State of the Union (16 page)

Herman returned from making his phone call just as the rumble of an approaching train could be heard.

“Did you get a hold of Sebastian?” asked Harvath, his eyes glued to the black and white monitor inside the station manager’s glass booth.

“Yes and he’s going to do what we asked, but you need to know that he and his men are very upset and want Überhof dead.”

“If he’d killed one of my teammates I’d want him dead too, but this is our only chance to get to Gary.”

“And they understand that. They’re professionals. They’ll do what they’re supposed to do,” replied Herman.

“But when it’s over,” offered Harvath, “I don’t care what they do with the guy.”

“I thought you might feel that way. Let’s make a move for the platform. That train’s not going to sit there for long.”

The buzzer, which signaled that the doors were about to close, was already sounding when the pair hit the bottom of the escalator and ran for the first car. They passed a large mirror mounted at the end of the platform that allowed the train’s engineer to look back down the entire length of his train and make sure everyone was onboard before pulling out of the station. As they jumped aboard the train, something in the mirror caught Harvath’s eye.

“He got off!” yelled Scot as he turned and lunged for the closing doors.

Startled passengers watched as the two men pried the doors open and squeezed out of the train.

“You’d better be sure about this,” said Herman as he looked up and down the platform as the train began to pull away, “because I don’t see him.”

“Give me the scope,” said Harvath.

Herman handed it to him and then casually walked along the edge of the platform covertly studying the faces in each of the bright yellow U-Bahn cars as the train picked up speed and pulled out of the station.

Harvath didn’t bother examining the faces of the U-Bahn passengers. He knew Überhof had gotten off. It had just been a flash in the mirror, but Harvath was confident about what he had seen. He was also pretty sure he knew where the man had gone.

It took the Specter scope less than ten seconds to power all the way up. At the far end of the platform, Harvath held it up to his eye and peered into the heavy blackness of the faintly illuminated train tunnel.

“Unless he was lying down on the floor,” said Herman as he rejoined Harvath, “he wasn’t on that train.”

“I know,” replied Scot as he adjusted the Specter.

“So where is he?”

Harvath handed Herman the scope and said, “About fifty meters down along the wall on the right hand side. Take a look for yourself.”

After watching Überhof pick his way down the tunnel for several moments, Herman asked, “What the hell is that asshole up to?”

“I don’t know,” answered Harvath, pulling out his H&K and screwing on the silencer, “but I think we ought to go find out.”

T
hey followed Überhof for over fifteen minutes until he came to a short metal service door and disappeared through it. When they passed through the door, they found that it led to a long, low ceilinged tunnel. Several minutes later, it opened up and they were amazed by what they saw.

“What is this place?” asked Harvath as he shined his SureFire flashlight around the abandoned, cobweb-covered U-Bahn station.

“
Geisterbahnhöfe
,” replied Herman. “Ghost station. I didn’t think any of these existed anymore.”

“What the hell is a
ghost station
?” demanded Harvath as he painfully pulled himself up onto the filthy platform.

With its dreary green tiles, old-fashioned signs and the Communist era propaganda posters hanging above the benches, the station looked like it had been frozen in time—a true relic of the Cold War. Harvath could see an old newspaper kiosk that must have once sold cigarettes and magazines, but which had been retrofitted into a machine gun nest, as well as Communist era propaganda posters hanging above the benches.

“When the Soviets built the wall, they split off the subway system in East Berlin into its own network. Because of a quirk in geography, two of the West Berlin lines needed to pass briefly through East Berlin before circling back around to the West. It was very strange. You could ride through East Berlin and see stations like this completely abandoned except for the stern-faced soldiers standing on the platforms with machineguns.”

“And those abandoned stations were what you called
Geisterbahnhöfe
?”

“Yes, but after the reunification, all of the stations were supposedly reopened.”

“This one must not have gotten the memo,” replied Harvath, as he ran his finger along the dirty tile.

“You know, it’s strange,” said Herman. “I don’t even know what line this is on. I am trying to figure out what might be above us.”

“What about this?” said Harvath as lifted an old metal directional sign from the floor, blew the dust off of it and showed it to Herman. “
Russische Botschaft
? I know
Russische
is German for Russian, but what is
Botschaft
?”

“Embassy,” replied Herman solemnly. “Russian Embassy. Jesus.”

Harvath studied the serious look on Herman’s face and said, “What is it?”

“Something very bad. The ground beneath Berlin is riddled with bunkers and networks of tunnels,” he answered. “The Gestapo built them under a direct order from the Führer. Not only were they used as fallout shelters, but also as interrogation facilities where some of the most horrific torture you could ever imagine was carried out.

“After the war, many Gestapo agents were absorbed by the Russians and placed into the
Ministerium für Statessicherheit
—”

“You mean the Stasi?” asked Harvath. “The East German secret police?”

“Yes. The old Gestapo agents trained many of the Stasi. I heard terrible stories when I was with the GSG9 of what went on down in these tunnels and forgotten bunkers. Many people were brought down here never to be seen or heard from again,” said Herman, who then realized the implication of his words and was quiet.

Harvath felt a chill run down his spine as he resigned himself to the only logical reason Überhof could have for keeping Gary Lawlor in this horrific sort of underworld. Pulling back the slide on his H&K, he verified that he had a round chambered and then activated the LaserLyte attached to the rail system beneath the barrel.

No words needed to be spoken between the two men. Harvath simply nodded his head and their search of the ghost station began in earnest.

Harvath held his pistol out in front with both hands while he and Herman cleared the station. So far, it was empty. Harvath was about ready to suggest that they go back down to the platform and search farther up the unknown line, when he saw something out of place across the lobby.

It was a vintage Soviet era cigarette machine, complete with a picture of Comrade Lenin puffing away on his favorite brand. Harvath walked over and began examining it from all angles.

“What are you doing?” said Herman as he joined him, careful to keep his voice down. “I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“I don’t, but doesn’t it seem odd to you that there was a kiosk on the platform that would have sold cigarettes and there’s also a cigarette machine here?”

“No, not really. Germans back then liked to smoke. In fact, we still like to.”

“And the fact that there are no other vending machines, no ticket machines or anything else still in this station doesn’t bother you?”

“Now that you mention it,” replied Herman, “a cigarette machine, especially back then, would have been worth a lot of money. If nothing else, you’d think some soldiers would have taken it at some point and sold it on the black market.”

“Exactly,” responded Harvath, who threw his shoulder up against the machine. “The way it’s wedged into this alcove, I can’t get it to budge. I think it must be bolted to the wall.”

“Move over,” said Herman. “Let me give it a try.”

Harvath got out of the way, and the enormous German planted his feet and then wrapped his huge arms around the thing. He tried three times to move it without success.

“Now I know why no one ever stole it,” he said as he gave up and took in a deep breath. “Something
is
holding it to that wall. But you can’t get to the bolts. How would you service it?”

“Good question. It doesn’t make sense, unless—” said Harvath, trailing off as an idea struck him and he illuminated the pull knobs on the front of the machine with his flashlight.

“What are you thinking?” asked Herman.

“Do you have any idea what kind of cigarettes Lenin smoked?”

“No, why?”

“Because the Soviets used to infuse a lot of their clandestine operations with symbolism. How about
Sobranies
?”

“The black Russian cigarettes?” responded Herman, confused. “How should I know?”

“Let’s give them a try,” said Harvath who pulled the handle and waited for something to happen.

“Maybe you should try putting some money in first.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Harvath, as he chose another handle. “How about
Sputnik
brand?”

Once again nothing happened.

“If you’d tell me what you’re trying to do, maybe I could help you,” offered Herman as he leaned his shoulder against the wall and tried to understand what Harvath was doing.

“Of course!” said Harvath, careful to remember to keep his voice down. “
Leningradskie
brand would have been his favorite. How stupid of me.”

Harvath pulled on the handle for
Leningradskie
cigarettes and to his surprise, it came out significantly further than the others. Nothing else happened.

“Maybe you should try an East German brand,” joked Herman.

“I can’t tell the difference,” replied Harvath. “Which one is East German?”

“Pull the knob for the
F6
smokes. It used to be quite popular in the East.”

Harvath did and just like the knob for
Leningradskie
cigarettes, this one also came out significantly farther than the others. He stood back from the machine and thought for a moment.

“I still say you need to put some money in,” quipped Herman.

“And I think its much easier than that once you figure it out,” said Harvath as he reproached the machine with a new idea and pulled the knobs for the
Leningradskie
and
F6
cigarette brands at the same time.

All of a sudden, there was a series of noises from inside the cigarette machine that sounded like heavy metal bars bumping over the teeth of thick metal tumblers. There was a groan of metal on metal as the entire tiled alcove, cigarette machine and all, shuddered and then began to swing inwards.

“Open sesame,” said Harvath as he raised his H&K and pointed it straight ahead.

“
Fick mich
,” joined Herman, drawing his second weapon.

With a Beretta .40-caliber 96 Stock pistol in each hand, he looked like some sort of modern day cowboy and Harvath told him as much.

“You’ll be glad I brought the twins,” answered Toffle, kissing both of the Berettas in turn. “Anyone who goes to this much trouble to conceal what they’re doing is not going to be very happy to see us coming.”

“Then let’s make sure they don’t, got it?”

“Do
I
have it? What am I, new? Maybe we should double check with Helga and Kristina here,” said Herman waving his pistols. “Do
you
have it, girls?”

“Very funny, Herman. Let’s just not fuck this up.”

Herman shook his head and the pair moved inside.

Following the dimly lit tunnel, they came upon two abandoned rooms that looked like they hadn’t been touched in half a century. Dust and cobwebs covered everything. They moved further down the hall and discovered a rusted door that looked like a ship’s bulkhead. Though they were somewhat muffled, Harvath could distinctly make out voices coming from the other side. As the voices weren’t speaking in English, he waved Herman over, and Herman pressed his ear up against the door as well.

“How many are in there?” Harvath asked.

“At least three, maybe more,” whispered Herman after listening for several moments.

“Can you tell if Gary is in there?”

“I don’t know. One of the men seems to be giving all of the orders, but his German is not very good. He says he’s come a long way and is very pissed off that the men have not done their job. He’s chewing one of them out for being late. I think the late man is Überhof. He says he was late because he was being followed, but he took care of the problem and no one followed him here.”

“Good,” replied Harvath, who then got up and signaled that he was going to take a look at the rest of the hallway.

Pipes of varying sizes were suspended from the ceiling and appeared to run the length of the tunnel. Like most of the bunkers and fallout shelters he had seen during his career, Harvath correctly assumed that the pipes were used to channel various utilities throughout the underground complex.

He came upon several more rooms, all more or less in varying states of neglect and disarray. It was hard to tell what sort of function they may have once served. All that mattered was that they were presently devoid of other human beings.

At the end of the hallway, Harvath was stopped dead in his tracks by another blast door with a red sign marked
Betriebsraum
, which was framed by two lightening bolts. Though Harvath had no idea what the word meant in German, he figured it was probably a mechanical room of some sort. Looking up, he saw that all of the utility pipes fed through the solid rock above the door and into whatever room lay on the other side. He tried spinning the large crank handle on the outside of the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Even when he tucked his H&K under his arm and ignored the searing pain in his side as he tried with both hands, nothing happened.

Harvath decided to forget the door and quickly made his way back up the tunnel to where Herman was still listening against the bulkhead door.

“Anything new?” he asked, taking up a position next to Toffle.

“I think there’s somebody else in the room with them.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because, they’re speaking English now.”

“Is it Gary?”

“I can only hear what sounds like questions. I thought I heard somebody responding, but now, there’s nothing. What do you want to do?” asked Herman, as he backed away from the door.

“You know what I want to do,” said Harvath, pulling two flashbang grenades from his coat pocket. “Are you ready?”

Herman Toffle patted his injured leg, the same leg that had forced him into early retirement from his beloved GSG9 position and responded, “I’ve been ready for this for a long time.”