Ghost Station Part 2

Informants

Thanks again for reading. If you need a refresher, there’s a link to Part 1 at the bottom.

1 Songbird

June 11, 1961

Warschauer Straße 47, Friedrichshain, East Berlin

Nightingale: a small migratory thrush with drab brownish plumage, noted for its rich melodious song which can often be heard at night; a songbird.

Galina Orlova (aka NIGHTINGALE) had been sneaking information out of the KGB's Berlin station for five years, which was exactly five years longer than she had expected to last before getting caught. Always a realist, she knew every informer eventually made a mistake, something they never realized when they were doing it; the smallest mental lapse that spelled the difference between a normal day and being hauled off into the dark by agents. At least three people in the station had been caught by stupid missteps.

One secretary had actually made the mistake of leaving dead drop instructions in the top drawer of her desk. Galina often wondered what made an extremely competent person write down things that could get them killed.

Of course, she knew about the secretary's misfortune because she had worked her way into a position that gave unprecedented access to what happened within the station. Her knowledge included things that not even a few of the less senior officers were aware of. With that came the terror of flubbing up something small that would expose her.

Five years was a lifetime to be perfect.

Galina did have the advantage of never having to carry anything physical out of the building—not even a camera, because she had a photographic memory; one look at any document and she could reconstruct it later in the privacy of her apartment.

Her handler, a guy she only knew as Freddie—actually our guy Martin Kellner—had dreamt up the idea of using one of the giant wash machines in the basement of her apartment building. It had a weak panel on the inside that was perfect for a waterproof bag she had hidden in her clothes.

With 70 other families doing the same thing in her building, it was the perfect plan. The best part was she didn't have to let anyone know when she had something to pass over to us. One of Freddie's people handled that part. We had assets living in the building who rotated checking the washer daily for any drops.

It was a good plan. But not perfect, because nothing was.

Having a photographic memory was a blessing and a curse.

The blessing came because she could use her brain to get back at the people she hated.

The curse was the precise memories of why she hated these people in the first place.

The Russians had raped and murdered her mother while liberating the city after the war. And the East Germans had done nothing as her younger sister and father died of starvation because there was no food.

She hated them all. Every Russian and every German who had ever let her down.

For five years, Galina had provided better information than any other spy in Berlin—even the Kremlin. For every moment of those five years, her only wish was for them all to burn for what they had done.

But her life had changed on Christmas, when her maternal grandmother—the last living member of her family— died. Her last wish was for Galina to be free of the darkness that had driven her since childhood. To have a family. A life.

"This weight you carry," she told Galina. "Is this what your mother or father would have wanted for you? Don't die like this."

"Like what?"

"Like someone who wishes they had never been born. There is always going to be evil in this world, and—even though you never say a word—I know you're doing something to fight it. Just don't let yourself be like the evil you fight."

And now—convinced the Russians were onto her—Galina felt her own mortality. Her grandmother had to have been right. There had to be a better life—maybe in America

As she stuffed the bag into the trap door, a chill came over her entire body, rattling her teeth—making her hands shake.

Was she really doing this?

Yes, because she was tired of living the life of a spy, which was no life at all; even worse, the hatred had become its own burden. If she had truly ever loved her grandmother, she had to leave it all behind.

For the first time one of her dead drops had a personal note to Freddie, reminding him of his promise to get her out when she felt she had had enough.

That time had come.

She would expect an answer—complete with instructions—within twenty-four hours.

2 Gunter

Noon

June 16, 1961

Kurfürstendamm 26, Charlottenburg

Berlin

Anderson, Taylor, and I were in shock after being told Kellner had shot himself in the middle of the East German club Oktober.

Martin Kellner committing suicide made no sense. He had a life—a girlfriend he wanted to marry.

And then there was NIGHTINGALE; her role in it did not fit at all. She had been the one to ask for the extraction.

It took almost a minute for one of us to speak.

"This meeting is over," Taylor said. He was standing up.

"Why would I lie?" Gunter asked.

"Our man was not suicidal."

Gunter looked down at his hands, which I noticed were now shaking. "He was not himself."

"You knew him?" I asked.

"Only a little. He came into the club from time to time. But the other night he... "

"He what?" Taylor was still standing.

"His eyes. They were crazy looking. I have seen that look recently. People doing strange things."

"Are you saying he was drugged?" Anderson asked.

"Besessen."

"Possessed, like by a demon?" I asked, my voice almost a whisper, as I started to get really scared. We had programs—some I had even worked on—that specialized in mind control. So far, they had been a failure—for us.

Taylor sat back down. His voice now more relaxed—almost gentle. "Go on, Gunter."

He killed himself and she acted like it was expected? She wasn't scared?

Of course, this version of the truth still hinged on whether or not we could trust Gunter.

But if Gunter's story was true, why had I not seen NIGHTINGALE exit? I refused to entertain the possibility that I missed her walk out.

I couldn't—wouldn't—have missed that.

The patrons inside? Why didn't they run out in a panic?

My eyes met Anderson's. "Gunter has always been straight with me," he said.

"Where did they take his body after he shot himself?" Taylor asked.

"I am in great danger. My family is also," Gunter said. "That is the only reason I am here. We need to get out."

"Hold on, guy," Taylor said. He had calmed down enough to place a cigar in his mouth, but had still failed to light it. It bobbed up and down as he talked. "We have a lot more territory to cover before we start that kind of talk."

Gunter continued his train of thought. "My sister got sick at work," he said. "At Kontra. Things there are very strange."

The lunch crowd was starting to feel oppressive. It was too loud to have a conversation.

"Go home like normal," Taylor said. "Cross is your man now. He'll contact you."

Cross was my cover name. And Taylor was turning this over to me because I had spent time in the states on one of our deepest—most secretive—psychological operations.

"You believe me?" Gunter asked.

"Just go home, Gunter. We'll be in touch."

My trip back to the states would have to wait. The vacation had been planned when I thought we were getting NIGHTINGALE out; before the Director had my boss in his crosshairs.

3 Nightmare

4:10PM

June 16, 1961

Dahlem, Steglitz-Zehlendorf borough

Berlin

The dream was always the same. I had gotten Karen and Crystal out and into the states; all I needed to do was finish my caseload, then I would take what I could from my pension; that and what I had saved would be enough for us to make a life.

The two of them had started creating our new home. I was on the way to join them.

I never saw their bodies, burned beyond recognition. It was the price I had paid for thinking I could protect them.

I woke up in darkness—the blackout curtains were doing their job. Cold sweat covered my body.

After Kranzlers, I had gone home for some sleep—Taylor's orders. He needed me fresh on this case, mainly because he wanted to get concrete answers before the director sent his guy. A classic case of limiting the number of cooks in the kitchen before the meal was burned to a crisp.

Gunter had mentioned Kontra. That part of town was full of stories about all kinds of strange weapons; but you had to listen carefully, because they could be nothing more than stories.

And he had stirred up devastating memories. The company's mind control adventures weren't just some intellectual exercise, which would create interesting detective work. This was a lockbox I wasn't sure I could open without disappearing in it.

I wasn't sure how much Taylor knew about my past, besides that I spent time on the edge of Manhattan's Chinatown in a safe house full of prostitutes who drugged their customers while we observed.

That was the place where I made real enemies; the kind who killed a man's wife and child just to see them suffer. Just because they could.

Martin Kellner was dead. I was sure of it.

And I was starting to believe his death was my fault. Years ago, I had the chance to kill the man who would cause so much suffering. My answer had been to do nothing, and the price was still being paid.

Dr. Richard Hardy was letting me know he was still very much alive. And as long as he was alive, no one near me was safe.

Returning to sleep was impossible, so I got up, got dressed, and listened to the radio. Back home, some 18-year-old kid named Lew Krausse Jr. threw a complete three-hit shutout for Kansas City. He had just graduated High School 10 days earlier.

When I was 18, I had been in the army for two years; late for the shooting war; just in time for the one run by spies and goons.

4 Invitation

6:30AM

June 17, 1961

AP Bureau

Kantstraße 149, Charlottenburg

It was a Saturday, and since I wasn't taking vacation days—nor sleeping, I was at my desk as early as possible. The NIGHTINGALE file had been moved to the archives room, where I could access it with my key. The few non-CIA reporters who worked at the Bureau could not even access the room, much less the critical files in the safe.

Being an actual part of the AP meant there was always someone coming or going to the two-floor building. I wondered what the real reporters thought of us. We were still required to publish the occasional story, but the sheer amount of work kept us too busy to hit our deadlines like everyone else.

Caught up in my thoughts, I didn't notice Taylor until he knocked on the door.

He came in and sat down. On his lap he held a thick folder. "Got another one for you."

"Huh? Another what?"

He plopped the folder down. "This guy wants an interview..."

"He asked for me?" I started to thumb through the pages in it, thinking there wasn't enough time for another contact.

"By name."

The first page made my blood go cold. "You're telling me the Butcher of Berlin wants an interview with the AP? With me?"

Taylor carefully placed an unlit cigar between his teeth. "Viktor Brenner, former Unterleutebant in the East German People's Army and now the Oberst running counter-intelligence operations against Western assets wants to talk to you."

"Why would he want that?"

Brenner had earned his nickname the old fashioned way, ruthlessness. Now he was letting me know either:

My cover was blown.

Or he had specific intelligence about the NIGHTINGALE operation.

Or this was one giant trap waiting for me.

"This is going to bleed into their foreign intelligence," I said. "I hate dealing with the HVA."

"We all do."

"You and Brenner have a lot in common."

"What?"

"Check the file," Taylor said.

Instead of answering my question, he changed the subject. "You'll never guess where he wants to meet."

My mind was racing too fast to venture a guess.

"Kontra, old boy. He wants to meet you in their cafeteria this evening.

The same place Gunter's sister worked. When I got to the second page of the file, I saw what we both had in common. Duke University.

The same place I met Richard Hardy.

In a world full of coincidences, I didn't trust any of them.

5 Meanwhile

Exact same time

Fasanenstraße 12

Charlottenburg, Berlin

While I sat at my desk, wondering why Viktor Brenner felt like he needed to talk to me, something entirely different was going on in a basement less than a city block away. Galina Orlova was waking up to a nightmare.

The room was akin to the same type of hospital room her grandmother had died in. For all she knew, it might have been.

An IV dripped something from a bag above her bed into her arm. She imagined warmth flowing through her veins, even though she couldn't really tell hot from cold—or up from down.

Near the foot of the bed a nurse drummed her fingers on a clipboard as she read.

"Where am I?" She slurred her words, struggling just to think.

The question went unanswered.

Then the voice of a young girl filled her head.

"She never talks.”

Galina knew this voice, her mind too cloudy to remember where she first heard it—that would come later.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Don’t let them know you can hear me. We’ll get in trouble.”

Galina almost answered, thought better of it, and stayed quiet.

"He lies to us. He lies and lies and lies.”

Lies about what? Galina thought.

“Everything.”

"Who lies?" This conversation in her head couldn't be real; had to be drugs.

"The doctor."

It would take time for Galina to understand.

And even though I didn’t know it, the orbit of my entire world was shifting.

Continue the ride:

Part 3 Confusion

Or start at the beginning:

Part 1:

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After 20 plus years managing multi-million dollar corporate projects, I’m working on my dream project. A Cold War Sci-Fi Spy Thriller.