THE STASI FILE
OPERA AND ESPIONAGE:
A DEADLY COMBINATION
BOOK 1
DIVA UNDAUNTED
PETER BERNHARDT
Copyright ©2009
by Peter Bernhardt
This book is available in print at most online retailers.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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https://sedonauthor.com
Second Edition: 2015
Finalist for Book of the Year and ranked a Bestseller by
YouWriteOn, former critique site sponsored by the British Arts Council
Quarterfinalist 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award
To Marilyn
Reviews and Reader Comments
“You won’t be able to put the book down. A breathtaking roller coaster ride.”
“Tension, drama and setting. This has it all.”
“Cheers for a smashing read.”
“An extremely well written piece that intrigued me from the beginning to its end. To me it had a touch of Robert Ludlum and John Grisham.”
“Excellent story. I was captivated within the first few paragraphs.”
“The Stasi File is one of the most compelling spy novels I have read. This is an intelligent, complex, believable tightly written story with well-developed characters. Half way through my reading a power outage was trying to interrupt my enjoyment, but I resorted to a camper’s headlamp to keep going. Be prepared for an all-nighter.”
“Bernhardt grabbed my attention from the start and kept me hooked right until the end.”
“Everyone in our book club thought this was an outstanding espionage novel. It has great character development. You are kept guessing at all times. A great read!”
“This novel is truly riveting. Very well written, with plot twists and resolutions the reader doesn’t expect; keeps you guessing as to the outcome to the very last chapter.”
I want to express my gratitude to the members of the Sedona Writers Critique Group, the Internet Writing Workshop, and YouWriteOn.com for their constructive criticism that improved this novel beyond measure.
Kerry Taliaferro, former role coach (Korrepetitor) at the Stuttgart Opera, provided expert advice that was invaluable, and the management of the Stuttgart Opera and the Stuttgart Opera School were generous with their time and personnel. Thanks to soprano Theresa Plut I gained a deeper appreciation of the challenges awaiting an aspiring opera diva.
I especially thank the readers of my early drafts for valuable feedback. My appreciation to Helma Boeck and Karl Ganter for their recollections of the atmosphere in Berlin at the time the Wall fell, and I am indebted to Claudia Käsbohrer for enabling me to authentically sketch the scene in the Congress Hall in Garmisch-Partenkirchen.
There were many others who made significant contributions to this work. They are too numerous to name, but I express here my deep appreciation for their help and support. They know who they are.
Sylvia Mazzoni stepped out the stage door of the Big House, the locals’ name for the Stuttgart Opera Theater. In her blue jeans and sweatshirt, she looked more like a member of the cleaning crew than a soprano leaving a rehearsal called solely on her account. She took several deep breaths, releasing the lingering tension with each exhalation. A gust of November wind whipped the trees around, causing shadows to thrust and parry in the dusky Schlossgarten Park. She shivered, pulled a long wool scarf from her shoulder bag, and wrapped it, Pavarotti style, around her throat. Anything to protect The Voice. She removed her hair clasp to allow heavy, dark tresses to cascade around her shoulders.
The music director had engaged her for two performances as Micaëla in Carmen after seeing her in the part at the regional opera in Ulm. She had done well this evening, but would she pass the real test tomorrow? Her debut at the renowned Stuttgart Opera could make or break her career. If she failed to impress, she’d be relegated once again to bit parts in provincial houses. She vowed not to let that happen. She had worked too hard for too long to fail now.
The park adjoining the theater, brimming with life all day, was deserted. Sylvia thought of waiting for a colleague to accompany her, but eager to catch the next streetcar, she ignored her intuition and stepped onto the cobblestone promenade along the lake. A glimmer of city lights filtered through the bare branches of giant oaks and sycamores. Dim sidewalk lamps cast long, crooked fingers across the dark water. To shake the foreboding image, she looked for the soft ripples that would precede swimming mallards and swans, but it was late even for them.
Sylvia peered up the dark path. A few meters ahead, the desiccated leaves of a giant poplar rustled in the night air. From there it was only a few minutes to the shopping arcade and the streetcar stop. She pressed on.
A burly man came around the bend, his right hand tucked inside the front of his leather jacket. Startled, Sylvia felt an adrenaline rush. She clutched her umbrella and stepped to her right to give him a wide berth. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a sudden movement, a lunge toward her. She spun around. Glinting metal ripped through her sweatshirt and slashed her left upper arm. She winced with pain as she jammed the metal tip of the umbrella as hard as she could into the attacker’s chest. He grunted. The impact jarred the umbrella from her hand and sent it clattering to the ground. Warm liquid trickled down her arm. Sylvia staggered onto the damp lawn. She fought to regain her balance but slipped and fell hard.
Frantic, she looked for the umbrella, but it had rolled down the path, beyond her reach. Get up, she exhorted herself in a panic, but too late. The towering figure came at her again. Heart thudding, Sylvia skidded backwards on the grass. She heard herself scream, “Help, help . . . help me!”
The man drew back the knife and slashed downward again. She rolled. Her face, covered by her tangled hair, flattened against the wet ground. She clawed the hair aside and saw the knife plunge to its hilt into the earth, at the spot where she had been a second ago.
“Damn you, traitor!”
She’d heard that guttural voice before. She raised her head and found herself staring into hate-filled eyes. Could it be . . . ? Before she finished the thought, his massive body crushed her, knocking the breath out of her. She opened her mouth to cry again for help, but could only spit blades of grass. Cold fingers dug beneath her scarf and closed around her throat. Muscular thighs straddled her hips, pinning her so that struggle was useless. She brought her hands up, trying to loosen his grip, but the vise only tightened.
“Ple . . .” Sylvia’s voice trailed off in a gurgle, her trachea compressed in his grasp. Blood rushed in her ears. The man’s menacing face became a distorted blur. Panicked, she fought for a breath. Her limbs went numb. Darkness swallowed her.
Then a sharp thump penetrated the void. Dead weight slumped against her chest. The vise at her neck loosened.
She gulped for air, fighting the crushing weight. One small breath came, then another. She opened her eyes. The attacker’s face pressed at an unnatural angle against her chest. Blood trickled from the man’s slack mouth. Repulsed, she pushed the stubbly face away and struggled to shove the corpse aside. It tipped for a moment, then rolled back on top of her. She shuddered.
Sylvia took several more ragged breaths, gathering her strength, but before she could make another attempt, someone lifted the body off her. Her chest heaved with relief.
“Frau Mazzoni, are you all right?”
She stared at the man. Then she recognized Intelligence Officer Dieter Schmidt.
“Herr Schmidt. What are you—?”
“You’re safe now.” He took her right arm to help her sit up, then pointed at the blood-soaked clothing on the other. “Can you move your arm?”
Sylvia gingerly lifted her left arm. The pain was tolerable. The sweatshirt’s damp sleeve clung to the wound, stemming the blood flow. “I guess it’s okay.”
“Good.” He motioned toward the lifeless body lying in the grass next to her. “Do you know him?”
She forced herself to look. “He’s with . . .” She took a deep breath. “He was with the RAF. Manfred Klau, a friend of Horst.” She shivered. For years she had looked over her shoulder expecting the Red Army Faction terrorists to come for her. They never had. Why now, twelve years later, just when she’d begun to think she was safe from their revenge?
Schmidt nodded. “I was afraid of that.” He bent down and felt for a pulse. After a few seconds he said, “His terrorist days are over.”
Sylvia stared at Schmidt. “Did you shoot him?”
He steadied her on her feet. “We’ll talk about this later. You have to get away from here now—before the police arrive.”
He scrutinized her face. “Can you make it back to your hotel by yourself?”
In a daze, she nodded.
“I have to take care of things here, but I’ll check on you as soon as I can.” He collected her bag and umbrella and thrust them toward her. “Frau Mazzoni, not a word about this to anyone. Go. Now!”
Sylvia stumbled in the direction of the shopping arcade.
Deep in thought about the motion for summary judgment he needed to finish today, Rolf Keller mumbled a hasty good morning to his secretary on his way into his office. She put up a hand. Startled, he stopped. His Friday would not go as planned.
Her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern, Betty said, “Mr. Stein’s secretary has already called twice. She left word to send you up to his office as soon as you came in.”
Betty Crandall had a checkered twenty-year history with Stein & Weston. She’d been continually reassigned from senior partners to junior ones, then to associates. As one of the new hires in 1982, Rolf was not given a choice. Betty became his legal secretary.
In her forties and unmarried, she was considered odd. Thinning red hair framed her high forehead and hollow cheeks. A sharp nose protruded over lips so thin they were almost invisible. At a few inches below six feet, she stood almost as tall as Rolf. She wore clothing she must have bought in the sixties, as age had not yet thickened her gangly frame and spindly legs. Rolf couldn’t decide whether she was motivated by frugality or simply lacked a sense of style.
He soon realized why the other lawyers didn’t like her. She was outspoken and dared to question word selection and grammar in legal documents. Occasionally, she even committed the unforgivable sin of calling attention to a mistake. The overblown egos of most lawyers couldn’t abide what they considered interference by an underling, but Rolf loved her directness. That’s why seven years later she was still his secretary.
Her voice interrupted his thoughts. “You’re not in trouble, are you, counselor?”
Rolf appreciated the quip. In contrast to the formal culture pervasive in the firm, Betty and Rolf had been on a first-name basis for a number of years. They abandoned that practice only in professional settings or to tease one another.
Harry Stein, founding partner, did not make it a habit of asking associates to his office. Of course, Rolf knew where it was—in the southeast corner of the twelfth floor—yet in seven years he’d been there only twice. Stein governed the firm with an autocratic hand through the other partners. Except for the annual Christmas party, he didn’t mingle with associates.
“Any idea what he wants, Betty?”
She shrugged. “Not a clue.”
Rolf’s eyes fell on the legal pad next to the inbox on his desk, yet he made no move to pick it up. Instead, he glanced at the coat hanger where he kept a dress shirt, coat and tie for court appearances or other occasions requiring last-minute changes to business attire.
“Are you changing for the big boss?”
Rolf sensed the challenge in her question. “Business casual should do, don’t you think?”
Not chancing another satiric remark, he stepped into the hallway and walked past support staff cubicles and lawyers’ offices. When he reached the interior spiral staircase that connected the three top floors of the downtown Washington office building Stein & Weston occupied, he hesitated, then decided to take the employee elevator instead. He couldn’t help speculating about the reason for being summoned. In his eighth year with the firm, he would be under close scrutiny for a potential partnership. The unspoken rule was that associates who hadn’t made partner by the end of their tenth year never would, and they were expected to leave of their own accord.
During the elevator ride, Rolf recalled the stories Betty had told him about associates who stayed on after they’d been passed over for partnership. They found themselves being assigned first-year lawyer duties like library research and shunned by partners and associates alike. Whispers eventually grew so loud even the most oblivious and stubborn got the message.
Rolf was determined not to let that happen to him. Vestiges of law partnership not only included prestige and marketability, but most important, increased financial rewards—crucial for him. He couldn’t keep paying alimony, child support, the house mortgage and his apartment rent on an associate’s salary. He had to make partner, and long before his tenth year.
When Rolf stepped from the elevator into the twelfth-floor wood-paneled corridor he considered the idea that Stein summoned him to tell him he made partner. He knew he’d performed well, but well enough to make it after only seven years? Not likely.
The generous size of the partners’ offices on the twelfth floor emphasized that not all lawyers were created equal, at least in Stein & Weston’s view of things. When he had wound his way to the southeast corner, Rolf spotted a brass name plate engraved with Harold Stein, Senior Partner, and one below bearing the inscription Mildred Reid, Secretary. The dark wooden door stood ajar.
All roads to Stein lead through his secretary, Rolf thought, as he peeked inside while giving the wood panel a half-hearted knock. And the roads were not necessarily smooth, judging by the piercing look Mildred shot his way. Assessing his status in the firm within a nanosecond, the woman in her fifties with the short-necked physique of a linebacker gave a slight nod in his direction, which he interpreted as a sign that his presence would be tolerated.
“Have a seat, Mr. Keller. I’ll let Mr. Stein know you’re here.” Her tone made the invitation a command. Lowering himself onto the edge of one of the black leather chairs facing her cherry-wood desk, he couldn’t help wondering what would happen if he didn’t comply. While he hadn’t seen her job description, he felt pretty sure it didn’t include being nice to associates.
He had hardly registered her voice on the phone announcing his presence, when he heard, “Mr. Stein will see you now.” She walked to a tall door behind her desk, opened it and motioned for him to pass. As she closed the door behind him, he fought the feeling of a schoolboy entering the principal’s office.
His shoes sank into the thick beige carpet of an office so spacious that, in addition to the usual desk and visitors’ chairs, it easily accommodated a conference table with six leather chairs and an oversized sleeper sofa, leaving plenty of room to maneuver in between. The room was bright, thanks to floor-to-ceiling windows spanning two walls.
Rolf squinted against the morning sun streaming through partially open blinds. The senior partner swiveled his leather chair in Rolf’s direction and rose from a reclining position. An easy smile spread over a gaunt face that was accentuated by a long nose, large ears, and a high forehead. When Harry Stein stood to offer a firm handshake, Rolf noticed how fit he looked in his custom-tailored navy suit, especially for a gray-haired man approaching sixty. Rolf guessed that at a couple of inches below six feet, he didn’t weigh over 160 pounds.
“Good to see you, Rolf. How are you?”
Surprised by the warm welcome, Rolf stammered, “Fine . . . sir.”
“Have a seat. Coffee?”
Following a hunch he’d be there for a while, Rolf replied, “Yes, please.”
Back behind his huge desk, Stein pressed the intercom button on a multi-line phone. “Mildred, coffee please.” Without awaiting a response, he turned and looked at Rolf. “I was sorry to hear that you and Lynn divorced. It’s tough to be back on your own, even if it’s for the better, isn’t it?”
Taken aback, Rolf groped for a response. He hadn’t imagined that his personal life would be a meeting topic. Mercifully, they were interrupted by a knock on the door, and Mildred wheeled in a coffee service cart. She served black coffee to her boss then moved the cart next to the visitor’s chair. Rolf poured from the carafe and stirred cream and sugar into his cup. He waited until the door closed behind her before he answered Stein. “Actually, I haven’t had a lot of time to think about it.”
“Your billable hours for the last quarter are among the highest in the firm. Of course, the partners like to see that for obvious reasons.” Stein leaned forward, resting his arms on the mahogany desk surface. “But I’m curious about the sudden increase.”
Rolf felt blood rush to his head and hoped to God he wasn’t blushing. He didn’t appreciate being made to feel like a witness under cross-examination. He set his cup on the cart to give himself time to think. Stein was no fool and would see through any attempt to placate. His response had to include a good part of the truth.
“To be honest, these last few months have been pretty rough. There’s been no reason to go home to an empty apartment, so I’ve been burying myself in work. And I started to think that now would be a good time to increase my billable hours.”
Stein leaned back in his chair to let the response sink in. He lifted his coffee cup from the desk pullout and took a sip. Resting the cup on the armrest, he swiveled his chair toward the corner window, apparently studying the vast array of office buildings bathed in early sunshine.
Rolf wondered if his answer, truthful as far as it went, would satisfy. He saw no point in volunteering how much he needed the partnership.
The senior lawyer swung back and replaced his cup on the pullout.
“You’re an independent sort, aren’t you?”
The way Stein looked him over, Rolf almost wished for his coat and tie. Definitely no partnership offer here, he thought, feeling foolish for having even entertained the idea.
Thus Stein’s next words surprised him all the more. “From what I hear about your courtroom practice, you stand your ground against tyrannical federal judges. Your briefs are excellent, thoroughly researched, well written, and show creative thinking.”
Rolf was thoroughly confused. Was partnership in the offing, after all?
As if he’d read Rolf’s thoughts, the senior lawyer continued. “You’ve been with this firm seven years now. As you know, the firm’s general practice is to wait ten years before an associate is offered partnership.”
Rolf’s heart sank.
“However, in your case I’m making an exception.”
Rolf had the distinct impression there was significance in the fact that Stein referenced the firm when he spoke of the usual practice, but referred to himself alone as the one deciding to deviate from the norm.
“A senior associate on the brink of partnership is usually assigned a complicated case.” Stein gave him a stern look. “The assignment I want you to handle is extremely sensitive. It’s not really a legal matter, but the skills it calls for are exceptional—the kind I’d like to see in a partner, and you’re uniquely qualified for the task. If you handle it well, you’ll be our newest partner.” He did not need to specify what would happen if Rolf failed.
Harry Stein’s voice took on a note of gravity. “Before I go into details, I need to ask you how you’re doing in your recovery program.”
Rolf’s mouth fell open. Was there anything this man didn’t know about his personal life? Before he could suppress his anger, he burst out, “Alcoholics Anonymous is just that, anonymous. I’m not going to talk about it.” He felt his body propelling itself out of the chair.
“Please sit down. I’m not prying into your AA program. But I do need to know what the odds are of your staying sober.”
How had Stein found out about him going to meetings? Had someone from AA broken his anonymity? Rolf fought his anger. Stein knew. Walking out of this office wouldn’t change that.
He struggled to regain his composure. “Well, a good percentage of people who practice the twelve steps stay sober. The ones who don’t work the program usually relapse.”
“I’m familiar with the statistics. I’m asking you. Are you going to stay sober?”
Stein had a litigator’s stare. Rolf could not avoid his eyes. He took a deep breath and lowered himself onto the chair. “One day at a time, you bet I am.”
He knew he had spoken the truth, and the lawyer behind the desk seemed to sense it too.
Harry Stein stood, walked over to the wood-paneled sidewall, and slid two panels apart revealing a sizable safe. His upper body shielded the combination wheel from view. After a series of clicks and the sound of moving hinges, Stein reached into the open safe. He closed it and carried a manila folder to the conference table, motioning for Rolf to join him.
“Rolf, when did you give up your German citizenship to become a U.S. citizen?”
Although he suspected that Stein already knew the answer, he dutifully replied, “In 1982.”
“Do you still feel an allegiance to the country where you were born and grew up?”
Rolf tried not to let it show that he was caught off guard once again. “Well, not the kind of allegiance I feel toward the U.S., but I do follow what’s going on over there, the way one keeps up with an old friend after moving away. Of course, with the fall of the Berlin Wall, there’s been much speculation whether the two Germanys might be united.”
“What do you think? Will Germany be reunited?”
“I’d say chances are pretty good, provided the Germans can convince the World War II Allies that a united Germany poses no threat. But it’ll take astute political maneuvering on Chancellor Kohl’s part.”
“And do you think he’s up to the task?”
Rolf was surprised and flattered by Stein’s question. Although he was a native German, that did not make him an expert on German or global politics. “All I know is what I read in the newspapers. I gather that Helmut Kohl is quite a skilled politician. If anyone can do it, he can.”
Harry Stein nodded. “Yes, my client agrees that German reunification is imminent.”
Rolf noted that Stein had erroneously referred to reunification, as if Germany would be restored to its pre-World War II borders. In fact, there was no possibility of that. Only the states comprising Communist East Germany, the German Democratic Republic, were on the table, so it was more appropriate to refer to German unification. Rolf let it go.
Stein’s voice interrupted. “You need to catch this evening’s flight to Frankfurt, then fly on to Stuttgart in the morning.”
“But this is the weekend for me to have Ashley . . . my daughter.” Rolf suspected the clarification was superfluous, as Stein had shown he was intimately familiar with Rolf’s family life.
“Sorry. This is urgent.”
Rolf knew the firm did not tolerate refusal of any task, no matter how onerous to the associate’s private life. He realized Stein had arranged things without even considering the possibility that Rolf would refuse. Short of quitting the firm, there was no realistic alternative to going.
“You can make other arrangements for your daughter, can’t you?”
Rolf supplied the expected answer to the rhetorical question, “Yes, sir,” all the while dreading the thought of having to tell Ashley he was canceling their weekend visit. She’d grown distant lately, causing him to wonder whether she blamed him for the breakup. If there was a way to explain divorce to a seven-year-old, he hadn’t discovered it. Perhaps he lacked the courage.
When Stein walked over to the desk to retrieve his coffee, Rolf seized the opportunity to steal a glance at the file facing away from him. He strained to read the capital letters on the label and got as far as determining that there were three when Stein’s voice boomed across the room.
“I assume you’re familiar with the Stasi?”
Rolf spun around and noted with relief that Stein had his back to him.
Trying to sound nonchalant, Rolf responded, “Yes, the East German secret police.”
“What do you know about them?”
“They’re using blackmail and bribes to coerce East Germans to inform on one another. Spouses on spouses, children on their parents. They read the mail and listen in on phone calls. They’ve taken the Gestapo’s methods of extracting confessions from enemies of the state to new levels of sophistication. Torture is not just physical but psychological as well.”
Stein returned to the table, placing his cup and saucer next to the file. “You know they’re not just a police force?”
Rolf nodded. “They’re into domestic and international espionage, maybe terrorism as well.”
“You do know quite a bit.” Stein looked as pleased as a schoolteacher whose pupil has just passed the test. “You’re wondering what that’s got to do with your assignment.” He took a swig of coffee and returned the empty cup to its saucer with a loud clink. He rested his hands on the closed file. “There is a Stasi official who’s reached the same conclusion we have about the likelihood of reunification. He’s contacted the West German Federal Intelligence Service and offered to supply documents from the Stasi files.”
Rolf wondered how a law firm partner would know about matters of international intelligence but asked a different question. “What does he want in return?”
“I’m not privy to the negotiations. My guess is he wants to protect himself in the event Germany is united and the communist government and the Stasi are disbanded. Maybe he’s about to defect.”
“Why would the intelligence people want to involve a private person in espionage matters?” There, he had asked the question in a way that his boss wouldn’t take personally.
“Well, they really don’t, of course. It seems this Stasi informant insists on his terms regarding when, where and to whom he is willing to pass these papers.”
“I don’t follow how that relates to me.”
“The West Germans apparently have some information that leads them to believe you’re the ideal person to keep an eye on the receiver of these documents.”
“I still don’t get it.” Irritation crept into Rolf’s voice. “Why do they need an American lawyer to watch over the transfer of files?”
Stein was patient. “I understand your frustration. It sounds crazy, I know. It’ll make more sense once you know the details.”
“And when will that be?”
“A Mr. Schmidt will contact you at your Stuttgart hotel.”
“And who am I supposed to be watching?”
“Schmidt will tell you that.”
“I don’t suppose you know what’s in the Stasi documents.”
“No, and that’s what you need to focus on. My client needs to know and your job is to find out.”
“How do you expect me to accomplish that?”
“You’ll use those exceptional skills a partner would have.”
“Does this Schmidt know that I’ll be looking at these papers?”
“No. As far as he’s concerned, you’re just making sure the recipient delivers the documents to him. There’s no need to tell him otherwise. Follow his instructions, but at some point you’ll need to figure out a way to learn what these documents contain—even make copies.” Stein’s eyes bored into him. “But even more important, you must ensure the safety of the receiver.”
“Why is your client interested in that?”
“That’s confidential. And Schmidt is not to know that you’re keeping a watchful eye on more than the documents.”
Rolf put up his hand. “Mr. Stein, do you have any idea how ruthless the Stasi is? Why would I want to risk my life playing spy games in Communist Germany? I’d rather cut my partnership teeth on a thorny legal assignment.”
Stein looked straight at him. “I’m offering you a partnership three years early. That’s worth taking a risk, wouldn’t you agree?”
Rolf shifted in his chair. “I’ll think about it.”
“I must have your answer now.” Stein’s tone softened. “Look, I know you’re under some financial pressure. Who wouldn’t be after a divorce? When that plane takes off for Frankfurt this evening with you on board, there’ll be a hefty advance on your partnership earnings deposited in your bank account.”
Rolf studied the ceiling. He needed to think, but there was no time. He stared at Stein. If he was going to be bought, he might as well find out the price. “How much?”
“50,000 is a nice round number.”
“Okay, but not as an advance.”
Stein studied him, the firm set of his chin spelled no. Then, a smile warmed his eyes. “You’re a tough negotiator. I appreciate that. Here is what I will do for you. If you perform as I expect you to, the money is yours outright. If you don’t, you pay it back.”
Rolf realized he had Stein’s final offer. He nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Good. With that settled, I need to give you some ground rules. You are to report directly to me and to no one else in the firm. I want to be informed of all developments immediately, day or night, at one of these numbers.” Stein produced a card from his coat pocket and handed it to Rolf. “Memorize these. Use the first number during office hours; at other times, the second. And call me every day, even if you have nothing in particular to report.”
“How do I know what to report, when I don’t have any idea what I’m supposed to be doing?” Rolf protested.
“You’ll know.”
Stein clearly meant to discourage Rolf from asking further questions. Rolf probed nevertheless. “What client name do I use for keeping track of my billable hours?”
Stein’s face was stony. “Send your hours to me and I’ll take care of it.” He rose. “Well, you’d better be going. Mildred has made the necessary arrangements.” He extended his right hand across the desk. “Good luck.”
During their handshake he added in a low voice, “Rolf, you’re clear about your mission then. Keep the receiver safe and find out what’s in these papers—every last detail. I don’t care how you accomplish that. Just make sure you do.”
“Yes, sir.” Rolf felt an enormous weight descend on him. He retreated toward the door, each step seeming more like a hike in wet sand than a walk on soft carpeting. Halfway to the door he turned. “How long will I be over there?”
Stein looked amused. “No telling. Be sure you pack more than casual clothes, perhaps something suitable for attending the opera. You like opera, don’t you, Rolf?”
Colonel Heinz Dobnik leaned against his fourth-floor window, observing the Friday evening exodus of the workforce from the Stasi headquarters in East Berlin. The figures below huddled against a stiff November wind that whipped through Normannenstraße. Dobnik remembered with a touch of cynicism that he now worked for the Office of National Security, not the Stasi.
In the face of mass demonstrations—until a few weeks ago unimaginable in this totalitarian state—the East German government desperately clung to power. Last Friday, eight days after opening the Wall, the parliament had changed the name of the Stasi, the most feared and hated state institution, to Office for National Security, and dismissed Erich Mielke, head of the Stasi for thirty-two years, in the hope that these cosmetic changes would ward off the citizens’ fury.
The public was not so easily duped, however, and its demands grew bolder by the day. With the Communist Party distancing itself from the Stasi, Mielke had tried in vain to stem the wave of demoralization sweeping the agency staff. Mielke’s successor, ever mindful of the unstable political environment, ordered the field offices to destroy mountains of documents containing information gathered through tapped phone lines and intercepted mail.
“Do you need anything else before I leave, Herr Oberst?”
Colonel Dobnik turned and looked at his secretary with a weary expression. “No thanks, Frau Ammer. Have a good weekend.”
“Good night.”
Dobnik nodded an absent-minded goodbye, his thoughts already having returned to the plan. He went over it in his mind once again, wondering if he’d overlooked anything. The tiniest mistake could negate months of planning, raise suspicion among the West Germans, and expose him as a traitor. He did not want to take a bullet to the back of the head like the two Stasi officers and the navy military intelligence captain who had recently been caught attempting to make contact with the West.
With darkness setting in, his reflection in the window supplanted the view of the street below. He did not like what he saw: a short, stubby figure, bloated face, heavy pouches, double chin, and a receding hairline. He looked a decade older than his forty-four years. Years of being a workaholic had taken their toll, not only on his body, but on his marriage as well. Of course, in light of the precarious nature of his current undertaking, he considered himself fortunate to be free of family responsibilities.
The heels of his shoes clicked on the parquet floor as he trudged along his habitual path between desk and window. The cleaning crew could not seem to restore the dulled wood in this section to match the polish of the remainder of the floor. Dobnik had started the pacing a few years ago when he’d discovered East Germany was harboring and training terrorists. Mere hard work had turned into an obsession as he tried to find ways to put an end to his country’s coddling of terrorists. Yet how could he expect to effect policy changes in a political system that did not tolerate dissent?
Dobnik stopped in front of his desk and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He wondered why he’d been picked for this project, ostensibly the brainchild of Major General Holger Frantz, the head of counterintelligence. Dobnik recalled how stunned he was by the major general’s remarks when summoned to his office that humid afternoon last September.
“Colonel, you’re one of our brightest officers, so what I’m about to tell you will not come as a surprise.”
Dobnik didn’t trust compliments from superiors. They were often followed by a “but” leading to unpleasant consequences. Since he didn’t know how to respond, he didn’t.
“For some time now we’ve been keeping an eye on the situation in the Soviet Union. Unfortunately, glasnost and perestroika are not mere slogans. Gorbachev seems to mean what he says.”
Dobnik held the general’s gaze. He too had been following the clues pointing to the decline of communism. When Mikhail Gorbachev intimated that the Soviet Union would no longer use its military power to prop up the totalitarian East German regime, Dobnik surmised that the days of the German Democratic Republic were numbered. But he would never have dared to express this sentiment to anyone.
The general continued, “We cannot afford to ignore the possibility that our government may fall or, at the very least, have to make radical changes.”
Dobnik could hardly believe the general would speak about a subject considered taboo in East Germany. Dobnik glanced around the room. Was someone listening, waiting for him to give himself away? He kept his mouth shut.
Frantz rose from his desk chair and approached Dobnik who remained seated and waited for the general, towering over him, to speak.
“There is already talk of uniting the two Germanys.” Dobnik heard incredulity and contempt in the general’s voice.
Returning to his chair, Frantz slammed his fist on the desktop. “We cannot let that happen! Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Dobnik hoped his response sounded sufficiently emphatic.
Frantz lowered his hefty frame into the chair. Even sitting down, he presented an imposing figure. Dobnik was struck by the contrast between the general’s heavy, dark horn-rimmed glasses and his shiny bald head.
“Colonel, you’re going to help us stop this nonsense. There’ll be no unification.”
Dobnik’s heart sank. Whatever Frantz had in mind, it could ruin the personal plans Dobnik had been preparing for months.
“You are to pass information to West German intelligence.”
“I am to do what?”
The general appeared to relish his shock. “You’ll give them secrets we want them to have.”
“Disinformation?”
“Exactly. But first, we have to make sure they trust you.” Frantz’s demeanor turned pensive. “You’ll give them good information at first. Earn their confidence and whet their appetite for what you bring when you ‘defect.’ ”
Dobnik squirmed in his seat.
“Before I go into details, I need to make sure you understand one thing. There are only three who know about this, General Mielke, you and I. As you know, we have a few spies embedded in the West, and we have to operate under the assumption that they may have infiltrated us as well. So, you cannot talk to anybody about this. You are to make all the arrangements yourself. Not even your secretary is to know. Is that clear?”
“Understood.”
The general drew an envelope from the center drawer and tossed it across the desk. “Here are your travel papers. You’re on a morning flight to Trieste. I have you booked on a return flight the next day.”
“I’m going to Italy?”
“Yes. To be credible, you’ll have to initiate contact from outside East Germany. The West Germans surely know about our tapped telephone lines.”
“What if it takes me longer to establish contact?”
Frantz stared at him. “The agent I want you to contact is Dieter Schmidt. I know he’ll be at his headquarters during the next few days. But if you have trouble reaching him, call me.”
On his way home to pack, Dobnik thought about how certain the general had sounded when he talked about the West German agent’s whereabouts. The information must have come from a Stasi mole inside the Federal Intelligence Service. That meant Frantz might learn of any deal Dobnik tried to make with the West German spy agency.
Sleep deprived, Dobnik felt ill at ease when the airplane lifted off Berlin-Schönefeld’s runway the next morning, a feeling that stayed with him for the duration of the flight. He could have blamed the bumpy ride, but he knew better.
While his taxi driver fought the downtown Trieste traffic, Dobnik thought about the kind of low-budget hotel Frantz likely had reserved. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the lobby of Hotel Lombardi. Its dark wood-paneled walls and salmon-colored granite countertops spoke of luxury, almost opulence. He unpacked his carry-on to a growling stomach, reminding him he had not eaten lunch. Yet he wouldn’t find a restaurant open for dinner at a quarter to five. He hadn’t planned on contacting Schmidt until the next morning but the thought popped into his head that he might still be able to reach him before closing hours.
Dobnik picked up the phone next to the bed only to put it back on its cradle. Frantz’s arrangements for this fancy hotel might well include bugging his room and the phone. His room key dropped off, he crossed the hotel lobby, bypassing the phone booths off to the side. He joined the bustling crowd on the sidewalk. The rich display of wares in the shop windows caught his eye. Nothing like it could be found in all of East Berlin unless you were a party functionary living in Wandlitz.
Short on time, he quickened his pace and soon found what he was looking for: a hotel with private phone booths in the lobby. He had the operator call the number for the West German Federal Intelligence Service, known as the “BND,” in the small Bavarian town of Pullach near Munich. When he heard a female voice answer “Bundesnachrichtendienst,” he asked for Dieter Schmidt. By all accounts—and the Stasi had volumes of information on its sister spy agencies in West Germany—long-time BND agent, Dieter Schmidt, conscientious rather than brilliant, would suit their purposes.
“Who may I tell him is calling?”
Dobnik hesitated. “Tell him I have the information he’s been looking for.”
Static filled the line. He thought about what else he could say to persuade her to put him through, when she said, “Hold, please.”
After listening to canned music for what seemed several minutes, Dobnik expected the female voice to inform him that Schmidt was not available. Just when he concluded that his teaser hadn’t been explicit enough, a husky male voice asked, “What information do you have?”
“Herr Schmidt?”
“Yes. And who are you?”
Dobnik ignored the question. “I can provide files on several subjects of interest to you.”
“Such as?”
“Where you can find the terrorists you’ve been looking for.”
Schmidt’s sharp intake of breath sounded over the line. After a second, he asked, “RAF?”
“Yes.”
“And how would you know that?”
“I have copies of files that show where they trained and what they’re planning.”
The long pause told him Schmidt was trying to assimilate the information. Then his voice came over the line again. “Stasi files?”
Dobnik was impressed. Perhaps the Stasi analysts had underestimated Schmidt’s capabilities.
“Yes,” Dobnik responded.
“How would you have access to those?”
“I work there.”
“Give me some proof of that.”
“The proof will be in the first drop.”
Another long pause. Would Schmidt bite?
“What do you want?”
Dobnik responded without hesitation. “I want to relocate. Bavaria would be nice with a few amenities we can discuss later. And immunity.”
“Are you ready to relocate now?”
“Not for a few weeks. What about the immunity?”
“I’d have to see what you’ve got first.” Schmidt’s voice was firm.
Dobnik thought for a moment. “Okay. I’ll set up an initial drop. I’ll call you with the details.”
“Don’t wait too long. The communist regime’s days are numbered.”
Dobnik took a deep breath. When his annoyance at Schmidt’s dig had passed, he responded with an even voice, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“How soon can you make the drop?” Schmidt pressed.
“Soon,” Dobnik replied.
Apparently sensing that Dobnik was about to hang up, Schmidt said, “Wait. Call me at this number.”
Dobnik fumbled for a pen. He wrote the number on a page of the phone book spread out before him. “Got it.” Dobnik cut the connection and tore off the corner of the page containing his scribbles. Entering East Germany with the piece of paper was out of the question. He’d have no trouble memorizing the five-digit phone number and the four-digit area code for Pullach.
His mission accomplished, Dobnik treated himself to a sumptuous Italian dinner of several courses—cover, he told himself, rubbing his stomach. Afterwards he strolled through Trieste, digesting his meal. He found a bench on the promenade from which he could observe the busy port while licking the flavorful raspberry gelato he had bought from a street vendor and enjoying the late summer sun. Every time his thoughts turned to the problem of setting up the drop, he suppressed them. The planning could await his return to East Berlin. He would not let it spoil the rest of his visit.
The briny breeze, the cries of the sea gulls as they dove between the masts of fishing trawlers and sailboats dancing on the oily water, and the vitality of the Italian people fascinated him to such a degree that he lost track of time. When he noticed the shadow from the bench stretched across the path he stood, having soaked up as much atmosphere as he could. Returning to his hotel, he reflected on a successful and most agreeable day.
Back in East Berlin, Dobnik began planning in earnest. The more he thought about the details, the more his concern grew. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly bothered him. Perhaps it was the way Frantz had presented the idea. His was a high-risk mission. Exposure as a fraud by the West Germans and possible betrayal by his own agency were real possibilities.
Smuggling the documents into West Berlin was too risky. If Frantz had it in for him, he would have him arrested as a double agent. He had to make the drop in East Berlin. But who could he use as recipient? Certainly no BND agents. He had no reason to trust Schmidt or whomever he might send. And the chances of a Western spy slipping into East Berlin, unnoticed by the Stasi, were remote. He had to find someone else. But who?
Weeks of racking his brain failed to produce the name of a suitable recipient. Then in the late afternoon of another day wasted in a fruitless search, Dobnik found himself reminiscing about his college days, mostly spent drinking with Horst Kreuzer and his leftist friends. No sooner had he thought of Horst than Sylvia Mazzoni’s image popped into his head. She probably didn’t even remember him. After all, he’d been just one of the countless drinking buddies of her boyfriend, Horst, during their wild student years in West Berlin. She wouldn’t have had any reason to suspect that he and Horst shared more than a taste for Berliner Weiβe
Dobnik leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. Could she be the intermediary he’d been looking for? He rifled through the rest of the file, which tracked her and Horst’s activities since their student days in the seventies. He smiled. She’d be the perfect carrier. An idea began to form how to get her to East Berlin. If she resisted, her file provided him with ample ammunition to coerce her. He sold Frantz on the idea of using Sylvia as an intermediary by embellishing her left-wing associations at the Free University Berlin, leaving the major general with the erroneous impression that Sylvia was in on her boyfriend’s terrorist activities. Dobnik needed her and was willing to do whatever it took to ensure her participation.
From memory, he asked the operator to dial Schmidt’s number. To his surprise, a female voice answered, “Wiedenmaier.”
“It is, but he is out of the office. May I take a message?”
“Hello, are you there?”
“In the morning.”
He slammed down the phone. Another day wasted. Instead of returning to the convention, he walked a few blocks until he found another hotel with lobby phones for tomorrow’s call.
Dobnik got right to the point. “I’ve got everything arranged for the first drop. It’ll be on Monday, November 27 at the East Berlin Opera.”
Dobnik relished Schmidt’s amazement and could hardly wait to hear his reaction to what he’d tell him next. “At the opera and to an opera singer.”
“The singer’s name is Sylvia Mazzoni.” Dobnik waited. The long silence told him he’d delivered a shocker. He continued, “You remember her. Horst Kreuzer’s girl. You got to her and she turned him in.”
Dobnik had anticipated the objection. “Your outfit has never shied away from using appropriate methods of persuasion. She’s on the brink of a promising opera career. If her past association with an RAF terrorist became known . . .” He didn’t finish, letting Schmidt draw his own conclusion.
“Leave that to me. You just make sure she knows what happens to her career if she fails to cooperate.”
“It may be crazy, but that’s the only way you’re going to see what I’ve got.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Dobnik hung up and left the hotel.
Something else bothered him. Was this an official operation, sanctioned by Mielke? If so, had his successor been properly briefed? He had to find out whether they had authorized this mission or whether Frantz was pursuing an agenda of his own.
Dobnik had no qualms about involving an unsuspecting Sylvia. Nor would he hesitate to use her in case he had to run.