex artistry. They loved the never-ending war of minds with their enemies in the West, dealing constantly with the army of agents they had amassed at their side and with the objects in their secret crosshairs. And thus, at ease and with a sense of camaraderie based on long years of work and true friendship, the two discussed the Israeli walk-in who had knocked on the Americans’ door and could be ripe for the picking—if they so desired.
Insofar as Israel itself was concerned, the attitude of the East German leadership was one of indifference, as if there was no connection between the activities of the Palestinian organizations East Germany was funding and the state against which they were fighting. As a result, the East German intelligence services showed very little interest in information about Israel, and an Israeli walk-in wasn’t going to make any impression at all on the Stasi itself or the party leaders in Berlin. But both Gunther and Markus knew—the one based on a gut feeling, the other with absolute certainty—that a high-ranking asset in Israel would certainly spark a great deal of interest among the big brothers at the Lubyanka, KGB headquarters in Moscow. Because as far as Moscow was concerned, Israel was already an entirely different story. In all the power struggles waged between the KGB and the Stasi, it was plain to see which of the two organizations was the bigger, the stronger, the more senior. On a professional level, nevertheless, the two organizations were in competition—not openly perhaps, but certainly not entirely hidden. On several occasions, the Stasi’s foreign division had reaped success where the KGB had failed. The East Germans were at a distinct advantage, of course, with respect to West Germany. The shared national identity, the common language, family members living on both sides of the border, a single history and shared crimes from the time of the war—these were all factors that gave the Stasi the upper hand in West Germany in the continuing arm-wrestling contest between the organizations. When Markus showed up at KGB headquarters in Lubyanka Square, his character and capabilities weren’t the only things that spoke for him. He, personally, was viewed as a man whose opinions and advice were worthy of attention. But the agents his organization had successfully recruited and who were often handled in keeping with instructions from Moscow were his primary assets.
The question that was troubling Markus and Gunther was whether the young and cynical Israeli could indeed become a senior asset at some point in the future. In the company of Markus, Gunther felt at last as if he no longer needed to step lightly. There were moments even when he allowed himself to be Werner and not Gunther, the legendary field operative and recruiter of agents. Settled back now in the shabby armchair, his tie loose and the top button of his shirt open, Gunther spoke candidly:
“Truthfully, after all, Markus, we don’t know. How could we possibly know where this guy will be ten to fifteen years from now? Anyone offering a definitive and decisive opinion on the matter would be guilty of deception, and not mere deception, but deception of the worst kind—self-deception. Tell me, can I really know if this guy is going to go the distance in the world of politics, which is nothing more than a quagmire of endless manipulations and unbridled lust for power…?”
Markus cleared his throat and a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes.
“I’m talking, of course, about politics in the West,” Gunther said with a smile, utterly devoid of the need to justify himself to Markus, but conscious nevertheless of his big mouth and his, and everyone’s, constant need to cover their asses in the event they ran into someone whose sense of humor and tolerance weren’t at their best.
“How can we be sure,” he continued, “that his abilities and talents and drive won’t be redirected toward, let’s say, the business world, leaving us with a fantastic agent—a real-estate mogul or wealthy lawyer or investment house CEO—but with zero intelligence?”
“Tell me,” Markus said, interrupting Gunther, “what’s happened to your professionalism, your hunter’s patience? Where’s this doubt coming from? After all, once we get in on the act, we also have the ability to influence the manner in which things move forward. We shape the reality with our own hands, and we don’t make do with simply gathering intelligence about it. This guy has placed himself in our hands, even if he believes he’s in the hands of the Americans. We know, after all, how to manage such operations—very slowly, patiently, thoughtfully. We’ll get him accustomed to his ties with us, to the sense of adventure, to the thrill of secrecy, to the money filling his pockets slowly but surely, to the gradual and moderate climb in his standard of living. Just like a frog in a pot gets used to water that’s boiled slowly. The frog will allow itself to be cooked alive without even considering the option of jumping out of the boiling water,” said Markus, who was known for his descriptive imagery. “Little by little, you’ll mold this material,” he added in a low and warm voice, “and believe me, it’s still soft. Shape it in your image. Or in the image of whomever you send to him. He’ll want to please you; he’ll want you to be proud of him; you’ll be the father he doesn’t have; you’ll be the person he thinks about at night; and he won’t want to disappoint you. For you, he’ll work his way into positions we view as significant, he’ll forge ties with people who interest us. And even if he’s drawn into the world of business, we’ll make sure he snakes his way in and out of public roles, as close to the plate as possible. And you and I will be with him, or behind the scenes, all the time; we’ll feel him; and without his even knowing it, we’ll get under his skin and through to his very soul,” Markus said, taking the trouble to dryly add for the sake of required Marxist correctness, “the nonexistence of which is unquestionable.”