He turned, then stood still, quietly sipping his beer, looking down at one of the cots where a woman was sleeping. Her body was covered by a thin white sheet. She was fully clothed, wearing a pair of worn jeans, a long sleeve white blouse, topped with a red, wool pullover sweater. She stirred slightly and turned away from the wall, her long hair falling across her cheek. He left the room, locking the door behind him.
The woman stayed motionless and looked toward the door through squinted eyes just as a precaution in case her captor hadn't really left. Satisfied he'd gone, she sat up and slid her long legs over the edge of the cot. As she stood, one of the uneven legs of the cot struck the floor. She hesitated for a moment, watching the door. Satisfied no one heard the noise, she tugged on her sweater, stretching it till it hung loosely around her narrow hips. Without bothering to put on her loafers, she tip-toed toward the door, trying to remain quiet. She leaned close and placed her ear against it, listening for any sounds coming from the kitchen. Hearing the twins playing, she made her way over to the window and peeked out of the side of the blanket. Trying to escape would be not be wise, especially knowing someone was waiting outside. She had caught only glimpses of the guard since they brought her to the flat. There had been times when she heard clanking sounds on the fire escape, but she could never really be sure where he might be located.
Her mind was filled with questions: How much longer would it be before Steiner would tire of keeping her alive or from harm? On several occasions he'd prevented his thugs from raping her. But she saw a familiar look in his eyes, one that seemed to say he wanted her for himself. He hadn't tried to touch her in any way since bringing her and the children to this place. She rubbed her forearm thinking of how he had grabbed her when she tried to run, leaving a bruise that was just beginning to fade. And what about Eric? Would he find a way to come back? Or would they find him first?
As she stepped away from the window, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The strain, worry, and anger she felt were taking their toll. Her peaches and cream skin now looked drawn and sallow. She lightly ran a finger across dark circles under her tired eyes. She noticed that even her hair no longer had its luster. She bent forward and ran her fingers through the tresses, occasionally catching them in a tangle. As she stood up, she threw her head back, shaking the long strands back and forth before gathering them into a ponytail and securing it with the rubber band from her wrist.
She walked quietly across the room, then lifted the canvas shoulder bag from the chair. She picked up the book of matches and started to light the lamp, but then she thought otherwise as she glanced at the bedroom door. Rummaging through the bag, her hand felt the round, smooth tube. She took it out and removed the silver-colored cap. But she thought twice. This isn't the time. She replaced the cap and dropped it back into the bag.
Patience was not a virtue that Klaus Steiner was known for, and he went back into the living room to wait for his two men. He pulled his Walther PPK from his back waistband and placed it on one of the benches. He sat at an angle so he could watch the front door, then propped his feet up on the other bench, resting his back against one side of the brick fireplace. A small coal-burning stove occupied a spot in front of the fireplace.
He thought about Richter and Schinkel. No matter what assignment he gave them, he never questioned their methods and always counted on their thoroughness. But today they were long overdue from their appointed task. As for Otto Neus, he hadn't been seen or heard from for over a day, although it was something that didn't surprise Steiner. Compared with other members of the group, Neus was a completely different story.
For the past two months Neus' enthusiasm for the project had waned considerably. He'd become nothing but a pain in the ass, questioning every order and plan that Steiner designed. For weeks Steiner made it a point to never tell Neus the whole truth, never allowing him to go to the lab or come to this flat, never telling him Greta’s whereabouts. He regretted not having given Schinkel the order to put Neus away permanently. But perhaps he would still have that opportunity.
He pushed up the sleeves of his green wool sweater as he smugly thought: As intelligent as those goddamn scientists think they are, their common sense is non-existent.
Growing up during post-World War II in a city nearly destroyed by Allied bombs, Steiner had to learn strategies for survival. He prided himself on his “street smarts,” something the so-called intelligent scientists didn't possess. For that, he felt superior to them all. He thought how much greed, money, and fear played such an important role in his accomplishments to date. As a man who never showed emotion, his demeanor was an important part of maintaining control of himself and the group. But a brief, almost unnoticeable crack surfaced from his normally stoic expression as he thought about how luck had turned his way when he found the letter.
During the interim when Eric Brennar was waiting for extraction from East Berlin, he made contact with Von Wenzel regularly. Even though the scientist was unaware of Brennar being CIA, he had taken him into his confidence, freely discussing possible methods for escaping to the West. Brennar reassured Von Wenzel that if they were ever in a situation where face-to-face contact was no longer possible, the scientist could count on correspondence becoming their means of staying in touch. Brennar knew the risk he'd be taking in contacting Von Wenzel.
The sudden disappearance of Brennar had left Von Wenzel shaken, fearing some terrible harm had come to him. But beyond that, a bone-chilling thought shook him to his very core. He'd been so free with his words while talking to Brennar. Could it be that Brennar was STASI? Did Von Wenzel now have to worry that he and his family would be arrested? But then, one afternoon, a great sense of relief came over him when he received Brennar's one and only note.
In the assumed safety of his own home, and with his wife and children finishing dinner in the kitchen, Von Wenzel excused himself and retreated to the bedroom. When he opened the envelope, all he removed was a single, standard-size white, cotton handkerchief. After unfolding the handkerchief, he held it above the flame of a lighted candle, staring impatiently as the letters slowly appeared. Brennar had used one of the simplest methods known as 'secret' writing. The message had been written with a matchstick dipped in lemon juice. Heat from the candle's flame turned the dried juice brown, revealing Brennar’s words. The message had been brief. Brennar appealed to Von Wenzel to contact him with any news on Greta. He only gave a phone number as a point of contact, feeling more secure with that than having to reveal Marie's address.
Later that evening Von Wenzel received a frenzied call from Herman Schmitt at the university. A number of students had organized what was scheduled to be a peaceful demonstration, but everyone was fully aware those often turned violent. As a precautionary measure, Schmitt requested Von Wenzel come to the university to assist him in collecting and securing valuable data from the law library. In his haste to leave, Von Wenzel absent-mindedly tucked the handkerchief into his overcoat pocket. For all the months Von Wenzel and Heisen had worked in the lab, not once had they even imagined that someone could be searching their apartments, clothes, or belongings while they worked.