The man held the door for the woman and Jake thanked him and took the door from him, making sure to smile. Now Jake had a choice. He could get on the elevator with the young couple, or linger back, which would look suspicious. Or he could take the stairs. He got in to the elevator and waited for them to punch in three. He hit four, even though he was also going to three.
When the elevator opened on three, Jake held the doors for the man and woman to get off, and then stepped back and rose up to the fourth floor. He got out and found the stairs, heading down one flight. The couple would be in their apartment by now, he guessed. But to be safe he waited a few seconds before peeking out into the third-floor corridor. It was empty. Good.
Jake unzipped his coat halfway and reached for his gun. No problem. As he walked, his eyes caught the apartment numbers. A few more. On the left.
Damn. No peep holes. He couldn’t check inside, but then the resident would also have to open his door to see Jake.
Direct approach, Jake reminded himself. This guy had worked for East German Secret Police, the Stasi, during the height of the Cold War, working closely with Vladimir Volkov. Bernard Hartmann had been one of the Stasi caught shredding documents in 1989 when the wall started coming down. He was lucky enough to escape the citizens with torches and pitch forks, but Jake had been assigned to find him and bring him in for a debriefing. Turns out the CIA had also been getting some reliable information from the man over the years. Some not so reliable. Regardless, his former CIA ties had kept him alive long enough to get a job with the Bundespost until he could retire with a civil service retirement a few years ago. Jake hadn’t seen the man in five years, and then the old Stasi officer looked like he had been drinking himself to death, his complexion a road map of mottled red and white and his formerly Arian locks having turned a dull blue gray. He was at least sixty-five, Jake guessed. Yet, when Jake first met the man in the late 80s, Bernard Hartmann was a bear of a man. One to be careful around, for sure. The briefing on him was littered with references of brutality, including death squads and political assassinations. Regardless of age, a former Stasi officer was still dangerous.
Jake stopped and looked up and down the corridor. Clear. He knocked lightly and waited, his hands at his sides.
The door swung in, a surprised look on the old Stasi warrior, his face ruddy, his nose somewhat bulbous. He wore an old gray sweater a bit darker than his hair, and his muscle tone had collapsed since the last time Jake saw the man. His right hand sat behind him.
“I’m guessing you still have your Walther P38,” Jake said in German, his own hands in plain view.
“I’m looking at a ghost,” Bernard Hartmann said in English, which was as close to accent free as possible. The former Stasi officer showed his right hand held the venerable German sidearm, which he let hang at his side now. “What can I do for Mister Jake Adams?”
“Can we talk inside?”
The German waved his gun for Jake to enter and closed them inside the small apartment, sparsely furnished with cheap Scandinavian box store products.
Jake wandered to the center of the main room, his eyes scanning the room. Other than the furniture, the place was a shrine to communist rule, with old photos of men in uniform and plaques from his days in East German State Security.
“Nice place,” Jake said. “Reunification was good to you.”
Bernard laughed. “Right. I should have retired to a country estate. Who knew that communism would fail?”
“Ronald Reagan.”
“You say his name in my house?” The German set his gun on a table next to a tattered chair. Then he went to a wet bar and poured himself a glass of schnapps. Without asking, he poured a second glass and held it out for Jake, who took it from the old Stasi.
“All good things come to an end,” Jake said, raising his glass. “Prosit!” They clanked glasses and each downed their drink.
The German took the glasses and then went to the refrigerator in the adjoining kitchen area, producing two Berlin pilsners, handing one to Jake and shuffling into the living room, taking a seat in the battered chair. Jake sat on the sofa and sipped his beer.
“Now,” Bernard said. “What brings a dead man to my apartment at this hour.”
“So you’ve heard?”
He nodded. “You’d have to be brain dead not to know what’s going on.”
“Well, I haven’t had a frontal lobotomy, but I do have a bottle in front of me.” Jake raised his beer and took a long pull.
“You’re not alone, Jake. But I’m sure you know that by now.”
Jake watched the man’s eyes. They were the only thing that had given him away during interrogation. Normal. Bernard was feeling him out for information. “I know that people have been trying to kill me for a while now, and I’ve had to stay one step ahead of the shadow game.”
“I see that. But one million Euros is a lot of money. Perhaps I should collect.” The German took a drink from his bottle, but his eyes never strayed from Jake.
“I thought about killing myself, Bernard, but that would have made it hard to collect. I could collect on your bounty.”
The Stasi man’s chin raised slightly. “So, you know. Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m here for answers.”
“Like who wants you dead?”
“Who wants us all dead,” Jake said. “As far as I can tell, someone has put out a contract on damn near every player from the Cold War days. From what I can tell, most had worked here in Berlin.”
A slight smirk formed on the old Stasi man’s chapped lips. As if he was remembering the good old days. Finally he said, “There’s a new Cold War, Jake.”
“Who started it?”
“It doesn’t matter who started it. It just is. Like life and death.”
Jake took in more beer and thought about that. It had been staring him in the face for weeks and he’d denied the obvious. He knew in his gut that the German was right. Had even considered it a hundred times in his mind over the past few days. Yet, somehow, hearing it from someone else who’d been there in the old days, Jake knew the words were true. It was a new Cold War.
“The Russians have been testing new weapons with their oil wealth,” Jake said. “Trying to get back some semblance of influence in the world. Perhaps their status as a super power again. And now they’re back to their old ways. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Who else? The Chinese? Doubtful. They’re just going to overwhelm the world with economic power. Ten times what the Japanese did two decades ago. But the Russians.” He shrugged his shoulders and drank down the last of his beer. “One more?” Bernard got up and went to the kitchen, coming back with two more beers and handing one to Jake before sitting down again.
“Who’s running the show?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know.”
He appeared to be telling the truth. Damn.
Bernard said, “But I do know it most likely comes from the SVR. They’re almost back to Cold War KGB strength. You can’t kick a football in Berlin without hitting one. Did you hear about Vladimir Volkov?”
Jake had anticipated the question and didn’t react. “What about him?”
“He’s dead. Killed yesterday in Baden-Baden.”
“Interesting. I heard he was on the list.”
“So, is that why you’re here? To collect on Volkov’s assassination?”
“I haven’t been to Baden-Baden in four years,” Jake said calmly.
The German laughed. “That’s good, Jake. I couldn’t even tell you were lying.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were on the news tonight. They had a video of you coming out of Volkov’s apartment complex with a gun at your side. You had a slight limp, just like when you came in to my apartment. You couldn’t hide that.”