The Berlin Conspiracy Part 8

"You try wiring up a loose cannon," Powell hissed, turning his back on us.

"He's upset because I gave him the slip," I said.

"You gave him the slip?"

"That's right."

"You locked him in your G.o.dd.a.m.ned bathroom! You're lucky he hasn't put a bullet in you. I sure as h.e.l.l would have!"

I looked at the back of Powell's head, incredulous. "You put the bathroom thing in your report? What's wrong with you, man?" What's wrong with you, man?" He ignored me. He ignored me.

"He's a team player," Sam declared. "Unlike you."

"Okay," I admitted. "I'm not a team player. And if I was, you wouldn't have a STASI colonel on the line."

Sam gave me a look and I detected a hint of a smile. "He's got a point there, Jim."

Powell faced us again. "All we have is what he's told us, which isn't a whole h.e.l.l of a lot."

Sam nodded and turned to me. "What about it, Jack? Is this guy the real McCoy?"

"Yeah, he's for real," I said.

Sam turned to Powell for confirmation. "Is he?"

"Since he decided to go solo I have no way of knowing, do I?" He was pouting 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 gla.s.ses 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 n.a.z.i 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 a.s.signed to the paramilitary "People's Police," which was the forerunner to the "National People's Army." He was then a.s.signed a position in army intelligence before taking up a political appointment at the Foreign Ministry in 1956. a.s.sessment 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. 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 a.s.signed to the paramilitary "People's Police," which was the forerunner to the "National People's Army." He was then a.s.signed a position in army intelligence before taking up a political appointment at the Foreign Ministry in 1956. a.s.sessment 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 gla.s.ses 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 Powell burning 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 h.e.l.l 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 Christ's sake," Powell moaned.

"I a.s.sume you asked him if it's a Soviet operation?" Sam interjected.

"I did and he said it wasn't."

Sam nodded slowly then continued. "Jack ..." He scrunched up his face in an expression of pain. "I get the distinct feeling you've got something else to say. So why don't we stop playing twenty questions and you can just spill it?"

"He said it was an intelligence operation."

"He said that?" Sam frowned. "In those words?"

"Not exactly," I said. They knew there was more, so I gave it to them. "He said it was being run from our side." There was silence for a long moment, then Powell laughed contemptuously.

"That's ridiculous!"

Sam leaned forward, c.o.c.ked his head. "Do you realize what you're saying, Jack?"

"I'm not saying anything," I a.s.serted. "He is."

"You're being taken for a ride." Powell started gathering the photos and replacing them in the file.

"I'm just telling you what I was told."

"Come on!" He was getting warmed up now. "The East Germans uncover a plot to kill the president and decide the one person in the world they need to tell is Jack Teller? Please!"

It was a good point.

"Any indication why he asked for you in particular?" Sam asked.

"None," I admitted, realizing that I hadn't even thought about that since the Colonel had sprung his story on me. It was puzzling, to say the least.

"Whatever the reason, you're being played," Powell a.s.serted.

"It does look like you're being romanced," Sam added.

"What for?

"It's usually because someone wants to screw you." Sam turned to Powell. "Section 10."

Powell gave a nod of agreement.

"What's Section 10?" I asked.

"Disinformation," Sam responded. then continued with Powell. "What do you think?"

Now it was Powell who didn't want to talk in front of me. He looked at me sideways. "Don't worry about him," Sam said. "Tell me what you think."

"Iceberg," he replied reluctantly.

"That's what I think, too." Sam stood up, stretched his back. "Look into it."

"Right." Powell closed the Colonel's file and tucked it into his briefcase. He stood up and turned to me. "How did you leave it with Becher?"

"I'm supposed to find out what I can and wait for him to get in touch," I shrugged.

Powell curled his lip. "You seem to take directions from the Commies better than you do from your own side," he said, very pleased with himself.

"If you're on my side, Chief, then I do believe I'm f.u.c.ked."

"You're f.u.c.ked any way you look at it," he smiled.

"Yeah, we're all well and truly f.u.c.ked," Sam said wearily. "Aren't we lucky?"

Powell spun around and headed for the door. I followed with Sam.

"What's Iceberg?" I asked him.

"I'll have a car take you back to the hotel, Jack. Get some rest and pack your things. We'll have you on tomorrow's flight to Miami."

"What about the Colonel?" I asked.

He put his arm around my shoulder and said, "Don't worry about him. We'll take it from here."

SEVEN.

They could turn the whole thing over to Daffy Duck for all I cared-what the h.e.l.l difference was it to me? The Colonel would evaporate, at least until it all blew over, but that didn't matter if they were right about him working a disinformation campaign. It was all just bulls.h.i.+t, then, meant to scare us into keeping Kennedy in a low profile, away from large crowds where he could give rousing speeches that would make the old men in the Kremlin nervous. It was the kind of ridiculous operation that wasted everybody's time, on both sides. I was happy to be out of it. That's what I tried to tell myself, anyway. The truth was that I was hooked. the whole thing over to Daffy Duck for all I cared-what the h.e.l.l difference was it to me? The Colonel would evaporate, at least until it all blew over, but that didn't matter if they were right about him working a disinformation campaign. It was all just bulls.h.i.+t, then, meant to scare us into keeping Kennedy in a low profile, away from large crowds where he could give rousing speeches that would make the old men in the Kremlin nervous. It was the kind of ridiculous operation that wasted everybody's time, on both sides. I was happy to be out of it. That's what I tried to tell myself, anyway. The truth was that I was hooked.

The Colonel didn't strike me as a time waster, especially now that I knew a bit more about him. I'd been impressed by his bio. He'd joined the German Communist Party when the n.a.z.is were clearly the future, and he'd fought on the losing side of the Spanish War. After capture and escape from prison, he could easily have left war-torn Europe by going west into Portugal, then on to anywhere in the world. Instead, he went east, somehow making his way through German-occupied territories in order to volunteer for duty against the fatherland when it looked like he was choosing the losing side yet again. Whatever else he was, the Colonel wasn't an opportunist, and not the kind of man who'd be wasting his time on something as silly as this.

And there was still that nagging question-why me? As Powell had pointed out, even if the East Germans did uncover a conspiracy, it was unlikely that the one person on the planet they'd feel the need to tell would be Jack Teller. But it was just as weird-maybe weirder-that they'd bring me all the way from Florida so they could run a disinformation campaign through me. In fact, it was ridiculous, since they were sure to know that I didn't exactly have the agency's ear anymore. I'd have to make that point to Sam.

On the other hand, my two days in Berlin hadn't exactly been a picnic in the park. h.e.l.l, why not go quietly back to my sunny beach, make myself a pitcher of margaritas, and leave the whole sorry world to itself? If the Colonel was on the level, somebody else would have to deal with it. And if they didn't... Well, there'd be a big flash of light in the sky and it'd be over before you knew it.

Johnson was right about the bed-it was like floating on air. It was too d.a.m.n comfortable, in fact.

I got up, went into the living room, and flicked the set on just in time to see Kennedy being treated to a wild ride into Cologne, his second stop in Germany. The route was jammed with fans straining to get a glimpse of that Kennedy magic. They loved the good looks, the boyish charm, the easy intellect. It was easy to love.

Of course, he wasn't what he seemed to be. In fact, he was pretty much the opposite. The devoted family man was actually a s.e.x-crazed maniac who needed to screw every halfway decent-looking female that came along. The tough cold warrior who stood eye to eye with Khrushchev and made him blink was really an egotistical dilettante who let the Soviet leader scare the s.h.i.+t out of him in their first meeting, tempting the premier to place nuclear weapons ninety miles off our sh.o.r.e, bringing us to the brink of war. And the idealistic crusader for justice was, in fact, a cynical cheat who stole the White House with the help of his crooked father and some Chicago gangsters. He was magic all right, but as any good witch doctor will tell you, magic is all based on misdirection.

Don't get me wrong-I liked Kennedy a lot. He had roused the country from a ten-year coma and had excited the world with his energy, his ideas, and his eloquence. He made America look like the future. And, most important, he made me laugh. I was sold when he told an audience on the campaign trail that he'd just received a telegram from his father: "'Dear Jack,'" he quoted from it, "'Don't buy a single vote more than necessary. I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm going to pay for a landslide.'" That comment got him my vote.

So what if he screwed every skirt in sight? If Jackie didn't mind, why should I? And maybe he was a bit green when he first faced Khrushchev in Vienna, but he'd stood up to him when it counted. And as for politicians stealing elections-wake up if you think Nixon wasn't trying to steal the same votes in 1960. Kennedy just did it better. In spite of the fact that he was a complete fraud and an expert con man, I thought the president was a breath of fresh air.

There were plenty of people who would strongly disagree, of course. Walk down Main Street in Montgomery, Alabama, with a JFK b.u.t.ton on your lapel and you'd find out. You'd be lucky if you were just tarred, feathered, and run out of town on a rail. Yeah, there were folks out there who despised the president all right, hated him as much as most of the country loved him. But they weren't the people the Colonel was talking about. He was talking about a conspiracy from within the government and, more to the point, inside the Company.

It was no secret that the president and the CIA were not on the best of terms. Hadn't been since the Bay of Pigs. He didn't trust them and they resented him. He'd fired Allen Dulles, who'd been director since 1953, put his own man in, then still ignored agency advice, effectively cutting them out of his administration. Everybody knew he had Bobby running his own half-a.s.sed covert operations out of the Justice Department, and it was not appreciated in Langley, to say the least. So I had no illusions about the president's standing with the agency and no doubt that there would be few Company tears shed at his demise. But would they really go that far? The Colonel was talking about a coup d'etat by a group within the intelligence service of the United States government. It was enough to send a s.h.i.+ver up your spine.

"Jesus Christ, how the h.e.l.l did you get this place?" Sam walked into the room unannounced. He didn't have to bother with the doorbell because the clean-cut agent who was stationed in the foyer had let him in. "It's bigger than mine!"

I gave the stock answer. "Friends in high places."

"Not for long the way you're going. Does it come with scotch?"

I went to the bar, poured two doubles even though it was barely past noon. Sam wandered over and stood in front of the television, which seemed to be providing minute-by-minute coverage of Kennedy's day. He watched the mayhem for a moment then turned it off, without comment.

"How's the trip going so far?" I asked.

"He's a real pain in the a.s.s when Jackie's not along," he replied, flopping into an armchair. "A G.o.dd.a.m.ned bird dog off his leash."

I handed him the drink and sat opposite. "Cheers," he said, the gla.s.s already at his lips. He took a couple of good swallows and sighed. "Christ, Jack, I send you out for a little recruitment job and you come back with a plot to kill the president."

"Just lucky, I guess."

"Yeah, lucky," he echoed, examining the color of the whiskey. "Sorry about Powell. The guy desperately needs a proctologist."

"No s.h.i.+t," I agreed.

"Exactly," he chuckled. "No s.h.i.+t."

"And what's with the help?" I said. "Why's he using guys like Johnson and Chase?"

"Because I told him to." He paused, sipped his drink. "They're on temporary a.s.signment, might as well use them."

"What kind of temporary a.s.signment?"