Rift Zone Page 4

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Our GDR is a clean state.

  —HONECKER

  INVALIDENSTRASSE BORDER CROSSING, BERLIN

  TUESDAY, APRIL 18, 1989

  You are now leaving the British Sector.

  The Royal Army soldier on duty in the guard shack read the Daily Mirror, oblivious to the kidnapping taking place during his watch. The Mercedes rolled past the Allied checkpoint into the Soviet sector and then serpentined through concrete barriers. Crossing into the East was like moving into a black and white movie. The bright colors of the West yielded to shades of gray and time seemed to shift backwards thirty years.

  Faith pulled out her passport.

  “Not necessary.” The man with the goatee waved his hand.

  “Last time I checked, you guys considered an American in East Berlin without an entry visa to be a capitalist spy,” Faith said. “Gorbachev is bringing about a lot of—”

  “Times are changing, but not here.”

  “Then for old time’s sake, get me the proper visa.” Her voice betrayed her unease.

  “Don’t worry, Frau Doktor. Everything’s in order. Tonight you’re a guest of the German Democratic Republic.”

  Faith hoped the GDR treated its guests well.

  The driver handed the customs official four green West Berlin identity cards. He held out a five-mark piece and opened it, flashing a secret Stasi service badge. The guard returned the papers without peering into the car. She guessed the border routine was for anyone watching, but doubted the British soldier had exchanged his tabloid for a pair of binoculars.

  The car approached the customs area, now out of sight of the Western guardpost. An official wheeled an angled mirror under a waiting car. The Mercedes driver pulled ahead of the others, again showed his service badge, and the customs official waved them through.

  “Who are you, anyway?” Faith said.

  “You can call me Schmidt.”

  She told herself it was Schmidt’s poor choice in cologne that was making her queasy, but she knew otherwise. All her life she had dreaded this day. She knew she couldn’t freelance forever, skirting union rules; the Cold War was a closed shop and it was time to pay the dues. So it was going to be the East Germans. They weren’t a bad bunch to run errands for; the Stasi was efficient, professional and many considered it the best in the business. Not that the competition was fierce, save from the Czechs and Soviets. She could have done worse; she comforted herself as they drove through the last barrier. The bizarre blood rituals vowing allegiance to Ceausescu put the Romanian Securitate in the realm of the mystics rather than intelligence. The Bulgarians had proven they couldn’t pluck the pope out of a crowd—even with his funky hat. And the Poles—one word: Solidarity.

  But the Stasi didn’t have Faith Whitney—not yet.

  In the People’s Own Cabaret, the black and gold compass-and-sickle state symbol of the GDR seemed to have been sewn onto the faded red stage curtain as an afterthought. Dressed in their Sunday best, middle-aged couples crowded around an arc of tables, each decorated with a solid plastic vase with a wilting carnation. A sign on an easel welcomed the MfS brigade to the cabaret; Faith was taken aback that the Stasi was so flagrant, but she assumed even repressive organizations had their own internal social functions. She rolled the admission ticket into a tiny cone, the cheap paper disintegrating in her sweaty hands.

  Schmidt ushered her to a reserved table occupied by a plump woman in her late fifties.

  “Where have you been? I had to finish dinner by myself. You missed the entire first half,” the woman said.

  “I think you’d like a drink at the bar now,” Schmidt said.

  “But you promised me the evening—”

  “The bar. Now.” Schmidt pointed to a bar that could have been a remnant from the original Star Trek set. Shiny chrome tubes connected a dozen spherical light fixtures with colored bulbs blinking in sequence. The woman gathered her purse and stomped away. Faith smiled with amusement, but stopped as soon as Schmidt glared at her. He summoned the waiter and ordered vodka for Faith and tonic water for himself. The waiter turned with military precision and left.

  “You’ll like cucumber after the vodka. Russian style,” Schmidt said.

  “I didn’t think the Russians were in vogue around here anymore.”

  “There are always exceptions.”

  Faith looked her host over and tried to figure out who he was. He appeared to be someone who had once been in peak physical condition, but had since been softened by fatty German cuisine and a desk job. He was probably a former athlete, but something about him made her doubt he had ever played team sports.

  “What does the Stasi want with me?” Faith said.

  “Don’t insult us with that Western designation. We’re the Ministry for State Security—MfS.”

  “No offense intended. What does the MfS want with me?”

  “Enjoy yourself tonight. The People’s Own Cabaret is a special treat.”

  “I’m honored. But don’t you think you’ve gone to too much trouble? Wouldn’t a simple phone call and coffee and kuchen at the Grand Hotel have been easier?” She didn’t want to admit it, but part of her relished the extravagance.

  “From what I’ve read about you, you seem to like the world of cloak-and-dagger, but can’t quite figure out how to get into the game. I understand you tried to enlist with the CIA once.”

  “Before I decided what to do with my life, I had a weak moment when I almost forgot my heritage of neutrality. And they didn’t want me because of my mother and her escapades.”

  “That’s what they told you? Their own records say your own extensive ties in the East made you too great a security risk.”

  “I liked it better when I could blame my mother.”

  The waiter arrived with their drinks. Faith threw back the shot of vodka in a single gulp and bit into the cucumber. The vodka sent a warm wave through her body, but she didn’t dare relax. “I’m assuming you know what you’re doing meeting me in public like this. I prefer it not to get around town I’ve ever spoken with you.”

  “Let’s say I have a special working relationship with the management and the guests. Think of this place as a little Switzerland in downtown Berlin.”

  “A clean place for dirty business,” Faith said. “Switzerland always gives me the willies.”

  “What would Europe be without Switzerland?”

  “Flatter.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would be.” Schmidt sipped his tonic water. “Suffice it to say, you’ve impressed some people. We’ve watched you for a long time. Some of us watched you grow up. As a matter of fact, as a young lieutenant, I used to be the case officer for your family.”

  “I didn’t know we had a case manager.”

  “Case officer. You have your mother’s radiant eyes, you know.”

  For a moment, Faith thought she saw his face soften. “Did you know my father?”

  He nodded. Schmidt had her full attention and he seemed to know it. He paused for a painfully long time and then said, “A brilliant man.”

  “I never knew him. Do you know how he died? All she’d ever tell me was that he was following his calling when Jesus took him away from us.”

  “I can’t help you.” He motioned to the waiter for another round. “Back to the business at hand. We know what you’re moving right now, but we have yet to ascertain how you’re doing it. Impressive. My boys thought they had you nailed several times.”

  From the stage, the microphone squeaked as a small man with the stiff gestures of a marionette slurred his words. “Meine Damen und Herren. My ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome back the loveliest girls in our republic.” The crowd clapped on command and a piano player’s tired fingers tapped a staccato rendition of “Tea for Two.” A buxom woman with legs covered by fishnet stockings pranced onto the stage twirling a cane, the tails of her tuxedo jacket flapping behind her. Her glittery red top hat emphasized high rouge-smeared cheekbones.


  “You’ve done some impressive jobs. The KGB has yet to figure out how you moved that kidney for the Circassian millionaire from his brother in Abkhazia to Vienna in time for a successful transplant.”

  “There is a short window for transplants, isn’t there? But who said that was my work?” Faith smiled, proud of her accomplishments. “And it was Kabardino-Balkaria. An extraction from Abkhazia would be something for amateurs—it’s a straight shot across the Black Sea to Turkey. Not quite like crossing the Caucasus.”

  “You’re considered among the best in your line of work,” Schmidt said, ignoring the spectacle onstage.

  “Should I be flattered?” She was, but she wanted more and she wanted to know the extent of the Stasi’s knowledge of her dealings.

  “Very well. You have a choice. You can assist us with a special project or you will never live or work or even think about traveling in this country again. Let’s say it wouldn’t be a safe place.”

  “No offense, but a lot of people live quite happily without the GDR.” Faith glanced at the stage. A trombone belched “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” while a chorus line of drag queens kicked their way into the Stasi’s icy heart.

  “I said in this country. I picked you up in West Berlin tonight, didn’t I? You know, you could easily have gone into the boot of the car.”

  She looked into his eyes and knew he meant it. A chill raced through her body. The game was over and she was entering into the unknown.

  He removed a cigarette case engraved with a rifle and flag commemorating twenty years of the Ministry for State Security. “Cigarette?”

  “I hate smoke.”

  Schmidt lit his cigarette anyway. “We’ll provide you with the necessary details on a need-to-know basis. This is neither the time nor the place.”

  “I’m not working for the Stasi.” Faith pushed herself back from the table and stood. “It’s been interesting, Herr Schmidt. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

  He took a long drag from the cigarette and paused to hold the fumes in his lungs. He looked at her as if appraising the market value of her soul. “Need I remind you, you are in the GDR without a visa? You are aware of what we do with imperialist spies. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “You’re making a scene. Sit.” Schmidt smashed his cigarette into the ashtray. He stared at Faith.

  She sat.

  Outside, Herr Schmidt held the Mercedes’ door open for Faith, leaving Frau Schmidt standing in the drizzle. “After you.”

  “I need a ride to West Berlin.” Her voice was flat.

  “Not possible. Most of the border crossings are closed, anyway.”

  “But some are open. You can rouse someone to open the others. And I suspect it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve dragged someone out of bed in the middle of the night.” And then made them disappear.

  “I can take you anywhere you’d like here in democratic Berlin. I understand you keep your own safe houses.”

  “Obviously not anymore. And they’re for storage.”

  “Agree to work for me and I can arrange for you to get back to the West tonight. You can even have the multiple-entry visa.”

  “Fuck you,” she said in English. She turned and walked away, pulling her silk jacket tightly around her.

  “You have my card. Call me in the morning with your decision. You know, Frau Doktor, I almost think you could get to the West on your own. But remember . . .” Schmidt’s voice faded into the night.

  Her jacket was useless against the heavy mist that seeped through her clothes. The colder she became, the less certain she was she had made the wiser choice.

  The Mercedes pulled up beside her and paced her. She turned her head toward a shop window and hastened her tread. Heavy footsteps approached from behind as the mist thickened into rain.

  “At least take my umbrella.” Schmidt trotted alongside, getting drenched as he held his umbrella over her head. “Frau Doktor, it’s one in the morning and I’m off work. Feier Abend. No more recruiting you tonight. Let me drive you home—to the flat in the Voigtstrasse. The rain’s cold and our streets aren’t as safe as they should be.”

  Faith slowed her gait and paused for a moment, looking straight ahead. “That’s decent of you.”

  The blackened façade of her East Berlin flat was a leper, slowly shedding essential body parts. She had never imagined sleeping here even one night; the apartment was intended as a secret warehouse. She hesitated before walking in, but then decided the day the Stasi had cornered her would be an appropriate one for the balcony to crash down upon her—most everything else had.

  Peeling plaster and a few broken ceramic tile fragments desperately clung to the walls of the front corridor. Many had already been pried off and found their way to West Berlin flea markets. Faith hurried through the first building and into the courtyard, where a few blades of grass struggled up through the broken concrete. She recalled how, during the day, the wings of the building eclipsed the right side of the house, condemning all but the top floors to perpetual shadows.

  Her flat was one of the damned.

  For a moment she wondered if she could outlast Schmidt, living as his hostage in the dark apartment, waiting for him to issue her an exit visa or escort her to the West. She entered her wing of the building and punched the glowing light switch with her elbow. The stairs creaked, threatening to drop her into the coal bin. She wiggled the flimsy aluminum key in the lock to her flat and dared it to bend. The lights went out. She grappled for the automatic timer, and grime embedded itself deep under her fingernails. If the last try didn’t succeed, she would sprint down the road after Schmidt. The lock turned, but still she wanted to run after him. Stockholm syndrome so soon?

  Years of cabbage soup had been steamed into the wallpaper. Her wet shoes nearly froze to the apartment’s icy floor. When she had first struck the bargain with Dieter to sublease his studio apartment while he was away in Mongolia, she had been excited about the place’s quaint tiled coal oven as a memorial to simpler days. Now she wished the coal bucket were sitting in a museum instead of her new bedroom. At the time she had ignored most of Dieter’s meticulous instructions because a warehouse didn’t require heat. Now his warning that the room would fill with black soot if she turned the damper the wrong direction haunted her.

  Why didn’t she just go along with Schmidt? She could be at home in West Berlin right now, eating cold leftovers. Her desperate stomach growled as she unwrapped the electric space heater that was her rental payment for the flat. She plugged it in. A burlap curtain partitioned off the closet where Dieter had squeezed in a mattress, converting it into his sleeping hutch. Unable to bring herself to stick her head inside, she shoved the heater’s cardboard box into his chamber.

  The tarnished mirror above the washbasin swallowed her reflection. How could Dieter live here without an indoor toilet, bathtub or shower? Who was she fooling? Outlast Schmidt? She’d never last a week bathing herself in a miniature basin like a condor in a birdbath.

  The cold reached deeper and deeper into her body as she sat on the scratchy couch. Everything in this state was as stale as the air in the apartment. What did she need commie crap for anyway? There had to be a better way to make a living. Just as easily gone into the boot of the car?

  Faith walked into the dark stairwell and felt her way down a half-flight of stairs to the communal water closet. Sitting on the toilet, she couldn’t concentrate enough to read the cartoons about bodily functions plastered on the walls. A few moments later, she yanked on the chain, but the commode didn’t stop running. The odor of overheated wiring wafted through the air. She rushed back into the apartment, jerked the heater’s plug from the wall and crept back down to the toilet. With one last tug, the water stopped.

  She returned to the apartment. She had been a conscripted pawn in the Cold War with her mother for far too long to enlist on one side or the other. Her life was about beating the system, not becoming a part of it. Boot o
f the car? The walls came nearer and nearer until the dank wallpaper stuck to her skin. She cocooned herself in a musty sheet, put her arm over her eyes and fell into a restless sleep.

  In the morning, Faith stared at Alexanderplatz. A concrete tower skewering a colossal silver ball sprouted from the surreal landscape and a metal clock also defied the cobblestone desert. Although it displayed the time in Addis Ababa, Hanoi and Ulan Bator, the exact minute on Venus or on Alpha Centuri seemed more fitting here, less than a kilometer east of the Berlin Wall. Faith usually adored how East Germany managed to embody all of the tawdry grandiosity of old low-budget sci-fi movies. Today she’d give anything for stale popcorn and Scotty to beam her up out of this hellhole.

  After a frustrating hour scrounging for breakfast, she resigned herself to queuing up for limp fries. Rancid grease coated the crisp spring air as she edged forward in line. When it was her turn, she bounced an aluminum coin across the counter. She stood at an outdoor table and tried not to think about the fries she was force-feeding herself.

  Everything around her was gray—the high-rises, people’s clothes, the sky—as if color had been banished as another capitalist decadence. She would never let herself blend in. Not in the East. Not in the West. She needed them both. She couldn’t outlast Schmidt. She could probably get herself to West Berlin in the diplomatic immunity of the Nigerians’ trunk, but she couldn’t spend her life running from the Stasi. They had her trapped. They knew it. She knew it. The paprika-coated fries slid down her throat while the low Berlin sky pressed down upon her.

  After throwing away half the potatoes, Faith called Schmidt to discuss the terms of her surrender. She followed his directions to a Stasi safe house in the old working-class district of Prenzlauer Berg. The door was ajar and the smell of bacon hung in the air. Before she could knock, Schmidt met her and directed her to the kitchen.