Freedom Bridge: A Cold War Thriller (14 page)

Chapter 30

A
s soon the helicopter’s wheels touched the ground, Kiril thanked Rolf Gruner for setting down. “We’ll be staying only a few minutes,” he reassured the captain.

Opening the helicopter door, Kiril jumped down, Rogov right behind him. Galya and the Brenners followed.

Adrienne glanced back at the helicopter, its blades still rotating slowly, perched on the field like some wary bird poised for flight.

All five of them stood looking at a couple of uniformed soldiers headed in their direction, submachine guns in hand.

“Vopos,” Kiril told them. “Let me handle this,” he added with a warning glance at Brenner before walking toward the soldiers.

Brenner caught snatches of German, followed in short order by angry demands for an explanation. But Andreyev’s authoritative voice—he said something about it being an inspection—made the Vopos uncertain about what to do next. One decided he would go to the phone at the guard shack three hundred or so yards away.

The other Vopo’s mind was apparently made up for him, Adrienne thought, as she noticed what appeared to be some kind of a disturbance at the other end of the large field.

“What’s
that
about?” she asked Galya.

“Is better not know, better not be mixed in,” she whispered.

Adrienne shrugged and started to walk in Kiril Andreyev’s direction.

“Please to stay near helicopter,” Galya called after her. “We have no permit to be here. I heard Mongolian say field is mass grave. But not like Treptower. Not for heroes from Great Patriotic War. This is mass grave for traitors.”

Adrienne stared at her.

Like Paul Houston’s friend, Stepan Brodsky?

“Where do you think you’re going?” Brenner asked Adrienne.

“To see for myself,” she said flatly.

Her heels sunk into the black furrows of the freshly plowed field. It covered an area large enough for a hundred conventional graves, she thought. How many could be buried in a human dumping ground, a thousand? Two?

Dr. Andreyev, his Mongolian “shadow” a few feet behind him, was walking along a barbed-wire fence that surrounded the field. Adrienne groped in a side pocket of her bag for a slim silver object the length of a pocket comb. Avoiding the gaze of the pilots and the Vopos, but not particularly concerned about Dr. Andreyev’s nurse—or was Galya his girlfriend?—Adrienne slid the outer shell of the miniature Minox back and forth, exposing the lens as she snapped photographs of the field . . . the barbed wire . . . a couple of signs that said
verböten
.

The Minox back in her bag, she was about to rejoin the others when she caught a glimpse of Dr. Andreyev’s face. She was reluctant to infringe on his privacy. What changed her mind was the sight of his mouth. It was distorted by such pain that not even his dark glasses could mask it. Slipping out of her shoes so she could better navigate the pliant earth, she went over to him and touched his arm in a gesture of support.

“I have seen their barbed wire, their submachine guns,” he said slowly as if conversing with a total stranger. “I have been to their detention camps and their mental wards. I have seen how they punish the living. But
this
. This is a form of vindictiveness I had never imagined. To punish the dead? To rob them of a decent burial?”

“The dead are beyond punishment,” she said gently.

“What about the people who mourn them?” he countered. “A grave is for remembering. Why else do we return again and again to converse? To leave flowers? To say a silent prayer?”

Why else, indeed?
she thought. Then he said something she would never forget.

“Now I must spend the rest of my life trying to forget this place.”

In an effort to distract him, she pointed out the disturbance she’d noticed at the other end of the field. “What’s happening over there?”

He shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

“Why don’t we find out?”

As the two of them made their way back toward the fracas, Adrienne, lost in thought, was certain of one thing. Whatever his motives, her “tour guide” was no apologist for a totalitarian regime, neither East German nor Soviet. Kiril Andreyev was one of its victims.

* * *

Angry words nudged Adrienne out of her somber reverie.

“Are you denying what we both know? This is
a burial ground!”

The angry words came from a short muscular man dressed in laborer’s clothes who was addressing a Vopo. Three other men stood next to the laborer, looking uncomfortable in their neatly pressed suits. One of the men had a protective arm around the shoulder of an old woman in black shawl and babushka.

. . . Not so old, Adrienne realized, moving closer. Just tired, bent, and weary, with deep crevices running down her parched cheeks.

“Can I help?” Dr. Andreyev asked in German, to the consternation of the Vopo.

“My name is Zind, Albert Zind,” the laborer said. The man’s hair was the color of sand. His blue eyes were expressionless.

“Erich and Gunther, my brothers. Our friend, Otto Dorf.” He pointed them out. “Our mother. We were told my sister’s body was here so we came all the way from Potsdam to visit her grave.”

Kiril translated for Adrienne.

“Our papers.” Albert Zind handed them to Kiril, who looked them over. “You can see they’re in order. And
still
they refuse to help us.”

“These people are a pack of fools,” grumbled the Vopo. “They claim to have special permission to visit some grave. Where do you see graves around here? Where are the headstones? Let them visit every cemetery in Berlin for all we care,” he said with feigned indifference.

“My mother is not well,” Zind persisted. “The trip has been grueling. I promised her she could say a few words at her daughter’s grave. Only a few words.
Then
we will leave.”

Again, Kiril translated for Adrienne. For once he was grateful that Luka Rogov was dogging his footsteps. The grim authority of Rogov’s military tunic, the red star emblazoned on his cap, spoke volumes to the East German Vopo.

With a friendly gesture in Rogov’s direction, Kiril said, “We insist that you allow this family to mourn. Unless, of course, you can prove to the appropriate authorities that their papers are false? If you cannot, my associate and I will file a report that you refused to follow our orders.”

The Vopo turned sullen, but he backed off.

“How did you learn of this place?” Kiril asked Albert Zind.

“I’m in bridge construction. Foreman on the repair work being done on Unity. That’s what they’re calling Glienicker Bridge these days, at least in Potsdam,” he said, making no attempt to mask his contempt.

“The bridge between Potsdam and West Berlin?”

“That’s the one. A Russian crashed into the bridge recently,” Zind said, looking at Kiril curiously now. “Poor bastard tried to make it across in some diplomat’s limousine. Almost did, from what I heard,” Zind added, making no attempt to mask his sympathy. “The minute word got out about burial arrangements, I asked a few discreet questions. That’s how I knew where to find my sister. Turns out she and your Russian friend had the same idea except that Eva tried it through a place not yet closed by the wall.”

This time when Kiril translated, Adrienne gasped.

Zind’s mother tugged at Albert’s sleeve. “But where is Eva’s gravestone? You promised me, Albert!”

“She’s here, mama. We don’t know exactly where. I told you how it would be, remember? I kept my promise. Now you must keep yours. Say a prayer for Eva and—”

She shook her head, uncomprehending.

Kiril dropped to his knees.

Adrienne watched, fascinated, as Kiril removed a tiny gold scalpel from a chain around his neck. Watched him smooth a patch of soil with his hand and outline the shape of a headstone.

At the very top of the “headstone,” Kiril carved four words in German: HERE LIES EVA ZIND.

“Eighteen years old,” Albert Zind said tonelessly.

“Number 13 Hollandische Siedlung, Potsdam,” said one brother.

Kiril bent to his task—tiny letters so Eva Zind’s age and address would fit inside.

“Beloved daughter of Frieda. Adored sister of Albert, Gunther, and Erich,” said Erich Zind.

“Beloved by Otto,” said another voice, husky with unshed tears.

The mother had already dropped to her knees beside Kiril, her lips moving in silent prayer. When he finally rose, Zind’s mother crossed herself and got to her feet without assistance.

Albert Zind gripped Kiril’s hand. His blue eyes were no longer expressionless.

Chapter 31

D
rizzling water landed unceremoniously on Aleksei Andreyev’s head. He wiped it away, oblivious to the rain. In the last sixteen months he had been on and under Glienicker Bridge at least a dozen times since Stepan Brodsky died there while trying to defect.

The pressure from General Nemerov had been intense. Unrelenting. Aleksei could understand why. As he’d reminded Emil von Eyssen soon after the incident, Brodsky had been a Captain in the Soviet Air Force who had worked for Aleksei. Worse, it was Aleksei who’d put Brodsky in charge of security for the Four-Power summit! So what was Brodsky’s final act? Pushing a cigarette lighter into the Havel River before von Eyssen could confiscate it.

“Did you really think there was only cotton inside the lighter?” Aleksei recalled asking von Eyssen sarcastically.

No, Aleksei thought, Nemerov had every reason to be concerned that day and all the months since. He
had
to find the damnable lighter. Especially after reading Luka Rogov’s report about what had happened near the Treptower Park cemetery on the way back from Waren. About his brother’s strong reaction after learning that his friend Brodsky was doubtless buried in a mass grave. Would it so enrage Kiril that he’d throw caution to the wind and try to defect?

Quite apart from General Nemerov’s interest in the cigarette lighter, Aleksei had spent many a sleepless night worrying about the lighter’s contents. What if it contained something that might incriminate him in some way?

All of which motivated him, after several unsuccessful attempts with East German dredging equipment and operators, to bring in Soviet engineers and equipment.

They had systematically dredged the water on both sides of the bridge, then under it, then down and up the Havel River. Mud was sucked up and strained. Debris was examined. The detritus of decades, if not centuries, of dumping was sorted. Divers searched the muck by hand. And came up with nothing.

So here he was again. He had expected to be bored and irritable but, surprisingly, he found himself fascinated by the dredging. By the scooping device at the end of the boom that came up from the river looking like a giant dripping clamshell with a mouthful of mud.

A lanky man in a windbreaker stuck his head outside the door of the East German guardhouse. Aleksei barely noticed his approach. He was watching a sleek gray-green East German patrol boat pass underneath the bridge, its diesel engines belching clouds of black soot.

“What is it now, Mueller?” Aleksei asked, glancing up.

As Mueller cupped a hand to his ear, obviously straining to hear, Aleksei realized the noise from the dredging equipment and the patrol boats beneath the bridge were drowning out their voices.

“You’ve been working on repairing this bridge for how long, Mueller?”

“Nearly sixteen months. But it’s not fair to blame me, Colonel,” he said defensively. “The damn bridge was built in 1906 and nearly destroyed during the war.”

Aleksei cut him off. “This isn’t about blame. Is that Vopo around—the one who was on duty the night of Brodsky’s attempted defection?”

“I’ll send him out here right now, Colonel,” Mueller said, relieved.

The door of the guardhouse flew open and banged against a stone wall. The man walking toward Aleksei in long impatient strides had a raw, seething vitality not unlike Luka’s, Aleksei thought. But unlike Luka, the East German resented Russians. Pity. Men like Luka Rogov were becoming extinct.

“You wanted to see me . . .” the Vopo said, then added reluctantly, “sir?”

“I know we’ve been over this before, but I need you to answer a few more questions. Tell me again—Bruno, isn’t it?—where you saw Stepan Brodsky’s cigarette lighter go over the side. The exact spot.”

Bruno’s eyes went to the left-hand side of the bridge. Pointing to a space between two lower parallel iron bars just opposite a mass of newly painted steel supports, he said, “Right through there he pushed it.”

“Now tell me everything you saw and heard, from the moment Brodsky got out of the second limousine and walked over to the first one.”

“The limousines had stopped single file behind the horizontal striped pole. A Russian Air Force officer got out of his jeep and . . .” Bruno flushed. “I was arguing with the American diplomat—he blew smoke in my face!—when the Air Force captain butted in . . .”

Aleksei had a gift for visualizing. As Bruno talked, he pictured the first limousine moving leisurely across. The second, stalled by the angry exchange of words. He saw Brodsky’s sudden move. Heard the screech of tires. The clatter of machine guns. Saw a large Mercedes smash into the side of the bridge. Pictured Brodsky’s body arc through the air before he was thrown clear. Saw the limousine burst into flame. Touching the steel of the bridge with his fingertips, Aleksei pictured East German patrol boats cruising restlessly back and forth under the bridge, ready to swing into action whenever—

Under the bridge?
Under
it?

He seized Bruno’s arm. “Think hard now. Since this is the spot where Brodsky lay just before the lighter went over, were any boats patrolling right about here?”

Bruno frowned. “They might’ve been, sure, but—”

Aleksei headed for the cobblestone square and entered the Soviet guardhouse just opposite the East German one.

Bruno scurried after him. He was curious. He was
paid to be curious about the Russkies.

Inside the Soviet guardhouse, Aleksei telephoned the East Berlin KGB station, explained what he wanted, and sat down to wait.

Two hours later he was picked up by his trusted aide, Lieutenant Anatoly Barkov. On the way to their destination, Lieutenant Barkov explained what Aleksei had put in motion. The Russians had obtained from the East Germans a list of every patrol boat in the vicinity of Glienicker Bridge for two hours before and two hours after Stepan Brodsky’s escape attempt. The roster of every man on every boat was obtained. There were only four such boats, with a crew of four on each boat—four Schnellboots. Sixteen men.

As Aleksei and his aide sped to the dock, the East Germans were locating the boats and sending out Vopos to question the crew members. By the time they arrived at an inlet on the Havel River where the boats were berthed and serviced, one was already in dry dock for repairs.

“I have been assured that the other three boats are on their way and should arrive shortly, sir,” Barkov reported.

The two of them were intrigued by the steel-hulled vessels. Roughly thirty feet long, they had a large cabin that bristled with searchlights, loudspeakers, sirens, radar, and other electronic equipment.

Aleksei had asked for a hundred Vopos, intending to use them for turning each ship inside out as they looked for the lighter. “Where are the men?” Aleksei wondered out loud.

“On their way, Colonel. They should be here momentarily.”

Which they were. The East German officer in charge assembled his men in formation, saluted the two Russians, and said to Aleksei, “My men are at your command, sir.”

Standing in the bed of a nearby truck, Aleksei addressed the men in German. “You will divide into teams of 25 men each, one group for each boat. The other three are arriving as I speak. You are looking for a cigarette lighter. I cannot describe it because I have not yet seen it, but you will know it when you find it. Begin your search with the equipment attached to the cabin—searchlights, loudspeakers, sirens, radar, and other electronic equipment. Some of you will search the cabin. Others are to inspect every vent and drain on the surface of the boat, every place on the deck where a lighter could be hidden. If it is not on deck, you will search below deck. Dismissed.”

Turning to the officer in charge, Aleksei said, “See that bar not far from the dockyard?”

“Yessir.”

“That’s where we’ll be once your men find the lighter.”

Just as their dessert was being served, the Vopo officer rushed in.

“We have it, Colonel!” He handed the lighter to Aleksei. “And I have a theory,” he added, flushed with success. “Someone must have dropped it on the wet deck in the dark. When the vessel rolled from the strong current, the lighter slid into an uncovered drain where one of my men found it. If whoever lost it looked for the lighter in the daylight, he couldn’t have found it.”

“Sounds plausible,” Aleksei said with a smile. He shook the officer’s hand. “Please commend your man.”

As Aleksei left the bar, he kept a firm grip on Brodsky’s lighter. Once inside Lieutenant Barkov’s vehicle, he fingered the Zippo lighter, frowning at the double-eagle emblem on one side. He spun the lighter’s ridged wheel to strike the flint and ignite the device. Nothing. The wheel worked. There was a flint. Also a wick. He tried again with the same result. He studied the lighter. Opened and closed it. Turned it this way and that.

This time he pulled each working part out of the stainless steel case. Yes, there was cotton stuffing for lighter fluid that should have been able to work its way to the wick but—

Aleksei sniffed the cotton. No discernible odor of lighter fluid.

He had it—the Holy Grail!

Digging out the cotton stuffing with a fingernail, he found a tiny piece of microfilm in an equally tiny piece of sealed cellophane.

“How long to get this developed and some prints made?” he asked his aide.

“We can be at the station in a half-hour, sir.”

“I must attend an important function at the Humboldt University Medical Clinic, Anatoly. I want you to drop me off there, then have the film and the photographs delivered. But to
me
, no one else. And I want you to process the microfilm yourself. No one else is to see it or, for that matter, know anything about it. Understood?”

“You can count on me, sir.”

Aleksei smiled at the lieutenant’s response. It was true. He had been counting on Lieutenant Barkov for over five years.