The Last Mission

[TheExecuter]

This time...

Rubashov is a spy, his secrets have secrets. How many other things has he done in his life? Arlova, the man in Bordeaux, etc.

Indeed.

How many secrets do each of us have in our past? The older you get, the more chance for things you did or believed back then to come forward and haunt you.

Rubashov seems so...disinterested in what's going on, so tired. He's resigned to his fate, even if he quibbles over some of the details.

Hopefully the 'why' this is so becomes clearer for you as you read.

He has been passionate about the cause of the revolution...to the point of doing terrible things on its behalf...and he is rewarded with a Stalinist state.

Is that what he was working for? Logically, maybe...but is the truth starting to smack him in the face a bit...are the people better or worse off?

Given how deep he has gone in service to the Party...what happens when the Party doesn't deliver...?

But what is essential, and what is non-essential? Who decides that?

Gletkin has the power here with that.

Gletkin is indeed the power. I wrote that phrase also as a veiled warning to not stray from the story Hare-Lip was tortured to tell...

Going into 'non-essentials' has consequences of a physical nature...

This sounds like how I would describe Rubashov in Spain and France.

Indeed. Perhaps Rubashov's self assessment of his behavior when in Spain and France was a lie told to himself...

 

[TheExecuter]

Chapter 37

August 1961​

The tramp of the three pilgrims through the Staatforst was as exhilarating as it was exhausting for their elder and once again present father and head. That Eloise’s father had scarcely slept nor eaten in twenty-four hours did not help his already dwindled and weakened sixty-seven year old frame cope with even the moderate rigors of the two kilometer journey to the car Ian had surreptiously rented for the day. More than once he stumbled and nearly collapsed from light headedness and sheer physical weariness, and they stopped every three or four minutes to rest. It was the first exercise he had had of any strenuous kind for seventeen years.

“I could carry you on my back with ease, sir,” said Ian. “I wish you would let me.”

“It may come to that before we are through, Ian, my boy. But tired as I am, you must know how wonderful it feels to work this old body of mine again to the point where I am able to make it tired. Let me enjoy the blisters, the aches, and the exhaustion fully, and when I crumble, then by all means, hoist me onto your strong back!”

“But, Papa,” objected Eloise, “I am fearful you will injure yourself.”

“What better way to do so than relishing again God’s creation! Ah, Eloise, you cannot imagine what sensations and wonders are flying through this heart!”

“I have not forgotten who my papa is!” laughed Eloise. “Perhaps I have some idea.”

“Just the smell of this pine forest is making my brain wild with delight.” Heinrich drew in a long breath, the most contented expression of pleasure on his face. But, even before he had time to exhale the sigh to its conclusion, his feet lost their balance.

“Oh, Papa!” cried Eloise, steadying him as he stumbled against her. On the other side, Ian quickly grabbed his other arm.

“Perhaps it is time for another brief rest,” said Heinrich. They helped him gently to the ground, then sat down beside him.

“We have food in the car, Papa.”

“Yes…yes, that will be nice,” murmured Heinrich quietly, breathing in and out with shallow breath. The wood was deathly still. Not a whisper of a breeze played among the highest needles of the pines.

“It is peaceful here,” sighed Heinrich, his voice extremely quiet. “I would be quite content to lie down and sleep all day and all night, with the canopy of God’s trees, and above them his heaven for our only blanket.”

“You will sleep in your own bed tonight, Papa,” said Eloise. “But I am afraid to do so we will not be able to lie down and nap just yet.”

“There is so much to say, so much to ask. I want to know everything, but somehow I do not think my brain could contain it all just now.”

“We will have many years, Papa. I will tell you all. There is no hurry.”

“There are times I feel as young and strong as when Marion and I were married. Then I look at my arms and legs and see how thin and white they have become, and I wonder if that same thing has happened to my brain.”

“Never to your brain, Papa!”

“I do wish…but I cannot help thinking about Marion, and wishing she could be here with us.”

“She is, Papa,” replied Eloise softly.

“Yes…of course. I am forgetful of even the most elementary truths Jesus has taught us. He that believes shall never die.” Heinrich sighed. His heart was full at the thought of his dear wife, though his eyes remained dry. “I loved her, Eloise…I loved your mother more than I think a man ever loved a woman.”

He paused reflectively. “Yet no doubt,” he added with a smile, “every man thinks his love is the greatest love ever to flower upon the earth. Ah, such self-centered creatures we are! The father fills each one with the deep love of his nature…fills men, fills women…fills roses…” As he spoke, he again lifted the rose that he still carried to his nose as if in its fading scent was contained a hidden secret that only he and his departed Marion could share.

“He fills his whole creation with his love,” he went on in a moment, as if thinking aloud, “to the very texture and color and beauty and fragrance of the rose; and yet we take that love, considering it our own, and think ourselves uniquely qualified to partake of it, when in truth it has been showered lavishly abroad upon the whole of creation.”

“You need have no anxiety about your brain, Papa,” said Eloise with a smile. “I think while the outside of you may have diminished, the inside of you has grown larger!”

Heinrich returned her smile, though weakly. “Suddenly I am so very, very sleepy.”

“It will not be much longer, Papa.” As she spoke, Eloise glanced up at Ian with a sigh and a smile. He returned it with a reassuring nod.

“I knew someone was coming for me today,” said Heinrich, speaking nearly inaudibly.

“You mean about the transfer?”

“What transfer?”

“You were to be moved.”

“No, I knew nothing of it.”

“We believe Wilhelm to be behind it, Papa,” said Eloise.

“Wilhelm…the poor boy. Is he still giving you trouble, my child?”

“No, Papa. I am quite safe from him. Who did you think was coming for you, Papa?”

“Our Father. I was certain my day had come to finally meet him. I was so blissfully happy. I could not sleep. I was full of such anticipation. Yet there was much to write…for you, and for others. I was up all night with my thoughts and prayers, attempting to record what the Father was showing me, all the while looking forward to going home. Then what should I find, but that the Father had sent you for me, instead of coming himself!”

Heinrich’s face and eyes shone with the light of jubilation. “You can have no idea what happy days I had there,” he said quietly. “The Father was so close and took such care of me. Yesterday, awaiting, as I thought, the death of my earthly body, I think was the happiest day of my life.”

“And yet,” he went on after a moment, “to see you, my child, again…to set eyes upon your face…has increased even that happiness tenfold. Were I to die this very moment, I would bless the Father for giving me everything my heart could desire!”

Eloise looked away. She felt tears, but she could not afford to let them flow. Their time would come…but it was not yet.





The three travelers reached the car. Taking a lengthy break for food and water, Heinrich grew weaker and quieter. The food would accomplish its nourishing work in time. But at present his body found that absorbing it required all the little remaining strength he possessed. After some time, they loaded inside; Ian driving, Eloise in the backseat with her arm cradling her father, who laid his head tenderly in her lap. In less than five minutes he was sleeping soundly.

Ian made his way down the hill, slowly along the dirt road, through several kilometers of woods and field, through Drewitz, then onto the highway and into Güterfelde. As they drove, both he and Eloise found themselves lost in their own thoughts. Eloise’s mind was full of her father. Suddenly he was a child and she was taking care of him, as he and Marion had once cared for her. Whenever her father had come to mind over the past years, which was daily, the image was always of him in the prime of his manhood, her father…and she always his little girl. Suddenly the mortality of his frame was a present and visible reality.

She glanced down at his face. She had known there would be great changes. But even the undeniable light that still radiated from his face when he spoke could not prevent Eloise, as she looked upon him, from an occasional stab of pity and dismay over his physical appearance. As sternly as she had striven to equip her mind to accept the inevitable changes she knew would be apparent upon him, nothing had prepared her for the thin figure of the man she had seen that morning hunched over the table in the prison cell. His hair had thinned and had grown utterly grey. His thin cheeks and neck and forearms all showed the wrinkles of age and attrition. No hint of fat could be seen anywhere on his body, and his clothes hung as if several sizes too large.

Eloise had yet kept at bay the flood of tears that would one day be released. For now she was too happy in his presence again…to feel his touch, hear his voice, put her cheek next to his…too happy to let herself reflect upon what Wilhelm and the system to which he had given his allegiance had made of this fine, stalwart man…her father, a nobleman of the old Germany, a Germany they were all proud of before…She could not even complete the thought. She shut her eyes tightly against the tears struggling to emerge. Not now. Not yet.

There was no time to relax, no time for the full rush of emotions. She had to parcel them out a little at a time, otherwise this day and all it signified would overwhelm her. As they drove, Eloise gradually quieted. In the exultation of being with her father again, for a time she had forgotten the dangers they still had ahead and that they were yet far from any safe haven to call home.

The eyes of the man Ian called Schlaukopf came back to her from their parting an hour or so ago. She had seen deeply inside him in those few seconds, and the sight was anything but pleasant. The brief moment had confirmed everything she had earlier suspected from Ian’s descriptions. From that look, and his changing plans at the last minute with Ian, she had known nothing about him was to be trusted. She had to rely on her instincts, even should Ian object. I will not allow my father to be at that man’s mercy. I will do as I have planned.

 

[jak7139]

How, by the way, did Gletkin know of this conversation? Either it had been overheard, which in the circumstances was rather unlikely; or else the comfortable Herr von Zehnder had been acting as agent provocateur – God only knew for what complicated reasons.

The Party has ears everywhere. These interogations scenes have really reminded me of 1984 and the hopeless, monotonous nature of trying to challenge the system. Rubashov can't, try as he might, and will submit, must submit.

We did not recoil from betraying our friends and compromising with our enemies, in order to preserve the Bastion.

Much like Molotov-Ribbentrop. If Gletkin lives to Barbarossa, I wonder if his opinions will change. I don't think Rubashov has that much time though.

 

[TheExecuter]

The Party has ears everywhere. These interogations scenes have really reminded me of 1984 and the hopeless, monotonous nature of trying to challenge the system. Rubashov can't, try as he might, and will submit, must submit.

1984 being written about precisely this government's methods...I'm not surprised that the section reminds you of it.

For me, I think the hardest part for Rubashov is the irony that this is what he wanted...

...but now...maybe not so much.

How many times did he act as Herr von Zehnder listening to the plans of foreign socialists needing his help...before betraying their cause in the name of the Party in Moscow?

As you noted earlier...

Serves him right...

Much like Molotov-Ribbentrop. If Gletkin lives to Barbarossa, I wonder if his opinions will change. I don't think Rubashov has that much time though.

Ah, but will there be a Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact...or an Operation Barbarossa?

 

[TheExecuter]

Chapter 38

August 1961​

What had once been a sleepy farming village some sixteen kilometers from the center of the city had, through the course of time and the slow encroachment of progress, been swallowed up in the expanding outskirts of the sprawl known as Berlin. Teltow was unremarkable except in this: Fate had ordained that it chanced to fall, like another half-dozen villages similarly situated, at precisely that point of demarcation selected by the Allied powers where the city of Berlin would end and the GDR would begin.

Into the midst of a tranquil midday, had come the ominous whirring sounds of a helicopter, first approaching, then descending and setting down in the middle of the street in front of the border crossing, where it had remained now for more than an hour and half. The inhabitants tried not to notice, but something was in the wind. Helicopters here never came bringing good news. They always meant danger…to someone.

More traffic arrived at the tiny border crossing. A black automobile from the south stopped a short distance from the helicopter. The little man driving it was alone. About an hour after the helicopter several automobiles rumbled in. A young man jumped out of the lead car and went straight to the helicopter. Receiving orders, he returned to deploy the rifle carrying men that had piled out of the other three cars. Within several minutes the roadblock at the crossing was secure. A small army would have difficulty breaking across the border here. Now the three men stood, apart from the rest; three faces impatiently scanning the approaching road from the south, anxious for any sign…of their prey.

Wilhelm stood still, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back, gun firmly in the holster at his side, gaze fixed down the street into the heart of the village. The waiting already seemed interminable. I have been waiting more than twenty years, I can wait for Eloise another hour…I have been waiting more than twenty years, I can wait for Eloise another hour…I have been waiting more than twenty years…

“Where are they, Schlaukopf?” Wilhelm demanded impatiently.

“Relax, Herr von Adler,” replied the foxy one. “They will be here.”

It is ironic, Wilhelm mused, that Clarke’s side won the war, and that for a period I and my fellow Germans were forced to beg for mercy at the hands of the Allied tyrants. But now, the tables have turned…so much so in fact that I, if I wanted, could have brought half an army to command against this Englishman! It is gratifying to know that Clarke is a fugitive in enemy land…yes, ironic indeed.

Wilhelm glanced down to see his Swiss watch ticking away the completion of an hour. Muttering a curse, he looked over at the man to his right. I’ll endure this fool for now. My reward will be having Clarke at my mercy and Eloise in my hands.

“You must remember not to be anxious,” Schlaukopf said after a few moments more of silence. “I will meet them alone, at the end of the street. When they come into sight, they will stop. Then you must give me payment in full. I will then walk out to make initial contact, assuring them all is well.”

“If I refuse to pay you?”

“I will wave them off.”

“If I pay you and you get in their car and make a run for it?”

“Then you will chase us down with your helicopter, drop explosives and kill me along with them.”

Wilhelm was silent. The shrewd little man thought of every angle. The eight thousand marks are in my pocket. It is a small price to pay for Eloise. Besides…I might just hunt down this weasel later, kill him, and get the money back.

As they fell silent again, Schlaukopf’s thoughts began to course familiar mental tracks. Twelve thousand marks is a sizeable stash of money. This is the big opportunity I have been waiting for! The only problem is that my face is known to too many people. The only way for me to ensure my own safety is to kill them all somehow once I have the money securely in hand…the Englishman, who lied to me, the woman with him, who is prettier than any mortal deserves to be, and the prisoner, who is practically dead anyway. They will be easy. This Stasi agent, standing and fidgeting beside me, will be a greater challenge. I should probably wait a week or two…but he will have to be killed along with the rest…

The only one saying nothing was the boyish assistant to the chief, Andrassy Galanov. His thoughts were occupied with the secret drive he had made into the countryside only a few kilometers east of here several days before. My boss has not confided in me…but then neither have I confided to him about what I learned concerning the automobile from Warsaw we have been searching for. From listening to these two talk, however, I am certain that we are waiting for she who was in the automobile. There is no doubt the two women are one and the same. But does today’s activity have anything to do with her questionable moves of the other afternoon? I’m not sure…

I will continue to watch, observe, and listen. I have the feeling something more than meets the eye is at hand, and I do not want to be the one caught looking the wrong way. If I am right, clues to the photographs my uncle so desperately wants are coming our way too. I will keep that tidbit of information to myself for now. I will see how this thing plays out before committing myself…

Hiding his own mounting anxiety, the fox stole a hasty glance downward at his watch. They should have been here by now! His fingers began to twitch at the thought of losing the ten thousand marks he still had to collect.





More than an hour had passed. Still Ian drove. The ride had been bumpy and long. Little conversation had passed between him and Eloise. Heinrich continued to sleep peacefully, regaining strength internally by invisible degrees. The dream of freeing Eloise’s father, seemingly unattainable a few days before, had been accomplished. Yet both were absorbed in the reality of what perils still lay between them and freedom. They were bumping along a stony road. Güterfelde lay just ahead.

Ian slowed as they entered the village. Passing the lake on their right, the rough cobblestones under them came to an end as they intersected the north-south highway connecting Stahnsdorf and Saarmund. Ian stopped, then turned left, easing his way onto the road, also of stones but somewhat smoother, which led through the heart of Güterfelde. Winding through the narrow streets, within five minutes they were leaving the last of its houses behind. Picking up speed once more, their route now lay north through Stahnsdorf and beyond to Teltow, the border, West Berlin…and freedom. It will not be long now, thought Ian, We are on the home leg!

Behind him, Eloise’s thoughts were occupied in a different vein. We have just passed the turn leading to Grossbeeren. It would have been the most logical route for carrying out my plan. But, if the fox is as cunning as I suspect and if he had reason to mistrust Ian’s veracity, that would be precisely the direction he might anticipate a double cross taking. I am not certain, therefore, that he is not watching us even now to make sure we do as he has instructed. I will wait until I am positive no eyes are upon us. There are plenty of dirt roads by which we can make our way, either back to the highway or through the woods south of Mühlenberg to Ruhlsorf, then south to Grossbeeren.

Approximately a third of the distance to Stahnsorf, after one more glance at the desolate road behind them, suddenly Eloise spoke up from the backseat. “Ian, stop the car.”

He glanced back with an expression of question on his face.

“Ian, please,” she repeated, “stop the car…immediately!”

He began to slow. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

Freeing her father from her embrace as gently as she could, Eloise readied herself to get out. “No, nothing is wrong. But you must stop the car.”

Ian continued to brake. The instant they had come to a standstill, Eloise jumped out, closing the rear door behind her and opening the driver’s door almost in the same motion.

“I must drive from here,” said Eloise. “My father is still asleep. You may sit over on the other side.”

“But…I don’t…”

“Ian, please,” interrupted Eloise, “There is no time to lose. Just get out.”

Confused and half laughing, Ian climbed out and walked around to the passenger side. Eloise was already in place by the time he closed the door. She ground the car into gear, accelerated rapidly, but within less than sixty seconds slowed quickly, then turned off onto a farm road to the right.

“What are you doing?” exclaimed Ian, no longer laughing.

“Now it’s my turn, like your fox, to say there has been a change of plans.”

“Eloise, Teltow is our only safe way into Berlin, and the road to Teltow was straight ahead…back there.”

“It may not be as safe as you think.”

“You must turn back. It’s the road we’ve got to take.”

“There are many routes into Berlin,” replied Eloise, pressing the automobile forward across the farmland toward the wooded hills ahead of them, though the way was pitted and rough, with as much speed as she dared. “If I read Herr Schlaukopf right, and believe me, I’ve met many like him, some trap awaits us at Teltow.”

“That’s impossible. He has to let us through if he wants the other half of his money.”

“Something is wrong, I feel certain of it.”

“Please, Eloise, you’ve got to turn around. Everything’s been arranged.”

“Ian, you’re going to have to trust me one more time. Now that we have my father, I’m not going to risk putting us into the hands of that man called the fox.”

“You just have to know how to deal with him.”

“He is evil through and through. I don’t want to see him again. We are not going to Teltow. I’m sorry.”

“Then how are we going to get back to Berlin? There could be roadblocks at all the other crossings looking for us.”

“I’ve made other arrangements for us.”

“What?! What kind of arrangements?”

“You’ll just have to wait and find out. I am certain they will be safer than what is waiting for us back there.”

“If we do not appear at Teltow with the rest of his money, Schlaukopf will come after us. He is a ruthless man.”

“Exactly my point.”

“He must be paid or our lives will be in danger ever after.”

“You can drive back to Teltow from the American side,” said Eloise. “I have no objection to you finding him and giving him the rest of his money. But I will not take my father near that man again while we are in the GDR. Ian, there was duplicity in his eyes. He is planning to betray us.”

“It would appear I have a mutiny on my hands,” said Ian, attempting to laugh again.

“Let’s just say that for the rest of the time we’re in my country, I will be in charge,” said Eloise. “The moment we cross into the Western sector, I will gladly relinquish decision making back to you.”

Confused and not knowing what to make of it, Ian sat back and tried to take in the implications of this sudden new twist Eloise had thrown at him. If I didn’t know her so well…and trust her…I would think…well, I don’t know what I would think!

Forty-five minutes later the three fleeing pilgrims emerged from the hilly region east of Ruhlsdorf, Eloise still at the wheel, and were soon speeding southeast toward Grossbeeren.

 

[jak7139]

but shortly after Rubashov’s arrest the daughter had found it and thrown it away, for educational reasons.

"Educational reasons." Books contain knowledge, and they say knowledge is power. What better book to read for that than the Bible?

“Nobody has to,” she said with the same peculiar glance as before. “In the factory they know, of course, that he lived in this house. The cell secretary asked me after the meeting whether you were friends until the end, and whether you had spoken much together.”

Vera is so naive. Understandable given that she's grown up under the system (all of us have grown up under a system of some sort). I wonder hwat the spark will be that will change her ways? Wassilij's arrest maybe?

“It makes you sick the way he crawls on his belly.”

But perhaps, Vera, he's being forced to crawl. Rubashov is neither dying on his feet nor living on his knees.

With that my task is ended. I have paid;

It is finished.

The best of them kept silent in order to do a last service to the Party, by letting themselves be sacrificed as scapegoats

Like yourself, Rubashov? Of course he would compare himself to "the best" of the Party.

Perhaps it did not sit mankind to sail without ballast. And perhaps reason alone was a defective compass, which led one on such a winding, twisted course that the goal finally disappeared in the mist.

Agreed. It's a bad thing to have too much rationalism and reason, just as it's a bad thing to be too romantic and be too much of a dreamer.

I feel like Rubashov is on the cusp of a breakthrough: he understands now his own faults, understands that the dogma and conformity of the Party is bad, but he can't envision a solution. Perhaps if he'd had more time and was away from the dour aesthetics of a gulag, he could've found an answer.

 

[TheExecuter]

"Educational reasons." Books contain knowledge, and they say knowledge is power. What better book to read for that than the Bible?

The phrase means something different to Vera...the 'education' to be inflicted is that the old ways are going to be punished...

Vera is so naive. Understandable given that she's grown up under the system (all of us have grown up under a system of some sort). I wonder hwat the spark will be that will change her ways? Wassilij's arrest maybe?

I never got the impression that Vera is naive...I got the impression that Vera is playing the game she has been taught. She seems to me to know that words are meaningless, and that what matters is 'communicated meaning.' And she is being quite clear and direct with her father here...

This whole doublespeak concept was a fascinating thing I picked up reading Gorky Park some years ago. The Moscow police officer goes around trying to ask questions of people...but the only way he gets meaningful answers is to not just listen to the words, which mean any number of innocuous things...but to watch the actions and just barely pay attention to the words.

It was highly instructive when dealing with a culture where society is heavily monitored. No one is willing to use words to share truth, that is much too dangerous...but actions, could be deniable...

But perhaps, Vera, he's being forced to crawl. Rubashov is neither dying on his feet nor living on his knees.

I rather think Vera is putting on a show...ostracizing her father's sense of pity by proactively pointing out that he is alone in feeling it.

Like yourself, Rubashov? Of course he would compare himself to "the best" of the Party.

Indeed. Still trying to warm himself with self pity...

Agreed. It's a bad thing to have too much rationalism and reason, just as it's a bad thing to be too romantic and be too much of a dreamer.

I feel like Rubashov is on the cusp of a breakthrough: he understands now his own faults, understands that the dogma and conformity of the Party is bad, but he can't envision a solution. Perhaps if he'd had more time and was away from the dour aesthetics of a gulag, he could've found an answer.

He got lost in the lies...and in the end, found it was too late to get back to the truth.

Tragic.

 

[TheExecuter]

Chapter 39

August 1961​

It had been far, far too long.

Schlaukopf had secretly sensed treason on the part of the Englishman some time ago, while outwardly maintaining his confident posture on behalf of the ranting section chief. But it had now reached the point where neither was fooled.

“You are a moron, Schlaukopf!” cried Adler, who had been pacing back and forth for several minutes. “How I let you talk me into this insane scheme…”

“The treachery is not mine,” returned Schlaukopf, attempting to retain his composure with difficulty.

“Perhaps not, but the idiocy is yours!” shouted Wilhelm. He had long since ceased trying to maintain his outward poise. It is obvious the plan has soured. Eloise is out there somewhere…and close…with me standing here powerless to snatch her… “And you will pay for your mistake!” he shouted, coming to a sudden decision to end the stalemate.

“Galanov!” he bellowed, turning toward his assistant, who was standing several meters away near the helicopter. “Bring two of your men and have this weasel transported back to Berlin. Keep him under armed guard until we return and I decide what is to be done with him. If he tries anything, kill him.”

“You cannot arrest me,” rasped Schlaukopf in as agitated a voice as he was capable of, backing slowly away from the suddenly hostile interview. “I am still the only one who can deliver the Englishman to you.”

“You have failed, you miserable wretch!” shrieked Wilhelm. “It Is you yourself you have placed into my hands, and I will see you rot. As for the Englishman, I will continue my search without you!”

“You cannot cheat me out of the money you promised!” yelled Schlaukopf. “You’ll pay, one way or another.”

“You will get nothing, Schlaukopf!”

Still moving away from his briefly temporary comrade, suddenly a great knife glistening in the sunlight was in the fox’s grasp. With a menacing movement of the knife waving in the air against any thought of following, Schlaukopf backed hurriedly toward his auto. I will intercept the Englishman on the road and take the money off his body, after I have plunged my knife through his traitorous heart! Then I will come back and do in this scum of a Stasi!

“After him, Galanov!” shouted Wilhelm.

The young Russian came running from the direction of the helicopter. Schlaukopf bolted for his car.

“Stop!” yelled Adler, but the command died in the air unheeded.

“Stop him!” he cried to his assistant. “Galanov, I order you to kill that man!”

Schlaukopf reached his car and threw open the door just as Galanov came running up. The fox turned and lunged toward him, waving his arm wildly. Behind them, Wilhelm approached, staying behind his assistant. “Galanov, kill this fool!” he screamed.

Galanov made a dash toward the little man, but his inexperience betrayed him. The next instant he staggered back, crying out and grabbing at the wound flowing with blood from a deep gash in his arm.

Wilhelm tore the pistol from his hip, took several steps forward, and threw aside his assistant as he wobbled backward, blood dripping down his arm. The air exploded with several deafening shots, fired from a distance of no more than two meters. The crafty one’s body slammed backward into the car he had tried in vain to reach, blood spraying over his chest and onto the car seat behind him. Even as the knife flew into the air, two more shots came in rapid succession.

Wilhelm stood as one paralyzed, pistol frozen in the grip of his fingers, watching as the broken and bloody body slumped to the ground in front of the open car door, several gaping bullet holes disclosing the flesh ripped from his chest. Red poured over the slain man’s clothes and down onto the grass near where the knife now lay stained but still. Echoes of shouts and gunfire died away. A silence of death descended over the border crossing. Wilhelm slowly backed away from the murder he had committed, unable to tear his eyes from the grisly sight in front of him.

The pain in his forearm, whose bleeding he now managed to slow by wrapping the sleeve of his shirt tightly around it, sent keen jolts of acuity through young Galanov’s brain. The deception is wider spread than my murdering boss or our dead colleague has realized. The automobile we have all been waiting for is not bound for Teltow at all! By now it will be many kilometers distant…and I am the only one who knows where possibly we might intercept it!

He turned and ran to his chief, who still stood stupidly numb at the scene before him. “Come…come, Herr Adler!” he urged, trying to wake his boss to the imperative and renewed need for haste. “They will get away if we do not intercept them.”

“Get away…who…?” mumbled Wilhelm.

“The Englishman and the escaped prisoner. They are not coming here at all. We must hurry!”

“I do not…what do you…”

“I know where to locate them…if it is not already too late! Come…we must take the helicopter!” By now he was pulling Wilhelm away and shouting out orders to his men where to follow by automobile. Within minutes the huge blades were whirring up a new frenzy of wind about the crossing gate below. The insect like machine rose quickly off the ground, then slanted steeply at a downward angle as the pilot tilted his controls and sped southeastward, Galanov shouting directions for the search into his ear.





Three kilometers outside Grossbeeren, two automobiles raced across a wide dirt path between cultivated fields of oats. Their destination was a brick and timber barn with a thatched roof some half a kilometer still ahead. Had the helicopter of their pursuers begun its pursuit ten minutes sooner, the dust flying into the air in the midst of the oats to the east would have given away their position immediately. As it was, however, the helicopter was six hundred precious seconds behind. The two sets of probing eyes in the glass bubble below the clamoring blades gazed downward over only empty wooded hills, scanning ahead for the orange roofs in the distance that would tell them they were approaching their destination.

As had been arranged the evening of her discussion on the bridge, when Eloise sped into the village, she saw the green Trabi with the bent rear fender parked beside the road. How long father and son had had to wait she didn’t know, but such a rendezvous was better than meeting at their house. That was a risk she did not want to take, for Clara’s sake, though she had no idea that the anonymity of the Brumfeldt home had already been compromised by her visit of several days ago.

A quick toot of the horn as she passed, alerted Erich, who did not know what kind of automobile to expect, that it was she. He pulled out to follow some distance back. Creeping her way through the village, Eloise slowed, allowing the green Trabi to pass, following him eventually out of town to the east toward the barn now ahead of them, where they would hide Ian’s rental car until the network could arrange for its transport back to West Berlin.

Arriving at their destination, Erich stopped in great haste, sending still more dust spewing about from under the tires. Behind him, Eloise braked more slowly. By the time she reached the barn, young Wilhelm had already jumped out to open the two wide wooden doors, now motioning Eloise to continue into the black empty interior. A moment or two later Erich’s automobile followed, and in less than two minutes all were safely enclosed in the blackness, while Willy made the doors once again fast behind them.

“The plot thickens!” said Ian, astonished at the organization that had preceded their arrival.

“I’m sorry, Ian,” said Eloise. “I thought it would be safer for you not to know. I had to devise some other means to get Papa back into Berlin besides whatever the fox might have had planned for us.”

“And this, I take it,” replied Ian, “is it?”

“Some of the friends I have told you about… Papa,” she said turning toward the backseat. “Papa, you must wake up. It is time for us to change vehicles.” She jumped out, opened the back door, and attempted to arouse him as Erich and his son walked up.

“Fräulein Duftblatt, this is my son Willy,” said Erich.

“Ah, Wilhelm, your father says you are one of my great allies.” Eloise smiled at the boy. “I cannot tell you how much we all appreciate everything you do…especially me…today! This is my own father here. I have not seen him before this day for seventeen years.”

She stooped and leaned down into the backseat of the car. “Come, Papa,” she said, “If you can just get to your feet for a few moments, we will be on our way again.”

Groggily Heinrich allowed Eloise to help him from the car. Supported by Eloise on one side and Ian on the other, they led him to the white van waiting on the other side of the barn. The smells of straw and animals seemed to revive Heinrich, reminding him of happy days at Lebenshaus. He squinted, glancing about in the thin light, to attempt to make sense of where he found himself, while submitting like a docile child to his daughter’s instructions.

Another figure, dressed in white from head to toe, emerged from behind the waiting vehicle and now opened its back door. Ian leapt up and inside, then stooped down to take hold of Heinrich’s shoulders as best he could. With Eloise steadying him from behind, Ian pulled he old man up and inside, where he was immediately overwhelmed by yet another familiar smell, the aroma of fresh-baked loves of rye bread.

Eloise jumped up and inside to join them. They helped Heinrich to lie down as best he could, spreading on the floor the thin blanket that had helped their escape with their own outer garments over him. The next instant the door slammed shut and they found themselves in near darkness while Erich jumped into the seat in front on the passenger side of the van.

The engine roared to life. Again, the barn door opened. The van sped through and across the oat field along a well-rutted wagon route to the north, while behind them Willy removed his father’s green Trabi, shut and locked all the barn’s doors, then began a slow drive back to the village.

Half of the six hundred seconds had been consumed.





A strange sound, distant at first but approaching with a chilling whirr of omen, echoed outside, but the brain of Erich Brumfeldt’s wife was too full of prayerful angst to absorb the meaning of the sound. God, Clara prayed, cause your will to be done this day. Keep your servants in the care of your mighty hand. Let the father of Fräulein Duftblatt find safety, and let no harm come to my…

The stillness of the small room shattered with the crash of a door opening. Booted feet thundered across the floor. Glancing up in fright, the barrel of a rifle met Clara’s gaze.

“Where are they!” demanded a voice.

“I don’t…who…” she stammered in dread.

“You know who…the prisoner…the Englishman!”

“I don’t know who you…” Clara never completed her words. The butt of Galanov’s rifle thudded against her side, knocking her sideways to the floor. She screamed from two broken ribs. New footsteps approached, and the next instant a fisted grip yanked her to a sitting position.

“We know they were here, woman!” shouted Adler. “Tell us where they have gone, or we will kill you!”

Galanov, blood still dripping from his arm, stepped back and began to search the room. Paralyzed in fear and pain, Clara was dumb with terror. The front of Adler’s hand slapped across her jaw. Blood immediately flowed from her lip and nose.

“Tell us, you old hag, or breathe your last!” shrieked Adler, whacking her again and sending the woman’s body bouncing cruelly onto the floor.

“Herr Adler,” called Galanov.

Wilhelm heard nothing. Already he had bent down to seize the woman again with his left hand. His right hand had closed in a tight fist and was raised to strike.

“Herr Adler!” repeated his assistant loudly. “Leave her.”

Wilhelm heard this time, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Leave her…it is unnecessary. I know the car from earlier. It was not outside. We can locate it from the air. And there is a name here,” he said, holding a scrap of paper.

Wilhelm stood and ran toward him, snatching up the note. “Meier!” he said. “What does this mean?” he yelled down to the figure on the floor. A moan was the only reply. Again, Wilhelm approached her threateningly.

“Look,” cried Galanov, still rummaging about. “A bag of Brötchen…Bäkerei Meier…Heinersdorf!”

Within seconds the accelerating blades of the helicopter sounded from outside. The house was empty again, the crumpled heap of its occupant lying bleeding, broken, and quietly sobbing on the floor.

Thus, Willy found his mother when he returned only minutes later. He bandaged her wounds as best he could, helped her to her bed, and made her as comfortable as possible. Then he left the house again, and in his father’s green Trabi sped out of the village northward, on the road to Heinersdorf.

I will probably be too late. But I have to see if there is anything left I can do to help.

 

[TheExecuter]

Chapter 40

August 1961​

The distance between Grossbeeren and Heinersdorf was only some six or seven kilometers due north. Had the helicopter of death been a few minutes sooner, its speed would have overtaken the van of life en-route. It covered the distance, however, observing nothing, neither of the two passengers scanning the country side below with binoculars realized how warm indeed was the scent of the trail they sought.

“There is the village…get as low as you can,” barked Wilhelm to the pilot, moving his magnified eyes back and forth across the buildings below as rapidly as he could. “There it is!” he cried. “Set it down!”

The pilot instinctively dove the machine skillfully toward the ground.

“Now we will find where the vermin have gone,” cried Wilhelm as the two jumped to the ground and ran to the storefront whose sign they had observed.

The bakery door crashed open, breaking several panes of glass. Seeing the gun waving in the hand of the uniformed official, the poor young lady behind the counter did her best to stifle the scream that erupted from her at the sound. Two or three other customers in the shop, one a lady with two small children, backed terrified toward a corner.

“Where is your owner!” shouted Wilhelm, still waving the pistol about.

“Herr…Herr…,” stammered the young lady.

“Yes, you idiot…Herr Meier! Where is he?!”

“He is…making deliveries.”

“In what kind of vehicle?” demanded Galanov.

“He…there is a van…”

“Where are his deliveries!” demanded Galanov.

“I, uh…I don’t know…Grossbeeren, I think.”

“You are lying!” growled Wilhelm, approaching now with look of evil intent.

Unable to contain her fear any longer, a scream escaped from her mouth. Wilhelm stepped toward her, but she retreated, and he was unable to strike her across the counter.

“Back to the helicopter!” said Galanov. “There can be no doubt now…they are making for the border…It is only two or three kilometers!”

The two men ran out of the shop.

“North to the border!” Adler shouted to the pilot as he and Galanov raced across the ground and jumped into the idling helicopter. “If you see a bakery van, stop it at all costs! If they resist, Galanov,” he added to his assistant, “shoot to kill!”

Twenty seconds later they were aloft again, screaming at a height of only twenty or thirty meters above the northward road out of Heinersdorf.





“How much farther is it?” said Ian through the tiny opening into the cab from the cargo hold of the van.

“Less than a kilometer,” replied Brumfeldt, glancing back.

“How will we get across the border?”

“I make deliveries twice a week to homes just on the other side,” replied Herr Meier. “I have been traveling this route for many years. We will not even be stopped.”

Ian leaned back and sat down on the floor beside Eloise. She slipped her hand through his arm and snuggled close. Her father again slept, and at last she allowed herself to relax. They were in the hands of faithful friends now. The engine of the van reverberated loudly in their ears, though in the midst of it Ian began to discern the approach of another sound he recognized but at first could not remember.

He glanced up. Suddenly he knew what it was. Panic seized him. He rose to a crouch on his feet, then made his way uneasily to the back of the van. Steadying himself, he pushed down the latch and opened one of the two rear doors a crack to peer out. Approaching rapidly from behind and at a height only slightly above them, a helicopter screamed toward them.



“That’s it…that’s the van!” shouted Galanov, pointing ahead of them. “Bäkerei Meier is painted on the side. They’re making for the crossing!”

“Get ahead of them!” yelled Wilhelm to the pilot. “Set down in front of it and cut it off!”

Slanting downward, the pilot flew over the roof of the van, then angled sharply to the right, descended, and set down on the cobblestones directly in front of the approaching van. Herr Meier yanked the wheel hard, swerving off the road and bumping along rudely in the open field beside it. In the darkened compartment behind, Eloise let out a scream. Ian, who had just relocked the door, fell hard from his feet. Loaves toppled over them. Heinrich was knocked sideways against the side of the interior, awakening with dull groans of confusion. Jamming the accelerator to the floor, the skillful baker wielded his jostling van around the helicopter, bouncing and tottering back onto the road.

“After them!” screamed Wilhelm.

Instantly the machine was aloft again, once more screaming overhead and by the speeding white van. Rapidly the chase bore down upon the border, only some eight hundred meters in front of them.

“This time they will not get around us!” cried Wilhelm, grabbing a grenade from the helicopter’s store of weapons. “Get in front of them but remain airborne!” he said, pulling the pin with his left hand from the grenade he grasped tightly in his right.

Again the pilot angled perpendicular to the road beneath them. Wilhelm leaned out of the cockpit, took aim, then threw the explosive toward the van, heedless now of the thought that he was attempting to kill the very woman he had tried to convince himself all these years he loved.

The van was coming too fast. The grenade landed on the road behind it, exploding with deafening harmlessness. A great oath of fury burst from Wilhelm’s mouth. Within seconds the van had again passed them, rumbling now toward the border only two hundred meters away.

The pilot angled left, passing the vehicle quickly again. Another grenade was already in Wilhelm’s hand. He pulled the pin and this time did not wait until they were ahead of the van but dropped it as they swept only a meter or two overhead. Seeing the foolhardy move that could explode helicopter as well as van, the pilot yanked back and leftward on the control lever, sending his helicopter high and away. His quick reaction kept them from the heart of the blast but was not sufficient to pull them entirely to safety.



The grenade hit the ground about four meters in front of Herr Meier’s speeding van, exploding into a fireball of red and orange. Unable to dodge, the front of the van was caught directly in the explosion. The front left tire and a portion of the frame blew into the air. The van careened dangerously to the right and off the road. Herr Meier could see out of the left corner of his eye the helicopter rocking from the blast beneath it and starting to spin out of control toward the ground. The van left the road, tilting momentarily on its front and back right tires, then twisted in a circular motion and finally toppled with a loud banging crash over onto its side, sliding and bumping to a smoky stop.

Inside the cargo compartment, the three passengers were tossed about like the loaves of bread. Aware of Eloise’s screams behind him, Brumfeldt saw the more immediate danger to the driver, Herr Meier, whose face and chest were covered with blood from wounds caused by the shattered glass. Reaching over him from his position where the passenger door lay flat on the ground, Brumfeldt managed to force open the door and shove the semiconscious baker up and out, where he toppled down in a heap onto the earth. He climbed out and quickly surveyed the scene. Apprehending the danger from the flames now flickering from the front of the van, he dragged the baker across the grass and away from the front of the van.

Turning back, now he saw the helicopter spinning overhead, trying to fight what seemed a certain crash, its dying blades mingled with the sound of screams and cries for help from the three trapped inside the back of the overturned van. With difficulty he threw open the latch, releasing the jammed back doors. “Get out…get out quickly!” he cried. Eloise’s father did not move. Ian, whose own leg was broken, though he knew it not at the time, was struggling to pull Heinrich to safety.

Ian jumped out, landing on the foot of his fractured leg. Crying out in pain, he collapsed on the ground. Behind him, Erich had pulled the terrified Eloise out of the van and was now carrying the limp frame of Heinrich, whether alive or dead he didn’t know, in his arms.

“Run…get away!” called Erich to Eloise. “The van is on fire!”

Ian rose on unsteady feet, then took a step toward Eloise. Already she was running as best she could, followed by Brumfeldt with Heinrich in his arms.

“Ian…Ian, come!” cried Eloise, glancing back and seeing his difficulty.

He tried to run, crumbling again on his nearly useless leg. Witnessing his desperation, Eloise stopped, turned, and ran back toward him.

“No…Eloise…run!” cried Ian. “Don’t wait for me. I’ll catch you!” Again he gained his feet, hobbling forward.

Eloise continued toward him. Ian was running now, bent over in pain, managing somehow to keep his feet under him.

“Ian!” he heard Eloise’s voice call out. But he had no chance to reply. A blast sounded behind him as the helicopter struck the ground. It’s impact only a few meters away set off the fuel tanks of the van and helicopter both, which now thundered like a fireball high into the sky. The blast knocked Ian to the ground onto his face. Eloise was thrown backward into the air from the explosion, then fell to the ground motionless.

“Eloise!” cried Ian, looking toward her only a short distance away. She lay crumpled on the ground dead. He rose to go to her.

The grenades in the helicopter set off another blast. A searing heat ripped through his back and head, knocking Ian off his feet again. The next instant he toppled to the ground. Aware of only confusion, great pain in his skull, and descending darkness, Ian struggled to raise his head. He tried to look around.

There was Eloise where he had last seen her. Not a muscle of her broken body had moved. With great effort Ian attempted to crawl. But he could only manage a short distance before his arms gave way and he collapsed again, his head exploding with violent throbs.

Eyes barely open, he stretched up his neck, seeking to find her. “Eloise!” was the only word he could whisper before he himself descended into blackness.

 

[TheExecuter]

Memories

Chapter 41

August 1961​

A white clad nurse walked down a long corridor, clipboard in hand, stethoscope hanging from her neck. She passed three or four closed doors, then stopped, opened one, and walked in.

“Good morning,” she said, greeting her patient where he lay. No response came from the bed. Indeed, she expected none. Bandages covered most of his head and came down over his shoulders, and his left leg was raised in a heavy plaster cast. He had scarcely spoken since being brought to the facility five days earlier, unconscious and as near death as possible to be while yet breathing.

“Time for your blood pressure and temperature,” said the nurse cheerfully. A slight movement from the bed to accommodate her wishes was the only sign of life from the inanimate and prostrate form. That the eyes were cognizant of their surroundings and that the mouth surrounded by white gauze was capable of movement were indicated by the opening of the latter a crack to receive the thermometer as the nurse’s hand approached.

“That’s it…now just let me slip this under your arm,” she said, “and we’ll get your blood pressure.” Setting the stethoscope to her ears and the inside of the patient’s elbow, she listened intently while slowly releasing the air with her thumb and forefinger.

“One-twenty over ninety-four…very good. Everything is coming along nicely. Did you sleep well?”

A slight nod, all the bandages would allow, was the patient’s answer.

“Have you remembered anything since waking?”

The slow movement of the head this time went the opposite direction.

“Ah, well, it will all come back in time. Let’s see how that temperature is.” She reached forward, removed the thermometer, read it, picked up her clipboard from the foot of the bed, jotted down the two sets of numbers, then turned to go. “The doctor will be in to see you presently,” she said, then left the room.

She met the doctor halfway down the corridor as he emerged from another room. “How’s the new fellow doing?” he asked.

“Vital signs good,” replied the nurse. “No changes otherwise. Have you found out who he is yet?”

“No, but we may have something by tomorrow. We’re checking fingerprints through Bonn, Washington, and Interpol, and I turned over the things he had on him to the authorities.”

“Are you going to talk to him again?”

“I’ll try. Some of the wrapping can come off this afternoon too, which should make it easier, if he’s so inclined.”

“Will you show him the newspaper?”

“I don’t know,” replied the doctor hesitantly. “Timing is crucial in cases like this. I’ve got to make sure I do it at just the right moment, otherwise he could regress even deeper. I’ve got to get him talking first, and then see if the article and picture bring his memory the rest of the way up.”

The nurse continued on down the hall, while the doctor walked in the opposite direction, entering the room she had recently left.



Later that afternoon, the doctor returned, this time accompanied by a nurse and the burn specialist. They were with the patient an hour, during which time several of the bandages over the most minor wounds were removed and the dressings changed to allow their continued healing exposed to the air. After this, the doctor and patient were alone again.

“Does that feel better?” asked the doctor.

The man nodded.

“I’m sorry, but some of the others will have to remain in place another week or so.”

“I understand,” replied the patient in what amounted to little more than a low whisper.

“How about the leg?”

“All right…itches some,” came the throaty murmur.

“Yes,” chuckled the doctor. “The curse of the cast, as they say. Any other pain I should know about?”

“Only the head.”

“Yes, I know. I hope that will be better by tomorrow.” The doctor paused, then asked, “Would you feel more like telling me what happened today?”

“Can’t…,” said the man.

“Can’t?” repeated the doctor.

“Don’t remember.”

“It would help with the treatment if I know what had caused the explosion.”

The head from the bed slowly shook sideways. “Can’t remember, Doctor,” the man said. “Running…yells…screams…then here…”

The doctor listened, pondering his words, resolving in his mind how best to attempt entrance into that most mysterious place in the universe…the subconscious human mind.

“You had some money in your jacket…,” he said at last, then paused. The patient seemed unresponsive to the information. “…A good deal, as a matter of fact,” the doctor went on. “Something over two thousand marks. Do you have any recollection why you might have been carrying that kind of money?”

“Sorry, Doctor.”

“There was no other identification, so I’m afraid I’m as much at a loss as you are yourself.” Again, the doctor paused. He did not want to push too hard. He was far from an expert at these sorts of things. If there wasn’t a breakthrough within another day or two, he would call in a psychiatrist.

“There was a car rental receipt,” he said after a moment. “Do you remember renting a car?”

The bandaged head went slowly back and forth.

“Unfortunately, there was no car such as the slip indicated anywhere around. We went to the agency, showed them the tag, and were given a name. However, some further checking indicated it to be fictitious. No record of any such person exists. So I’m afraid without some information on this mysterious Herr Rosen whose name appears on the rental, we have nothing much to go on…and the car still hasn’t been found.”

“Rosen…,” repeated the patient, “…sounds like ‘rose.’”

“Yes, that’s the meaning of it…Mr. Roses. Do you speak German?”

“I…I don’t know…I think maybe I do.”

“Do you think you might perhaps be this Herr Rosen?”

“I…I don’t know. It…it sounds familiar to me…but…”

“But what?”

“The name…the word…”

“Rosen?”

The man nodded slowly.

“You like roses, I take it?” asked the doctor.

A lengthy pause followed.

“Yes…yes, I think I do like roses, Doctor…I’m not sure why.”

“Well, I don’t want to tax you too greatly this afternoon,” said the doctor, rising. A sudden thought had just occurred to him. Outside the room he walked briskly down the corridor. Reaching the nurse’s station, he announced his plan.

“Get someone to put a vase or two of roses in that room,” he said, indicating the unknown patient with burns and fractured leg. “Get them from the grounds, or from some other room that doesn’t need them…have some sent in from a florist if you have to…aromatic roses.”

“What color, Doctor?”

“I don’t care…perhaps a mixture. Just make sure they have a strong perfume. I want that room reeking with the fragrance of roses.”





The subtle aromas permeating the sick chamber gradually carried out their delicate persuasions. The night was filled with dreams undefined, of faces whose features would not quite come into focus, of places familiar but distant.

The way before him was steep and difficult. All around were trees whose branches were like long arms reaching to grab at him, preventing him from getting to the top. Struggling, he labored on, sometimes atop a great, slow-moving equine beast, then again on his own feet trying to run but slowed by the steepness of the way and by the many trees…arms snatching and grabbing and blocking the path.

All around, the forest smelled like spring…wonderful aromas of grasses and flowers and sunshine beating upon the forest floor of dying needles. But whenever he glanced down, his feet were mired in the mud of winter. Everywhere were signs of desolation. This is a terrible land, he thought, as he trudged ever upward, where the smell of life filled the air, but where spring never came. Where does the fragrance originate? Surely not from this mud, or from these hard and leafless and unfriendly branches.

The way began to ease…a thinning of the trees…a lessening of the upward slope. He could walk more easily now…yes, his feet moved more rapidly. The mud was not so thick…and the air seemed warming. He quickened his pace. He was running now. Oh, how good it feels!

He looked down. Wonder of wonders…his feet sped along a green, grassy heath! Glancing about, he realized the trees were gone. He had emerged from out of the unfriendly forest of winter and was cresting the hill up which he had been toiling so long. Spring had come! He had outrun winter behind him. Try though it might, it would not catch him now! Here was growth and green and loveliness. Bees and birds sounded in his ears. The air was warm with fresh rays from the sun. The springy turf rebounded from each indentation of his step from the great thickness of the grass. The fragrance was stronger now. He was approaching what appeared to be the peak.

In the distance, two faint figures came into view. He ran toward them, increasing his pace. Some sense told him they were in danger…the mud and trees and branches and cold of winter were after them, seeking to overtake them. It is the two figures ahead winter wants, not me! I have to help them…save them…rescue them…get them safely from this place so that the evil forest can not grab and consume them. Faster he ran.

“Stop!” he cried. “Stop! Let me help you.”

They were now running too, fleeing for their lives. With horror he realized that they were running from him! They did not know their greatest peril lay elsewhere.

“Stop!” he cried again, “I am a friend.” His voice died in the air. The distance between lessened. He was catching them. He would overtake and make them understand.

Suddenly his brain was filled with the powerful aroma of the place again. It grew mightier the closer he came. Now he realized…it originated from one of the two figures ahead. It is not the smell of springtime, it is the fragrance of…of something else…of…I know what it is, but I can’t remember!

It came from just ahead. It was the fragrance the winter was trying to capture! Winter hated the aroma of the wide velvety petals when they opened to receive the rays of their creator. The winter sought to destroy that which could not be destroyed. I have to protect her…protect the fragrance…protect the petals…

Exhausted, he opened his mouth to call out again. But his voice was gone. He would have to catch them, though still they ran, as for dear life, from him.

Closer…

Closer…

At last, he reached them. I will tell them…I will explain…they are safe now…safe from the winter…the fragrance will not be destroyed.

He stretched out a hand to touch the shoulder, to let them know he was a friend. Overtaken at last, they stopped.

With sudden loathing, he saw that the arm he had reached out to them had become the stiff greenless branch of a gnarled, woody tree. She whom he had been chasing ceased her flight, not because of a friendly touch, but because she realized the futility of fighting her pursuer any longer.

He glanced down. The thick lush sward had given way again to oozing brown mud. A sudden chill swept through him. What has become of my legs? Where are my feet? Why do I see below me only the thick trunk of a forest tree? A most hideous feeling of horror…I have become a tree of winter! I have not rescued them…I have myself brought the winter to overtake, consume…and kill them.

The shoulder caught now in the grasp of his branchy grip slowly turned. The face was coming into view. If I can just look, for an instant, into the eyes of its owner…surely then I can make her understand.

But he was now a tree. He had no eyes. Yet…strange to tell…he could yet see. She turned her face at last toward him. Aghast, he sought to scream! The face was blank…there were no eyes…no nose…no mouth…no cheekbones…no ears. It was formless and void…an unperson whom he could not see and did not know.

Suddenly winter was everywhere…the fragrance of spring had vanished…darkness swept over the land. Attempting to scream, his faceless and voiceless tree trunk could only gnarl itself into twisted and silent contortions of wooden futility…

With a dull groan, he sat halfway up in bed just as the door opened and the nurse entered the room. He was breathing heavily, drenched in sweat, struggling to give expression to a panicky voice that was utterly mute. Sensing his state, the nurse hastened forward to calm her patient.

“Easy,” she soothed. “You’ve been dreaming. It’s morning now, you may relax.”

Slowly he recovered himself, breathing deeply but gradually more evenly, lying back down under the pressure of the nurse’s hand.

“Do you think you might like to try eating some gelatin this morning,” she asked, “now that you’re feeling better?”

“Yes…yes, that would be nice,” he replied after a moment, drawing in a heavy lungful of air.

“The doctor says we might try to get you outside in a wheelchair today. He thought you would enjoy the fresh air, and it’s been very warm and lovely out.” She proceeded to rearrange him, while attending to the morning duties of checking his temperature, blood pressure, and IV.

“Nurse,” came the voice from the bed after a moment or two, “what’s that I smell?”

“Oh, it’s the roses,” she replied. ”I brought them in last evening. After your talk yesterday, the doctor thought you would enjoy them.”

 

[TheExecuter]

Chapter 42

August 1961​

The warm sun within the enclosed grounds of the hospital courtyard was especially active this day, lifting from the earth the sweet aromas of the green grass that had been cut only yesterday. The doctor in charge of the case had wheeled the patient outside half an hour earlier, and after some brief dialogue had left him to enjoy the warmth alone. He was hopeful this day would signal a breakthrough. A few other wheelchaired patients sat nearby, two or three walked about with canes or crutches, and a bevy of nurses were scattered through the spacious garden to accommodate whatever needs any of them might have.

After some forty minutes, the doctor returned, greeted the patient again, then proceeded to wheel him gently about, being especially careful for the cast that hung over the end of the foot-rest.

“How are you feeling now that you’ve had the chance to breathe some genuine sunshine?” the doctor asked.

“I feel much better today,” said the man, voice soft but its normal timbre returning. “Now that I can open my eyes all the way and move my lips, I feel almost alive again.”

“Wonderful. The nurse says you ate some breakfast.”

“It tasted good…even if it was only gelatin.”

“You sound encouraged.”

“They tell me I should be grateful to be alive.”

“That’s not inaccurate. You had some pretty severe burns…explosive burns…and a tremendous concussion. That’s the source, I’m sure you are aware, of the temporary amnesia.”

“You say temporary, Doctor,” said the patient, with the first hint of something resembling humor the doctor had yet seen. “Do you use that word for my benefit, or do you truly think such to be the case?”

“Ninety-nine percent of the time it’s a matter of a few days, maybe a week or two, before memory filters back. However, the wound on the back of your head will probably keep you well supplied with headaches for six months…but yes, you are alive, and I think we should both be very thankful.”

“The better I feel, though, the more I hurt.”

The doctor laughed.

“That’s normal. The drugs wear off and your body begins coming to itself. Before long it starts to notice all those places where things are wrong. Pain, however, can be a hopeful sign of health. I don’t know what to say…you are going to have discomfort for a while…it’s part of the recovery process.”

The doctor led the way to the edge of the lawn. “We cultivate several varieties of roses,” he said casually, pointing the wheelchair toward the thorny bushes as he spoke. “Do, uh…do you have a favorite?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” replied the patient. “That’s a very pretty yellow one there…Come to think of it, it seems I am partial to yellow.”

“Here, let me pick one for you,” said the doctor, walking over and clipping a newly opened bud with about ten inches of stem. He handed it to the patient, who, with difficulty, lifted his hand to take hold of it.

“It’s called Peace,” the doctor continued, “one of the few yellow varieties with a strong perfumy fragrance…if it gets plenty of sunshine. It was hybridized in 1945 and named for the war’s end. It’s always been one of my favorites.”

The patient said nothing but sat staring at the perfectly formed flower in his lap as if trying to draw out of it some story it knew but was reluctant to divulge. As he sat in silence, an aide walked out of the hospital and approached, handing the doctor the two pages of a report that had just come to the hospital by special courier. He scanned it for several moments, then set it in the pouch at the back of the wheelchair and spoke.

“Tell me,” he said, “does the name Clarke mean anything to you?”

The patient continued thoughtful, though now with active involvement of crinkled eyebrows and forehead. “Something does stir inside me at the name,” he said after a minute, “though I can’t tell what. Do you have some information on whoever it is? Am I supposed to know him?”

“I don’t know,” answered the doctor. “I was hoping you might tell me.”

“Could you…perhaps they might come here…we could ask if they know who I am…how I got here.”

“We know how you got here,” said the doctor. “We’re just not sure what you were doing at the border station, or who the fellow was who got you there. They called us here at Marienfelde immediately, and we sent an ambulance out for you.”

“Hmm…,” mumbled the patient, slowly shaking his head. “I don’t remember a thing of what you’re talking about.”

“How could you? You were unconscious for the next three days. For the first two we weren’t sure you were going to live.”

“Who was it that took me to the border station?”

“We don’t know. Suddenly he appeared on foot, carrying you, yelled at the guards…ours, you understand; Americans, on our side…that they had to get you to a hospital. He set you down, then ran off, back into the GDR, and disappeared before anyone could ask him a single question…No recollection of how you got into his hands?”

The patient shook his head.

“They’d seen several explosions, of course, off across the way two or three hundred meters from the crossing. It undoubtedly had to do with that.”

“Explosions?”

The doctor nodded.

“From what?”

“Why don’t I tell you what I know this afternoon. I’m not anxious to tax that aching head of yours too much all at once.”

The doctor pulled back on the handles and eased the wheelchair around and away from the roses. With the yellow rose in his lap and the name Clarke filtering through his brain, he judged the poor man had plenty to occupy his thoughts for the present. He would show him the newspaper later.





It was half past three when the doctor again entered the patient’s room. He had had the chance to go over the file that had arrived that morning in detail and was pretty certain he would be able to guide their conversation into avenues where he hoped familiarity would be the result.

“Have you had any more luck with the name Clarke?” he asked as we walked in.

“None beyond the sense that it’s a name I know…or at least ought to know.”

“I’ve brought something for you to look at,” said the doctor, opening the file he held and removing a folded section of newspaper from several days earlier. He handed it to the patient lying in bed with leg elevated, then sat down beside him and waited.

As he glanced over the page, at first with casual detachment, a gradual heightening of interest began to appear over his facial characteristics. Before long he was reading every word, pausing every so often to scan, then rescan, the photograph and headline. As he did, his brain began to reel in a phantasm of frenetic half-recognition, even as words and phrases from out of the doctor’s own mouth echoed in his ear.

…Explosions…concussion…Clarke….two hundred meters from the crossing…unconscious…yellow rose…Clarke…rented car…

Suddenly his dream from the previous night came back to him…two figures running…trying to help…trying to escape…

The newspaper page began to grow hazy, its words and pictures blurring together, now spinning around in his mind. More words from the doctor’s voice bombarded him.

…Do you know German?...roses…Clarke…escape…Herr Rosen…fictitious name…explosions…escape…

Over and over came the words…escape…Clarke…roses…explosions…escape…Clarke…Clarke…

Suddenly the article before him sprang off the page with clarity of recognition. His eyes opened wide in stunned wakefulness, and his mind at last absorbed the scene as it was described by Der Abend: FIVE TO EIGHT KILLED IN FIERY BORDER CHASE. Underneath, a photograph showed wreckage of what was described as an official GDR helicopter attached to the Berlin headquarters of the Staatssicherheitsdienst, and a half exploded overturned white van, on whose charred upturned side could barely be read the words Bäkerei Meier.

With face pale, cold, and perspiring, slowly he pulled his gaze away from the paper and glanced over at the doctor. “It is as you suspected,” he said slowly, half shaking his head as if to shake all its scrambled pieces back into place. “Clarke is me…I remember now. I am Ian Clarke. I am an Englishman, and…yes, I was here,” he added, indicating the picture he held.

He turned back to the paper and again began to read, suddenly with keen and fearful attention to every detail. The report was dated August 6th, 1961:

In what appears to have been a dramatic but unsuccessful flight to the border of the American sector of West Berlin north of Heinersdorf, officials from the Staatssicherheitsdeienst of the GDR pursued an East German delivery truck to the border by helicopter. While American border guards looked on, the helicopter swooped low, discharging explosives from the air, forcing the van from the road, where it overturned, apparently hit, and caught fire. Only moments later, the helicopter, for reasons which are still unclear, also crashed to the ground.

The incident intensified growing tension between East and West, revealing the mounting desperation on the part of East Germans to find a way, whatever the danger, into West Berlin. Within the first five days of this month, nearly 10,000 East Berliners have fled their homes to take up new residence in the western sectors of the city. It appears the GDR, under orders from the Kremlin, is preparing to take stronger measures to stem this tide, the result of which seems certain from this incident to mean increased violence and bloodshed. Tensions continue between US President Kennedy and Soviet Premier Khrushchev, though neither the White House nor Tass has released a statement concerning this latest border incident.

Officials from the GDR have not made public full details of the crash and have sealed off the site, though aerial photographs for this paper were obtained. Investigations indicate that the pilot of the helicopter and his passenger, an unnamed official, were both killed. The number of passengers in the van has not been determined. Officials from the GDR report only that there were no survivors from the attempt. Estimates range from three to six deaths among the escapees in all, but no official reports have been released.

Whether the incident is isolated, or connected in some way with the events of an hour earlier at Teltow crossing, has also not been determined. Rumors are circulating concerning the unidentified body of a man at that location thought to have participated in an escape attempt at the GDR prison at Neustädt in Potsdam. Official reports indicate that the attempt was discovered and all the conspirators other than the dead man captured. Several bodies were reported delivered to the morgue at Potsdam late in the day, though their origin has not been made public. Links between the three incidents south of Berlin, if any, have not been ascertained at this time.

By the time the paper fell from Ian’s hand, his face was white and his body was trembling. So there had been danger at Teltow…Eloise had been right, though what difference did it make now? It would have been better to remain unremembering. I have awakened only to discover my whole world crumbling! He glanced away, closing his eyes, which were already filling with tears.

Sensing what he had uncovered, and that this was no time for further conversation, the doctor rose and quietly left the room.





The remainder of the afternoon of remembrance Ian spent alone. How the time passed he never knew. He lay in his bed as one dead, with only his memory kept alive, swimming in the deepest sorrow known to mankind…the loss of love. Thankfully, he slept well that night. He scarcely could have endured the silent lonely hours of blackness had the mercy of God not brought the gift of sleep to temporarily overwhelm his grief.

The next morning, the merciful grace remained near Ian. With first wakefulness, the streams of sunlight pouring down from the high window into his room reminded Ian that God was still in the heavens, that his love still shone upon the earth, and that rays of it still fell upon him as well. The revelation came in an instant and was followed the next second by the torturing reminder of his grief. Yet, though reason told him to mourn, still the rays of sun shone through the window as if compelling him to a deeper response…commanding remembrance of the Father’s faithfulness and goodness, in spite of appearances to the contrary.

The sunlight seemed to speak of life, not death. Perhaps this is God’s way of sending me a ray of hope, a message from on high not to give up. How do I know whether the reports are true? The communists are famous for doctoring the news to reflect their own propagandist purposes. I will investigate further the moment I am able! I have contacts, resources. I will get in touch with people I know in the Foreign Office. They will find out. I am certain I will find that Eloise is still alive! A wave of doubt and gloom suddenly swept away the momentary sunny optimism. Who am I trying to fool? I heard the explosion. It ripped the skin off half my own back. I was nearly killed!

With a shiver he relived the final moments he could remember. She was running toward him. She had been facing the blast. How could she possibly have survived it? There was her face, as always full of life…running…calling his name…fear now in her eyes as well, something he had never seen so clearly before. His mind filled with her beautiful face…running toward him.

Then suddenly the sound exploded in his memory. The face was gone. He was now on the ground, terrific pain everywhere. He lifted his head to glance about, to find the face of loveliness again, but the only thing that met his gaze was the still body lying there. He could not see her face, for it had fallen to the earth and now lay unmoving…then the darkness.

There are no pretenses about strength to worry about now. She is dead. Her father must be dead too. What else matters? What will ever matter again?

Minutes passed. The storm within his soul vented itself, then slowly quieted by degrees. As if prompted by his thoughts, suddenly words from Heinrich von Lebens’ mouth tumbled back upon him from out of the past: “He wants us to call him Father. He wants us to go to him so he can wrap his arms around us and speak to us tenderly and lovingly as his children…God is a good Father, anxious to give that goodness to his creatures.”

Eloise had drawn comfort from her father’s faith during the long years of his imprisonment. Surely he could follow her own example. With almost a desperation of the will, he forced his tears to stop. Heinrich’s words brought Ian’s own experience of ten years before to mind. He knew about those arms of the Father’s love. He had felt them.

Oh, Lord…I’m sorry to have forgotten. You are good, you are love…I know it. Help me! I am so weak, and the pain of this moment is so severe. Keep my eyes upon you, otherwise I do not think I can bear it! Wrap your arms about me once again. I need you so badly…

Words of scripture came to him: It is to your advantage that I go away…I still have many things to tell you, but you can’t bear them now. However, when the Spirit of Truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own initiative but will say only what he hears. He will also announce to you the events of the future. He will glorify me, because he will receive from what is mine and announce it to you. Everything the Father has is mine…

Quickly they were followed with more of what Eloise’s father had told him: “God really is just what the Bible says of him…he is love…People cannot bring themselves to believe that the Father really is good.”

God, Ian prayed, help me to believe in your goodness…even now. Help me…please…help me. Do not let me be as your faithless children who believe in your goodness only when it is showered upon them. Help me to know you are a good and loving Father, even when… He could not bring himself to utter the words. Again, the image of Eloise’s motionless form lying on the ground filled his brain. He could pray no more but fell into another disconsolate agony of weeping.

Though he felt them not in his bodily frame, the loving arms of the Father, in answer to his prayer, enfolded themselves more tightly about him. Within ten minutes he slept again, comforted in the dreamless care of the one who loved him and Eloise and Heinrich more by a millionfold, in life or death, than the combined earthly love the three shared for one another.

 

[TheExecuter]

Chapter 43

August 1961​

An hour later, Ian’s light slumber was awakened by the sound of the door to his room opening. Two men entered, one wearing a white robe, the other an expensive suit.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Clarke?” asked the doctor in German.

“Actually, now that I think of it, pretty well,” answered Ian, attempting to sit up halfway in his bed.

“You slept well?”

“Yes…yes, I did.”

“After our conversation yesterday,” the doctor went on, “I immediately notified your people. I knew they must be concerned. Mr. Clatchen has come by this morning to see you.”

“How are you, Clarke?” said the other man, stepping forward and offering his hand, which Ian shook with some awkwardness. “Robert Clatchen, MI6…we met briefly a few weeks back.”

“Right,” said Ian, his face suddenly showing recognition. “Sorry, my brain’s a little foggy. But why MI6…how are you people involved?”

The doctor interrupted, offered the visitor the one chair that was in the small room, then excused himself. Clatchen sat down. The two men spoke in English.

“We got wind of the doctor’s call to the Foreign Office,” he said. “After the talk you and I had earlier, I had the feeling there might be more to the story than you would want to tell anyone but me. Am I correct in assuming you were involved at the helicopter incident at the border?”

“I thought you told me before you didn’t want to know anything.”

“That was then. Things are heating up fast. I don’t suppose you heard Khrushchev’s speech yesterday?”

Ian shook his head.

“I quote, ‘We shall not be the first to press the buttons at our rocket installations, we shall not start a war. But if the imperialists force a war upon us, we shall meet it bravely and deal a devastating blow to the aggressor.’”

Ian let out a low whistle.

“I tell you, every day now there is open talk of war. People are pouring out of East Berlin. Khrushchev is mad as hell and is rattling his sabers. Kennedy is calling up reservists and even we are beefing up our military presence here in Berlin. Things are more tense than ever. The Foreign Office is anxious to get you back. The Foreign Secretary was notified several days ago that you were missing, and of course he was very concerned. I had already been alerted through the Circus to get on your tail. You’re a hot commodity right now, given the situation. You can see why I need to know what you’ve been up to.”

“The, uh…the foreign secretary did not announce my resignation?” asked Ian.

“No, why? Did you resign?”

“Not exactly. Let’s just say I made that an option if my affiliation with the government became untenable.”

Clatchen nodded with interest. “No, you’re still on the team as far as I know. So…you were going to tell me what you were doing?”

“Well, I’ll tell you that I was at the border…when was it, five, or is it six days ago? That’s where this happened to me.”

“What was it all about?”

“For your security, and for the Prime Minister’s sake, I don’t think I ought to say more right now,” replied Ian. “You’re right, things are hot, and I don’t want to give Khrushchev any more ammunition than he already has to start something.”

The agent smiled. “I’ve been in this game long enough to know when it’s useless to try to coerce information out of someone, so I won’t press it,” he said. “You may be right. Everything these days has wide ramifications. Given your relationship to our government and your connection to this incident…it’s important that we get you out of here.”

“Out of the hospital…I’m glad to hear that!”

“Out of Berlin altogether. There are spies everywhere, and if the KGB knew of your involvement in this escape incident, whatever it was, Khrushchev could throw mud all over our face with it. Does anyone here know?”

Ian realized his error. “Yes,” he said with a nod, “I’m afraid I told the doctor. I wasn’t thinking too clearly when I first regained consciousness.”

“All the more reason why we’ve got to get you moved. There could be GDR plants right in this hospital. The Stasi has people everywhere, even here in the West.”

“But I can’t leave Berlin,” said Ian, suddenly realizing what it would mean to do so.

“Why not?”

“I’ve…there are some things I’ve got to find out first,” hesitated Ian.

“You’re in no condition to find out anything, believe me.”

“Then maybe you can find out for me.”

“I’ll do what I can. We’ve got to move you anyway.”

“Where…back to England?”

“No, the Foreign Secretary wants you to remain in Germany. The Americans have a small debriefing center and medical facility down near the base at Garmisch.”

“Bavaria?”

“Yep, a compound of several chalets up in the mountains. Nice relaxing place. You’ll be able to recover there and ease your way back into things…away from the prying eyes of Berlin… From the information I have, the Foreign Secretary wants you where he can communicate with you more freely.”

“How long am I going to be laid up, did the doctor tell you?” asked Ian.

“Could be several months. Your back and shoulders got singed up pretty bad, besides your leg and the wound in your head.”

“Months. I haven’t got months to sit around!”

“You may be celebrating Christmas in the Alps.”

“I can’t leave until I find out if the report in the paper about the explosions is accurate!”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Do you trust Communist news?”

“I take your point, Clarke. What is it specifically you want to know?”

“If…if the deaths they reported…” Ian stopped and glanced away, suddenly overcome again with the emotion of the memory. “I need to know,” Ian went on after a moment, with a soft and tentative voice, “if the deaths reported have been confirmed. In particular, there was…” Ian struggled to continue, “there was mention made…of a woman.”

“I understand,” said Clatchen. “I will put some people on it this afternoon. Buddy Green ought to be able to get to the bottom of it from his end. In any event, we’ll plan to transport you out of here in two or three days.”

“If I’m going to be isolated for as long as you say, I’d like to get some things from the hotel.”

“Not to worry, Clarke. We sealed off your room days ago, the instant you turned up missing. Standard procedure, you understand. Everything will be packed up and shipped down to Garmisch.”

“Everything? There’s a little china box…full of rose leaves. It’s especially important.”

"Where is it?”

“On the nightstand next to the bed.”

“No problem.”

“And a sealed manilla packet in the drawer right underneath it.”

“Every scrap will be packed.”

“My books…”

"Everything, Clarke. You’ll feel right at home.”





The next day, August 13th, shortly after 11:00 AM, Clatchen again walked into Ian’s room at the hospital, this time alone. His face appeared as though he hadn’t slept all night, which was not far from the truth. Nearly everyone employed in any official capacity of significance by one of the four occupying governments or the Federal Republic of Germany, had been up since two hours after midnight. Before he had a chance to speak, and without even a word of greeting, Ian’s voice met his ear from the bed.

“Did you find out?” he said anxiously.

The look of strain on Clatchen’s face increased as he slowly eased into the empty chair beside the bed. “I’m sorry, Clarke,” he said. “I wish I had good news for you. But I’m afraid Buddy Green confirms that from all he can tell the report is true.”

“All of it?” said Ian in disbelief.

Clatchen nodded. “No survivors…that’s what Buddy said, I’m sorry.” A heavy silence fell in the small room.

“I don’t believe it,” said Ian after a moment. “I won’t believe it…it can’t be true!”

The agent said nothing. Psychology was not his strong suit. If he’d known the man was going to react like this, he’d have let someone else be the bearer of the hard news. MI6 was a tough game, and he was an action man. He was used to death and used to men who knew how to handle it. Grief and emotions made him uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” he repeated awkwardly.

“I’ll go to the site myself!” said Ian. “As soon as I can walk. I’ll scour the place. I’ll find out what really happened. I’ll…”

“You’re not going anyplace, Clarke,” said Clatchen, his voice carrying an odd tone of resignation.

“I will!” returned Ian, almost ranting now. “I’ve used crutches before. No broken leg will keep me down for long!”

“Clarke!” broke in Clatchen, with a firm voice now. “Pull yourself together. You work for the British crown. We need you thinking clearly. You’ve got to put this behind you. You knew the risks when you signed on…we all do.”

“I knew of no risks like this,” snapped Ian. “I’m no spy like the rest of you. I have no intention of accepting it so casually.”

“You’ve got to accept it. Whoever these people are, whatever they meant to you…they’re dead. You understand…dead.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“There’s nothing you can do for them now, Clarke. You’ve got to face reality. Life goes on. You’ve got to move forward.” He’d used this same speech, or a variation of it, a dozen times before on his new Circus recruits at their first initiation to death, more often than not either that of an innocent victim or one of their own colleagues. It was an appeal that usually worked.

“I’ll go there myself,” Ian said. “Not you, not even Harold Macmillan can stop me! I’ll find out what really happened, I’ll find them, I tell you, I’ll…”

“Clarke!” interrupted Clatchen sternly. “You’re not going anyplace, do you hear me?! It’s not your broken leg, it’s not me, it’s not even the Queen who will stop you. You can’t get across that border…not now. Everything’s changed. That’s what I came to tell you. Look at that.” He rose and tossed the half-folded front page of that morning’s extra edition of Der Abend on the bed. “Khrushchev has finally made his move,” he added.

In huge bold letters of red, Ian read the stunning headline: GDR SEALS BORDER, WIRE BARRICADE BISECTS BERLIN

“I…I don’t understand,” said Ian. “Are you telling me they’ve cut off the East from the West?”

“Right down the middle of the city,” answered Clatchen. “Two days ago…we found out only this morning…the GDR issued a declaration calling for what they termed ‘effective control around the whole territory of West Berlin.’ Yesterday a decree specified that from now on special permits would be required for all East German citizens who wanted to cross into West Berlin. Security would be increased along all the borders between the FRG and the GDR, and no agents of Western governments would be allowed into either East Berlin or the GDR without careful scrutiny. Then last night, at 2:00 AM, they brought in troops, sealed off the border, and began stringing barbed wire.”

“I still don’t see how that affects me,” said Ian.

“Don’t you understand, Clarke? They’ve positioned troops along all the borders. Already they’ve begun erecting concrete blocks. They’re putting up a wall to keep people from crossing back and forth…a wall, do you hear me, through the heart of the city. West Berlin has become an island.”

“I don’t care about getting into East Berlin,” said Ian, then paused. “At least not yet, anyway…not until I see if she’s…”

“You couldn’t get into the GDR now if you tried, either. We’re cut off. Security is tight at every border crossing around the other sections of West Berlin too, like where you were brought, as I understand it. There are troops everywhere. It’s dangerous.”

“I’ll break in,” said Ian, still failing to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened during the night.

“Right now, if you tried something like that, you’d start a war.”

“I’ll be careful. I’m not going to kill somebody, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You couldn’t penetrate one of the border stations without a tank, Clarke. You’d have to kill a dozen Communist soldiers to get through. The border guards have orders to kill. There have been a couple of incidents of gunfire already.”

“I’ll find some other way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t even walk. Besides the barricade itself, we’re closer to war than ever. Troops throughout Europe are on alert.”

Slowly Ian began to digest the implications of what Clatchen said. He turned again to the paper and now read over a portion of the front-page article more carefully. The only thought upon which his brain could focus was Eloise’s laughing face, carefree and happy such a short while ago, moving with freedom back and forth from her apartment to West Berlin.

Why didn’t I insist she leave East Berlin? It would have been so easy then. We could be living happily in West Berlin…right now. If only…if only I hadn’t… Why was I so impulsive? What a fool I was, trying to break Heinrich out of prison! I am no spy, no confidence man. I was in over my head from the very beginning. It was probably that fox Schlaukopf who turned us in. How could I have been so naïve as to think I could pull off something that daring?

Eloise’s voice came back to him…that sweet, musical voice so full of life! “It’s just not time for me to come to the West yet.”

Why did I listen to her? There were other possibilities we could have explored…other options for Eloise and I…other options for her father. Now…it is too late! Too late for everything…

How long he lay there, staring blankly at the newspaper, his eyes in a tearless blur of apathy and dull shock, reliving the last joyous weeks with Eloise that had suddenly become so bitter to recall, Ian couldn’t have known. When he next came to himself and glanced up with uncaring expression, Clatchen had gone. He had never seen him rise and had not heard the door close behind him.

The room was silent.

He tried to call Eloise’s face to mind, but as in his dream, suddenly he could not bring her features into view. He tried to remember her voice, but its sound also had faded. It was silent. Still he stared dumbly into the thick and oppressive air so void of life.

A voice sounded somewhere in his memory, reviving him. There was no one else in the room. Yet the voice brought unwelcome words that crashed back and forth against the empty walls within his skull. The words that jarred his brain were not from Eloise’s light, melodic voice, but rather echoed somberly in the deep and passionless timbre of the MI6 agent who had brought him such evil tidings.

Whoever these people are, Clarke…they’re dead. You understand…dead.

Ian slowly lay back on his pillow, then turned to bury his face in its softness, weeping in the quiet, lonely anguish of loss.

 

[son of liberty]

Damn, I am supposed to be looking for a fan to nominate in my place but; what do I find???? An active HOI2 AAR. You know that I am going to have to read this too. This is what happens when I leave my little corner lol.

 

[TheExecuter]

Damn, I am supposed to be looking for a fan to nominate in my place but; what do I find???? An active HOI2 AAR. You know that I am going to have to read this too. This is what happens when I leave my little corner lol.

It's very active too.

Please, feel free to comment on any of the posts at any time. I would love to hear what you think as you experience it.

 

[son of liberty]

It's very active too.

Please, feel free to comment on any of the posts at any time. I would love to hear what you think as you experience it.

I will but I am only 33% through warm fires by @Rensslaer once I finish that, I will certainly read this one. I did find a good candidate though, so one objective complete lol

 

[TheExecuter]

Chapter 44

September 1961​

Ian had been at the chalet Sudersdorf near Garmisch in southern Germany five weeks. Still he had not found the courage to open the last remaining box that had been crated up from his hotel room. It was labeled Books; Other Personal Effects. He knew the moment he did so, memories would flood him that he would be unable to control.

The peacefulness of the place and the idyllic alpine setting did not halt a great deal of activity, busy routine, and a steady traffic of important individuals in and out. A helicopter pad saw daily use ferrying patients, doctors, advisers, and psychologists up and down the mountain between the chalets and the American military base at Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Some came for merely a day or two’s debriefing from hot spots of America’s involvement all around the world. Others with medical needs, remained longer, occasionally, as in Ian’s case, for extended periods of time. No one came, however, who wasn’t important to the Allies in some unique way. This was no mere hospital setting. The CIA had as many operatives on the premises as there were doctors and nurses. Everything here rated a ‘top secret’ security classification.

Ian had had his own share of visitors, from both the Foreign Office, keeping him abreast of diplomatic developments, and MI6 and the CIA, who as time passed and the danger of an adverse Communist reaction lessened, eventually learned the whole story of the escape attempt in which some of them had been tangentially involved. Further investigation, at Ian’s insistence, revealed nothing more than what had been divulged by Buddy Green’s original report…no evidence had been unearthed conflicting with the GDR’s version of the incident. There had also been two communications from the Foreign Secretary, wishing him well and encouraging him back into full diplomatic action, the latter telling him that he had destroyed the letter of resignation.

The Berlin wall was now the world’s most glaring reality, spanning in its grey ugliness the entire border of the American, British, and French sectors of the city. Three Red Army divisions had been deployed, surrounding and sealing off the entirety of West Berlin. Kennedy had responded by ordering the American garrison in Berlin increased. Several battlegroups were sent in from bases in other parts of West Germany and France. The British had even managed to scrape a token reinforcement from their already overstretched forces to increase their garrison.

On August 22nd, the GDR reduced the crossing stations between East and West Berlin for foreigners to only one, known as Checkpoint Charlie, and for Germans to six. The next day charges were issued by the Kremlin stating that the air corridors between West Germany and the GDR were being used illegally. The US, on the 24th responded with a “solemn warning…that any interference…with free access to West Berlin would be an aggressive act for the consequences of which the Soviet government would bear full responsibility.” The next day Kennedy announced the appointment of General Lucius Clay, hero of the 1948-49 Berlin airlift, as his personal representative in Berlin.

At the end of August, the Kremlin raised the stakes again when Khrushchev announced a series of fifty and hundred megaton hydrogen bomb tests. His words were clear: “In order to discourage the aggressor from criminally playing with fire, it is necessary to make sure that he knows and sees that there is a force in the world which is ready to give an armed rebuff to his aggression.” The Americans ordered more than seventy-five thousand reservists to report for active duty by October 1. War seemed closer than ever.

As time passed, Ian’s despondency gave way to a cheerless resignation. In the midst of his prayers and his desperate attempts to come to terms with the reality of his personal tragedy, the words of Robert Clatchen continued to pound his brain with the practicality for which MI6 was known: You work for the crown. We need you thinking clearly. You’ve got to put this behind you. You knew the risks…You’ve got to accept it. Whoever these people are…they’re dead. You understand…dead. There’s nothing you can do for them now, Clarke. You’ve got to face reality. Life goes on. You’ve got to move forward.”

How many times had he silently cursed Clatchen’s unfeeling, callous words? Yet, as the weeks passed and the air grew gradually crisp with the high-altitude harbingers of the approaching winter, he grew to thank God for the pragmatism. How else could he climb out of the rut of this emotional quagmire but by heeding the bracing words? They were stinging to the soul in the same way as the sharp breezes that blew down occasionally from the high altitudes above. Sometimes that is what I need. Clatchen is right. What choice is there but to go on…to put it behind me…to move forward? The words were not pleasant when I first heard them, but I must admit now…they offer good, sound advice.

As much as he was attempting to heed Clatchen’s words and get his professional and diplomatic life back on track, there remained, however, a substantial piece of unfinished emotional business he yet had to deal with. The time for it had not been right. He hadn’t been ready. But he could sense the moment approaching. When it came he was going to have to squarely face what had happened…all of it, from start to finish. He would not be able to put it behind him until he could, in a sense, relive it, come to terms with it, give it over to God, and then close those chapters in his life…forever. Some of the reminiscences would be happy, others would be painful, all would be poignant and bittersweet. But to find the healing his soul required, he knew he was going to have to allow God’s spirit access to those most private places within himself, so that the restorative touch of the Father’s hand could bring wholeness and finality to the memories of his past.

On the 25th September, word came that a hundred meter zone on the GDR side of the wall had begun to be cleared in order to decrease the attempts to cross over into the West, some of them dangerous and spectacular, which had continued all month. People were being removed, apartment buildings and houses were being destroyed, and still more guard towers were being built. The news reminded Ian of Eloise’s small home. It should be safe, he thought. It is far enough away from the border. What has become of it? What has become of her possessions…of the dress I bought her for the ball?

More memories began to come, though he still didn’t know if he was ready for them. How glad he was that she had turned over to him the little china box they had bought to keep their roses in. He had wondered at the time why she had given it to him to take to his hotel. Had she possessed some premonition of what was going to happen? He was thankful for it now, though he had not looked at it since…since that terrible day.

Ian glanced up toward the mountains and drew in a deep breath of the tangy autumn air. The first snows of the season had blown in last week, giving a fresh coat of white to the peaks that towered high to the south. Most of what had fallen here had melted, though some yet lingered amongst the trees. Winter is coming. He found himself looking forward to it. I need a change. The cold and rain and snow will make it easier to forget the happy times Eloise and I shared through the balmy summer.

Again he drew in a deep breath. Maybe the time had come. He was prepared to remember. He signaled one of the attendants nearby that he was ready to be wheeled back to his room. He would open the final case. There were some books he had been wanting anyway.

They had taken the cast off his leg three days ago, though he was still confined to a wheelchair. They wanted to watch it for a few days before determining whether to recast it below the knee or to allow him to begin using crutches without a cast. Likewise, most of the largest bandages were gone from his shoulders, though the wound on the back of his head and smaller dressings on his back still had to be changed and repacked every several days.

Back in his room, Ian asked the attendant to wait. He wheeled himself to the closet, where a cardboard box sat on the floor. The tape with which it had been sealed was already cut, but it had not yet been opened. Ian asked the attendant to carry it out for him and set it next to his table. The man did so. Ian now folded back the two lids and began emptying the contents onto the table. When he came to the items he had been looking for, he picked them up carefully, then asked to be taken back outside to the large deck at the rear of the chalet overlooking the fields and hillsides to the southwest.

“It’s rather nippy out, Mr. Clarke. Wouldn’t you like a coat or something?”

“I suppose you’re right,” answered Ian. “Hand me that sweater there in the closet, would you…the red one.”

The man got it and brought it to him.

“Just drape it around my shoulders for me…good, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

They left the room and moved down the corridor, into the large central dining room, and through it outside onto the deck.

“Do you suppose you could get me into that rocking chair by the record player over there?” said Ian.

“You’re not supposed to put any weight on that leg, Mr. Clarke.”

“Just lift me out of this wheelchair, and I’ll sit there as composed as a baby.”

The attendant agreed and got another of the staff to assist him, and in another minute or two Ian was comfortably seated in the plain oak rocker, moving gently back and forth, gazing out over the peaceful Bavarian landscape.

He drew in a deep breath. At last the moment had come. He glanced down at the china box he held, almost as if beneath its lid were contained the very memories he had been reluctant to uncover.

Slowly he lifted the lid. Inside his eyes fell upon the dozens of dried, flaky rose petals he and Eloise had put inside it together. Every one was a memory all its own. He lifted it to his nose. The fragrance seemed to cast a spell of weariness upon him. He set the box back down in his lap and replaced the lid. His head hung down upon his chest, and even his arms seemed to lose their life, though his fingers continued across the top of the lid. His legs, too, felt numb, though with an invisible toe or two he managed to keep the runners of the chair creaking in motion across the floor. The aroma within the china box had intoxicated him with heaviness, as if in anticipation of the task his mind and heart had ahead of them.

He grew oblivious to all the sights and sounds around him…the movement within the chalet, the bells around the thick grey necks of the cows scattered about the hillside, tinkling out their strangely harmonious melodies. He did not hear their sounds, but he felt their influences. Everything now reminded him, in its own way, of the sights and sounds of her face and voice, of letters and discussions they had exchanged, and of roses given and roses received with the one he loved but would never see again.

Eloise…Eloise…, he thought. It was so rich a time…Never had I imagined it was possible to feel such happiness.

Again he opened the small box, fiddling through the dried contents. Could he even distinguish any of the roses from the others? Two small buds still retained their shape in the midst of the potpourri. Their color had faded, but he knew both roses well…the yellow one he had given Eloise that day at Lebenshaus so many years ago, and the pink one of only three months before. The thought of the latter was nearly more than his heart could stand. The words they had spoken suddenly came to mind as fresh as if it were yesterday.

“I want this pink rose always to remind you of today. I promise you that nothing will come between us ever…I will never let something like that happen again…I promise, Eloise…This pink rose will join the yellow as the first of many…not memories of times past, but reminding us of happy moments of now.”

“I will believe you,” he could still hear her say.

But he had let it happen. He had let her down. He had broken the promise of the pink rose.

O God…why?

How hard it was not to revert to former ways of thinking. He thought he had faced trials as a Christian in years past. But it took every atom of belief he had to hang onto his assurance of God’s goodness now. He had never imagined that a crisis of faith could bring on doubts of such magnitude. These last five weeks he had had to rethink and struggle through every aspect of a belief that he thought was secure long ago. There were times he had come within a hairbreadth of saying to himself, “I can’t believe anymore…to believe is too painful!”

He had tried to hold on, desperately at times, for her sake even more than for his own. What did his life matter now? He knew what she would say. Whenever he thought of her, or heard her voice, the image was of smiles, and he found her telling him, “Ian, it will all work for good. We can trust our Father! Don’t you remember what my father taught us both…that God is good…”

So he had clung by a slender thread to his belief. To give it up would be to relinquish what they had shared together…and that he would never lose sight of. It was all he had left…her memory. The sound of her voice in his ear…the musical ringing of her laughter…images of her face, her smile, and her legs… And these two buds and a few dried leaves in the container they had bought together in that shop in Berlin…that she had given him for safekeeping…almost as if she had known what was about to befall her.

Ian glanced down at the record sleeves that were wedged between his leg and the chair arm. Even these records, as treasured as had been the moments they had shared listening to them, now seemed lifeless and old, the once bright coverings now scratched and faded. He could no more keep himself from the bittersweet nostalgia than he could bring her back. Though the sounds seared his heart like a hot iron, it was the memory…of her.

He raised one record from his lap, and leaning over the side table, placed it on the turntable. Slowly, he started the mechanism and sank back into the chair.

…Pop…snap…pop…hiss…

Spoiler: Click to Play the Music While you Read

Behold,
I tell you a mystery
We shall not all sleep,
But we shall all be changed
In a moment
In a twinkling of an eye
At the last trumpet

He had listened a hundred times before that fateful day six weeks ago; and he would do so a hundred times again. For in the music were many secrets, and his was the only heart that knew them. He placed the sleeve back in his lap, a lonely tear now falling from his eye, and, continuing to rock, let his mind drift back many years to the first day he had seen the beautiful face of the one with whom he had discovered the mystery of love.

He could still hear the music of the party he had attended in Danzig with Major Rychagov. The sounds were as fresh as yesterday, especially the moment he had first seen Baron von Lebens approaching, Eloise on his arm, to introduce them to his lovely, happy, beautiful, lively daughter…

Spoiler: Click to Play the Music While you Read

The trumpet shall sound!
And the dead shall be raised…
And the dead shall be raised incorruptible.

The trumpet shall sound!
And the dead shall be raised…
Be raised incorruptible.
Be raised incorruptible.

And we shall be changed…and we shall be changed.





How long he was lost in his reflections, Ian didn’t know. Judging from the late afternoon chill, it must have been two or three hours. Coming to himself, he realized how tired he had become. Recalling her face, her words, her smiles…it was his only pleasure, yet his deepest agony. Memory of her face was all he had to live for, and the one thing he would fain forget.

The recollection was unfinished. But on this day, even thoughts of happiness were fatiguing. He lifted the china box once more to his nose and drew in another tired breath from the melancholy fragrance of the dried petals, then set it again on his lap. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the oak rocker. I will remember more another time.

In a few moments he was fast asleep.

 

[TheExecuter]

Chapter 45

October 1961​

By the third week of October, most of the burns were substantially healed, although further surgeries would be required to replace some of the scar tissue. Ian was walking well enough to feel comfortable, though for a time would continue to use a cane. The wound in the back of his head from the explosion, about which the doctors had been more concerned than any of the rest was healed to the point where they at last felt comfortable releasing him. Ian had taken on those aspects of his job that could be handled by courier and telephone. Plans were now being made to transfer him from the facility at Sudersdorf into a situation where he could resume as many of his former duties as possible.

Ian was reluctant, however, to return to Berlin. I need more time, he thought, before my emotional equilibrium will be entirely back to normal. The city still holds too many memories. The scars are too fresh. I can’t go back…not quite yet.

Shrewd judge of men that he was, Alec Douglas-Home, sensed his troubleshooter was not up to par from the moment Ian answered his call. It was not their first conversation during the latter’s convalescence, but as they discussed the Berlin crisis, with an eye to Ian’s resuming his full role as the Foreign Office’s specialist in the ongoing discussions, the Foreign Secretary knew he was still not at his best. He hung up the phone, thought a moment or two, then picked up the phone again. It is the best way, he thought, possibly the only way to get Ian all the way up to the present, to the point where he can go forward with his life…

It was three days later when Ian himself learned the results of that second call. He was sitting in his room quietly absorbing a phrase from a devotional book. The words he had just read and was struggling to find meaning for in his present dilemma were these:

God’s means cannot be so great as his ends. God is our Father, but we are not yet his children. Because we are not yet his children, we must become his sons and daughters. Nothing else will satisfy him, or us, until we become one with our Father. There are good things God must delay giving. God must first make his child fit to receive and fit to have.

Ian was conversing inwardly with his God according to the following train of thought: What, Father, is the ‘end’ here that you have for me? The means are more than painful. Are you attempting to make me fit to receive some good thing? What good thing? I do want to be fully your son…but sometimes I wonder if I can go on…alone. Make me a son, Father…help me…

The sound of the door opening intruded into his brain. He glanced up at his visitor. A blank stare was all the expression his face revealed. The world of his prayer and the world of his surroundings for an instant could not be intermingled. He could not bring the identification apparent to his eyes into a recognition of heart and brain. An instant more he stared immobile, knowing but unknowing…unbelieving that what he seemed to see could be other than a figment of an overexcited imagination. A sound met his ears…a voice he knew.

“Ian…” The spell was broken.

“Ed!” cried Ian, incredulous. He was on his feet, the book flying from his lap onto the floor. The next moment the two men were joyfully embracing.

Standing back after a long and silent embrace, tearful but unashamed, Ian laughed. “It is really you! But what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to take you out of this place,” replied Ed, also laughing.

“What!”

“No fooling…that’s why I’ve come.”

“But…when did you arrive? Oh, but…here…sit down,” he added.

“Flew into Munich late yesterday, spent the night there. Drove down here this morning…and here I am…an all expense paid trip to Sudersdorf, compliments of the Foreign Office.”

“The Foreign Office!” exclaimed Ian. “Now I really don’t understand! I just spoke with Alec three days ago and he said nothing. Is something up in Scotland, of all places, that they have to bring you here for debriefing?”

“No,” laughed Ed. “Nothing so dramatic as that. You are the reason I’m here.”

“You said the Foreign Office…”

Ed paused and grew more serious. “The Foreign Secretary telephoned Bishop Walsh the moment he hung up after talking with you three days ago. Francis called me immediately.”

“What about?”

“He’s concerned about you, Ian.”

“I’m fine…look, no cast, no crutches, just a cane. My skull’s almost back in one piece. Why, they’re processing my release even as we speak!”

“We know all that. It’s not your physical condition the Foreign Secretary and I talked about. He wants you back on his first team, as he put it, but can tell you’re still not altogether yourself.”

At last Ian understood.

“So he sent you over to talk to me, to help me put the past behind me, to make me forget?” sighed Ian. Then added with an ironic chuckle, “My friend, the psychiatrist.”

“Nothing so specific. Just to visit, to be with you, to help you get back into a normal living situation. Maybe to talk about everything in a more personal way than we have been able to in letters.”

Ian was silent. He had tried to be chipper when talking to the Foreign Secretary. He should have known Alec would see through it. “I suppose I ought to be grateful,” he said finally. “he could have just relieved me of my duties altogether.”

“He didn’t want to do that. He called you his top man in Berlin and he wants you, like I said, on the first team. Things are still hot and changing week to week. He wants you focused and at your best, not distracted.”

“I know…and he’s right,” sighed Ian. “I’m not going to do him any good moping around. It’s hard…I’ve never faced anything like it.”

“I understand, Ian,” replied Ed. “I lost Rachel, remember?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Ed. I guess you have been through it too.” The room was quiet for several seconds.

Ed looked over at his friend with great feeling. “I want you to know how sorry I am, Ian. Eloise was someone special. I know what she meant to you. Someone like that only comes along once in a lifetime. I’m just very, very sorry.”

“Thanks, Ed. The memories haven’t gotten to the point yet where I can look back and enjoy them. But I’ll live through it, and hopefully that time will come eventually.”

“It will. My memories of Rachel are all fond ones now, after the pain of the loss has had a chance to fade a little into the years. I still miss her, of course. But there’s a certain feeling of ‘togetherness,’ if you can call it that, that comes later…after the anguish…which brings a pleasantness to the memories. I’m sure that time will come for you one day.”

Ian nodded.

“The thought of Eloise’s face will make you cry for a year, maybe two. But there will come a moment, someday, when all of a sudden her smile and the sound of her laughter will break in upon your brain, and you’ll find yourself laughing too…smiling with her again. The moment will be nostalgic, not painful. She will begin to be alive to you again, alive in your memory. It’s a transition that will come, believe me, though it can never be rushed. The pain that must be endured before such a time is part of the growth process too.”

Ian quietly absorbed his friend’s words. “Thank you, Ed,” he said after some time. “I’ll look forward to that day. In the meantime, you keep praying for me…I need it!”

“I always do…several times every day.”

Again it was silent for a moment.

“But…guess what!” said Ed all at once. “I haven’t told you the best part of my visit yet. The bishop has relieved me of my duties in Scotland.”

“Huh?”

“That’s right.”

“But…what? Are you retiring…? Did you get fired?”

Ed laughed. “Neither. I’ve been offered a new post, which I accepted on the spot.”

“Where?”

“Right here!”

“You keep throwing me surprise after surprise,” laughed Ian. “Do you expect me to have the slightest idea what you’re talking about?”

“I’ve been appointed your assistant.”

“No…really!” exclaimed Ian.

“I packed my bags that same day. Of course I had to take a fifty percent salary cut. I’m no longer a priest, only an assistant to a special envoy. But I jumped at it.”

“That’s fantastic!”

“Actually, if you want to know the whole truth of it, I asked for the salary cut. The Foreign Secretary offered to pay me at the same level.”

“Asked for it…why?”

“Because I didn’t want to feel I had to be working every minute. I’m starting to write my history of the war, you know, and the older I get the more time I feel I need to devote to it.”

“So what will your duties be here?” asked Ian, still dumbfounded by the turn of events.

“Whatever you tell me to do,” answered Ed with a laugh. “How do you like that? When you were younger, you liked to obey me. Now the tables are reversed, and I want to obey you!”

Ian joined him in laughter. “That’s it?” he said.

“Honestly, they just told me to give you all the moral support I could, and to help you in this crisis thing however you thought I might. Then they told me to spend the rest of my time writing.”

“Will, uh…will we be going to Berlin?” asked Ian, feeling a heaviness of spirit even as he asked it.

“Oh, that’s another thing I forgot to tell you about,” said Ed, “That’s the best part!”

“What?”

“Arrangements have been made for us to stay right here.”

“Right where…not here at the chalet?”

“No, here in Bavaria.”

“For how long…I’m not sure I get what you mean.”

“Indefinitely. We’re going to carry out our work from here, not Berlin. With the wall up, things seem to be at a standstill right now. The Russians have their tanks and guard towers and soldiers everywhere, but the Foreign Office says it has relaxed from the day-to-day tension of the summer. It’s now week-to-week tension. We’ll be able to do what they need from us just as well from here in the Federal Republic as in Berlin, with a trip into the city every so often. Actually, they say, from here on out we may have more business in Bonn, Paris, and London than in Berlin.”

“That is a relief, I’ve got to tell you,” said Ian. “I wasn’t looking forward to the city life.”

“Not to worry. Our ever efficient Foreign Office has already rented a house for us.”

“Where?”

“Not far from here…up near Oberammergau.”

“That’s great. I can’t believe it!”

“We’ll be out in the country, the Alps visible on a clear day, but only five or six kilometers from Oberau and the autobahn straight into Munich. Eighty-five kilometers from the airport…an hour or less.”

“Sounds perfect. When do we go?”

“I haven’t even seen the place yet, but my things are supposed to be arriving today. As far as I’m concerned, we can blow this CIA/MI6 scene anytime.”

“Then let’s be off!” said Ian, rising. “At least we can go have a look…it can’t be more than twenty or thirty minutes from here, once we get down into Garmisch. You have a car?”

“Compliments of Her Majesty’s Government…”

“They do seem to think of everything, don’t they?!”