Part 3—Confusion
1 Cafe Oktober
9PM
June 15, 1961
East Berlin, German Democratic Republic
The night Martin Kellner died
Waiting for her handler, Freddie, to arrive, Galina sat in the Oktober for what she hoped was the last time. There was nothing left for her in this city. Anything the Americans wanted, she would get it to them, as long as they got her out of Germany.
She hated the cloud from all the cigarettes, even though she was chain smoking herself.
"Calm down," she almost said out loud. Her gin and tonic sat ignored—what if her shaking hands accidentally started tapping the glass. Freddie would think she was aborting.
Her mind drifted to thoughts of America—she knew very little about it, but it had to be better than this.
She took a sip from the glass. As she set it down, her head felt light; a wave of nausea hit her and passed. Her ears started to ring. Her vision was blurry—the lights changing and flickering.
Everything around her was both close up and far away.
Galina did not feel herself at all. Panic took over.
I've been poisoned.
Terror set in.
A voice was inside her head—a young girl speaking German in an American accent.
"Now, Galina. The next few minutes are going to be very strange for you. But it's gonna be okay. You need to get up and walk out. Very nice men will be waiting for you at the door."
Wide-eyed, Galina turned to find the voice, but the seat next to her was just as empty as it had been when she sat down.
"What is happening to me?" Galina asked this of no one in particular.
Bang. A shot had gone off near her.
The music stopped. There was a dead silence, followed by confused chatter. A few gasps. Then screams and shouts.
"That's Freddie on the floor. He's dead. Forget about him. Leave right now."
Galina was suffering a complete emotional breakdown.
The voice now yelled at her. "Get up, now. Smile and leave."
This was not the last time she would hear that voice.
2 Another Spy
8PM
June 17, 1961
Schumannstraße 20-21, Berlin-Mitte
My eight minute walk to the Kontra building to meet Viktor Brenner produced a tail almost immediately. Why follow me if they knew I was coming?
Likely part of the plan to let me know the enemy was always watching.
I arrived in East Berlin at 7:45, after taking both the U-Bahn to Friedrichstraße and the S-Bahn toward Oranienburger Tor. My tail had been joined by a woman wearing a white jacket. The couple barely pretended they weren't following me.
If they didn't care, I didn't care.
Colors here seemed more muted; the few people out at this time of day moved more quickly, with less eye contact. The war damage was still visible everywhere, many buildings had bullet holes and poorly patched walls.
The Kontra building was dwarfed by Charité Hospital, which housed the infamous psychiatric Ward 7. It was supposed to be home to the worst psychopaths in the country, but I doubted that; the worst of the worst worked for the East Germans.
In those days, all the buildings in that part of the city were the same on the inside, despite the exterior, but as I entered the Kontra I discovered an exception; the drab outside had hidden a modern looking foyer; maybe not on the same level as any Western building, but for East Germany it was nice and clean. A pleasant surprise. I counted four people total in the lobby. Two guards and a secretary sitting behind a sleek command center that was the front desk. I spoke in German, showing the secretary my press pass.
"I have an appointment in the cafeteria."
"Where is your camera, reporter?" The way he asked felt more good natured than accusatory.
I smiled. "Unfortunately, not that kind of appointment."
As if they would let a Western reporter take photos of whatever it was they were hiding beyond the entrance. Again, my mind asked the question: why did Brenner want to meet here?
The attendant doubled checked my identification and made a mark on his clipboard. Then he pointed to a hallway in the back of the lobby.
The mostly deserted cafeteria had rows of long stainless steel tables. And at the end of one in the center Brenner sat, surrounded by his crisp security detail who all stood. Having seen dozens of photos, I recognized him right away. But the photos didn't do him justice.
Viktor Brenner had a hard face that seemed incapable of producing a smile. It didn't take much of an imagination to picture the over six foot tall, lean-muscled man, using his bare hands to strangle the truth out of a victim.
He dominated the room. Rumors had him killing two of his own men. Their crime? He wasn't convinced they were Marxist enough.
Our world was littered with crazy stories, but there was something about seeing Brenner in person that made these particular stories feel real.
"Have a seat, Mister Yellow," he said. The advantage immediately went to him. The smile on his face was perfectly creepy.
I sat.
He must have noticed how pale I went after he spoke my code used during radio transmissions and on official documents. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe here. We have an understanding; my men and I."
A big smile.
"What would I do with such information, anyway? It would be a waste of my time." He let out a small chuckle, like he was sharing in a private joke.
"Come now," he said. "If you're worried about your cover, then rest assured I don't care. You'll leave here tonight, free to file an article with New York press and then post a completely different story to the CIA."
Don't get angry.
Finally, I choked out something, but I have long since forgotten what I said. It was less than brilliant—that much I remember.
Brenner quickly changed the subject, continuing like we were old friends catching up. "I hope you brought an appetite."
The kitchen staff brought out covered dishes.
There was real beef. Red wine. Butter. Even apples.
Before either of us took a bite, one of Brenner's men tasted all the food—even what was meant for me. I was relieved to think he might not want me to be poisoned—realizing it could also be a ploy to gain my trust.
"Tonight, you and I are friends," he said. "We have a rat making both of our lives difficult. More so than usual. But here we can talk freely. This room is bug free."
I did not believe him.
Once the food cleared inspection, Brenner and I were free to eat."For a long time, I've wanted to meet you," he said. "We have some similarities."
"It seems we both went to Duke," I said. "What brought you there?"
"This is where we trade information to establish trust. Cigarette?"
He produced a pack of Sobraine Black Russians—a major security risk on his part. Just possessing them was enough for him to be questioned—or arrested; his rank wouldn't matter.
Who was this guy?
"What trade? Why am I really here?"
His eyes fixed on mine, as he considered my question."Because you are a master detective. And I need you to do what you do best."
No answer from me, as he lit the cigarette and blew thick, sweet smoke out. I knew East Germans secretly craved Western products, but the British cigarettes were a bridge too far, even for him. Sobraine Black Russians stood for everything decadent the West had to offer.
"You're like a Ghost. That's what I think." He took a long sip of his wine. Then he nodded, as if agreeing with his own assessment. "You're always there, seemingly floating from one complex problem to the next. No one sees you."
He put his glass down, a little harder than needed. "They don't see you, but they know you're there. Following. Following. And it haunts them into making a mistake. Then you catch them."
He clasped his enormous hands like he had caught someone by the neck.
"I don't follow you," I said.
He laughed, pushing a piece of bread in his mouth. "Real butter. Fresh bread. It's nice, you know. To get it all the time."
The cafeteria had no windows, but I felt I could see evening shadows growing, reminding me I was deep in enemy territory and night was coming.
"Here is what I propose," he said. "I will give you a number; one you will memorize. This is the identifier on my file. The real one.
"In exchange, you get the full story on Martin Kellner, who was never a sales rep for anyone but the CIA. And I tell you how to find both girls."
"Both?"
"Both. Your Songbird and the young girl."
He saw I had been caught off guard about the young girl.
"You don't know about her, do you? The little girl? The one they call Dragon Eyes?"
It turns out that I didn't know anything, because the next thing he said was stunning.
"And for you, something extra. Only you. No agency involvement. A personal gift."
He leaned over the table until our noses almost touched. "I'll give you the man who had your wife and daughter killed."
"I already know who killed them," I said. Hadn't meant to raise my voice, but my throat had gone dry.
Brenner was still right in my face, his bloodshot eyes piercing into mine. "But who gave Dr. Hardy the order? You don't believe this was his idea of revenge?"
His knowing the name of the man responsible for their deaths meant he was read-in at a very high level.
Again, I wondered who this man was.
"I believe you think you understand me," I said. "But you are mistaken."
"Cross, there is nothing to understand. You angered a great many people. Not just Hardy. You think he was the only one who wanted to keep Remote Control going? You think only you Americans wanted to keep it alive? Hardy was working on something big."
I fervently hoped Brenner was ultimately on our side, because he seemed to know everything we were up to.
"So who gave the order to go after your family?" He eased back into his seat, staring at me, as I felt the color slowly draining from my face. "You would like to know?"
Brenner waved his hand nonchalantly. "Please, eat more. You've hardly touched your food."
My mind was reeling. If Brenner was being honest, then another name would need to be added to my personal kill list.
As he smoked and I picked at my food, he spoke a number twice.
417-9078-123DUMC
"You recognize the pattern?" he asked.
It wouldn't be hard to forget anything that ended in MC—the letters had only been used once as far as I knew. And I had a good idea how to find the file; but it would take me back to the beginning of my career.
And now I understood—at least partially—the Duke connection. I needed to somehow get back there.
"Understand we are both now in a great deal of trouble on both sides of the equation," Brenner said. "This is the first time I've ever said that number out loud."
I ventured one last question. "If I locate this folder, what do I do with it?"
"Read what's in it, of course. Both our stories are in it."
He snuffed out the cigarette and looked at me one last time. "I've shared with you the kiss of death. They will come at you with everything they have."
"Who?"
"Everybody."
Then he left me alone in the cafeteria to wonder what sort of mess I had landed in.
3 The Visitor
9:45 PM
AP Bureau/Berlin station
After dinner, I wandered aimlessly for about twenty minutes before deciding to go straight back to work and write up my meeting with Brenner. Taylor's light was on, the door open.
Poking my head in was a mistake, because our visitor from Washington had arrived early. And I had hoped to delay meeting him until... never.
"Let me introduce you to our guest from headquarters, Tommy Davidson."
The Director's man was rail thin, average height. Though much of my success had come from being able to blend into any situation, Davidson had me beat. Not one of his features stood out.
I got the feeling that if I had seen him fifteen minutes later I might have a hard time placing his face. Giving me a good natured handshake, he gave off the impression of just another company man.
Company men were of no use to me.
They were all dangerous but I knew this one was a special case. Careers were destroyed over a smoke and coffee with someone like Tommy Davidson.
There was something off about Taylor; even in the bad fluorescent light, he looked paler than usual.
"I'm not here to be in anyone's way," he said. Big, bright, fake smile. "The Berlin Station is the tip of the spear for us. Director Brighton sings your praises in almost every meeting. Don't mind me. I'm just stopping in to say hello."
But, of course, men like Davidson never just stopped in to say hello without an agenda. He looked around Taylor's office. "Is this room secure?"
I wanted to slap the man. Tell him, of course it is, you ass. This is the Berlin Station.
But, I knew that would not help Taylor's career—would probably ruin mine.
"We can talk here, Tommy," Taylor said, letting the slight go.
"I'll leave you two alone," I said. Taylor was slowly, and grimly, shaking his head.
"No, you're the reason for this quick conversation," Davidson said. "What did Viktor Brenner have to say?"
For obvious reasons I didn't feel comfortable sharing anything with this intruder. But there wasn't much I could do. Davidson didn't have an official title, because he didn't officially exist. Even so, he outranked everyone else in the station, including Taylor.
"He mentioned helping us find NIGHTINGALE."
Actually, Brenner had offered to give us her abductor. I didn't feel like getting into a full debrief with this new guy. Taylor might chew me out later for holding back, but I could deal with those consequences.
Davidson let out a laugh. "He's known for wasting the opposition's time. He's not going to help us find NIGHTINGALE. His side has her. This is another one of his mind games."
Listening, without interrupting, my gut told me something was off with this assessment.
"That's all he said?" Davidson asked, scratching his chin. "He say anything else?"
On the surface, these were logical questions, but now my gut feeling was Davidson was fishing. On the spot, I created a cover story that I would stick with, come Hell or high water.
"No, he wanted another meeting. This first meeting was just to get acquainted."
Davidson snapped his fingers. "Just like I thought, he's wasting time, dragging us all over the place. Doesn't matter."
My gut said Davidson didn't believe Brenner would be reckless enough to actually give me a name. It was a guess on my part. There was no way for me to be sure.
Giving me about as grave a look as he could muster, he put a hand on my shoulder. "Cross, we need to make a few changes. Official word will arrive in the morning, but they wanted me to talk to you in person."
Davidson's voice grew grave with practiced fake concern. "We have a problem back home. Turns out, Cross, you're the best person for this assignment."
The states. They were going to send me home.
"I'm not following." But I was fully aware of what was happening. The word was out that Brenner had talked to me; likely told me where to find some secret stash of information.
Did they think it was in Berlin? Was that the reason to send me away?
Why?
"You're going to get to use that PhD you earned in economics," Davidson said. "The problem is at Duke, and there is an opening this fall semester."
"You want me to teach college students?"
"That's the cover. Truth is, we want you to do what you do best. Observe."
Did they know it was at Duke University?
Davidson was a lackey. Powerful, yes. But still nothing more than a messenger who might not even know much about the message.
"You good with that, Cross?" The smile faded just a little from his face.
"Davidson will help me with MANTLE," Taylor said, referring to Gunter. He had been the one to assign the new code name.
"And I'll handle Brenner," Davidson said. I immediately did not like his tone.
Right then, I knew what Viktor Brenner had said was true; a file did exist. And someone was convinced that sending me to Durham, North Carolina, was the way to keep me from the truth. Because they assumed the secret was hidden in Berlin.
I was now more determined to hunt down this so-called real file on Viktor Brenner. And those idiots were sending me to the one place on the planet I needed to be.
I was following the general rules of every story a spy heard:
The first was Their Side—simply what you were being told.
The second was My Side—how I saw things.
The third was The Truth—that trumped everything else.
Davidson was lying to my face, but Brenner had given me no reason to doubt him.
The truth was I trusted Brenner more than Davidson at this point.
Berlin was still my town. Davidson was nothing more than an unwelcome visitor.
4 The Doctor
11 PM
June 17, 1961
Fasanenstraße 12
Charlottenburg, Berlin
It was late, the office was stuffy, and Dr. Richard Hardy was nervous, although he felt he had no reason to be. He had proven Remote Control not only worked, it made him the undisputed leader in the espionage business. But he still answered to the highest of the high in Washington.
And one of their representatives sat across from him.
This man had directed Hardy to broadcast that message through the numbers station, no doubt leading to some sort of bidding war between the Soviets, the East Germans, and even our friends at MI-6. This left Hardy feeling like things were beyond his control; he wasn't a man who appreciated answering to anyone—not even heads of state.
With the dynamic combination of NIGHTINGALE and Amy Brand (a.k.a. Dragon Eyes), Hardy was the only one capable of running the program.
The man was Tommy Davidson—the right hand man of the Director of the CIA. Very few people ever saw his face—unless the Director needed something done that required the darkest of the dark.
"You've done well for yourself Richard," Davidson said. "Just remember who you serve."
"And you need to remember who put this all together," Hardy said. "This was years of research. Then finding the right components."
"You mean the girls?" Davidson asked. His voice had a snarl. "One, a teenager. The other, barely in her twenties. This is your army, and it could easily backfire."
"You tell Tony..."
"Director," Davidson corrected him. "To you, he isn't Tony. And he never will be."
Though Hardy was not a man who appreciated anyone trying to cut him down to size, he had to reluctantly realize he was talking to someone who made enemies disappear.
"I'm going to get back to keeping the rest of the agency off your back," Davidson said. "You are going to get back to babysitting and remembering where you rank."
Keep going:
J Riley Johnson is a former Fortune 500 hundred tech consultant who writes as the 5:15.