now.
“Did you go through the files?” Sam asked, losing patience.
“Not yet…” Powell waffled. “We didn’t have time.” I gave him a look, but kept quiet. We’d had all night to go through files.
“Well, that’s number one,” Sam said firmly. “We get an ID on this clown, then Jack makes like a tape recorder and goes into playback mode. End of discussion.”
And it was.
The “target room” at BOB was the gathering point for everything we knew about Soviet and East German operations—personnel files, architectural plans, information on safe houses and drop zones. There was even a file with names and numbers for the garbage men at hotels where government officials stayed. The ultimate Cold War reference library. Sam had cleared the room so we could sit at a table and go through the files without anyone looking over our shoulders. It didn’t take long for me to find the Colonel and I handed the folder over to Powell.
“Josef Becher,” he said. “He’s STASI all right. We’ve had him pegged for a while, although we weren’t sure of his rank.” He handed the black-and-white photos over to Sam, who put his reading glasses on and leafed through the images. They were taken in various locations around East and West Berlin—on the street, in a restaurant, getting into a car. Becher had the same solemn expression in every shot and I thought he almost seemed aware of the camera. I guess watching his back had become second nature.
I pulled his bio out of the file. It made for interesting reading:
There is no information on Becher prior to 1936 when, as a member of the German Communist Party, he fled the Nazi regime to fight with the Loyalists in the Spanish
Civil War. Captured by Franco’s forces in 1938, he must have escaped because he turned up in Moscow in 1940. Little is known about his activities during the war, but it is likely that he played a role in Soviet military intelligence. It is even possible that he was inserted back into Germany in a covert capacity between 1942 and 1945, although this cannot be confirmed. However, he sufaced in Berlin soon after the war and was assigned to the paramilitary “People’s Police,” which was the forerunner to the “National People’s Army.” He was then assigned a position in army intelligence before taking up a political appointment at the Foreign Ministry in 1956. Assessment is that Becher functions in the upper ranks of Section 9 or Section 10 of the HVA, reporting directly to the deputy minister of state security. There is no record of him ever being married or having children.
“What’s the HVA?” I asked.
“Security admin,” Sam answered absentmindedly, still studying the photos. “The guys that run the show. Let me see that.” He held his hand out for the bio, skimmed it quickly, then removed his glasses and rocked back in his chair. “So it looks like we’ve got a big fish on the line. How do we reel him in?”
“We could start with a little more information,” Powell said pointedly.
“How about it, Jack?” Sam looked to me. “Wanna fill us in?”
“Or would you rather I leave the room?” Powell threw in sarcastically.
“Knock it off, Jim,” Sam said sharply. Powell gave him a piercing look, but Sam ignored it. “Let’s get beyond the playground. Jack—the floor’s yours.” I could feel Powellburning a hole in me, but I kept my eyes on Sam and didn’t mince words.
“He told me there’s a plot to kill the president while he’s in Berlin.” The statement hung there for a moment while they absorbed it, then Sam leaned forward, started tapping his pen on the table. Powell continued to stare at me.
“Did he give you any details?” Sam finally asked.
“Not really.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Powell snapped.
“It means no, he didn’t give me any details.”
“Did he say anything else?” Powell asked drily. “Like who’s behind this supposed plot?”
“Not specifically.”
“For
“Did you go through the files?” Sam asked, losing patience.
“Not yet…” Powell waffled. “We didn’t have time.” I gave him a look, but kept quiet. We’d had all night to go through files.
“Well, that’s number one,” Sam said firmly. “We get an ID on this clown, then Jack makes like a tape recorder and goes into playback mode. End of discussion.”
And it was.
The “target room” at BOB was the gathering point for everything we knew about Soviet and East German operations—personnel files, architectural plans, information on safe houses and drop zones. There was even a file with names and numbers for the garbage men at hotels where government officials stayed. The ultimate Cold War reference library. Sam had cleared the room so we could sit at a table and go through the files without anyone looking over our shoulders. It didn’t take long for me to find the Colonel and I handed the folder over to Powell.
“Josef Becher,” he said. “He’s STASI all right. We’ve had him pegged for a while, although we weren’t sure of his rank.” He handed the black-and-white photos over to Sam, who put his reading glasses on and leafed through the images. They were taken in various locations around East and West Berlin—on the street, in a restaurant, getting into a car. Becher had the same solemn expression in every shot and I thought he almost seemed aware of the camera. I guess watching his back had become second nature.
I pulled his bio out of the file. It made for interesting reading:
There is no information on Becher prior to 1936 when, as a member of the German Communist Party, he fled the Nazi regime to fight with the Loyalists in the Spanish
Civil War. Captured by Franco’s forces in 1938, he must have escaped because he turned up in Moscow in 1940. Little is known about his activities during the war, but it is likely that he played a role in Soviet military intelligence. It is even possible that he was inserted back into Germany in a covert capacity between 1942 and 1945, although this cannot be confirmed. However, he sufaced in Berlin soon after the war and was assigned to the paramilitary “People’s Police,” which was the forerunner to the “National People’s Army.” He was then assigned a position in army intelligence before taking up a political appointment at the Foreign Ministry in 1956. Assessment is that Becher functions in the upper ranks of Section 9 or Section 10 of the HVA, reporting directly to the deputy minister of state security. There is no record of him ever being married or having children.
“What’s the HVA?” I asked.
“Security admin,” Sam answered absentmindedly, still studying the photos. “The guys that run the show. Let me see that.” He held his hand out for the bio, skimmed it quickly, then removed his glasses and rocked back in his chair. “So it looks like we’ve got a big fish on the line. How do we reel him in?”
“We could start with a little more information,” Powell said pointedly.
“How about it, Jack?” Sam looked to me. “Wanna fill us in?”
“Or would you rather I leave the room?” Powell threw in sarcastically.
“Knock it off, Jim,” Sam said sharply. Powell gave him a piercing look, but Sam ignored it. “Let’s get beyond the playground. Jack—the floor’s yours.” I could feel Powellburning a hole in me, but I kept my eyes on Sam and didn’t mince words.
“He told me there’s a plot to kill the president while he’s in Berlin.” The statement hung there for a moment while they absorbed it, then Sam leaned forward, started tapping his pen on the table. Powell continued to stare at me.
“Did he give you any details?” Sam finally asked.
“Not really.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Powell snapped.
“It means no, he didn’t give me any details.”
“Did he say anything else?” Powell asked drily. “Like who’s behind this supposed plot?”
“Not specifically.”
“For
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