Freedom Bridge: A Cold War Thriller (6 page)

Chapter 14

I
t was a typically stifling early May in Moscow. The woman with the bovine face pressed her cheeks with a handkerchief, feeling a rush of guilt over the vodka she’d indulged in during the May Day holiday two days ago.

The telephone on her desk jangled shrilly. “. . . Yes, sir, he’s here. I’ll send him in.” She hung up and turned to Kiril. “They’re ready for you, Dr. Andreyev,” she said cheerfully. “Second door to your right.”

The room Kiril entered had no windows. Two men sat behind a battered desk. One wore a yellow jacket that had seen better days. He looked barely old enough to shave.

Kiril’s eyes flicked to the other man. Balding. Mid-to-late fifties. Florid face with a wary, almost deferential, expression.

“Please take a seat, Doctor,” the older man said, indicating an empty chair opposite them.

The minute Kiril sat down, a brilliant flash exploded, pinning him to his chair in a white glare. He could no longer see either man.

“Aren’t you being a touch melodramatic?” he said caustically. “I was asked to come here and, as you know, I came voluntarily. I’m going to shut my eyes, gentlemen. Then you can decide whether you want to strong-arm me or have a civil discussion without that light in my face.”

Silence. A long time when you’re counting the seconds . . .

A small victory
, Kiril thought as the lights went off.

“We have questions about an Air Force officer named Stepan Brodsky,” smooth-face said testily. “Would you call yourselves friends?”

“Why would I deny it?”

“When did you first become acquainted with him?” The older man’s soft-spoken tone remained deferential.

What’s going on? Why haven’t I heard from Stepan since the summit broke up? Is he in trouble? Did he make it to the West?

“We met about fifteen years ago,” Kiril said. “I was a medical officer in Murmansk, and he was liaison to the American Lend Lease troops.”

“How did you and your pal spend time together after the war?” smooth-face asked.

Kiril shrugged. “How do friends spend their time?”

His thoughts turned to the countless hours they had spent learning German. Of how Kiril had shared his expertise in American slang. His knowledge of the American
Constitution
, limited government,  individual rights.

“Why did Brodsky join the Soviet Air Force?” the older man asked.

“He never told me.”

But he had. To steal a plane someday so he could defect.

“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling,” smooth-face snapped.

“Don’t feel rushed, Doctor,” the older man told him. “Just try to be more specific about how you and Stepan Brodsky spent your time.”

The pressure that had been building dissipated like air being let out of a tire. Kiril related a half-dozen activities, all of them innocuous. Sports. Cinema. Occasional double-dating. A rare hiking trip.

Even as he remembered how he and Stepan had studied plan after plan in an ongoing effort to get out of prison, as they thought of it. Stepan haunted diplomatic gatherings where his credentials might land him invitations to other countries. Kiril, for the same reason, explored medical exchange programs. Both of them pored over maps of East Berlin and East Germany to prepare themselves should the opportunity ever arise to defect from either place.

Smooth-face picked up the questioning. “I presume you and Brodsky are acquainted with the same people? You have the same friends?”

“I have very few friends—”

“Why is that?”

“Because of the demands of my work. As for Captain Brodsky’s friends, I assume he has some but I’ve no idea who they are. We do know several people jointly, of course.”

Smooth-face folded his arms. “How long have you known Brodsky was a traitor?”

Kiril shot to his feet. “What the hell are you talking about? Captain Brodsky a traitor?”

Something did go wrong in Potsdam! Was Stepan tortured? Do they have the lighter? The microfilm?

“I’m leaving,” he announced, gathering his courage.  Knowing damn well it was Aleksei who’d probably set up this interrogation in the first place. “If you care to pursue this outrageous slander,” he said, “I suggest you take it up with my brother.”

“Please resume your seat, Dr. Andreyev,” said the older man, directing an icy glance at his impetuous young colleague. One never knew how Dr. Kiril Andreyev stood with KGB Colonel Aleksei Andreyev, he thought. The sensible thing was to tread carefully, not come on like a—a battering ram! “Did
you, in fact, know that Stepan Brodsky was planning to escape?”

In the small stretch of silence that followed, both interrogators leaned forward in their chairs. Dr. Andreyev—up to now imperturbable—looked stunned.

“I didn’t know it,”
Kiril said slowly, his mind an agony of questions.

Where was Stepan? Had he abandoned his plan? Do they know about me?

Smooth-face wasn’t about to be distracted. “We have proof that you met with Captain Brodsky shortly before he went to Potsdam. Do you really expect us to believe he revealed
nothing
about his escape attempt?”

“Nothing, I told you. What’s going on?  Is Stepan all right?”

“Not exactly.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Captain Brodsky was shot dead trying to escape across Glienicker Bridge,” the older man said calmly. “We have no more questions, Dr. Andreyev. Thank you for your cooperation. You will remain here please.”

The two men left the room.

Kiril sat down, his legs too weak to hold him upright. He felt numb. The numbness rose slowly, inexorably, up the length of his body until his shoulders slumped as if from the sheer weight of it.

Why should I fight it any longer, Stepan? I am as dead as you are.

But even now, Stepan reached out to him.

Kiril pictured a favorite haunt he and Stepan had christened the “Western Bar.” They had enjoyed nursing a couple of beers as they watched shaggy-haired kids in faded jeans and miniskirts lose themselves in a
defiant attempt at gaiety.
Then when they were ready to leave, they would raise a glass in a solemn toast that had become a ritual.

Say it
, he told himself. Say it
now
before it’s too late!

“To the United States of America,” he whispered in the solemn tone of a vow, and a farewell.

He was still weeping as he clung to the image of the Western Bar when a figure in a soiled military tunic yanked him up by one arm and said, “You come with me.”

Chapter 15

A
leksei Andreyev had unruly hair—more yellow than blond—eyes as pale blue as a robin’s egg, and an unsettling expression. Unsettling because it simultaneously suggested placidity and a readiness to pounce.

“Kiril!” he said heartily by way of greeting as his brother was hauled into his office. “You look distressed.”

“Distressed?” Kiril said wearily, making no effort to hide his utter devastation. “Your thugs tell me my closest friend is a traitor. That Stepan tried to defect so they shot him to death. How the hell do you expect me to feel? What do you want with me, Aleksei?”

“I might ask you the same question. Sit down.” Aleksei indicated one of the chairs opposite his spacious desk. “Why did you come to my office a few weeks ago?”

“Don’t be coy. You know why.” Kiril dropped into the chair. He could barely stand. “I wanted your help getting permission for Dr.Yanin’s operating team to participate in that Canadian medical meeting.”

“Of course you did. So you could go to Canada with them, Kiril? And then what?” he said patiently. “Defect like your friend just tried to do?”

“Think what you like,” Kiril said indifferently.

“Has it occurred to you that, precisely because of your undistinguished career all these years, you haven’t been cleared to make such trips? After all your childhood pretensions—that burning desire to be a doctor—I thought you’d amount to much more. I know about the harsh years when work was scarce. What you did manage to get were—how shall I put it?—menial jobs. Putting up intravenous drips for other doctors. Handing them instruments. Operating their machines like a mechanic.”

Aleksei’s eyes probed Kiril’s face for a reaction. Not finding it, he leaned back in his chair. “Then along came your big break,” he continued, the annoyance in his voice clashing with his placid expression. “You become a ‘glorified mechanic’ for the eminent Dr. Mikhail Yanin.”

Eminent enough to be invited and re-invited to the West
,
Kiril thought. Aloud he said, “It didn’t take long for
this
‘glorified mechanic’ to make himself indispensable to the best surgeon in Moscow.”

“True. Still, I managed to overcome our tarnished family history. Forgive me for being immodest but even if Aunt Sofia hadn’t taken me under her wing, nothing would have barred my way,” Aleksei said smugly. “If there’s anything the woman ingrained in me, it was how to be resourceful. I learned how to ferret out one’s enemies. How to distinguish between a man’s strengths and his weaknesses. I seem to recall your early interest in medical research. Did you know that’s how I started?”

“In research?” Kiril said, incredulous.

“Of a special kind. Ever heard of the Index, Little Brother?”

Kiril had heard of it, all right. A staggering collection of biographical information, infinite in scope and indiscriminate in content. Anyone of even remote interest to the KGB was targeted.

“Aunt Sofia grasped right from the start that the Index was a perfect fit for my special talents. Over the years, I’ve made myself useful to a great many influential people,” Aleksei said with a faint smile of reminiscence.

“You mean that over the years you’ve become a blackmailer
par excellence
,” Kiril said with disgust.

“One tramples or one is trampled on,” Aleksei said philosophically. “But our aunt was not so sanguine about
your
future, was she, Little Brother? Oh, you were studious enough. Uncomplaining. Obedient. Top grades. Still, you’d built a kind of wall around yourself that shut people out, especially as you got older. ‘Kiril even shuts
me
out, the ungrateful brat!’ Sofia told me once. What’s so funny?”

“Our Aunt Sofia was more astute than I gave her credit for.”

“I could have helped you professionally had you come to me,” Aleksei mused. “Why didn’t you?”

“That’s like asking a priest why he never made a pact with the devil.”

“You
are
your mother’s son,” Aleksei said with a mock sigh. “Your antisocial attitude is precisely why I’ve kept an eye on you all these years. I could have had you arrested, you know. Or confined in one of our mental institutions, like Vladimir Bukovsky and men of his ilk. But I didn’t. Maybe blood really is thicker than water,” Aleksei said magnanimously. “Or, maybe I’m a generous person when it comes to relatively harmless transgressions. Like your learning German.”

It took Kiril a split second to realize how naïve he’d been. Of course Aleksei would have put out feelers for something like his language capabilities . . . and for god knows what else.

“I learned German to read medical journals,” he said matter-of-factly. “I also hoped that someday I’d have an opportunity to talk to our German comrades in the East.”

“And learning English?”

“Same reason.”

“You flirted with the Gulag,” Aleksei said bluntly.

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Take it seriously, Kiril. This is not the time to make trouble. It’s bad enough that we had to pull out of Medicine International’s Artificial Heart Symposium in West Berlin,” he said sourly.

“You sound disappointed,” Kiril said slowly, even as his mind raced while he tried to figure out why.

“Let’s just say I was looking forward to a friendly chat with the eminent Dr. Kurt Brenner at close range and on friendly ground—a missed opportunity.”

“What business could the KGB possibly have with a world-class heart surgeon like Dr. Brenner?” Kiril scoffed.

“So Brenner is a hero of yours, is he?”

Aleksei turned toward a massive figure who stood just inside his office door. “Bring me the Dr. Kurt Brenner file, Luka.”

“Sergeant Luka Rogov,” Aleksei said as the uniformed Mongolian returned with a bulky file tied with rough cord.

“We’ve already met,” Kiril said drily. “Your Mr. Rogov dragged me in here, remember?”

“I have to make a call,” Aleksei said, ignoring Kiril’s sarcasm. “A private matter I must attend to. But before I permit you to leave, I cannot resist seeing your reaction to what’s in this file.” Smiling, he handed the file to Kiril.

Something in that smile, even more than his brother’s words, made Kiril open the Brenner file with trepidation.

It was an odd mix. Copies of military service documents. Diplomas. Grainy newspaper articles. Airline tickets and hotel statements—

And a transcript of Dr. Kurt Brenner’s remarks at the home of Medicine International’s Director, Russell Manning, during a May Day party in Manhattan a few days earlier.

Kiril found what he was looking for all too quickly.

“I must confess that I’m offended by my government’s behavior. Spying in this day and age? Despicable!”

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

Kiril made himself read it again. He read it twice more, as if the repetition forced him to believe what he was reading.

How could Dr. Kurt Brenner disparage America—a country that, more than any other, was the very personification of freedom?

He shook off a sense of sacrilege so pungent it filled his mouth with bile. A prominent American heart surgeon, a man whose profession was saving lives, being deferential to the ambassador of a slave state!

Kiril was slipping the papers back into the file when he noticed a thick batch stapled together—roughly twenty pages of a medical report about the next generation of heart-lung machines. Grateful for the distraction, he dug in and was soon mesmerized by the new technology available in the West. He was roughly halfway through when he came upon a 5-by-7-inch photograph—a mistake, he figured. Why else would a photograph have been stapled into the middle of a report?

The first thing that registered was the name typed at the bottom of the photograph: DR. KURT BRENNER.

Then he was staring at the man. Brenner’s hair was white, in stark contrast to the deep tan of his skin. His eyes were dark brown, his cheekbones high. His mouth curved with amusement—and something else, something Kiril couldn’t quite put a name to.  Something he didn’t like. Still, apart from certain dissimilar features and the man’s fashionable attire and self-assured sophistication, the resemblance was startling.

Kiril was a consummate realist. Brenner was no mirror image . . . and yet did he dare hope?

The office was cold.  Even so, drops of perspiration appeared on his neck and slipped down to his shoulder blades. Had Aleksei seen the photograph? Doubtful. His brother would have had no interest in such a technical paper. Even if Aleksei had glanced at it accidentally, surely he’d have called it to Kiril’s attention. He slipped the photo into his pocket and tuned in to Aleksei’s voice through the slightly open office door.

“—no time for your petty problems,” Aleksei was saying, his tone a mix of impatience and anger. “The repairs will have to wait. After all, Glienicker Bridge has been collapsing ever since the war. My orders from General Nemerov are to keep all unauthorized personnel off the bridge until the investigation is complete. Your orders are to set up the necessary dredging equipment before I get there . . .
Three
weeks
? . . . Godammit! Let me know as soon as you get the equipment back from Lake Constance. It’s important we dredge up Brodsky’s lighter. The General’s been pushing me hard. 
Why
? A would-be defector named Stepan Brodsky, who just
happened
to be a Soviet Air Force Captain, and who just
happened
to work for me. Who just
happened
to organize my part of the security for the Four-Power summit and just
happened
to almost pull off that defection on Glienicker Bridge.  Oh, and Brodsky’s last act on earth just
happened
to prevent me from obtaining his cigarette lighter. What do you suppose was in that goddamn lighter, Emil—cotton?!”

Kiril was stunned.

Stepan’s cigarette lighter was still missing? If they were dredging, he must have pushed it into the Havel River
!

As he waited Aleksei out, Kiril worked calmly, stoically, on planting the germ of an idea that, despite Aleksei’s paranoia, just might prove irresistible.