Freedom Bridge: A Cold War Thriller (20 page)

Chapter 42

O
n the flight from Schönefeld Airfield to Zurich, the executive jet suddenly shuddered as it banked steeply. The cabin seemed to roll precariously over on its side.

“We’ll be running into severe turbulence over the mountains,” the pilot announced.

The ultimate irony, Kiril brooded. I am going to die even as I escape from communism.

Beside him, Adrienne Brenner moaned, still on the edge of air-sickness from a surfeit of champagne. The promised explanation had never materialized. She had barely opened her eyes the whole time. Better that way.

The sky cleared abruptly, then turned calm. The plane shifted direction.

“Zurich,” he told her. “We’re going down.”

Adrienne nodded. Her eyes, opening for a moment, fell closed again.

Kiril stared out the window, his blank expression masking inner turmoil.

I am forty years old. I have no work, no money, no friends. I don’t even own the clothes on my back. Yet I have never felt so young. So confident of the future
.

Future? He had never had the luxury of thinking about his future, let alone planning one. All the days were his now, he thought, realizing that he would need time to get used
to the idea. What should he do with that precious new commodity, time?

Dream without restraint. Make plans. Change them if it pleases me. Buy an automobile. Travel with anticipation, not fear. What’s the American expression that sums it all up? No holds barred!

He stole a glance at Adrienne Brenner
.
Free to fall in love
,
he thought. However much he cared for Galya, he had never allowed himself to slip into a deeply emotional commitment. In the Soviet Union, to have a loved one—a family—was to forge your own chains. What kind of man plots escape when he’s locked in the grip of the hostage system?

He tensed with the sudden thud of the plane’s wheels on the runway, the vibrations coursing through his body—and nearly bolted from his seat. He had to grip both its arms as he counted the seconds. Taxiing . . . slowing . . . turning . . .

Stopping.

Someone slid open a door. He forgot about Adrienne Brenner’s suitcase, about helping her out of the window seat, standing aside so she could exit first.

He was moving toward the open door when he became aware of a noisy cluster of people who waited at the bottom of the aircraft’s steps.

But all he saw was pavement. All he felt was the desire to fall on his knees and kiss the ground. The instant his foot made contact with the tarmac all he felt was a sweet solemn wonder, coupled with an overwhelming exuberance.

I made it, Stepan! Anna! Kolya! I’m here!

“Look this way, please, Dr. Brenner.”

A flashbulb went off in his face. Then an unbroken series of them, popping like firecrackers, reducing his eyesight to white glare. Raising his arm like a shield, he blinked to clear his vision.

“Is it true you’re defecting to the Soviet Union?”

“Are you here to say goodbye to your parents?”

“What about your wife? Does she stay or go?”

“When do you leave for Moscow?”

“What’s behind the defection?”

“Was your family aware of your plans?”

“What
are
your plans, Dr. Brenner?”

The questions pitched at him were mostly in rapid-fire English, only a few in German. None in Russian.

He waited. Adrienne Brenner had joined him and stood groggily at his side.

As soon as the voices began to subside, Kiril said, “I wish to make a statement.” He took a cautious few steps away from the plane. “But not here. Is there someplace we could go?”

“Right this way, Dr. Brenner, Mrs. Brenner. It’s a short walk to the quarantine section of the terminal. You won’t have to go through customs or immigration yet,” an American reporter said, a hint of disapproval crossing her face. “Your mother and father are in a bad way about your defection,” she told him. “They have refused to make a statement until they’ve had a chance to talk to you.”

“Where are they?”

“Somewhere in the terminal. No one knew exactly what time your plane was due—or, for that matter, whether you’d even show up. I’m pretty sure your parents are still here. Should I find them and bring them to the VIP lounge? There’s a private room inside.”

“Please. I’d be extremely grateful.”

“No problem,” the reporter said, sensing the man’s acute distress; the sharpness no longer in her tone. “No one will disturb you in the lounge.”

By the time they reached the private room, Kiril’s thoughts were in turmoil. For the first time, he realized how difficult it would be to give a full explanation to Dr. Brenner’s parents. Should he tell them that a Soviet KGB colonel had a hold on their son because of some allegedly despicable act he’d committed during World War II? That only when Kurt Brenner had threatened to turn him over to the KGB had Kiril knocked him out and switched places with him?

But
not
to explain was futile, he thought. The truth would surface soon enough when the real Dr. Brenner stepped off a plane tomorrow. The only thing he could do for Brenner’s parents was tell them the truth face to face—and in private.

He thought of how, in desperation, he had used Adrienne Brenner. He owed her the truth as well.

Steeling himself for what was to come, he steered a still-woozy Adrienne Brenner into the VIP lounge. The American reporter had just passed some Swiss francs to a couple of bored VIP lounge attendants. As soon as they gave her a key, she handed it to Kiril.

“Your private room,” she said.

He gripped her hand. “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness.”

“Good luck, Dr. Brenner,” she said, and was surprised to realize that she meant it.

How incongruous we must look in this dingy little room of an airport in the middle of the night, Kiril thought.
You in your beautiful green gown
,
Adrienne Brenner
, m
e in bowtie and tuxedo . . .

And because he had been forced to deceive her and knew it was far too late to earn this woman’s love, he reached out and drew her into his arms.

It was all he meant to do. But suddenly he was kissing her with a punishing violence, an unquenchable thirst—

Adrienne broke free, breathing in gasps, the back of one hand pressed against her mouth. “Where’s Kurt? Where’s my husband?”

“Forgive me. I had no right—”

“What’s the meaning of this masquerade? Where
is
he?”

“Still in East Berlin. I never intended this to happen, but your husband left me no choice. At the moment, he’s probably still unconscious from a harmless drug.”

“What did you hope to gain, damn you?”

But even as she asked the question, things began to fall into place.

“My freedom,” he told her simply.

“And Kurt’s?”

“He’s safe enough. In a few minutes I’ll reveal my true identity and expose my brother’s attempt to coerce your husband into defecting. Don’t worry. He’ll be allowed to leave East Berlin. Neither the Soviets nor the East Germans would dare to forcibly detain a man of his prominence— especially after all the publicity.”

“I don’t understand. Why would the Soviets want to detain Kurt in the first place?”

“Not for his surgical skills, certainly. He’s the victim of Moscow-style propaganda,” Kiril said bitterly. “One of my KGB brother’s jobs involves defections. He was blackmailing your husband—something to do with when he was in Germany during the war. He was very young.”

“You had no right—”

“I had
every
right,” Kiril bristled. “It’s called self-defense. Your husband threatened to trade his knowledge of my defection plan for the blackmail Aleksei was holding over his head.”

He turned away from her. “I’m free,” he said, turning away from her. “By tomorrow, your husband will be too.”

“You could be wrong about that,” Adrienne said slowly. “You must have been under a great deal of stress. You were making split-second decisions. Hoping to keep me in the dark. Figuring out what to say to the press. Wondering and worrying about whether you could pull this off.”

All true,
he thought. “What are you getting at?” he said tensely.

“Something I hope doesn’t occur to your KGB brother. What if he
doesn
’
t
let Kurt go? If Dr. Kurt Brenner’s own wife was fooled—and no one knows him better than I do—why not the rest of the world?”

“But—”

“I know what you’re thinking. I had so much champagne I couldn’t see straight—literally. But only a handful of people knew about that—mostly East German butlers in tuxedos. If my husband is kept in a semi-drugged state and paraded in front of the cameras—not too close, just close enough to make it look good—it’s conceivable that KGB apparatchiks like your brother could get away with it. Over time, they might even trust Kurt with a microphone and a rehearsed speech.”

She closed her eyes briefly, as if she could picture the scene. “Drugs and blackmail are a lethal combination,” she said grimly.

Kiril spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “You’re right, of course. The only thing I can do is hope that Aleksei isn’t as clever as you.”

And hope even more that Brenner’s parents realize that I never intended to harm their son—that he forced my hand.

A knock on the door.

“What will you tell them?” Adrienne whispered.

“What I lost the courage to tell
you,” he admitted,
“even after I was safely on the plane.”

The press, held in check by the American reporter, buzzed with impatience.

Dr. Max Brenner, grim and ashen, helped his wife enter the lounge’s private room. Pausing to clasp Adrienne’s shoulder for a moment, he closed the four of them inside.

Anna Brenner took her daughter-in-law’s hands in hers. “I cannot find words to express how sorry I am that my son has shamed you.”

“Don’t even try,” Adrienne whispered, squeezing Anna’s hands tightly.

Adrienne remained standing by the door, near-paralyzed by the decisions she knew she would have to make before she left this room.

Max Brenner held his wife’s arm—a useless restraint.

Shrugging it off, Anna Brenner made no effort to restrain her tears as she crossed the room toward her son. She moved slowly, her gait unsteady, not stopping even when she heard Adrienne burst into tears.

Kiril, having braced himself for this sad encounter, felt on the edge of tears himself. But as Anna Brenner approached him, he realized that he should have anticipated more than sadness. What he saw in the set of her mouth was a smoldering anger bordering on rage.

“Tell me to my face,” she said.

He heard the trace of an accent. Her voice, in sharp contrast to her anger, was anguished.

For a moment he lowered his eyes to gather his own strength.

In the next moment he was staring at a gold charm bracelet on her wrist—a tiny thermometer, a reflex hammer, a stethoscope, a head-mirror, each charm suspended from the bracelet by a gold link—

Except for one link with nothing hanging from it!

For a split second, Kiril felt as if a burst of electricity had coursed through his body—the second he knew with certainty that the link had once held the miniature gold scalpel he still wore around his neck.

A charm that held long-suppressed memories for them both. . . .

“Tell me how you can do this, Kurt. And then, tell me why.”

He looked into the face of the mother he had said goodbye to when he was four and had loved all his life. A face forever with him, forever lost.

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

He saw her mouth move, that was all. He had lost every sense but one. He stood like a statue, hungrily drinking in the sight of her.

“You are going to do this?” Her expression bordered on hatred.

And even though he knew the hatred was meant for Kurt Brenner, he accepted it as penance for the wrong he had done her.

Oh Anna, Anna. To have spent a lifetime of pain and guilt grieving over a hostage child not old enough to understand why you never came home. But when I was older, when I learned of Kolya’s injury, I knew you had a chance to raise him in a free country. And now you are suffering because, thanks to me, you think the beneficiary of that bitter sacrifice chooses to make his home in the Soviet Union. How can you endure it?

He saw no forgiveness in her eyes.

His eyes filled with tears. He forgave her instantly.

Did you think I would hate you for leaving me behind? I have had but one lifelong obsession—to find you again. To tell you that what you did was right. To set you free of a guilt you never should have had to bear.

But now the Soviets may learn that Kurt Brenner is Kolya Andreyev, citizen of the U.S.S.R., and they may never let him go. Forgive me for what I am about to say to the press. Then give me twenty-four hours and I will bring Kolya back to you. If I can . . .

Before Anna Brenner could say another word, Kiril walked past Adrienne and opened the door.

Reporters poured into the room, jockeying for position.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “my statement will be brief. I plan to practice heart surgery in the Soviet Union. My decision has been a long time in coming. It is final. I came here tonight because I want no doubt in anyone’s mind that the announcement I made in East Berlin several hours ago was true. There was no coercion. You asked about my immediate plans. They are to get back on the plane that brought me here so that I may begin my new life in Moscow.”

The reporters gave way as soon as they saw Anna Brenner descend on him like an avenging angel.

She slapped Kiril’s face so hard he staggered from the blow.

A reporter mumbled, “The slap heard round the world . . . ”

A wilted Max Brenner looked as if he were on the verge of collapsing.

Adrienne, her mind whirling, leaned against the wall, watching with horror as the scene played out before her.

Kiril’s head was reeling from the impact—from the terrible irony—as flashbulbs popped, recording Anna Brenner’s blow for a readership of millions. Cameras panned for reaction shots of a family in chaos.

And retreat. Max and Anna Brenner were leaving.

Adrienne hadn’t moved. “Ladies and gentlemen, listen to me! Will someone please listen to me?” she shouted over the din. “I have a statement of my own.”

The commotion in the room collapsed into silence as Kiril walked over to her.

“You can’t stop me,” she said.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her aside before anyone could react. “Say one more word and you throw away the only chance I have of rescuing your husband.”

“Rescuing him? You’re going back to East Berlin after what he—”

“I must. But it has to be as Kurt Brenner, not Kiril Andreyev. If he and I don’t get out within twenty-four hours, make your statement then. Tell the world your husband was being blackmailed for something he did a long time ago. That he’s being held by the Soviets against his will.”

Kiril removed the charm from around his neck and pressed it into Adrienne’s hand. “Convince them I was an impostor, and then give this to your mother-in-law. She’ll be able to back up your story.”

After a brief hesitation, he handed her a cigarette lighter. “And if I don’t come back, give this to American intelligence.”