East Germany
IT was the most comfortable bed Verago had ever known. A soft mattress, a cool sheet, a feather-filled duvet covering him.
He stretched out, luxuriating in the sheer sensual delight.
Then he sat bolt upright. Awareness and bewilderment took over.
He looked around the bedroom, with its thick pile carpet and big windows. He could even hear birds singing.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He was still unsteady on his legs and utterly confused.
He was wearing pajamas, and he felt clean. refreshed. Somebody must have washed him. He touched his chin; and shaved him too.
Slowly he tottered to the window and looked out. Be
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low stretched a beautiful garden, with a well-mown lawn as its centerpiece. He could just see rose bushes and a weeping willow tree. An empty deck chair stood invitingly on the lawn.
“My God! You’ll catch cold,” said a woman’s voice.
He turned around .md saw a buxom, rosy-faced woman
in the doorway. She had flaxen hair tied in a bun on top
and although she beamed at him, her eyes were wary. She was carrying a tray.
“Back into bed with you, at once,” she ordered like a reproving matron. A prison matron, it flashed through his mind.
“Where is this?” asked Verago.
“Into bed,” the woman snapped good-naturedly.
He got back in and pulled the duvet up. She dumped the tray on his lap.
“Eat your breakfast,” she said. Suddenly she broke into a bright smile. “It’s nice to see you about again.”
Her bonhomie worried him.
“If you need anything, just ask,” she said, waddling to the door. Then she was gone.
Verago was starving and it was an appetizing breakfast. Orange juice. Tinned pears. Two eggs, sunnyside up, just the way he liked them. Crisp strips of bacon, done the American way. A pot of coffee and toast and English marmalade.
He shook his head in disbelief, then he tucked in.
After he’d finished breakfast, he lay back against the pillows, trying to collect his thoughts. But they were a crazy kaleidoscope of memories he couldn’t pin down. He had a vague recollection of some endless ride in a truck, being tied down like …
Or had that been a nightmare? Had he dreamed it all?
The buxom woman came in without knocking. She had his clothes over her arm.
“Here you are,” she announced, putting them on an armchair. “They’ve all been cleaned and pressed.”
She took the tray.
“Now have a bath. It’s next door, everything you need, soap and towels. Then get dressed. You haven’t got much time, you know.”
“Just a moment,” said Verago. “What’s your name?”
“Maria.”
“Well, Maria, what am I doing here? Who brought me here?”
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“Were the eggs all right?” she asked, and shut the door without waiting for Verago’s answer.
He had his bath, wallowing in the warm water, soaping himself like a man trying to wash away the stain of foulness. But he couldn’t get rid of his nagging unease.
Then he dressed. His clothes had been beautifully finished. Even the button that he’d lost from his collar had been replaced. And when he found his shoes at the end of the bed, they had been polished to a gleam.
He put on his jacket and froze. He took out a wallet from the inside pocket. The wallet the man Schultz had waved in his face. And his passport, and inside that, his army ID card.
He was perspiring and he felt weak. He sat down in the armchair and tried to work it out.
The room offered him no clues. An anonymous, flowery wallpaper, a print of some old castle on the opposite wall, a medieval map on another. He looked more closely. It was a sixteenth-century chart of the Baltic.
The door opened and Pech walked in. He stopped when he saw Verago.
“Tony!” he exclaimed delightedly. “You look great.”
He was wearing a grey suit and saw Verago eyeing it.
“Simpson’s,” Pech told him proudly. “Bought it on a trip to London when I was still my alter ego.”
“Where am I?” asked Verago.
“You were quite ill, you know. At one time I got really worried. You were out like a light. Gave me the shock of my life.”
Verago stared at him grimly. “I asked where am I?”
“Oh” Pech shrugged “a little village. I borrowed a friend’s house. Let you sleep.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going.”
“Where to?”
“Now, where do you think it could be?” Pech smiled, and his eyes twinkled “Home sweet home. I’m going to take you back to your people.”
“You are handing me over?” Verago couldn’t believe it.
“Well, I won’t come with you all the way,” said Pech. “IS might be a little awkward for me, crossing into the West sector. But I’ll wave you good-bye anyway.”
He suddenly looked concerned. “Have you got your papers?”
Verago patted his breast pocket. “Yes.”
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“Good. It would be just like those idiots to forget to return them.”
He glanced around the room. “Sure you haven’t forgotten anything?”
“I wasn’t exactly overloaded with luggage,” Verago rot marked dryly.
“Let’s go then,” said Pech, holding the door open.
Outside the bedroom was a landing and a richly carpeted staircase leading down to the entrance hall. It was an old house and very ornate. A big tapestry, with an ancient coat of arms, hung on one wall.
“You’ve got aristocratic friends,” observed Verago as they descended.
Pech just smiled.
Before the front door stood a black Mercedes. Pech opened the passenger door like a chauffeur.
“Your carriage awaits, sir,” he announced with mock civility. “I hope you trust my driving.”
The buxom Maria was nowhere in sight.
“All set?” asked Pech.
Verago nodded.
But he knew it couldn’t be just this simple.
Zur Lezten Instanz
They drove along a country road, past the tall trees of a wood stretching either side, and then into open countryside, dotted with a few farms and a line of telegraph poles.
“I wish there was time to show you Potsdam,” said Pech. “It’s very impressive.”
A small convoy of six People’s Army trucks was ahead of them, and Pech followed it for a mile or so. Verago could see steel-helmeted soldiers in the back of the trucks. Then Pech got impatient and, sounding his horn, overtook the convoy.
So far they hadn’t seen any civilian traffic, or even people. Only soldiers seemed in evidence.
“Where are we?” asked Verago.
‘What was Steinstuecken, over there,” said Pech.
“Where do I cross back into the city?”
“Not Checkpoint Charlie.” Pech grinned. “Something a little more discreet, okay?”
“F’ar from here?”
“Anybody would think you’re tired of our hospitality.”
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They came to an inn. In gothic lettering it proclaimed its name: Zur Letzten Instanz
“How appropriate,” said Pech. He saw Verago looking puzzled.
” ‘The Last Resort,’ ” he translated. He stopped the car in the cobbled forecourt.
“Let’s have, as you say, a quick one,” said Pech. “A good-bye drink. For old time’s sake.”
Verago followed him into the old inn, which they had to themselves. He didn’t feel like a drink. He wanted to cross to the other side as quickly as possible.
But Pech was in no hurry.
“Your very good health,” he toasted, after the landlord had uncorked a dust-covered bottle of wine from the cellar. It was a superb vintage. Pech knew what to order.
“I’ll miss you, Tony,” he aid, a little sadly. “I hate saying good-bye.”
“Well,” said Verago, “I’U be glad to get back. I’m sure you understand.”
“You think Tauber is worth all this?” -
Verago stared at him. “Tauber? Who’s Tauber?”
“Nobody told you, I suppose. Your Captain Tower. You know what his real name is? Tauber. Johann Herman Tauber. That’s what he was born.”
He let it sink in, looking pleased at the effect.
“Yes. A German refugee. His parents left early. In 1933. Went to Delaware, of all places. Changed their name to Tower.”
He sipped some wine and smacked his lips. “Excellent stuff, this.”
“I gathered he speaks German like a native,” said Verago.
“Obviously. Perfect for undercover work.” He gave Verago a sharp glance. “All this is news to you, is it?”
Verago stayed silent.
“In this kind of work, you have to be unemotional,” Pech went on, twirling the green stem of his wine glass. “Stay detached.”
“Like you?”
“Precisely. Tower has the wrong background. His people having to flee from Hitler, losing everything, penniless. It’s made him too involved.”
Why are you telling me all this? asked an inner voice. Why are you opening the dossier for me? But aloud
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Verago simply said, “I don’t follow. What do you mean, too involved?”
“Of course you know. Berlin is going to be sealed off. Divided in two. Cut in half. Regretfully, people will have to be … separated. A million people will be locked in. It’s sad, of course, but it has to be.” Pech’s mouth was firmly set. “The good captain couldn’t stomach it.”
Pech poured the last of the wine.
“I’d like another bottle, but I’m driving,” he said ruefully. “The Grepos are very hot on drunken drivers. Worse than the Vopos.”
“Berlin,” said Verago. “You were talking about Berlin being cut in two….”
Pech sighed. “We have to do it, Tony. Your side recognizes it as well. We can’t continue to lose the cream of our people. Three thousand a day. No country can sun vive that. And your side can’t cope with the refugees. Three and a half million so far. They can’t control the 900d any more. They’re being swamped. So we’ve made a deal. East and West. Berlin must be divided for the good of all. For once we are allies.”
He smiled. “Now do you see?” -
“A deal …” repeated Verago, almost to himself.
The stupid cow Helga defected with the secret agreement. She took the minutes at the planning meeting in Pankow. Tower brought her across to the West. Your people told him to forget about it, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he was going to shout it from the rooftops. Too emotional, you see. East and West can’t be seen to be making such a deal. He had to be “
“Put out of circulation?” suggested Verago.
“Until it’s a fait accompli.”
“That,” said Verago, “was one of Hitler’s favorite expressions.”
“Was it?” Pech’s look was cold. He paid the landlord, who took the money respectfully. He had seen Pech’s official license plate.
“Let’s go,” said Pech.
As they got into the car, Pech’s jacket pulled to one side and Verago caught a quick glimpse of a pistol’s butt.
The car continued along the road, passing two observation towers from which gray-clad soldiers watched them through field glasses. They passed a Volksarmee patrol jeep, which contrasted with the rural scene of cows graze ing near a farm house.
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Pech glanced at Verago. “You’re very quiet, my friend,” he said.
“I was thinking.”
“Oh? What about?”
“I was wondering why you told me,” said Verago. Why you told me everything.”
Pech accelerated a little. “Well,” he said, “for one thing …”
‘iYes?,’
Pech smiled. “Because it doesn’t matter anymore.”
And suddenly Verago knew why Pech was packing a gun.
Death Strip
A couple of miles farther on, Verago became aware of the sound of a helicopter, buzzing like an angry wasp. He caught a glimpse of it, hovering briefly and then swinging away into the distance. It had a five-pointed red star.
“They like to keep an eye on the border,” said Pech.
It was flat countryside around them now. On the left, row after row of tidy, orderly fields, totally empty. In the distance Verago could see a wire fence.
Pech pulled up and cut the engine. “Well,” he said, “here we are.”
Verago looked around. “What do you mean? Where?”
“This is where you cross over,” said Pech.
‘if can’t see a frontier post. There’s no crossing here.. Verago felt fear gnawing in his stomach.
“Can’t you see the sign?” asked Pech.
It had a death’s head, and German and Russian lettering.
“That says ‘Danger,’ ” said Verago slowly.
“Exactly. Get out, please.” The pistol was in Pech’s hand, pointing straight at Verago.
“Are are you crazy?”
“I told you. Just discreet.”
The pistol made a little movement. Its meaning was unmistakable.
Slowly Verago climbed out. Pech followed, the pistol never wavering.
“This is the zonal boundary,” Pech said gently. “Normally of course people don’t cross at this point. There’s a technical problem. You see, those fields are the death strip.”
Verago’s throat was dry. “So so what do I do?”
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“Cross. Just walk across. Quite simple.”
“But that …”
“That’s right,” said Pech. “You’ll walk into a highly sophisticated minefield. With specially planted antipersonnel mines. Half a dozen steps
…”
“Nobody … Iives.”
“Correct.” He waved the gun slightly. “Come along. I thought you were so eager to get to the other side. Start walking.”
“No,” said Verago.
Pech shrugged. “Please yourself. Then I will just shoot you, In self-defence. The other way it looks better, of course. Fugitive American killed trying to flee across the death strip. But I don’t mind.”
Verago stood motionless.
‘The walk will do you good,” Pech said, and laughed.
The edge of the field was two feet away. It looked so innocent. Just empty farmland, so inviting for a stroll to the other side.
“If you’re lucky, you’ll be halfway across before you step on one,” Pech said encouragingly. “And I won’t let you lie in agony, I promise. If it just blows off a leg or two but doesn’t kill you, I’ll put you out of your misery. I am quite a good shot from this distance. I feel I owe you that for friendship’s sake.”
And then he fired a shot. The bullet kicked up the earth two inches from Verago’s feet.
“I mean it,” said Pech. “You walk or I kill you now.”
Verago looked backward. He felt the sweat trickle down his neck. He wanted to be sick with fear. And anger. Anger at this murdering bastard.