Berlin Encounter (6 page)

Her plane was delayed almost six hours.

Sally slept in fits and snatches on a hard wooden bench under a broken window. The hangar smelled of oil and diesel fumes and sweat and old cigarette smoke, so Sally was grateful for the fresh air, even if it bore an early summer chill. Occasionally she would start awake. Sometimes it was the laughter and shouts of men playing poker at the hangar’s other end. Sometimes it was her nerves playing tricks with her dreams, imagining a hand reaching out, grabbing her, shaking her roughly, telling her it was time to give up, come back, face charges, go before the tribunal and be sent to women’s pris—

“Mrs. Burnes? Ma’am?”

Sally jerked upright with a squeak. “No! I have to go!”

“Yes, ma’am.” The mechanic wore dirty coveralls and had a cigarette tucked behind one ear. “That’s why I’m waking you. The plane’s ready. We fixed the engine.”

Sally rubbed her face, heard the drumming sound of revving motors, tried to put her mind in order. “Fixed it so it will stay fixed all the way to Berlin, I hope.”

“You bet, ma’am.” The mechanic boasted a smile brighter than the dawn. “When the army does something, it does her good.”

“You better be right, soldier.” She slipped on low heels and used his arm for support as she stood. “I didn’t wait this long just to take my morning bath in the North Sea.”

“Not a chance, ma’am. More than my life’s worth. This plane’s got more brass on board than the Pentagon. Something big must be going down in Berlin.” He glanced over his shoulder and so missed Sally’s fleeting look of alarm. “See the one with all the braid and the stars? He’s been giving you the eye. Looks like you’re the only dame, I mean lady, on board.”

A flash of irritation ignited her heart and lifted it to cruising speed. She managed a genuine smile for that little gift. “Thanks, soldier. I’ve got a little experience handling guys with more brass than brains.”

The mechanic’s grin lit up the hangar. “Bet you don’t even leave the bones, ma’am. Have a good flight.”

Sally stood, checked herself in a window turned into a dark mirror by the predawn gloom. Sensible but smart—that was how she had chosen her clothes, not the way she felt about what she was doing. She was trying to act smart, maybe, but certainly not sensible. Beige silk blouse, cotton skirt one shade darker, light-brown pumps, a single strand of charcoal gray pearls, her only splash of color a bright silk scarf knotted at her neck and draped over one shoulder. Sally patted her hair into place, picked up her brown raincoat and bag, and walked toward the officers milling about the hangar exit.

True to the mechanic’s warning, as soon as Sally started forward a light colonel broke off from the general’s band and started toward her. He was a picture-book exec, his uniform tailored and hair freshly cut. Sally was certain he had earned all his ribbons driving a desk.

He touched his forehead with a casual smirk of a salute, said, “General Hastings was wondering if you might enjoy a little company on the flight.”

“Why don’t you ask the general to come on over here himself,” Sally replied crisply, continuing to walk toward the exit, “so I can tell him no personally.”

The colonel started at her response but recovered quickly. “Now, ma’am,” he drawled. “A man like the general could do your husband, whoever he is, a world of good come appointment time. All he’s asking is for you to be a little friendly.”

“And all I’m asking,” Sally retorted, stopping and facing him square on, “is to be left alone. And for your information, Colonel, my husband happens to be a
man,
not a nursemaid to a general’s ego.” She turned away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch.”

As she stood in line waiting to board the plane, a voice behind her said, “That’s sure telling him.”

Sally wheeled about, ready to give someone else the remnants of her anger. But she was met by a rugged face, a cheerful grin, and two outstretched palms. “Easy, ma’am. I was just offering my congratulations. Never did think much of an officer who used his brass as a battering ram.”

She inspected his face and found only genuine friendliness. “I’ll probably regret what I just did in the morning, Major. A lot.”

“Don’t,” he assured her. He then pointed at a band of gold encircling his fourth finger. “Now, if you’re looking for a traveling companion who’s not going to offer you any trouble, I’m about as happily married as you’ll ever meet in this crazy world.”

“Sounds like the best offer I’m going to hear in what’s left of tonight,” Sally replied, deciding that here was a fellow she could trust. “Thanks.”

It was only when she was inside and searching for a seat that she realized she had forgotten to worry. Sally walked down the crowded aisle, nodded when the major offered her the window, slid into her seat with a sigh. Almost airborne.

The major waited until they were both settled and the motors had begun their takeoff revving to offer her his hand. “Theo Travers.”

“Sally Burnes.”

“Burnes, Burnes,” he rubbed his chin. “I know that name.”

“My husband is Colonel Jake Burnes.”

The major brightened. “Sure! The Karlsruhe garrison commander, or was. My last posting was in Stuttgart. Hey, is it true what they say about him and the desert crossing and all that Sheik of Araby stuff?”

“I wasn’t there,” Sally replied, “but he did receive the Croix de Guerre directly from the president of France for what happened.”

“Wow.” The major shook his head. “Adventures in the back of beyond, then he comes home and gets the girl. How come it only happens to the other guy?”

The plane was old, the soundproofing feeble. The great rumbling engines offered them an island of privacy. “What about you,” Sally asked. “What takes you to Berlin?”

“Beats me. I was packing up ready to be shipped home, demob papers tight in my sweaty little grip. Then what happens but I get these urgent orders to strap on my gun and make tracks for Berlin.” He rubbed a stubbled chin. “Been traveling almost twelve hours on a truck older than I am, and let me tell you, I could truly use a bed.”

Sally kept her smile politely interested. “What do you do?”

“Construction. Real life, too, or I hope so. Been in since forty-three. Specialized in battlements and fortifications through the war, then demolition for the past couple of years. Which makes all this passing strange. I mean, Berlin is about seventy percent destroyed already, so demolition is out, and what do they need fortifications for since the war’s over?”

“I’m not sure,” Sally said, and dropped her eyes.

When the major did not respond, she raised her head to find him watching her. All humor was gone from his voice and gaze as he said, “You know something.”

“I’m not sure,” Sally repeated quietly, and studied the man beside her through the takeoff. His was a comfortable, lived-in sort of face, full of strength and integrity, lined with furrows that gathered comfortably into well-practiced lines when he smiled. “Tell me about your wife, Major.”

“Call me Theo. I break out in hives when a pretty woman uses my title, especially when I’m this close to being a civilian again.”

“Theo, then.” Sally found herself liking the man. He had the look of someone who had come to grips with the good and the bad within himself, who was content with both his station and his direction. “Tell me about her.”

“Oh, she’s a gem.” He leaned his head back on the seat. “Three kids, youngest only two when I was called up. Didn’t bat an eye—well, no, that’s an exaggeration. But she’s done well by us, kept me alive in their minds, a tough thing to do when Daddy’s gone for two long years. Only visited them once, and when I was back, gosh, I wish you could have seen how she treated me. Not like I was some visitor. No, like the time I was gone didn’t matter now that I was back.”

“Sounds like a wonderful person,” Sally murmured, liking the way his face lit up as he spoke of her.

“Yeah, too good for me, that’s for sure.” His smile was directed toward someone only he could see. “She must’ve found it tough, taking up the reins while I was gone and then passing them back, but you’d never know by listening to her.”

“What does she do?”

“Teaches high school math. Got a great mind, handles those kids like they’re genuine people and not freaks that ought to be locked up until they hit eighteen.” He switched his grin over her way. “Sorry to run off at the mouth like that, ma’am. But you got me onto my favorite subject.”

“Call me Sally, please.”

“Okay, Sally, so what brings you to Berlin?”

Sally liked him and trusted him. It was a decision at heart level, but she genuinely felt that their meeting was a gift. And she needed a friend. Desperately. She sent a prayer winging upward, then let her worry show through. “I have a problem, Theo. A big one.”

“Those are the only ones worth talking about.”

“And secret,” Sally added. “So secret I could get us both shot just talking about it. Really.”

He searched her face, asked, “Your husband?”

She nodded slowly. “He’s in trouble.”

“With the brass?”

“No, that’s my department. Jake is, well . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Try the beginning. Always like to set my buildings and my stories on a solid foundation.” He glanced at his watch. “Besides, what else have we got to do with the next five hours?”

The March of Brandenburg, as the region surrounding Berlin was known, contained more lakes than all the rest of eastern Germany combined. They were mostly small, set in shallow valleys between rolling hills, bordered by scrub and pine, and lined by some of the worst roads Jake had ever traveled. Many of these country lanes had been constructed of sandy shale to begin with, then blown to oblivion by off-target bombs. The larger roads were segmented muddy bogs, the multitude of bomb holes filled by recent rains. Their remaining surfaces were often ground to gravel by the invading Russian tanks and heavy weaponry. In the worst stretches, recent traffic had bypassed the roads entirely, creating parallel tracks over dunes and bushes that Jake negotiated at a crawl.

Dr. Hans Hechter sat beside him, sullen and silent, his well-trimmed blond head hidden beneath an ancient sweat-stained homburg. Dr. Rolf Grunner had been relegated to the back. The lid to the second under-compartment, now emptied of the satchel bombs, remained propped open, the interior padded with blankets and burlap. If there was a risk of discovery, Grunner could swiftly slide in and close the top. There was far less risk of discovery if inspectors found merely a trader and his helper.

The arrogant blond scientist’s presence would have been much harder to bear had Jake not been so worried by what he had seen thus far that morning. Their way had crossed a major thoroughfare a little distance back, and despite its bomb-blasted surface, the larger road had been filled with a military convoy. A Soviet convoy.

And it was the contents of the convoy that troubled Jake.

For the second time their road approached a juncture with the thoroughfare. Jake stopped the truck and climbed to the top of the highest hillock in view. He crouched and looked down on what once had been the famous Berlin autobahn. Hitler had built these incredible four-lane highways—roads fit to carry the emperor of what he expected would someday be called the new Rome. Jake scanned the bombed and tank-scarred surface, remembering Harry Grisholm’s lessons as he did.

———

The two weeks he had been given for preparation and briefing had been too full and too short. Jake’s two anchors throughout it all had been Harry Grisholm and Sally. At every turn, with every question, Harry had been there, available and ready with the answers. Even to the questions Jake did not know enough to ask.

“Observe,” Harry repeated endlessly. “Do not try and sort at first. Nothing will make sense. Everything will seem either too mundane to be noticed or too bizarre to group together. This is inevitable, and although it will improve as you gain more field experience with us, still your first few days on every new assignment will seem a jumble of conflicting impressions.”

“So what do I do?”

“Just watch and listen. You are both intelligent and perceptive. People often think one goes automatically with the other, but that is nonsense. The most intelligent people are often the ones who allow themselves to notice only what is in line with their opinions. So go in with no opinions at all. And block nothing out. Prearranged judgments are comfortable barriers, but they are death to genuine learning.” Harry gave his patented smile, the one which touched nothing except his eyes. “Also good advice for people seeking to delve honestly into faith, yes?”

Jake nodded, unwilling to let the point go just yet. “But I need something to hold on to.”

“All right,” Harry conceded. “Most times, there will be concerns beyond your own specific assignment. Your superiors may even be afraid to tell you what they are, because they often battle among themselves over these very same points. Very little in this game is certain, Jake, especially for people who do not go across the line themselves.”

This
game.
“Like what sort of questions?”

“Well, we know for certain that Russians are mobilizing large shipments of both men and equipment throughout much of Eastern Europe.”

“I’ve heard about this.”

“Of course you have. And you’ve also heard how some of our high and mighty decision makers think it is exactly as the Russians claim, that they are simply shifting things around, picking up squads and garrisons stranded since the war and consolidating their hold. Others, however, disagree.”

Jake inspected his friend’s face. “And you’re one of them.”

“I am concerned,” Harry admitted. “Very concerned. Too much is happening at once. There are noises about the Russians wanting to take over all of Berlin. They positively loathe the idea that the Western allies maintain this hold right in the middle of their territory.”

“I haven’t heard anything about this.”

“You will,” Harry predicted grimly. “These politicians who think the problem is going to go away merely by talking are laying us open to very grave dangers.”

“What sort of dangers?”

“That’s what I want you to find out.” Harry’s gaze had a piercing quality. “Don’t go looking for trouble, mind you. But if you can, find out what the Russians are up to. Have a look at things from the other side. See where these men are headed, what kind of equipment they are carting around. Observe. Seek the unexpected. Strive to fit the puzzle together. And above all, take care. You will be utterly alone out there, Jake. As alone as anyone can be in this day and age—surrounded by millions of people, none of whom you can trust.”

———

Jake picked his way back down the steep hillside, only to find Hans Hechter waiting for him with both hands planted firmly on his hips. “Really, Colonel, this is too much. You know perfectly well that your primary objective is to deliver us safely and
swiftly
to the American sector. I order you to end these ridiculous excursions and get on with the business at hand.”

Jake stopped in midstride, too dumbfounded to be angry. “You what?”

“You heard me,” the scientist snapped. “I command you to forget this nonsense and drive!”

Jake opened his mouth a couple of times, caught between fury and laughter. He settled on, “Get in the truck.”

Dr. Hechter started to speak, but something in Jake’s eye snagged his attention. With a stifled oath he wheeled about and stomped to his door.

Jake climbed in his side with a long-suffering sigh. It had been like this since they had emerged from the woods the night before. Dr. Grunner was silent and servile and afraid. Dr. Hechter remained a consistent pain in the neck. He had vehemently refused to climb into the secret compartment, claiming it was beneath his station to travel under such conditions. Grunner had defused the situation by offering to remain there throughout the journey.

Jake continued to regret that offer, both because it left him seated next to the former Nazi, and because the atmosphere would probably have been improved had there been a confrontation in that first moment. But because they were less than a half-mile from the guard station, and because Grunner had already climbed into the truck, Jake had let matters lie.

They had driven through the night, or rather Jake had, going east rather than west, headed back toward Berlin. The powers that be had reasoned that the alarm would be sounded for defectors headed directly toward the western sectors. Jake had followed their pointers tracing a line on the wall-sized map and had not objected at the time; why should he, when he had never been there, had no idea what the roads would be like, and had never experienced what it meant to be behind enemy lines, heading farther and farther into unfriendly territory.

He pushed aside his fears and frustrations, and drove on. His mind was gritty from fatigue and strain, his concentration focused more on what he had seen from the hilltop than on the road or his compass. The military markings on the convey had been clearly visible, the contents of the trucks very disturbing. The trucks headed eastward were not laden with troops, as Stalin was claiming in the newspapers. Jake had seen no evidence that there was a withdrawal underway. The eastbound trucks had not carried men at all. They had been loaded to the gills with loot.

Some of the trucks had covers strapped over their bulky burdens. But not others. Jake had seen everything under the sun being carried eastward—great cheese rings stacked with straw for cushioning and insulation, clattering piles of pots and pans beneath a webbing of rope, tools, bleating animals, possessions of every imaginable description. Two trucks had trundled by while Jake watched, each bearing a trio of great chandeliers strung from an overhead bar, thousands of crystals tinkling and shooting rainbows in every direction.

There was no question in Jake’s mind whatsoever. The eastern sector of Germany was being systematically looted, stripped to the very bone. Yet he knew from his own experience how desperate was the plight of the German people. How were they to survive the coming winter, much less begin rebuilding, if even more were taken from them?

His musings and his fatigue kept him from spotting the checkpoint until they were almost upon it.

“Into the compartment,” Jake hissed. “Quick!”

As he heard the compartment lid click shut, he braked to a halt, trapped on one side by an armored half-track and on the other by a bomb crater so deep the bottom was lost in shadows. Ahead the road curved around the diminishing hill and joined with two other roads—the autobahn, and a second lane packed with refugees.

The sight of refugees struggling along on foot was a familiar sight, but one which he could never grow accustomed to witnessing. Here too was an element of unsettling surprise. He had thought that the flood of refugees had been almost stopped. The camps were established and well run, papers were being organized, food was relatively plentiful. At least, that was the situation as he knew it in the west. Jake stared through the windshield, drawn to the tragedy in front of him despite his own danger, and found himself transported back to the first bleak months following the war’s end.

The refugees’ faces were drawn taut with exhaustion and hunger. Men, women, and children walked on worn-out shoes, pushing cycles or barrows piled with their earthly belongings, or carrying everything on their backs. Their eyes were nightmarish caverns, blank and empty of hope. They walked, on and on and on, pushed by forces so far beyond their control that their pleas were silenced.

Jake watched a group of Russian soldiers pawing through a family’s belongings, fighting over a shawl and laughing uproariously as the old mother clawed at them and begged for its return.

Jake forced his attention back to matters at hand as two men approached his side of the truck. One was dressed in the scratchy brown wool of a Soviet noncom. The other wore a new uniform of Prussian blue, another of the so-called People’s Police. This organization, he knew, was in truth becoming a catchall for the ranks of political officers and assistants to their Soviet masters.

Jake nodded a greeting and handed over his greasy papers without waiting to be asked. As nonchalantly as he could, he motioned toward the refugees and inquired, “Where is this lot coming from?”

“Who knows,” the political officer sniffed. “All over. Most recently from the station south of Berlin. There’s been another outbreak of cholera.”

Jake swallowed his bile and with it the retort that if there was cholera, the last thing they needed to be doing was walking.

“What about you, gypsy?” the officer demanded, his voice a permanent sniff. “Where are you coming from?”

“All over as well,” Jake replied, his voice as bored as he could make it. The political officer was not a problem. But the Soviet sergeant was another matter entirely. He was dark, with the leathery skin and high cheekbones of a Mongol. He eyes showed a merciless battle-hardened squint, and he watched Jake like a hawk watched its prey. Jake shifted his gaze back to the refugees and intoned, “My life is that of a traveler.”

The officer stood on his toes and eyed Jake’s assistant, who sat with eyes straight ahead. He compared the picture on the second set of papers with that of the blond man. “You took an unemployed engineer as your assistant?”

“Is that what he was?” Jake tried for mild humor. “I wondered how he learned the fancy words.”

“Was he a Nazi?”

“I don’t care about the man’s politics,” Jake replied laconically. “Just whether he can work.”

A wail arose from another group of refugees whose paltry belongings were being tossed to the four winds. The officer looked over, snorted his disgust, then handed back Jake’s papers. “Let me see what you have.”

Jake stepped from the truck, knowing his papers were supposed to keep him from being looted, yet aware that the sergeant with his unwavering gaze was an unknown force. The Russian stood behind the political officer, one hand continually massaging the stock of his rifle.

The political officer’s attention remained distracted by the growing uproar from the refugees. He gave the truck’s interior a cursory inspection and was about ready to wave Jake onward when the sergeant spoke for the first time. His guttural voice was barely audible over the din, but the officer stiffened, turned toward the other man, started to retort, then changed his mind. “Unload,” he ordered Jake.

He could not help but gape. “All of it?”

“Everything.” He was clearly as irritated by the order as Jake.

“But that could take an hour,” Jake protested. “More. And we have a delivery to make in Berlin. You saw my papers. They—”

“Don’t question my orders,” the officer snapped. “Get started.”

Resigned, Jake kept his eyes from the watchful sergeant and the itchy trigger finger as he walked to the open window and told the blond scientist, “Start unloading the truck.”

But before Jake could walk back and lower the rear gate, Hechter had stormed around the truck, stiff and upright angry in his superiority. He raised his chin, looked down at Jake, and snapped, “Now see here, Co—”

Suddenly all the rage and the tension and the fatigue bundled together in his gut, raging through him like a freak ball of static energy. In one continuous motion Jake swept around and landed a single backhanded blow to the side of the blond man’s head. The blast was strong enough to lift Hechter up and spin him around and slam him into the side of the truck. He clutched feebly at the canvas as he sank slowly to his knees.