MY DEBRIEFING THE DAY AFTER MY ARRIVAL in Moscow began with the failed birth certificate operation. Just to prove to my bosses that I was telling the unvarnished truth, I handed over the useless van Randall document.

Alex and Sergej both showed their disappointment, but at the same time they agreed that I was not at fault in this matter. When I told them about my success in impersonating an American, they cheered up considerably.

“Let’s lie low for a while until we have a plan for your deployment,” Alex advised. “We’d like for you to go back to Berlin, get in touch with Nikolai, and wait for instructions from the Center.”

My old apartment on the Eitelstraße had been kept empty, so I moved right back into familiar surroundings, but the thick layer of dust that had settled on the furniture during my absence was a visible confirmation of something I had told Sergej a year before: I did not have a home anymore. Eitelstraße was a place to sleep until somebody in Moscow decided where to send me next.

Late one morning, about a week after I had settled back into my solitary life, there came a knock on the door. Very few people knew my address, and only the KGB knew I had returned to Berlin, so who could it possibly be? I jumped up from the sofa and turned off the television, which was playing—what else?—Sesamstraße.

When I opened the door, my heart stood still.

There was Gerlinde, in all her sparkling blonde-haired, blue-eyed glory.

“Do you still love me?” she said.

Instinctively, I gave her the only answer possible in that situation. “Yes.”

I swept her inside the apartment and we hugged and kissed without concern for the implications of that six-word exchange.

Later, as we were talking about everything and nothing, Gerlinde surprised me.

“You didn’t go to Moscow, did you?”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” she answered with a knowing smile, “you always carried English books and papers with you, never Russian.”

That forced my hand.

“Listen, I did go to Moscow, but I never worked at the embassy. I can’t tell you much more, but perhaps I’ll be able to soon. “

Gerlinde looked me straight in the eye and said with unquestionable sincerity, “I sensed that you were involved in something top secret, but I didn’t have the courage to bring it up. After you left, I tried to put you out of my mind. I dated other men. I wanted to pretend that you never existed. I have no idea what made me come here today after almost two years, but what I do know is that you’re the only one for me. I will do whatever it takes to keep you. If necessary, I will wait, and I will wait for you a long time. Just don’t leave me like that again.”

My eyes teared up and I resolved to discuss the situation with Nikolai at the next opportunity.

That opportunity came two days later, when Nikolai came to the apartment to tell me that the Center had decided that I should study Portuguese and learn as much about Brazil as possible. It wasn’t clear whether Brazil was my new target country or an intermediate stop on my way to the United States, but at that moment it didn’t matter. Brazil was a fascinating country and a great second choice.

When the official briefing concluded, I asked Nikolai to stay for another minute.

“Listen,” I said with great trepidation, remembering his reaction to the Gabriele episode. “I have a confession to make.”

Nikolai looked at me impassively, and his eyes seemed to harden.

“I had a girlfriend two years ago. I never told her anything about what I was doing, and I broke up with her before I went to Moscow. Two days ago, she showed up at my apartment out of the blue. Nikolai, I really love this woman. Is there any way she can be part of my life?”

Given our history, I was prepared for the worst, but Nikolai did not react with anger. Instead, he seemed to think for a moment and then said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I will discuss this with our comrades at the Center.”

His response made two things clear to me: Nikolai was not the decision maker, and after four years of training I was now a valuable asset to the KGB rather than an unproven rookie. This made me hopeful that we could work something out.

Two weeks later, Nikolai came to our meeting with an answer from Moscow.

“Albrecht, we ran a background check on your girlfriend. She is cleared, and you may continue your relationship with her. There are several alternatives under consideration. If she qualifies, she may eventually be able to join you in the West. If not, we might arrange periodic visits—either here or in a third country—to keep the relationship alive.”

I was ecstatic. I was going to have my cake and eat it too! I could proceed with the mission I had spent the last four years preparing for and have a lasting relationship with the woman I loved. I could not wait to share the good news with Gerlinde.

The next time I saw her, I gave her a lot more information about my situation.

“Would you have a problem if I told you that I work for the Soviet Union?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she said. “I would even move there with you, if necessary.”

“That is probably not going to happen,” I explained. “Up until a month ago, I was pointed toward the United States, but things have changed. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but that’s the reason I was carrying English books with me all the time.”

And then I couldn’t contain myself any longer; I had to show her. I started saying a few phrases in my best American English, and Gerlinde’s jaw dropped.

“My goodness,” she said when she had regained her composure. “What else can you do that I don’t know about?”

I left that question unanswered. I had to be careful not to tell her too much about my unusual profession.

My schedule over the next few months was light. Other than the Portuguese lessons and maintaining my technical skills, there wasn’t much to do. Had it not been for Gerlinde, I easily could have slipped into depression. After all, I was twenty-eight years old and had accomplished essentially nothing. All I had done up to that point was study and train. If I had stayed at the university, I would’ve had my doctorate by now and would be sharing my knowledge of the wondrous world of chemicals with a new batch of students. I hinted at my growing impatience during conversations with Nikolai, who seemed to understand that I was eager for action.

In May 1978, the Center finally made the all-important decision. Nikolai informed me that Brazil was now out of the picture, and direct infiltration into the US was the plan of action. A month earlier, a resident agent had discovered the tombstone of a boy who had died just shy of his eleventh birthday and was buried at Mount Lebanon Cemetery in Adelphi, Maryland, on the outskirts of Washington, DC. According to the inscription, the deceased—Jack Barsky—was born on November 13, 1944, and passed away on September 7, 1955.

Armed with this information, the agent had obtained a death certificate, which he then used to request a certified copy of Jack Barsky’s birth certificate, posing as the boy’s father. That document was now stored at KGB headquarters in Moscow and designated for use by one Albrecht Dittrich.