Freedom Bridge: A Cold War Thriller (12 page)

Chapter 27

O
n their way back to the hotel, Kurt Brenner turned to his wife and reminded her about a pre-dinner cocktail party being held in their honor on the 38th floor. “We should both make an appearance,” he told her.

“I guess,” Adrienne Brenner said without enthusiasm. “But we’d better make it an early dinner. We have that field trip tomorrow, remember?”

“Field trip?” he responded with a touch of annoyance.

She shrugged. “Your host, Chancellor Malik, apparently thinks you could use a day off before the medical proceedings begin on Monday. We’re going for an outing to the ancient town of Waren on Lake Mueritzsee.”

As the four of them rode up in the hotel elevator, Galya said a silent prayer, pasted a smile on her face, and well before the elevator got to her floor said, “Dr. Brenner, in your rooms this champagne that I taste, I like very much. There is nearly a whole bottle left. Do you mind I have a little before I make ready for early dinner tonight?”

“Not at all.” He handed her his key. “You’re welcome to the whole bottle. Just be sure to leave the key on the bed and the door unlocked when you leave.”

Ignoring the question in Kiril’s eyes, Galya rushed to the Brenner suite as soon as the elevator let her off.

Her hand shook with anticipation—so much so that she had trouble unlocking the door.

* * *

Adrienne had been uncomfortably aware of her cape all day long to the point where she’d taken to carrying it. But still people stared, even in the “
better”
part of town. She felt their eyes on her suit. Her jewelry. Her leather shoulder-bag. Sensing that it wasn’t envy, she put the question to Dr. Andreyev on the way to the cocktail party.

“It’s two things,” he explained. “Fear, and a touch of resentment. Western clothes stand out because of their rich fabrics and stylish lines. And there’s no mistaking the fit—so perfect it couldn’t possibly be some hand-me-down from an aunt or an older sister.”

“I can understand the resentment,” she said, “but fear?”

“In East Germany, clothes like yours are the trademark of the privileged—Party people, their friends, their mistresses. It’s no different in the Soviet Union.”

Adrienne sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in no mood for cocktails and finger food. See you at dinner?”

He grinned. “You can’t avoid me. We’re at the same table.”

Adrienne stepped into the elevator. When she got to the suite, the door slid open at her touch. Good. Galya had remembered to leave it unlocked.

She stepped inside—and stopped short in the foyer.

A black dress lay like an abandoned dust-rag on the bedroom floor. Her own clothes were spread out on the bed . . . all except a cream-colored gown. Galya was a vision of loveliness, the gown spilling in an unbroken line from its high virginal neckline to the floor. As she swept about the room, she was graceful elegance in motion—head held high, shoulders straight, arms slightly apart.

It’s as if Galya doesn’t quite know whether to hold in the wonder of what she’s feeling, or let it take wing
.

The beginnings of a smile pulled irresistibly at the comers of Galya’s mouth. Her eyes had the luminous look of unshed tears. Gliding to a halt in front of a long mirror, she said to an imaginary figure, “Tell me, kind sir, is green gown which is best you like?
This
one, I think, is the most wonderful. The color is—how you say in America? This one is most sympathetic to
me
.”

“It really is,” Adrienne said softly, coming into the sitting room, stopping just short of the bedroom door.

Galya whirled around, fumbling frantically with the clasp at the back of her neck.

“Please don’t be embarrassed,” Adrienne said. “With your coloring and your blonde hair, the gown suits you perfectly. Would you allow me to give it to you?”

“You are too much generous,” Galya said in a voice dipped in starch. “Are all American ladies so generous as you? But I have no need for such a generosity. Quite soon I am having money to buy beautiful gown same like this one.”

Galya meant to close the bedroom door quietly.

She ended up slamming it. Her expression changed as rapidly as she changed her clothes—from embarrassment and envy to something darker.

Chapter 28

A
t 8:00 the next morning, the Brenners, Galya, Kiril, and Luka Rogov met for breakfast in the hotel dining room.

“If this is supposed to be a day off, why did we have to get up so early?” Brenner complained.

“Not to worry,” Kiril reassured him. “Chancellor Malik chose well for your outing. I’ve read up on Waren—a charming town on Lake Muritzsee.” He took some notes from his pocket. “There are references to the town by an ancient geographer named Claudius as early as 150 A.D. In the centuries that followed, the town was devastated by fires and suffered greatly during the Thirty Years’ War from 1618 to 1648. But in the eighteenth century, canal and railway building created economic growth, and in 1925 electricity came to Waren, followed four years later by a Roman Catholic church.”

His tone changed. “In 1931 the Nazis were the largest party in the November elections. The following year they took over some political and administrative positions.”

He saw that Adrienne Brenner, who’d been politely attentive, was now paying close attention. Since her husband didn’t seem the least bit interested, and Galya, eyes closed, had tuned out, Kiril focused only on Adrienne. “During the fascist era,” he continued, “the Nazis followed a familiar pattern. Waren’s Jews were persecuted, then expelled, and ultimately murdered. The Jewish population in the middle 1800s was roughly 150 men, women, and children. By mid-1938—even before deportations had begun in earnest—there were nine. By the end of that year, the Jewish cemetery had been desecrated and destroyed. In 1942, even the nine were gone.”

Adrienne restrained a shudder. She could picture only too well what Dr. Andreyev was describing.

“I take it that Chancellor Malik would be offended if I begged off this jaunt to Lake Muritzsee,” Kurt Brenner interjected.

“Apparently so,” Kiril said. “But the lake is especially beautiful this time of year, the weather is warm enough for boating and swimming, and the ancient town buzzes with activity. Lake Muritz is the second-largest lake in the GDR—the only one that fits entirely within its own borders.”

“Let’s get on with it then,” Brenner said, thinking that the sooner they left, the sooner they’d get back. “We’ll meet out front at the limo after we collect our stuff.”

“Let’s meet in the lobby,” Kiril suggested. “In about twenty minutes?”

Twenty minutes later, the Brenners stepped out of the elevator carrying large American beach bags. Galya had a Soviet version that Aleksei had provided, but smaller and less full. Kiril swung over his shoulder a mesh shopping bag he’d picked up at some flea market in Moscow. Luka Rogov wore his military uniform and carried nothing.

Except a 7.62 Nagant
revolver
.

“Follow me,” Kiril said, and led them to one of the elevators.

“We can’t get to the beach in an elevator,” Brenner said caustically.

“You’ll see,” Kiril grinned as he pushed the button for the top floor.

The elevator had more than adequate space for five adults, yet Dr. Brenner seemed agitated—but why? Kiril wondered. Brenner had begun to perspire the moment the doors closed.

“Where the hell are we going, Dr. Andreyev?”

“To the roof,” he told Brenner. “We’ll be flying to the lake in a helicopter,” he announced with a touch of pride just as they reached the top floor.

The elevator doors opened. Chivalry aside, Kiril thought drily, Dr. Brenner was the first one out.

“Look,” Brenner said with a show of calm as they climbed the stairs to the roof, “I can’t do this. I’m still jet-lagged. There’s no way I can sit for hours in a chopper.”

“Not hours. Waren and Lake Muritzsee are roughly 60 miles from Berlin.”

“Which means the limousine could have us there in what, an hour?”

“Actually, I suggested that. But Chancellor Malik was very keen that Herr Doctor Professor Brenner see the town and the entire panorama of Lake Muritzsee from the air.”

Brenner got the message.

A Soviet helicopter was parked on the roof. The main body stood about ten feet high, its length roughly twelve feet. The bottom half of the body was painted orange, the top blue.

Adrienne stifled a laugh. The paint job made her think of a swollen sausage.

Above the body of the vehicle sat the flight deck, also orange. Orange paint ran from behind the front of the body toward the aircraft’s rear and continued for another twenty feet where the three-blade tail rotor rested. The four-blade main rotor was attached to the roof of the flight deck, with four large front and side windows.

Brenner took one look at the helicopter’s size and almost recoiled in fright. Approaching two men in flight suits who stood next to the aircraft, he walked up to the pilots and asked in German, “Is this your airplane?” The pilots looked at each other, confused. The one with the most gold braid on his shoulder—the captain?—cracked a smile.

“No. It is the property of the People of the German Democratic Republic.”

Terrific
.

Brenner suppressed the urge to ask if the
People’s
property was safe.

As Kiril approached, the East German Air Force officer said, “Captain Rolf Gruner at your service, and you must be Dr. Kiril Andreyev.”

“I am.” They shook hands.

The captain introduced his co-pilot, a lieutenant.

“Our orders are to put ourselves and this aircraft at your disposal from now until sunset when, I was told, you have a dinner appointment with Chancellor Dmitri Malik,” the captain said. “I’m responsible for flying this bird,” he continued, “but as to anything else, I take my orders from you. May I ask who are the other members of your party?”

“Yes, of course. Honored guests of the DDR, Dr. and Mrs. Kurt Brenner. Galina Barkova, my assistant.” Then, nodding at Luka, Kiril added, “This man is with me.”

Both pilots understood immediately.

While Gruner did a last-minute walk-around check of the aircraft, Kiril, noticing Brenner’s discomfort, turned to his wife. “If your husband thinks East German helicopters are inferior or in some way unsafe compared to American ones,” he said, “I’d be happy to reassure him.”

“It’s not that,” Adrienne said, smiling. “Kurt is claustrophobic. This helicopter
is
pretty narrow. Haven’t you noticed how my husband practically breaks into a cold sweat whenever we step into an elevator? And the elevators here are spacious compared to the ones in Paris. They’re not only tight, but maddeningly slow.”

“Why don’t I ask the co-pilot to show us around, explain how the helicopter works?” Kiril suggested. “That way I can translate our plush accommodations into English for you and Galya.”

“Thanks. I’d like that,” Adrienne said.

Kiril returned with the co-pilot in tow.

“This is a model MI-4 helicopter, manufactured in the Soviet Union since 1953. NATO’s name for it is
Hound
,” said the co-pilot. “When used by the military, it can carry a dozen or more soldiers and much equipment. This version, an MI-4-
L
, means the interior was remodeled to carry—how do you say?—VIPs. And
that
means it takes up to six adults, comfortably seated in the lower body of the aircraft. As you can see, three large windows on each side of the aircraft provide every passenger with an unobstructed view. The cabin, entered through a door on the left side of the aircraft is heated and sound-proofed. There is a toilet in the rear.”

The co-pilot warmed to his subject.

“Depending on altitude and load, we can cruise at 140 miles per hour. Today our flying time should be just less than an hour to the lake, then however long Dr. Andreyev needs us to fly around looking at the sights. The weather promises to be cooperative. The engine is 1,675 horsepower—more than adequate. And now,” he announced with a trace of formality, “we must board.”

Captain Gruner was already on the flight deck. His co-pilot escorted the party to the open door on the left side of the aircraft. “Ladies?” he said, motioning first to
“honored guest” Adrienne Brenner.

Looking inside, Adrienne saw a row of three airline-type seats facing the rear of the aircraft, their backs against a wall beyond which was probably the engine and, above it, the flight deck. In front of the seats was an aisle as wide as the plane itself and about five feet deep. Facing the three seats were another two, with an empty space the size of one of the chairs. The East Germans had removed one of the usual six seats since there were to be only five passengers.

Very impressive.

Adrienne climbed up a short ladder and took the farthest seat in the row of three. Galya followed Adrienne in and sat next to her. Brenner took the seat opposite his wife in the row of two. When Kiril took the seat next to Galya, she flashed him a look of excitement. Luka Rogov heaved himself into the remaining seat opposite Kiril.

Leaning into the cabin, the co-pilot called out, “Dr. Andreyev, should you want to talk to the flight deck, use that wall phone on your left. You will hear us through the speaker above your head.”

As the co-pilot slammed the door, Kurt Brenner broke out in a cold sweat.

* * *

The helicopter ascended from the hotel roof as if pulled by a huge magnet, its five passengers silent as they waited for the aircraft’s blades to lift it into the air. After a few minutes of vertical flight, the co-pilot’s voice came through the speaker. “We have reached the altitude for horizontal flight over Waren and Lake Muritz. You will be able to see much on the ground. Please enjoy the view.”

Silently cursing the absence of seatbelts, Brenner gripped the armrests on both sides of his seat.

Luka Rogov leaned toward Kiril and asked in Russian, “How long we up?”

Despite the cabin being sound-proofed, Kiril had difficulty hearing him and asked Rogov to repeat his question. Kiril looked at his watch. “About an hour.”

As the helicopter flew north, Adrienne and Kiril took advantage of the large windows in the VIP aircraft to watch the landscape unfolding below . . . cultivated farmland and flat country with few high hills . . . lush green meadows studded with trees and dotted with small lakes.

The voice that came through the speaker this time was the pilot’s. “Ladies and gentlemen, in a few minutes we will resume vertical flight, slow our descent considerably, hover for a moment, and ease onto the ground.”

When Gruner climbed down from the flight deck, he announced that they were now in the Muritz National Park, only a few miles from town.  “You will be picked up momentarily by a gentleman named Herr Dieter Gelb,” he told them.

Gelb was probably
Stasi
—Ministry of State Security, Kiril thought.

As if on cue, a ZIS-110 appeared.

The lanky man in civilian clothes and pointy leather boots who stepped out had a thin-lipped mouth and the feral look of a shark. He shook Kiril’s hand, then said in English: “Doctor Andreyev, I am Herr Dieter Gelb.” Delivering what sounded like a scripted statement, Gelb said he’d been asked by Chancellor Malik to escort them in Waren Town. He had taken the liberty of arranging an itinerary. “Unless you have objections?”

There were no objections.

“It is precisely 11:18 A.M. For the next three hours—until 2:15 P.M., that is—I will be your host,” Gelb said with an appreciative glance at the two women. “Promptly at 2:30 P.M., you will enjoy lunch on the terrace at the Hotel zum Storchen, after which you will be taken to the town beach for ninety minutes. Chancellor Malik has provided swimming attire for those of you who may lack it. Except for Sergeant Rogov, of course, who will remain in uniform.”

“Of course.” Kiril didn’t bother to fill Rogov in. It would never have occurred to his “shadow” to exchange his military tunic for a bathing suit.

“At 4:15 P.M.,” Herr Gelb continued, “I will collect you at the beach, return you here, and your helicopter pilots will have you back at your hotel between 5:00 P.M. and 5:15 P.M., when you may prepare for your dinner with the Chancellor.”

Their first stop was at two churches built in the fourteenth century. What followed proved to be a fascinating sightseeing tour—but only to Kiril and Adrienne Brenner, apparently. As they walked through a fifteenth century old town hall, followed by an eighteenth century fire station and a nineteenth century new town hall, Kiril had to admit that Gelb was a fount of information. Kiril and Adrienne flanked him as they walked cobblestone streets, asking historical and cultural questions that their guide answered knowledgeably and with alacrity.

Allowed to take photographs for a change, Adrienne used what she thought of as her boxy, pain-in-the-butt camera.

Galya, looking bored, and Brenner, long-suffering, trudged behind them. Luka stoically brought up the rear.

They passed monuments to the victims of fascism. To World War II refugees. To Communist resistance fighters.

As promised, promptly at 2:30 P.M., Herr Gelb had the six of them seated on the terrace of the Hotel zum Storchen for a sumptuous lunch. Kiril ordered for Luka. The time passed quickly. Kurt Brenner had again withdrawn into himself. Galya ate up a storm, though she was no match for Luka Rogov. Adrienne Brenner took some notes.

Somehow the conversation turned to World War II. Kiril knew that several thousand Russian prisoners of war, as well as men and women from German-occupied countries, had been turned into forced laborers in a local armaments factory. He knew also that in October of 1945, the local Soviet military commander had become the town’s mayor . . . and that their NKVD headquarters was known as the House of Horrors because of its well-deserved reputation for harsh interrogation and fiendish torture.

He could not resist bringing these facts into the conversation—in rhetorical fashion, of course—which, by now, was second-nature to him.

Is it not true, Herr Gelb, that . . .

“Surely, doctor,” Gelb said at one point, making an obvious effort to control the tone and volume of his voice, “you must know that the treatment of our
German
POWs by the U.S.S.R. was unconscionable, and yes, barbaric. You must know also that the NKVD was criticized for being overzealous as we worked to keep
your
Motherland free of capitalist and fascistic elements.”

Adrienne, who had been taking copious notes, felt a rush of fear—and not for herself; for Dr. Andreyev.

“This is supposed to be a holiday sightseeing trip, gentlemen,” she chided. “Herr Gelb, your knowledge of history and culture in this part of the world is what we Americans would call a real treat! Thank you so much for sharing your expertise with us.”

Gelb smiled and clicked his heels.

For a moment, Kiril thought he was going to kiss her hand.