With the pleasantries over, Mrs. Schroeder handed the envelope over to the priest. He had been through this many times before. Pulling out the money (while leaving everything else inside), he made a show of ‘emptying’ its contents in full sight.
“Bless you, my child.” he said happily, while crossing her in a Catholic gesture.
“Oh, you do know how to make a woman feel young again.” she simpered, much to the chagrin of Walter.
“Ah, West Germany,” Patrick thought to himself, as he stood outside of a West German barn, looking out into the dark, foggy night.
The differences between East and West Berlin were quite stark indeed. Even the lighting was different. The West reaped the myriad benefits of its rich and powerful benefactors. Its power grid had consistently been upgraded with the latest and greatest technologies. While East Berlin’s streetlights remained the dim, grubby yellow of the post-war 50’s (excluding the few Soviet ‘upgrades’ that could barely be considered so), West Berlin’s streets were brightly lit a powerful white. These windfalls weren’t just a nod to common trade diplomacy, but a not-so-silent series of raspberries to blow in faces of the residents of East Berlin. Indeed, anyone who merely gazed across the Wall was constantly reminded of how piss-poor life in the GDR truly was. Patrick hated it profusely, and was filled with jealousy anytime he crossed over.
West Germany, however, reminded Patrick that nature didn’t care about politics in the slightest. Out here in the rural areas, surrounded by hills, trees, streams and lakes, it looked exactly the same as its Eastern counterpart. Even the farms that dotted the landscape were virtually the same. They even had much the same lighting. Patrick took a sick pleasure in this. NATO didn’t give a single bloody fuck about this country. They only doted on West Berlin so that it stuck in the craw of the GDR. Here—where the folks in the GDR couldn’t readily look—the windfalls were few, if any.
“One day,” Patrick promised himself, “One day this will all burn. One day, when those worthless Americans don’t have any use for this country, it’ll burn, and fade into obscurity. Then they’ll see. But I’ll be far, far away by then.”
Feeling a chill, Patrick moved inside. It wasn’t much warmer in here, but it did cut the breeze down. He rubbed his hands together, and buried his face into his scarf for warmth. If they didn’t show soon, he would have to do jumping jacks, or stamp in place, or something to get his body temperature up to where it needed to be. “Why here?” he wondered, angrily. “Why must they always choose cold places?” It was yet another cruel joke the West played on the East: treating foreign agents with such disrespect. It was maddening. Patrick was here to benefit the damn Americans. They should be treating him like god-damned royalty, and paying him far more than they were. That, or at least pick someplace warm.
He waited… then he waited. After what seemed like an hour, he waited some more. It was always this way. They wanted to humble him. They wanted to remind him where he was in the pecking order. They wanted him to know his place and be subservient, “One day…” he swore to himself, “They’ll pay too.” Soon enough, however, he heard a shuffle of feet outside of the barn.
“Is my donkey ready?” a young male voice called out clearly.
“Clothed with the finest silk,” Patrick said through gritted teeth.
“Can it fly?” the voice asked.
“Only if you feed it right.”
Satisfied that the two were alone, and that the meeting wouldn’t be in vain, the owner of the voice stepped into the barn. The young man, dressed in a greatcoat and fedora, also wore a brazen look. And he stood with an impetuous posture as if displaying a sort of wretched dominance.
“Matt fucking York,” Patrick said. “The one and the only.”
“Oh, get over it, Patrick. You made your bed. Now lay in it.”
“Three months! Three fucking months I’ve been your little errand boy! I’ve jumped through your hoops, sang your songs, and done every inane thing you’ve asked of me.”
“Yes you have,” Matt admitted, without the slightest bit of concern in his voice.
“Maybe I deserve a little respect?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you cold? Well, I apologize for that, but as I recall, you were the one who asked for these security measures.”
“I didn’t ask to be left to wait for so long!”
“Ah, yes. I understand,” Matt switched to an apologetic tone, “Yes… those are our security measures.”
“What? Don’t trust the traitorous little double-agent?” Patrick sneered right back.
“As a matter of fact, no,” Matt laughed. “No, none of us do, and I’ll tell you why. You came to us, not the other way around. You know very-well the HVA’s policy on walk-ins, so you can probably figure out ours. The only reason we took you on is because you work for the HVA, and had access to information.”
“Information I have readily provided!”
“Yes. Very readily,” Matt sneered, “Without even the slightest hint of sorrow. Our higher-ups think it’s because you have some beef with your own country, but my Boss and I think it’s because this is a job for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, don’t play that game with me. You are in the same world of Counter-intelligence that I am. We feed you useless nonsense, and you feed us useless nonsense. What better way to mess with the Americans than to pose an agent as an angry, unloved child who wants to get back at daddy for not buying him a pony when he was a child?”
“I’m not…” Patrick puffed, “I didn’t… I’m not a god-damn child.”
“Feeding us useless information is one thing. But trying to put my people in a position to be forcibly turned… now, that is something that will never happen. And if ensuring that requires that we whip you like a dog until we trust you, that’s precisely what we’ll do.”
“I’m not a dog!” Patrick yelled, becoming increasingly more irate by the moment.
“You’re right, you aren’t. Dogs are obedient. Dogs are simple, trustworthy, noble beasts that know what’s good for them. You are an intelligence agent who knows damn well why we don’t yet trust you. And until we do, we’ll continue to meet like this. Now, if you wish to be treated like a man, then start acting like a man and stop complaining about how cold it is.”
Patrick hated him… oh how he hated him. He hated his organization, and he hated Matt’s cover story—getting to be the lead singer of a popular band, screwing new girls every night and smoking his weight in marijuana every day—it was maddening. Patrick deserved all of that. For all that he had suffered and put up with, he deserved it. But mostly, he hated being talked down to. Patrick was a member of a prestigious intelligence organization. That meant that he deserved to be treated as such. Still, he knew he wouldn’t get what he wanted if he didn’t play ball.
“So, then,” Patrick said placidly, “I have your documents.”
“Well, let’s see them.” Matt said respectfully, noting the change in Patrick’s tone.
Reaching into a small attaché, Patrick pulled out a few folders and handed them over quickly. He was glad to be rid of the incriminating evidence.
“Richtlinie 1/79?” Matt asked.
“It’s the Stasi’s policy for zersetzung: how to seek out community organizations that could be considered dissentious or potentially harmful to the State. It gives the guidelines for the spreading of counter-propaganda and sowing the seeds of discontent.”