Checkpoint Charlie

“Yes. I know. Adds a bit of spice to the challenge, doesn’t it.” And he smiled more broadly than ever.

*   *   *

EMIL STOSSEL had cut his eyeteeth on Abwehr duplicity and he’d run a string of successful agents in the United States for the Eastern bloc intelligence services. The FBI hadn’t been able to crack him and I’d been assigned to him about twelve years ago before we all got dumped into a fishbowl where we were no longer permitted to do that sort of thing domestically. It took time and patience but in the end we were ready to go in after him. His HQ was in Arlington not far from the Pentagon — Stossel had nerve and a sense of humor.

The actual bust was an FBI caper and as usual they muffed it. Stossel got away long enough to barricade himself in the nearby high school and before it was finished he’d killed several of his teen-age hostages. It had led to five life sentences, to be served consecutively, and even the Red diplomats had been wise enough not to put up more than token objection. But Stossel remained one of the cleverist operatives the DDR had ever fielded. He was an embarrassment to them but they wouldn’t mind having him back; he could be of use to them: They’d use his skills. He’d soon be directing clandestine operations again for them, I had no doubt of it; they’d keep him out of sight but they’d use him and we’d feel the results before long. It was another excellent reason to get him back.

Stossel’s callous a

Of course that wouldn’t do.

*   *   *

I MANAGED TO ARRIVE at Tempelhof ahead of him by arranging for his plane to undergo a refueling delay at Gatwick. It gave me time for a brief meeting at Tempelhof with an American Air Force colonel (Intelligence) who was dubious about cooperating until I put him on a scrambler line to Washington. The colonel grunted into the phone, stiffened to attention, said, “Yes, sir,” and cradled the receiver with awe. Then he gave me the item I’d requested.

I’d had time on the plane, between meals and extra meals, to work out something approximating a plan. It is what distinguishes me from the computer lads: flexibility, preparedness, the ability to improvise quickly and precisely — ingenuity guided by experience. It’s why I am the best.

The plan had to account for a number of factors such as, for example, the undesirability of my having to set foot physically on their side of the Wall. Much better if I could pull off the caper with long strings, manipulating my puppets from afar. Also there was the fact that Stossel undoubtedly would have several days’ grace inside East Germany before the hijackers released their hostages and the Quito caper came to its conclusion; it would give Stossel time to bury himself far beyond my reach and I had to counter that effect with preparations designed to bring him to the surface at the end of the going-to-ground period.

The scheme was, I must admit, one of the cleverest of my long, devious and successful career.

*   *   *

I WAITED FOR Stossel in a private cubicle at the airport — somebody’s office; it was well furnished, the appointments complete right down to a thoroughly stocked bar and an adjoining full bath. Through the double-paned windows was a soundproofed view of the busy runways.

Two armed plainclothes guards brought him into the room and examined my credentials carefully before they retreated to the far side of the room and left me to talk with him. We spoke in German.

I said, “You remember me.”

“Yes. I remember you.” He’d had twelve years in prison to think about me and there was a great deal of hate in his voice.

“I was doing my job,” I said, “just as you were doing yours.” I wanted to soften him up a bit and Stossel’s German soul would understand the common concept of duty: he was, above all else, a co-professional. I was leaning on that.

I said, “I’ve got another job now. My orders are to make sure you get across to your own country in safety. You’ve still got enemies here.”

It made him smile a bit at the irony of it and I was pleased because it was the reaction I needed from him. I went around behind the bar. “A drink? It’ll be a little while before our transportation arrives. We want the streets empty when we drive you through West Berlin.”

He looked dubious. I poured myself a bourbon and stepped away from the bar. “Help yourself,” I said offhandedly, and wandered toward the windows.

A Viscount was landing, puffs of smoke as the wheels touched. In the reflection of the glass I saw him make his choice. He poured himself two fingers of Polish vodka from a bottle that had a stalk of grass in it; he brought the drink around toward me and I turned to face him. “Prosit.” I elevated my glass in toast, and drank. “What’s it feel like to be going home?”

“It feels good. Doubly good because it must a

I said, “Did you ever find out what led me to you in Arlington in the first place?”

“Does it matter?”

“It was a trivial error.”

“Humans make them.”

“Yes. But I have the feeling you’ll make the same mistake again — the same weakness will trip you up next time.” I smiled. “In fact I’m sure of it.”

“Would you care to bet on it, Dark?”

“Sure.”

“How much, then?”

“Your freedom,” I said.

He was amused. “We’ll never meet again, unless it’s in an East German prison — you inside, me outside.”

“I’ll take the bet, Stossel.” I turned to watch the Viscount taxi toward the terminal. “I’d like you to memorize a telephone number. It’s here in the Western sector.”

“What for?”

“You may want to get in touch with me.” I gave him the number: I repeated it three times and knew he wouldn’t forget it — he had an excellent memory for numbers.

He laughed. “I can’t conceive of —”

The phone rang, interrupting him. I went to the bar to answer it. Listened, spoke, then turned to Stossel. “The car’s here.”

“I’m ready.”

“Then let’s go.”

*   *   *

I STOOD ON the safe side of Checkpoint Charlie with my hatbrim down and my collar up against the fine night drizzle and watched the big Opel slide through the barriers. The Wall loomed grotesquely. Stossel emerged from the car at the DDR booth and I saw him shake hands with the raincoated delegation of East German officials. They were minor functionaries, police types, Vopos in the background in their uniforms; near me stood an American TV crew with a portable camera, filming the scene for tomorrow’s news. It was all bleak and foreign-intriguish; I hoped they were using black-and-white. The East Germans bundled Stossel into a dark Zis limousine and when it disappeared I walked back to Davidson’s Volkswagen and squeezed into the passenger seat.

Davidson put it in gear. “Where to?”

“Bristol Kempinski.”

On the way to the hotel he tried to pump me about my plans. Davidson is the chief of the Berlin station; Myerson hadn’t had any choice but to brief him on my mission because there’d have been a flap otherwise —jurisdictional jealousies are rampant in the Company and never more ferocious than on the ultra-active stations like Berlin. Myerson had been forced to reveal my mission to Davidson, if only to reassure him that I wasn’t horning in on any of his own works-in-progress. But he knew none of the tactical details and he was seething to find out. I had to fend him off without putting his nose too far out of joint. I didn’t enjoy it; I’m no good at it — I’m an accomplished liar but that sort of diplomatic deceit is not quite lying and I lack the patience for it. In any case I was tired from the long flight and from the adrenalin that had shot through me during the crucial stage of the set up. If it had gone wrong at that moment…. But it hadn’t and I was still on course and ru