“Second off!” William spat, shooing his assertions away, “The Soviets are far more your people than mine—you benefit more from being at war with those morons than we ever did being subservient to them. You get carte blanche to build as many bombs as you want, and get to swell your chests with fake national pride. In the meantime, we constantly have to explain to everyone that we hate Communism just as much as you… while being subservient to the Communists! Our only saving grace is our border with you. Do you know how much that stings for the director to admit?”
“He admitted it?”
“Of course, he didn’t.” William laughed.
“Well, at least we garnered you some recognition from the UN.” Marcus laughed in return.
“If you think the Soviets wouldn’t send their tanks rolling through our streets simply to prove a point, you aren’t paying attention to Czechoslovakia. And you haven’t fully grasped the concept of the Brezhnev Doctrine. Take my advice…” William stated with a menacing grin, “…fully grasp it.”
“You know, I love what you said about fake national pride, because…” Marcus started with a grin.
“Oh, here we go!” William said, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands in the air. “I know sending punks across the Wall wearing those god-damned ‘freedom medals’ was a bad idea. I told the director, but…”
“No, no, no, listen!” Marcus interrupted, flailing his hands as well.
“He wouldn’t listen!” William said, ignoring him. “But regardless of how stupid the Politburo is, we have a country to be proud of, Marcus! We have a good country, with good people! That should be allowed to flourish! For God sakes, we have a beer, an airline, and a football team!”
“Frank Zappa did say that this makes you a country.” Marcus admitted.
“Your god-damned right it does!”
Both men stared fondly at each other for a few seconds. This meeting had been far too long in coming. They had both done their jobs well, and had both played their hands masterfully. Yet despite the fact that they would never admit it to the other, they had both made a few concessions and mistakes for the other’s benefit simply to end up in this dilapidated barn, in the middle of Germany-nowhere, to continue their game of chess. Now here they finally were: two of the greatest minds the world would never even know existed.
“It’s good to see you, Will.”
“It’s good to see you too, Marcus.” William responded fondly. “My wife enjoys your wife’s letters. Goodness, your son married well.”
“She’s playing Carnegie Hall next month.” Marcus said, swelling with pride. “And Jim just performed his first triple-bypass.”
“What a smart kid. You’ve done well, Marcus.”
“And how is Susan?”
“Susan and Roger just climbed Mount McKinley!” William exclaimed.
“I had expected they would at some point. She had always expressed a connection to Alaska, of all places. I’m glad Roger is keeping pace.”
“Well, she had better hurry up and make Roger marry her, or I’ll have to make him disappear.”
“Ah, young people, eh?” Marcus sighed.
“No matter how old they get, they’ll always be younger than us.”
The music blared in the background. This time it had moved on to a strangely juxtaposed montage of MC5 and Black Flag’s Damaged album. While the two stretched in preparation for the diplomacy they knew they had to accomplish, the captain from the GDR’s elite soldier unit made sure to keep the tunes cranking. The soldiers on both sides of the barn kept their discipline, just in case. However, if one were to look hard enough, they might notice a few of the Green Berets’ fingers tapping on their rifles to the beat.
“So, let’s get to this Hans Schmidt business.” Marcus began.
“Oh, god, don’t make me do work!” William complained piteously. “This is supposed to be my time to relax!”
“This is relaxing for us.” Marcus laughed, before relighting his joint and coughing furiously.
“Fine, fine,” William conceded. “with a little luck, we’ll be done with it quickly.”
“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in excellence and stupidity. If my excellence is greater or my stupidity is less, I win. It’s that simple.”
“Are you so sure of your excellence?”
“Will,” Marcus said with an honest look of concern, “how is Mr. Schmidt?”
“Oh goodness, the brat is fine of course. I’ve kept him well fed and entertained with the best propaganda novels the GDR can produce. But, I’d like to propose an alternate solution.”
“What’s that?”
“We send our agents to bed without their supper, and then fire them all in the morning.”
“Ah, but which of my agents will you be sending?”
“And which of mine will you be sending? By last count, you had recruited far more of mine than I had of yours.”
“Hardly quality.” Marcus said plainly, as he moved one of his pawns into position to take a knight. “I mean really, Lena? You send me Lena? That’s a triumph of hope over experience if ever I’ve seen one.”
“The girl is brilliant, actually.”
“Brilliant? Brilliant, Will?”
“Yes. Brilliant.”
“She’s an awkward, boy-crazed girl who’s ruled by emotion, desperate for approval, has almost no attention to detail or situational awareness, and is barely comfortable in her own skin!”
“So, in other words, a teenager?”
“Exactly!”
“I know you don’t quite see the potential yet,” William said seriously, as he moved a Bishop into position, ignoring the threat of Marcus’s Pawn. “but she’s only been at this a few months and she’s already more competent than Mr. York… certainly more trustworthy. Look past her age and you might see a bright future in intelligence for her. And she’s going to be a far better performer than Matt will ever be. You’ve seen her perform, and you’ve seen her channel. You’ve seen her speak with The High Voice. You know what an artist with that ability is capable of. You’ve seen the way it gets crowds fired up.”
“Yes, yes. I’ve seen all that. It’s impressive, but…”
“Don’t make the mistake of trivializing that ability, my old friend. In the right situation—provided an older and wiser mind has given her the necessary context—that ability could light a dangerous fire. It’s an ability that Dr. King had, it’s an ability that Kennedy had, and it’s the single greatest asset that every great revolutionist possesses: the ability to convict.”
“But those men had substance backing it!”
“…which is the product of education and passion. She’s already halfway there—she just needs a good teacher, now.”
“But she doesn’t even know who The Velvet Underground are!”
“She also doesn’t know that Sid Viscous is dead. What’s your point?”
“She… are you… are you serious?” Marcus whined, teetering equally on the edge of either laughing or crying. “How can she call herself a serious punk and… it’s outrageous!!”
“For the same reason that she can be a serious punk and still like the mediocre junk they play on the radio: she’s behind the Berlin fucking Wall! What the hell is she supposed to know? To her, anything on that side is raging against the Establishment, purely by virtue of not being on this side. She has no sense of scale! She’s never heard of the Empire State Building, never been in a car more than three or four times in her life, has never read an issue of any fashion magazine, and has never seen a can of Campbell’s soup. Are you going to criticize her for not understanding the finer points of Warhol?”