Berlin Encounter (2 page)

“Sit down, Colonel.” The hard-eyed gentleman with whom Jake met two weeks before his departure had worn civilian clothes with the ease of a courtier. “I understand you speak German.”

Jake took the offered chair, knew immediately that he was dealing with one of the new types. Quentin Helmsley was a man who had not served in the war, who knew how to fire a gun because he had studied a book and practiced at a firing range. “Some.”

“Records I have here say it’s more than that.”

“What records would those be?”

The man simply patted the closed folder under his hands. “Three and a half years of German at college before signing up, just one semester shy of a degree, isn’t that right? Then your operations at the Badenburg garrison after the war’s end showed near fluency. Quite impressive, I must say, your initiative to stop the cholera epidemic. Understand you’re finally to receive a medal for that one. Rightly so.”

If Jake’s months of training had taught him anything, it was that these nonmilitary types treated information like jewels, to be treasured and displayed only at the right moment. “Showed fluency according to whom?”

The man ignored his question. “I take it you have been following the news lately, Colonel?”

“Some.” Force fed, more like. Jake’s recent training had been haphazard in many respects, but not in this one. Daily seminars, each led by masters in the field of international assessment, focused on teaching a select few to see the globe as a continually evolving entity. Political trends and economic interactions and military power flowed like the wind, sometimes quiet and stable, other times raging with hurricane force. Jake was being taught to read these earthly elements like a weatherman watched the sky, predicting where the next tempest would erupt, being there to observe and prepare. The greatest threat now facing them was of Soviet domination in Eastern Europe. The wartime alliance with Russia had collapsed into mutual suspicion, and the world’s balance of power was shifting dramatically.

“You are one of the highest ranking officers we are bringing in at this point,” the gentleman said, switching gears. It was another action Jake had observed, this desire to keep their quarry off balance at all times. It did not matter that he and Jake were on the same side. The nature of the business required reactions that were so ingrained as to be automatic. This was one of the things that bothered Jake most about his training. He liked his reflexes just the way they were.

“There is some debate as to whether our man in Paris made an error in offering you an administrative post. You see, we prefer to bring our top men up from within.”

Administrative. Jake kept his face impassive, but grimaced internally. You chain me to a desk, bub, and I’m out of here.

“You were scheduled to return to Washington for six months of local, shall we say, orientation. We have been wondering if you might be willing to put this off for a bit of field duty.” The man straightened, as though preparing for an argument. “Strictly off the record, Colonel, a successful stint in the field would improve your position considerably with the boys back home.”

Jake hid his growing interest. “So what do they call the action I saw before you offered me this job?”

“Independent
field action.” His face showed a flicker of distaste. “Quite successful, such as it was. This has swayed many in your favor. But not all.”

Including you, Jake thought, his feelings hardening to genuine dislike.

“A stint as a field operative under standard supervision would mean a great deal to the fence-sitters, I assure you.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Jake said, trying to put a reluctant note to his voice. In truth, the thought of spending six months playing trained seal for the bigwigs back in Washington held about as much appeal as brushing his teeth with battery acid.

They were seated in a grand country estate in the county of Surrey, some thirty miles outside London. Through the tall window behind the man’s desk, Jake had a fine view of rolling countryside, the green broken only by a single church steeple poking through distant trees. During most of the war, the country estate had served as a U.S. command post. After D-Day it had been left more or less empty. Now it saw duty as a training-and-admin center for Allied operatives engaged in the infant science of intelligence gathering. The manor house itself was huge, with two wings containing fifty bedrooms each, and a central portion longer than a football field. The Americans had been assigned two floors in the west wing and used hardly half the space.

Jake found it comforting to observe that work here seemed to proceed in the same haphazard way as it had in the army, making progress almost despite itself. NATO was now up and running, at least on paper, and as part of this show of unity, operatives were now being trained jointly. At least, that was what was supposed to be happening. In truth, Jake saw little of his counterparts from other nations except in class, and clearly some of them had been given strict orders to keep all other nationals at arm’s length. They treated a simple hello as a threat to national security.

Jake did not mind keeping his distance. Although the majority of his fellow trainees were only a few years younger than he, most had missed the war. He found almost all of them, including the Americans, naive and overly serious. Their eager earnestness left him feeling like some crusty, battle-weary soldier. He had stopped wearing his uniform. The display of medals tended to halt traffic in the halls.

His teachers came from every country in western Europe; this was the primary reason that Jake relished his time here. They were older and had seen duty of one sort or another, many transferring from frontline service to intelligence and back again several times. They treated Jake as an equal and opened their vast stores of wisdom to him without reserve.

Idly Jake fingered the invitation in his pocket and allowed his mind to wander away from this frosty fellow and his maneuverings. The invitation had arrived that morning, engraved and embossed with a floral design, requesting the honor of his presence and that of his wife Sally at the Marseille wedding of Major Pierre Servais and Mademoiselle Jasmyn Coltrane. Jake already knew of the upcoming nuptials, of course, since he was to be best man. Sally had pasted stars around the date on their calendar at home, a not-too-subtle reminder that under no circumstances was Jake to let his new responsibilities come between him and his friends.

One excellent aspect of this new duty was being able to see his wife at work as well as at home. He and Sally had been married just over a year now, but a glimpse of her in the grand hallways still caused something to catch in his throat.

After heartrending months of separation, a breathless reunion, and a romantic engagement in Paris, they had returned to Karlsruhe—where Jake was commander of the U.S. garrison—for the wedding. From there they had expected a quick move to England for Jake’s new intelligence position. But the transfer had not been as swift as planned, for the army had proved most reluctant to release him from his command. Jake had only caught faint wisps of the smoke, but it appeared that the battle had raged all the way back to the Pentagon before a final broadside from War Department level had cleared him for action.

Sally had found an excellent posting right there within NATO Intelligence headquarters, working for the top British administrator. A husband and wife working within the same operation was certainly not standard operating procedure, but Sally’s top-secret clearance and her experience with general staff made her a prize beyond measure. They had rented a small country cottage five miles from the base and filled every nook and gable with the joy of their newfound love.

Jake’s attention returned to the man behind the desk when he realized he was being asked a question. Quentin Helmsley had recently arrived from Washington. The senior staff either treated him with great respect or quiet disdain, depending on what they thought of the power he represented. He was asking, “By any chance, Colonel, have you traveled the region of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern?”

“Never set foot in it, so far as I know.”

“A pity,” Helmsley said. “We have had, ah, several setbacks in this area recently.”

Jake searched his memory, located the German state as lying just east of Hamburg, the northernmost state in the Russian sector. “You mean you’ve lost your local men.”

The fellow did not deny it. “Stalin’s edicts have proven to be just as harsh in practice as they sound in rhetoric. This is causing no end of distress throughout the regions now under his control, especially Eastern Europe. Entire towns are being awakened in the middle of the night, herded into trucks, and driven off, never to be seen again.”

Jake nodded. This he had already heard. Firsthand accounts of Stalin’s mass resettlement operations were now filtering out to the West.

“These policies are now being applied in increasingly harsh measure to the Russian-controlled region of Germany,” Helmsley went on, “and the Russians have been setting up puppet regimes. This process was formerly limited to the local level, which did not bother us very much. But it is now being extended to the establishment of regional and even a quasi-national administration. And all of the new officials, so far as we can tell, are German Communists who either fled Hitler’s Germany and hid in Russia or spent the war years locked in concentration camps. The majority of these returning Communists see all the people under their control as having sold out to Hitler and thereby responsible for their own persecution. They
hate
their own countrymen, or many of them do, and use their new powers with truly brutal force.”

This was news. Despite his recently acquired caution, Jake found himself growing interested.

Helmsley sensed this and gave a small smile of satisfaction. “It also appears that there is soon to be a resettlement of German scientists whom Russia finds useful. And this is what concerns us. There is a town in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern called Rostock, about thirty kilometers north of the capital, Schwerin. It was there that Hitler’s scientists developed the most sophisticated rockets in the world.”

Rockets. Jake gave a single small nod. Of course. It would have to be something big to risk going in where other men had already been lost.

“Several German scientists escaped from Rostock just before the war,” Helmsley went on. “Through our contacts, we were able to get several messages to those who remained. As a result, we have managed to entice two of the remaining experts to join us.”

“You want me to risk my neck,” Jake said, “to rescue a couple of Nazi scientists?”

“One of them is a Nazi,” Helmsley admitted with a wintry smile. “Former Nazi, in any case. And needing their minds does not mean that we must necessarily like them, Colonel.”

The idea of going in to rescue an enemy, even a former enemy, unsettled him mightily. And this was a surprise. His work at Karlsruhe and before that at Badenburg had brought him in contact with more than one former Nazi, and he thought he had put the old feelings behind him. But now, abruptly, Jake found his Christian principles and his awareness of new political realities doing battle with a vision of his brother lying dead on the Normandy beaches. “And they really have information we don’t have?”

“I assure you,” Helmsley replied. “We would not go to all this trouble unless it were absolutely necessary. From what we have gathered, this group has managed to forge a full generation ahead of us in rocket research. All of London bears witness to the effectiveness of their flying bombs.” Helmsley inspected him a long moment, then demanded, “We need these two men, Colonel. Will you go in?”

“Go in?” Despite the inner turmoil, he did not have to think it over. “Sure.”

There was an instant of hesitation, as though Helmsley was finally forced to see Jake as something other than just a potential operative to be swayed to his purpose. “I was informed that your abilities were matched by a capacity to think on your feet.”

Jake had difficulty keeping the surge of excitement from showing. No need to let the guy know he’d have paid a year’s wages to work in the field again. “What can you tell me about the place where they’re kept?”

“Operations will brief you on details. It appears, however, that we were never able to do this particular facility much damage with our bombing campaigns. Part of your objective will be to, shall we say, rattle the Russians’ scientific cage a little.” Helmsley tapped a nervous finger on the closed file, then went on, “I must tell you that having several of our men disappear has troubled us. We cannot be sure, but it appears that they were not apprehended as spies, simply picked up with the local population and carted off to goodness knows where. But we cannot wait for them to return, Colonel. We must bring the two key scientists out now. Time has become of the essence.”

“You think the Russians might move them back into their own territory,” Jake surmised.

“What your other supporters have said of you appears to be correct,” he said, the look of respect deepening. “There is one other thing. I don’t suppose you would mind carrying in a load of contraband, would you?”

“I guess not. What did you have in mind?”

The glimmer was replaced by cynical humor as he replied, “Bibles.”

Jake was driving slowly enough to spot the disused forest track and pull off in one smooth motion. He saw no other headlights on the lonely predawn road, and he had not passed a house in ten minutes. Still, he pulled the truck into a tight nest formed by a dozen fir trees, then snaked back through the woods on foot. When he reached the road he squatted in the cold darkness, rain dropping from the hood of his poncho, and searched the shadows. He waited and watched, no reason to hurry except his own discomfort. The war had taught him that errors made in haste sometimes left no escape except death.

To keep him company as he waited in the wet woods, straining to ensure that none of the trees or bushes grew legs and approached, he thought of Sally. She had refused to see him off at the airfield, and he had not objected. He had no desire whatsoever to share their leave-taking with anyone, much less a bunch of gawking military types.

Jake’s battle-trained reflexes had returned after almost two years of disuse, permitting him to reset his internal clock in anticipation of night action and to sleep the afternoon away. He had awakened toward dusk to find her stretched out on the pillow next to his, watching him with that calm, strong gaze which was hers and hers alone.

“I hate to see you go,” were the first words he heard upon awakening. “Just thinking about it leaves me feeling like a part of me has gone missing. But I’ve come to see something as I’ve been lying here. Something really important.”

Jake rolled over and faced her fully. He resisted the urge to touch her, knowing she did not want it. Not just then. “Tell me.”

“Maybe I knew it already. Maybe I saw it when I was back in the States shepherding those generals around and you were back here. But it wasn’t clear to me then. I just knew my life wasn’t complete without you. Now, all of a sudden, I understand.”

She propped her head up with one hand and said in a voice that was soft and yielding, yet utterly practical. “It had to be you, Jake. All my life I’ve been waiting to meet the man who rides the wind, the man who travels the paths that no one else even wants to find. The man filled with faith and mystery and strength and action.” Her voice quivered, but she forced herself to finish, “And danger.”

“Sally—”

“Wait, let me finish. I knew you had the strength and that special focus that is all your own. This is what appealed to me from the very beginning. But I’ve been lying here, waiting for you to wake up and hold me and then get up and walk through that door, and now I understand that this really is part of it. Now and for the rest of our lives.” She shifted, made uncomfortable by the raw truth. “Oh, I don’t know if you’ll stay with this work. I don’t really care, to tell you the truth. But I know that you’ll always find something that requires more from you than most other people are willing to give.

Jake found himself unable to speak. He just lay and watched her and marveled at her ability to see to the very depths of him.

“This is who you are. Living life to the fullest for you means living beyond the borders, going into the places where others are afraid to walk, maybe even to see. Only now there are two of us, Jake.” Her eyes welled up at this, and a single tear escaped to descend in gentle sorrow across her cheek. “You aren’t alone anymore.”

“I’ll be careful,” he whispered, and reached across to catch the tear. It rested on his finger, an incredible gift of her love.

“That’s not enough, Jake. You were always careful. That’s why you’re still here. But now you need to remember that you carry two hearts with you everywhere you go.” She reached for him then, pressing her entire length to him, melding to his form and holding him close. “Our two lives are woven together now, my beloved. Two destinies follow in each footstep you take. So you’ve got to take more than care. You must promise to return.”

She drew back just a little, to meet his eyes again. “I will learn to let you go with love and confidence. But you must always return. Always.”

———

That same evening, when Jake had returned to headquarters to complete his preparations, he had been approached by one of the senior administrators. Harry Grisholm was another American, whose misshapen body disguised a rapier-keen mind. He had started as a field operative, but a bad night-landing in Holland had shattered hips and legs so badly that neither could be completely corrected. But instead of returning to a desk job and well-earned honors, Harry had seen out the rest of the war coordinating clandestine radio operations throughout northern Holland.

He walked with a rolling lurch, his oversized head bobbing like a poorly strung marionette. Months of agony had etched deep lines across his forehead and out from his eyes and mouth. Yet his cheerful demeanor had altered the creases into permanent smile lines. “What did you think of our Mister Helmsley?”

“Made me wonder if maybe I hadn’t made a mistake taking this job,” Jake replied.

“He and his kind are the wave of the future, Jake. Best you get used to them.”

“This is supposed to cheer me up?”

“Listen, my friend. In our business, we must be the ultimate realists. Our very existence depends upon it.” He fastened Jake with a piercing ice-blue gaze. “He has been shaped by his background just as you have been shaped by yours. Both have pluses and minuses, my level-headed friend. He would never make a field operative and would most certainly never handle men very well. His is the kind who would vastly prefer to fire every human being in the service and strive for ever more sophisticated electronic devices.”

“So?”

“So a service such as our own will never survive and do its job when given over to people like this,” Harry said patiently. “Field operatives are the service’s infantry, often maligned but always needed. It is only through the eyes and ears of trusted men there on the spot that we shall ever truly understand what our electronic devices have gathered.”

He reached up and thumped Jake’s chest. “At the same time, my friend, you would never be happy doing our man Helmsley’s job. Never. Not in a million years would you spend your days running from office to office, passing on just the right information to just the right ear, making sure that your budget remains intact, sitting through day after day of committee meetings, trying to advise presidents and their aides about international crises which have not yet happened and thus are not urgent in their eyes—”

“A nightmare,” Jake declared. “I’d rather walk across a field of live coals in my bare feet.”

“Precisely. What our man Helmsley fails to realize, just as it has escaped you up to now, is that you need each other. You
complement
each other.” Harry stopped and waited, making sure his words were sinking in. “The world is made up of a myriad of peoples. You will do far better looking for those who share your objectives than trying to live only with those who see the world through your perspective. And once you learn that lesson, you will need to teach it to the equally stubborn Helmsley.”

“That makes sense,” Jake agreed.

“You’re most welcome.” Harry gave him a frosty smile which did not descend from his eyes. “Would you accept a further bit of advice?”

“From you? Always.”

“Your orders and your instructions have been made extra complex, I am sorry to say, because a few of these fellows here feel threatened by your record, and would just as soon see you fail.”

“I thought maybe something like that was going on.” Jake snapped the catches on the leather satchel he had been packing. “Still, they all seemed to make good sense.”

“They make good sense to you
here.
” Harry’s eyes were keen with the strength of hard-earned wisdom. “Take it from me, Jake. A successful field operative is one who has the sense to divert from orders when the situation merits it.” He patted Jake’s arm. “And a good field operative, my friend, is one who survives.”

———

Twenty minutes of searching shadows to either side of the rain-drenched road satisfied Jake that the coast was as clear as it would ever get. Twice he had watched army convoys trundle by, but neither had appeared to be on alert. The woods had remained still and wet and empty. Jake returned to his truck just as dawn began to push away the grudgingly stubborn night. He felt chilled to the bone.

While water heated on a paraffin stove, Jake began the job of changing his own and the truck’s identity.

First he stripped off the truck’s green army-issue top, which proved not to be made of canvas at all, but rather of flimsy parachute silk. He then peeled off the green sidings, which were not wood and metal, but burlap stiffened with multiple layers of paint and nailed into place. The U.S. Army stars disappeared from the truck doors, as did the army license plates and stenciling across front and back. Finally the camouflaging was peeled off the hood and cabin top and the rear loading platform.

Despite the low-lying clouds, the argument had gone, there was still a chance that their landing would be observed. So both trucks were to depart from the landing site declaring to all the world that they were indeed standard army issue.

Jake pulled the shovel from the back of the truck, walked to a clearing beyond the trees, and began to dig. By the time the hole was deep enough, he was sweating and breathing hard. He returned to the truck, stripped off the sergeant’s uniform in which he had traveled, and dressed from the clothes in his satchel. He then buried both the uniform and the truck’s false covers. He strew pine needles and sticks over the fresh earth, then stepped back and surveyed the scene. It would not stand a close inspection, but it would probably do.

He returned to the truck and his breakfast, standard fare for that region—chicory coffee, hard cheese, day-old bread, a couple of wizened apples. As he ate, Jake inspected himself in the truck’s cracked side mirror. What he saw made him grin with satisfaction.

The clothes matched the truck’s new identity, that of a small-time trader. Jake’s cheap black-leather jacket crinkled and squeaked with each movement. His black turtleneck and dark shapeless trousers were matched by his three-day growth and a haircut which had raised shrieks of dismay from Sally the day he had brought it home. He looked shrewd, hard, tired, and thoroughly dishonest.

The truck looked in wretched shape, at least unless someone did a careful inspection under the hood. The sides were scarred and weather-beaten, the canvas top so patched that it was hard to tell what the original color had been, the front end battered to a paintless pulp. It looked like a thousand other trucks trundling through Germany’s war-ravaged landscape, dregs discarded by retreating armies, scarred by thousands of hard-fought miles.

But the muddy tires were the best that money could buy, the tank three times normal size, the suspension perfect. The gears meshed like a Swiss watch, and the well-muffled motor was tuned and tightened until it could easily push the truck to over a hundred miles an hour, even in four-wheel drive.

Not to mention the fact that spaced over the truck’s frame were two secret compartments designed to escape even the most careful of inspections.

As Jake repacked his meager utensils, he gave a passing thought to the British pilot. The man had been ordered to round up four of their remaining operatives, people considered to be in the worst danger of being resettled and lost forever. He had more than nine hundred kilometers to cover behind Soviet lines, with the Russian army patrols constantly on the move. Jake did not envy him the challenge.

As he started the engine and pulled out the compass concealed beneath the dash, Jake had a fleeting image of the pilot thinking the same thing about Jake’s assignment.