from others.”
They stood at the truck’s tailgate, parked in a rubble-strewn lot. The region had once been a middle-class suburb skirting eastern Berlin’s outer border. The lot was now a gathering place for black marketeers. There were perhaps three dozen trucks, another dozen or so horse-drawn farm wagons, and twenty or thirty people displaying paltry wares on threadbare carpets or wheelbarrows or from boxes attached to bicycles. The atmosphere was very subdued. Jake was parked to one side, slightly removed from the others. His display of pots and pans and boots brought many stares, but few who even bothered to ask the prices. They seemed to simply accept that such things were beyond their reach.
“Hans resigned in protest of what he called a tragic repeat of Napoleon’s mistake,” Rolf went on. “But he did not say this openly. So the Russians were able to view this as an endorsement of their Communist cause. Which of course was nothing more than a means of hiding their true reason for letting him live.”
Jake found it difficult to watch the faces. They looked so tired, so resigned. This was far worse than anything he had seen in the days leading up to his Karlsruhe departure, and that had been a good half-year before. Unlike the constant banging and working and clearing and rebuilding which turned every city in the American sector into a unending din, here there was silence. Everywhere Jake looked, he saw the war’s remnants standing untouched by any sign of reconstruction. The people mirrored this strange vacuum. They did not even bother to meet his eyes. There appeared to be no room for hope, for bargaining, for anything save a tired envy at the wealth he had on display.
He glanced over at Rolf. The neat, nervous scientist was gone, replaced by a hollow-cheeked trader in denim and tattered sweater, his ratty beard flecked with traces of silver. Jake asked, “And what was their real reason?”
“That Hans was truly the brains behind the project’s success,” Rolf answered. “Not the name, you understand. Not the senior man who wore the medals and met with Hitler and was pictured in the press. The brains. Your people are right to want him.”
Despite Jake’s best driving and the newly acquired Soviet pass, they had almost not made it to the contact point on time. Driving in and around eastern Berlin had proved more difficult than Jake had thought possible, with numerous streets still blocked by collapsed buildings and a total lack of road signs. He had finally bribed a teenager with a pair of boots, and the youth had sat on the hood of their truck and directed them with hand signals. They had arrived at the market precisely five minutes before the prearranged contact time elapsed.
There was only a one-hour window each afternoon, a condition of working with local contacts from the British secret service. It had been necessary to go outside normal channels, since all their own men had vanished. The British had refused to give details—names, addresses, descriptions—much to Harry Grisholm’s chagrin. They had simply stated that if Jake were to appear at such and such a time and place, they would try and make contact. Try. No guarantees.
Jake had parked the truck, gone around to the back, and swiftly built a little barrier of bundles while Rolf had stood guard. He had then opened the compartment’s lid, watched as Hans Hechter blinked in the sudden light, and said quietly, “Five minutes. Stretch your legs, but don’t raise yourself up too far. If you hear a knocking, lie flat and pull the lid back down.”
Hechter had not replied, just lain there rubbing his eyes. His face was bloodied and swollen where Jake had hit him. Jake walked around to the side cannisters, poured water over his handkerchief, and then filled a cup. He brought both back, said, “I’m sorry for having hit you. But you were about to call me colonel and drop us all off the deep end.”
Hechter met his eye for the first
They stood at the truck’s tailgate, parked in a rubble-strewn lot. The region had once been a middle-class suburb skirting eastern Berlin’s outer border. The lot was now a gathering place for black marketeers. There were perhaps three dozen trucks, another dozen or so horse-drawn farm wagons, and twenty or thirty people displaying paltry wares on threadbare carpets or wheelbarrows or from boxes attached to bicycles. The atmosphere was very subdued. Jake was parked to one side, slightly removed from the others. His display of pots and pans and boots brought many stares, but few who even bothered to ask the prices. They seemed to simply accept that such things were beyond their reach.
“Hans resigned in protest of what he called a tragic repeat of Napoleon’s mistake,” Rolf went on. “But he did not say this openly. So the Russians were able to view this as an endorsement of their Communist cause. Which of course was nothing more than a means of hiding their true reason for letting him live.”
Jake found it difficult to watch the faces. They looked so tired, so resigned. This was far worse than anything he had seen in the days leading up to his Karlsruhe departure, and that had been a good half-year before. Unlike the constant banging and working and clearing and rebuilding which turned every city in the American sector into a unending din, here there was silence. Everywhere Jake looked, he saw the war’s remnants standing untouched by any sign of reconstruction. The people mirrored this strange vacuum. They did not even bother to meet his eyes. There appeared to be no room for hope, for bargaining, for anything save a tired envy at the wealth he had on display.
He glanced over at Rolf. The neat, nervous scientist was gone, replaced by a hollow-cheeked trader in denim and tattered sweater, his ratty beard flecked with traces of silver. Jake asked, “And what was their real reason?”
“That Hans was truly the brains behind the project’s success,” Rolf answered. “Not the name, you understand. Not the senior man who wore the medals and met with Hitler and was pictured in the press. The brains. Your people are right to want him.”
Despite Jake’s best driving and the newly acquired Soviet pass, they had almost not made it to the contact point on time. Driving in and around eastern Berlin had proved more difficult than Jake had thought possible, with numerous streets still blocked by collapsed buildings and a total lack of road signs. He had finally bribed a teenager with a pair of boots, and the youth had sat on the hood of their truck and directed them with hand signals. They had arrived at the market precisely five minutes before the prearranged contact time elapsed.
There was only a one-hour window each afternoon, a condition of working with local contacts from the British secret service. It had been necessary to go outside normal channels, since all their own men had vanished. The British had refused to give details—names, addresses, descriptions—much to Harry Grisholm’s chagrin. They had simply stated that if Jake were to appear at such and such a time and place, they would try and make contact. Try. No guarantees.
Jake had parked the truck, gone around to the back, and swiftly built a little barrier of bundles while Rolf had stood guard. He had then opened the compartment’s lid, watched as Hans Hechter blinked in the sudden light, and said quietly, “Five minutes. Stretch your legs, but don’t raise yourself up too far. If you hear a knocking, lie flat and pull the lid back down.”
Hechter had not replied, just lain there rubbing his eyes. His face was bloodied and swollen where Jake had hit him. Jake walked around to the side cannisters, poured water over his handkerchief, and then filled a cup. He brought both back, said, “I’m sorry for having hit you. But you were about to call me colonel and drop us all off the deep end.”
Hechter met his eye for the first
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