Freedom Bridge: A Cold War Thriller (5 page)

Chapter 12

A
t roughly 6:00 P.M., with Nikita Khrushchev’s pseudo-tantrum still ringing in his ears, Air Force Captain Stepan Brodsky swallowed his fear as the two Mercedes-Benz limousines sped through the woods on a road bathed in moonlight. Ahead was Glienicker Bridge, spanning the Havel River that separated Communist East Germany and free West Berlin.

The moon had disappeared behind a cloud by the time the limousines, following one another like disconnected pieces of a caterpillar, reached an obstacle course of concrete barriers. After roughly 200 feet of zigzag maneuvering, the lead limo containing Paul Houston and Ernst Roeder entered a cobblestone square at the mouth of the bridge. The second limo, with an East German driver and Stepan Brodsky in the back seat, followed.

Both Mercedes stopped between two guard houses. One flew East Germany’s flag, the other the Soviet Union’s hammer and sickle.

From his rear seat, Houston stared at the suspension bridge that loomed just beyond the cobblestone square, Glienicker’s dull steel webbing looking shiny, almost festive, in the wash of floodlights.

Brodsky, seated behind his driver in the second car, looked to his left.

A red-and-white-striped border pole barred the way across the bridge. Three uniformed men stood nearby. A Soviet soldier. An East German Vopo. And an East German officer with white-blond hair . . .

Colonel Emil von Eyssen, chief of security at the Four-Power summit that had just ended in chaos
.

With studied casualness and the air of a man who wanted a last-minute word with someone in the first limousine, Brodsky exited his vehicle and approached the open window.

“Hello . . . my friend. A cautionary word,” Brodsky said. “The guards are looking
edgy
tonight. Too many defections to the West lately.”

No fear in his voice. Brodsky knew, as he returned to his car, that Paul Houston would see it in his eyes.

Houston’s throat constricted, instantly sizing up the situation. He was dimly aware that Ernst Roeder was rolling down his window.

“I cannot resist taking advantage of the light from these obscene floodlights to get a shot of the verböten side of the bridge,” Roeder grumbled. “Since I prefer not to photograph through glass—”

“You know the regulations,” Houston answered automatically. “No photographs of bridges. No open windows on your side when the East German Volkpolisei check you—”

The Vopo . . . Damned if it wasn’t the anti-American bastard who hassled him every time he crossed Glienicker Bridge—so much so that he’d inquired about the man’s name. Two syllables. Began with a “B.” Berger, Brenner, Bruno—Bruno, that was it!

“No photographs, Ernst,” he whispered. Then: “Switch seats with me. Quickly!”

Still staring at the bridge, Houston calculated that it was roughly a hundred feet from the cobblestone square where they were parked to where the bridge itself began. He zeroed in on the bridge’s midpoint—and a large yellow sign facing him that spelled out the Communists’ claim on Stepan Brodsky’s life:
DEUTSCHE DEMOKRATISCHE REPUBLIK
.

Below the sign, like living exclamation points, stood two more East German guards.

The Vopo bent to his task, expecting Roeder’s East German ID card to be pressed against the window. He gaped.
Not
a West German. An American diplomat—and on the wrong side of the car, window rolled down, passport in his hand!

In the split second before Bruno’s surprise and annoyance shifted to anger, Houston took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in the Vopo’s outthrust face.

Cursing, the Vopo snatched the passport out of Houston’s hand.

“Give it here, you sonofabitch,” Houston said. “Only the Soviets get to touch my passport.”

“Big shot American.” The Vopo clutched the passport to his chest.

“My passport,” Houston snapped. “Or do you intend to search this car? You have no authority. You wouldn’t dare,” he taunted.

“
I will search
,” Bruno snarled, underscoring each word as his hand moved toward his revolver.

“Out!” Houston ordered Roeder. And to his bewildered driver in the front seat, “Get out! Leave your door open with the motor running.”

Do it, Stepan. It’s now or never!

Stepan Brodsky, imposing in his Soviet Air Force officer’s uniform, strode over to the confrontation, a scowl on his face, an unmistakable what’s-going-on-here question in his eyes.

The Vopo hesitated, and then backed away, his eyes still locked on Brodsky’s uniform.

Houston’s heart was a heavy drumbeat in his chest as he watched Brodsky’s gamble play out during the next few seconds.
Slide under the wheel of Houston’s limousine. Floor the accelerator.

Brodsky’s back slammed against the seat cushion. The Mercedes shot past a startled Soviet guard, smashing its way through the border pole. The vehicle’s speedometer soared.

Indifferent to the shriek of sirens assaulting his eardrums, Houston watched Colonel Emil von Eyssen race to the mouth of the bridge, megaphone in hand, as Brodsky gunned the powerful motor of the Mercedes.

When von Eyssen aimed the megaphone at some machine gun emplacements in the watchtowers, it seemed to Houston that he stopped breathing. He concentrated only on the trajectory of tracer bullets. They had reached out for the fleeing limousine but, so far, had harmlessly struck pavement and burst into sparks.

Every fiber of Houston’s being propelled the Mercedes forward across the bridge, willing it to go faster.

Bullets whipped over the top of the car. An East German guard at Glienicker’s midpoint collapsed into a soft pile.

“Get down!” von Eyssen screamed to no one and everyone, needing clear fields of fire.

Then: “
Feuern!
”
Fire!
roared von Eyssen’s megaphone-amplified voice.

“
Die Reifen!
The tires!”

Von Eyssen’s voice carried over the ear-splitting sirens, the clatter of machine guns.

But the shooters in the watchtowers knew their job. Even as von Eyssen screamed the orders, a rear right tire blew apart, spewing rubber all over the blacktop. The Mercedes veered sharply to the left, rammed into that side of the bridge, bounced off, and swaying crazily, careened toward the opposite side, its left flank even more exposed to the line of fire.

Mere feet from the bridge’s midpoint, from West Berlin. You’re so damn close, Stepan.

Houston choked as a
bright green tracer round connected with the Mercedes’ gas tank just as the car smashed into Glienicker Bridge’s unforgiving steel.

Gas-fueled flames engulfed the Mercedes and enveloped the steel bridge supports. The smell of burning rubber was overpowering.

Debris fell on the inert form of Stepan Brodsky. He had been thrown clear.

“
Feuer einstellen!
”
Cease
fire!

In the din of wailing sirens and the confusion of shouted orders, two men raced for the burning wreck, their footsteps swallowed by the engine of an East German patrol boat hovering beneath Glienicker Bridge.

Paul Houston got there just before Ernst Roeder.

Brodsky was crawling through spilled gasoline and his own blood.

His body was twisted like a piece of charred steel. One outstretched hand slowly reached for a small object that had spilled from his pocket. It was lying between him and the edge of the bridge a few inches away.

Brodsky slid forward on his chest, touched metal.

Before Houston could retrieve Brodsky’s cigarette lighter, a black boot nudged it barely out of Stepan’s reach.

“You sadistic sonofabitch!” Seizing a broken piece of the car’s bumper, Houston swung—just missing von Eyssen’s head.

Clicking his heels in mock deference, a smiling von Eyssen joined the men now swarming over the bridge.

Houston knelt down. He started to reach for Brodsky’s lighter when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Watch my back,” Ernst Roeder muttered as he slipped a smooth silver object from his jacket pocket—a Minox miniature camera no more than a few inches long. Concealing it in one oversized hand, he took three surreptitious photographs in rapid succession before returning the camera to his pocket.

Then, “Good lord, he’s still alive,” Roeder whispered.

Houston made a grab for the lighter. But not in time.

With what seemed like a last burst of energy, Brodsky pushed his cigarette lighter over the edge of the bridge.

Then his hand lay still.

Chapter 13

A
t the same time Stepan Brodsky lay dying on Glienicker Bridge, in Manhattan black-booted men in loose white tunics and red sashes performed deep knee bends and gravity-defying leaps as they formed a large loose circle. Inside the circle, young barelegged women whirled, red-and-black peasant skirts whipping above their knees. The exuberant cries of the dancers threatened to drown out the cheerful strains of an accordion. Suddenly the men and women broke into a heel-stamping finale, then bowed and waved at the crowd in traditional Russian fashion.

About twenty-five fashionably-dressed people stood in a walled-in garden half the size of a basketball court. Tall-stemmed sunflowers and stately shade trees ran along the walls all the way to the East River. They stood looking up at Grace Manning, their blonde blue-eyed hostess, as if waiting for permission to applaud the dancers.

Grace stood in front of a brass and teak bar, a fetching picture in a red-and-black peasant blouse and matching skirt identical to the women dancers.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, tapping a thin brass knife against a red goblet; pausing until she had complete silence. “Thanks are in order to the ambassador of the Soviet U.N. Mission for this combination May Day celebration and sneak preview of tomorrow night’s gala opening at Lincoln Center. But before we treat ourselves to some tantalizing Russian delicacies, every recipe courtesy of the Soviet U. N. Mission”—she gestured toward a sumptuous buffet table—“I should like to propose toast.”

On cue, butlers appeared with trays of brimming glasses.

“It’s vodka. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” a smiling Grace Manning cautioned her guests. “The champagne comes later. I propose a double toast,” she said, raising her glass. “First, to the talented dancers from Ukraine who have brightened what surely would have been a dull Sunday afternoon in New York. Second, to the gentleman who arranged this exciting glimpse into his country’s cultural heritage,United Nations Ambassador Anton Zorin!”

The trim-looking Zorin downed his vodka Russian-style—in a single gulp. His glass was quickly refilled by a hovering butler. Most of the guests, but not all, sipped their vodka somewhat tentatively.

“Now it is
my
turn for a double toast,” the ambassador said in fluent English. “To our distinguished host, Russell Manning.” He raised his glass high. “And to Russell’s pride and joy, Medicine International, an organization that lives up to its slogan—World Peace through World Health—and by so doing contributes significantly to the relaxation of world tensions!” he enthused.

A beaming Russell Manning ran a hand through waves of silver hair. “One cannot indulge in toast-making,” he said, “without acknowledging America’s most prominent heart surgeon and noted humanitarian, Dr. Kurt Brenner. Dr. Brenner will represent the United States at Medicine International’s forthcoming Artificial Heart Symposium in West Berlin.”

Kurt Brenner acknowledged the applause with a nod and a half-smile. The silver-blue of the East River and the brighter blue of a cloudless sky were perfect backdrops for his tall, stately figure in an impeccably tailored off-white linen suit. Brenner’s eyes were velvet-brown, his face deeply tanned. His hair, in stunning contrast, was white.

He waited for his glass to be refilled. Waited, as Grace Manning had, until he had everyone’s full attention. “It looks like double toasts are in fashion,” he said with a faint smile, and wondered if the people who returned his smile were responding to his sense of humor or to the praise Russell had heaped on him. Both maybe. “To my Russian, French, and British colleagues in absentia, who will be joining me in West Berlin,” Brenner said in his rich baritone. “And
to the success of Medicine International’s Artificial Heart Symposium, which I look forward to with great anticipation.” He smiled broadly—this time for a photographer from the Soviet News Agency.

The guests lost no time in switching from vodka to champagne, and even less for descending upon the sumptuous buffet table.

“Isn’t this exciting!” exclaimed a breathless brunette version of their hostess. “Grace practically took an oath that the food’s authentic. Chicken Tabaka with garlic sauce. Fish in aspic. Pickled cabbage. Oh, and crabmeat. I hear it’s impossible to beg, borrow, or steal crabmeat in Moscow these days.”

The dancers looked longingly at the buffet table, uncertain as to whether they were allowed to approach it. Clustered in a small group off to one side, they showed no sign of the grace and vigor that had characterized their performance.

No one seemed to notice them. A couple of men in dark baggy suits stood among them. No one noticed them either.

“—cannot grasp why Americans don’t demand a standard of medical care at least as high as that found in the Soviet Union,” Ambassador Zorin was lecturing Brenner.

“You’re certainly way ahead of us there,” Brenner said diplomatically. “I’ve always admired your policy of making the health of your people a government responsibility.”

“Quite so,” Zorin said. “Once a citizen is enrolled in his or her neighborhood clinic, every medical need is met. Medical care for our children—”

“Now
there’s
a subject close to Kurt’s heart,” Grace Manning chimed in, taking familiar hold of Brenner’s arm.

“But of course. We in the USSR have heard a great deal about your cardiac clinic for underprivileged children,” Zorin said—and paused as a butler approached him regarding a telephone call in the library.

Interesting, Brenner thought. Zorin didn’t look the least bit surprised about that incoming call . . .

* * *

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Grace Manning quipped as Zorin left the room. “Surely you weren’t intending to squeeze a donation out of the Soviet Union?”

“Don’t be a bitch.” Brenner’s lips curved into a characteristic half-smile—part amusement, part contempt.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she retorted. “You’re such a busy man these days. Lectures. Charity work. Important people to see
.
I’m beginning to think you only came to my party because Russell wanted to show you off to the Ambassador. Russell tells me you’re absolutely desperate for money these days.”

Brenner shrugged. “A combination of the recession and some injudicious investments. I’ve neglected you lately because I’ve been in Washington a lot. Government grants are becoming as scarce as hen’s teeth.”

“Poor dear,” Grace said, mollified. “Too bad most of Russell’s handouts end up in underdeveloped countries instead of heart institutes on the upper Eastside of Manhattan. With all your money problems, how on earth do you find time for surgery?”

“I have a competent and highly trained staff,” he said in a bored voice. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Let’s talk about your perfectly enchanting wife,” Grace said peevishly. “Since she doesn’t know we’re having an affair, I’m wondering if the woman is just plain rude.”

Kurt Brenner was wondering who else had noticed Adrienne’s absence. What was he supposed to tell people? That his wife refused to socialize with Ambassador Zorin? That lately she avoided socializing with her own husband? It was sheer luck their latest rift hadn’t hit the gossip columns.

“Not rude,” he countered. “Just wrapped up in that job of hers.”

“Adrienne Brenner, journalist. Charming occupation for a woman with
her
social background,” Grace said with disdain. “You look like you could use another glass of champagne, dear heart,” she teased and reached out to a passing butler. Her hand accidentally caught the man at a bad angle, sending his tray of glasses to the floor with a shattering crash.

“Clumsy fool!” Brenner exclaimed.

“Is this an example of the famous Dr. Kurt Brenner temper?” Grace said, taken aback. “It was
my
fault, not the butler’s.”

“What if a piece of glass had sliced into my hands?” Brenner snapped.

Before she could respond, a grim-faced Ambassador Zorin returned to the garden, and waving to the men in the black suits, spoke to them.

Grace Manning, ever the alert hostess, deserted Brenner and made a bee-line for the Ambassador.

Zorin turned to her. “I am sorry to spoil your lovely party,” he said, “but I must leave at once. We all must.” He gestured at the dancers being herded back into the house by the men in black.

“How perfectly horrid of you, Mr. Ambassador,” Grace pouted. “But at least Russell and I can look forward to seeing you at the Artificial Heart Symposium next year when—”

“I’m afraid you won’t see anyone from the Soviet Union at your symposium,” Zorin said, his thoughts elsewhere—and instantly regretted not having lowered his voice. A circle of expectant faces stared at him.

A reporter joined the group. “Would you care to make a statement, Mr. Ambassador?” he asked, mildly curious.

Zorin adjusted his glasses while he collected his thoughts. He had been waiting to be notified about the orchestrated collapse of the Four-Power summit. Now that it was a
fait accompli
and
Khrushchev had walked out, there was no reason not to be frank.

“The barbs of Western hostility have pierced my country’s good intentions,” Zorin said gravely. “I have just been informed by Moscow that your country has invaded Soviet airspace. It has been spying on our nation for some time now. The Soviet delegation, led by Chairman Nikita Khrushchev, has walked out of the Potsdam summit. While we were enjoying Russian folk dancing in New York and drinking toasts to the relaxation of world tensions,” Zorin continued, “an American spy plane was overflying our country to photograph sensitive installations.”

Murmurs rolled through the guests.

“Unfortunately, the repercussions of this international crime touch us all,” Zorin said, warming to his subject. “It spells the end of Soviet participation in cultural exchanges, in competitive sports events, in—”

“My Artificial Heart Symposium?” Russell Manning asked, aghast. “Surely your government won’t withdraw its participation because of some minor political incident?”

“We already have,” Zorin said flatly.

Brenner gripped Manning’s arm. “I hope you’re not thinking of pulling the plug on the symposium, Russell,” he said lowering his voice. “There are other participants. Think of the money you poured into the new medical center there. Think of the dedication ceremony, the publicity.”

“I’m not sure, I’m just not sure. We’re supposed to be in the middle of an East-West thaw, for god’s sake! I hate politics,” he whined, thrusting out his lower lip.

“Mr. Ambassador,” Brenner said as Zorin turned to leave. “While I consider myself a patriotic American, I must confess that I’m offended by my government’s behavior. Spying in this day and age? Despicable!”

The reporter, no longer bored, was scribbling away.

Zorin turned toward Brenner, the suggestion of a smile on his lips.

“It has taken years for people of good faith from our two countries to establish a bridge of friendship,” Brenner said with feigned sincerity. “I only hope that bridge is strong enough to withstand such ill-advised and provocative conduct.”

“Speaking of bridges, Mr. Ambassador,” the reporter pressed, “isn’t the one across the Havel River in Potsdam called Glienicker? And didn’t American GIs and Soviet troops, with assistance from Ukrainian laborers, work together after the war to repair it?”

Brenner turned pale.

“True,” Zorin told the reporter. “All the more reason for my country to be enraged at the needless collapse of our peace negotiations. As the Havel River now separates our delegations in Potsdam, so too it separates our two countries.”

Zorin, followed by his entourage, left the Manning townhouse through an elaborate front entrance.

Hands jammed into his pockets so no one could see them shaking, Brenner headed in the opposite direction. Reaching the brass-and-teak bar in the garden, he grabbed the nearest bottle, not sure whether it was gin or vodka. Not caring that whatever it was burned his throat on the way down.

Glienicker Bridge. Ukrainians!

A coincidence? Brenner wondered. Maybe. Maybe not.

He had always prided himself on his rational approach to life, his utter disdain for superstition.

Not anymore.