“We're obviously not confronted with a routine rescue operation.” He pursed his lips pensively. “I want you to sit on this one, Jon. Give it top priority. I want results.”
Howell nodded.
“The F-15 is your baby,” the General continued. “Has been all along. And you've also been briefed on the XM-9 project.” He glanced at the folder on his desk. “Do whatever you have to do, but—” he looked soberly at the junior officer—“stir up the least amount of turbulence possible.”
“Yes, sir.” Howell nodded.
“Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Howell turned to leave. General Ryan stopped him.
“Jon,” he said earnestly, “we're dealing with a high-security matter. You're juggling a basket of eggs. Easy does it…”
5
Only a single, feeble light bulb provided illumination on the narrow stair landing of the old apartment building — barely enough to identify the green uniforms so familiar to the people of East Berlin. The two men standing before a glass-paned door belonged to the Volkspolizei—Vopos. The People's Police. With black-gloved hand one of them rapped imperiously on the door. He let only a few seconds go by before he banged on one of the glass panes with his fist. In the hallway beyond, a light went on, casting a pale yellow glow out onto the landing. The fist grew more insistent.
A shadow showed indistinctly in the frosted-glass door panes. With obvious apprehension the voice of a man called out:
“Wer ist da?”
“Police. Open up!” the Vopo ordered brusquely.
There was the rattle of a chain being removed, the sounds of a bolt being drawn back and a latch unlocked. The door was opened and an elderly man stood silently in the doorway. His hair tousled, his eyes sleep-puffed, he looked frightened.
“You are Dr. Wilhelm Krebbs?” the Vopo asked gruffly.
The old man nodded. Nothing has changed, he thought bleakly. Nothing…
“I am,” he answered. “What—”
The Vopo cut him off. “You are to come with us,” he said. “Now.”
For a brief moment Krebbs stood frozen.
“You will allow me to get dressed?” he inquired. “Or must I come like this?” He pulled at the frayed old robe he held around him.
“Be quick about it,” the Vopo snapped.
Krebbs nodded. He turned and walked down the hallway.
The two men followed.
The night streets of the city were all but deserted as the police car sped toward the Stadtmitte some five kilometers from the Weissensee residential district where Krebbs had his flat. The old man huddled silently in the back seat next to one of the Vopos. They took the most direct route, cutting through side streets where the grim evidence of the destruction suffered by Berlin during the war still remained. The headlights of the car swept across the old ruins. Momentarily the beams captured a sign erected in the rubble — a ghostly warning from the past:
EINSTURZGEF AHR
Betreten verboten!
DANGER OF COLLAPSE
Entrance forbidden!
Forbidden. Krebbs sighed. Nothing has changed, he thought once more.
He had already guessed where he was being taken. To one of the new government buildings on Unter den Linden. He was not able to keep from feeling increasingly uneasy as they drew nearer to their goal.
He glanced at a long red banner strung across the front of a huge building under construction:
WIRKSAM PRODUZIEREN — FÜR DICH, FÜR DEINEN BETRIEB, FÜR UNSEREN SOZIALISTISCHEN FRIEDENSSTAAT — D.D.R.
PRODUCE EFFICIENTLY — FOR YOURSELF, FOR YOUR FIRM, FOR OUR PEACEFUL SOCIALIST STATE — D.D.R.
Posters. Banners. Slogans. Nothing changed…
He swallowed his bitterness. D.D.R. — the German Democratic Republic. Without mirth he recalled the cruel joke bantered about by the West Berliners: D.D.R. does not stand for Deutsche Demokratische Republik, they laughed, but for Der Doofe Rest, The Stupid Leftovers…
Leftovers, yes. But is it stupidity to have no choice?
The big new building on Unter den Linden near the Spree River looked forbidding — and somehow foreboding. It was dark except for the entrance hall and a row of windows on the third floor. The police car came to a halt before the main entrance and Krebbs was marched inside.
With a minimum of words, mutttered out of earshot of their subject, the two Vopos received a receipt for him from a sullen officer, and Krebbs was turned over to two flat-eyed guards. Without a word they marched him up a sweeping staircase to the offices above.
When the man sitting in the office finally looked up from the clutter of paperwork on his desk, his face broke into a wide smile — as if someone had pulled the switchcord on a light. It was not a pretty sight. The grimace never reached the eyes. Only the bloodless lips seemed to move as if totally separate from the rest of his face. “Ah, Dr. Krebbs!” he exclaimed.
He stood up and came around the massive desk. He walked up to the waiting Krebbs, who stood just inside the door, flanked by the two guards.
Obviously a man of importance, Krebbs thought uneasily. His office was richly furnished albeit with a heavy touch. Large, expensively framed portraits of East German leaders adorned the walls, and at one end of the room a comfortable sofa and several leather easy chairs were grouped around a solid oak coffee table. Krebbs judged the man to be his own age — perhaps a year or two older. Sixty-five? Corpulent, balding, he wore a three-piece suit which somehow seemed out of keeping. A heavy gold watch chain ran from a pocket on one side of his vest through a buttonhole to a pocket on the other side. It gave him a peculiarly old-fashioned look. There was something disturbing about the man. Krebbs thought he knew what it was. The man was an ex-Nazi. Everyone knew that the most avid Nazis made the best Communists. He seemed cordial — but there was an oddly chilling effect to his cordiality.
“So good of you to come, Herr Doktor.” His voice was deep, beautifully modulated. “A pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand.
Krebbs took it. “Of course,” he muttered uncomfortably. “Of course…” He glanced at the two guards.
The official nodded to them. “Leave us,” he said, obvious authority in his voice. The guards came to attention and left. Krebbs was led to the coffee table. On it had been placed a cut-crystal carafe and two brandy glasses.
“Sit down, my dear Herr Doktor, sit down,” the official urged. “I am quite sure you will not mind a little brandy.” He chuckled and smiled his switchcord smile. “It is such an ungodly hour.”
He poured two generous portions of brandy and held up his snifter, cradled in his hand.
“Zum wohl, Herr Doktor!”
Krebbs accepted his glass. He was nonplussed. “Thank you, Herr…?”
The man's eyes widened in consternation.
“Ah, forgive me, my dear Herr Doktor Krebbs,” he exclaimed expansively. “How very thoughtless of me. I am Colonel Gerhardt Scharff. Ministry of State Security.” He paused, looked closely at Krebbs. “Foreign Intelligence.”
The startled look that flitted across his visitor's face was not lost upon the Colonel. He was satisfied. He leaned toward Krebbs and spoke in a confidential, almost conspiratorial voice.
“I shall be brief, Herr Doktor, in view of the hour. Come straight to the point.” Again he peered closely at his visitor. “You were an associate of Dr. Wernher von Braun, were you not?” It was obvious he already knew the answer. “In the development of the — eh, V-2 rocket?”