“So many tragic stories,” Aleksei mused. “Some eighty thousand of my Soviet comrades died fighting to rid Berlin of the Nazi scum.”
Aleksei paused as Brenner reached into his pocket for a cigarette, his hand surprisingly steady.
I’m impressed, Brenner. Let’s see how long it lasts.
“I still have vivid memories of one story in particular. We ran up against a repatriation problem after millions of my fellow citizens had been kidnapped by the Nazis. But somehow a group of orphaned Ukrainian children—refugees from one of the Nazi death camps—became unwitting pawns in an exchange of favors between a Russian officer and an American GI. By the time the children were turned over to us to be repatriated to their homeland, they were in a frightful state, having been shunted from one place to another.”
Aleksei paused to shake his head regretfully. To more fully enjoy Brenner’s fixed stare at a vase of flowers on a coffee table.
“But those were chaotic times so no one thought to ease the transition for these innocents,” he said softly. “No one reassured them that a soldier in a Russian uniform was a far cry from a Nazi one. As they were being led away for repatriation by Red Cross volunteers, seven of the children committed suicide.”
Genuine gasps throughout the room.
“They leaped into the Havel River before anyone could stop them,” he continued. “Of course, you Americans could hardly criticize our well-intentioned repatriation policy,” Aleksei said, his eyes boring into Brenner’s. “Many of our people were able to return to their homeland with official American help.”
Adrienne had had enough. “You really are too modest about what America’s ‘official help’ consisted of, Colonel,” she said with acid contempt. “My country did indeed help your country repatriate over a million refugees. The program, if I’m not mistaken, was named Operation Keelhaul. I feel compelled to add that those unfortunates were so eager to be repatriated that many of them slashed their wrists, jumped off roofs, and dove out of windows rather than return to your Soviet paradise.”
Good girl, Aleksei thought, aware that he and Malik were the only ones in the room enjoying the heavy silence and averted eyes. He looked pointedly at Kurt Brenner as if willing the man to read his thoughts.
Now you know what to expect should your lovely wife discover your sordid past. Your options narrow, Dr. Brenner. Defect, and you keep your dark secret. Defy me, and that secret will be exposed—and not just to your wife. To people all over the world who admire and respect you.
The director of the clinic glanced up as the door opened. Relief in his voice, he welcomed the new arrival. “Herr Roeder! Herr Ernst Roeder, ladies and gentlemen, here to take photographs for Neues Deutschland.”
Polite scattered applause followed.
Aleksei happened to note Adrienne’s recognition of the name but had no time to speculate about it. Luka Rogov had tapped him lightly on the shoulder, then whispered something in his ear.
“I fear my presence here has been somewhat disruptive,” Aleksei apologized to the room at large. “Please continue your discussion while I attend to a private matter.”
As he stood up, he gestured toward Kiril. “I feel sure my brother, Dr. Kiril Andreyev, will enjoy reciting the new oath our young physicians take before entering the profession. It should make a fitting photograph for Neues Deutschland, Herr Roeder, especially if you write some of your inspiring copy to accompany it.”
As Luka followed him out, Aleksei heard snatches of Kiril’s monotone “—work in good conscience wherever the interests of society require… guided in all actions by the principles of communist morality… remember one’s responsibility before the people and the Soviet State—”
Leaving the room, Aleksei tore open the envelope Luka had just been given by Lieutenant Barkov, not knowing what to expect from the microfilm in Stepan Brodsky’s cigarette lighter.
Stunned at what the print revealed.
“May 1, Andreyev, U2, Summit, Walkout, Leverage, Berlin, Nuclear”—seven words, followed by a date. In the bottom left-hand corner, he thought he saw a few more numbers and what looked like a Chinese character, but they were so tiny as to be unreadable and of no significance compared to what was legible.
The significance of the words and what they implied was devastating. Aleksei had assigned Stepan Brodsky to work out security arrangements. But in order to do his job effectively, he had to be made privy to the U2-summit plan. Knowing he’d be in Potsdam, only a half-mile from the West across Glienicker Bridge, Brodsky probably hoped to expose the state secrets of the U2 summit’s demise as a bargaining chip for exfiltration out of East Germany. The key words—only seven of them!—would have enabled him to recount the entire story.
But something must have gone wrong. Why else would he have made a run for the West side of the bridge?
Was anyone else in on the plan? Kiril, perhaps?
Aleksei quickly dismissed that possibility for three compelling reasons. The first was geographical. Kiril wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near Potsdam. The second was that Luka Rogov stuck to Kiril like flypaper—and for that matter, so did his lovely girlfriend, Galina Barkova.
Aleksei didn’t linger on the third reason… even as he felt himself slipping into the first stage of the old terror. He refused to entertain the possibility that his own brother had committed treason because it would spell the end of his career, if not his life.
Gradually, Aleksei’s survival instincts kicked in. Why not foist the blame on Colonel Emil von Eyssen? After all, Brodsky’s defection attempt took place in East Germany. It was von Eyssen’s responsibility to secure Glienicker Bridge. It made sense.
More important, it was plausible.
As for General Nemerov, Aleksei felt sure he could somehow finesse what he reported to Nemerov about the cigarette lighter’s microfilm—especially if he could sweeten the pot with Dr. Kurt Brenner’s defection.
Maybe, just maybe, he could get out of this mess with his skin intact.
As was his habit, Aleksei began talking aloud as he tried to organize the few facts he had. “If there’s microfilm, obviously there has to have been a camera of some kind. Who had access to one? What did it look like?”
Luka tapped his shoulder. “A flat, metal thing?” he asked.
A miniature camera. Of course!
“You saw somebody with one, Luka?”
“American lady keep one inside her pocket book. Is there every time I search. She take pictures only with big camera. But soon as helicopter land, me and Barkova see her use small camera for first time.”
“Go back inside and bring Galina Barkova to me,” Aleksei said.
The minute Galya stepped outside, the door swinging closed behind her, Aleksei said, “Tell me everything you know about Brenner’s wife using a miniature camera.”
The bitch hesitated.
Aleskei glared at her. “Now,” he snapped.
“It was when our helicopter landed on a plowed field—the mass grave where they bury traitors,” Galya said, her voice hushed. “I told her not to.”
“Go back inside,” he said. “You have two people to watch from now on.”
Aleksei waited a few minutes before reentering the clinic. Adrienne Brenner was engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation with Ernst Roeder. Aleksei could not escape the thought of how the lady had recognized the mere mention of Roeder’s name.
Everything clicked into place.