Outskirts of Berlin, 1979
Helen looked out the window onto the bleakness of East Germany. She had hopped off the Hamburg train in Spandau, where she changed clothes and adjusted her wig in a bathroom stall before boarding a train to Wolfsburg. From Spandau the train had exited West Berlin across the Wall without incident. The East German border authorities had barely glanced at her Canadian passport. They zipped open her bag but didn’t touch its contents. No search or seizure. No escort from the train for questioning. For the moment her biggest problem was that the wig was making her scalp itch.
Her rail pass was now good for another thirty days, and by then, she’d be…where, exactly? And in what sort of condition? Still on the run? Locked in a cell? Facing an interrogator? Or, maybe, with no place else to go, she’d even be back in Wixville, shamed and disgraced, exiled once again to the boring brick rancher by the woods. Living with her mom and dad in a place she’d been trying to leave behind since the age of ten. If it came to that, she vowed to at least supply her mother with a better brand of vodka, something made by actual Russians. They’d drink together. It would be their shared secret.
She was already weary of checking for surveillance. But whenever she contemplated giving it a rest, the thought of Gilley prodded her. Elimination was his specialty, and he seemed to have plenty of people to carry out his plans.
Even so, she fell asleep for more than an hour, awakening with a start as the train neared the next border crossing into West Germany. Looking around, she saw that all was calm. God, but this was dreary countryside. The view was of chockablock houses and drab industrial buildings—gray Stalinist rush jobs from the 1950s, concrete monuments to state-sponsored anonymity that were already crumbling.
The train clattered along, skirting a village now, fluttery leaves from linden trees showering down. She spotted a line of women outside a bakery, all of them in dark coats, holding empty shopping baskets. Beetling down a potholed road was one of the clunky autos of the East—a squatty Trabant the color of putty.
Before she’d fallen asleep they’d stopped at some bleak industrial town, the name already forgotten, the depot little more than a concrete platform with exposed rebar, populated almost entirely by VoPos, or Volkspolizei, who stood ready to seize anyone who might try to jump on board to escape the “Workers’ Paradise,” as Herrington always delighted in calling East Germany. Helen’s passage to Wolfsburg meant she wasn’t supposed to leave the train during its transit through this forbidden land. Until they crossed back onto free soil she might as well be riding in a sealed car, like the one the Swiss had used to send Lenin back to Russia in 1917, transporting him as carefully as if he were a virus.
But who could Helen possibly endanger apart from herself? And, with her career and reputation already terminal cases, even that was a moot point. Only one potential victim sprang to mind—Kevin Gilley. She might still infect him, she supposed, as long as she collected enough incriminating evidence, and distributed it to enough of the right people before the Herringtons of the world shut her down. But how likely was that? Success probably depended on her contact in Paris, the woman she knew only as CDG.
It was then that Helen remembered something that CDG had said during their first phone conversation. If you’re ever in a jam, and the usual channel isn’t an option, ring me at the same time as today. Twenty hours.
A phone number in Paris, but for the moment it was beyond reach. In a panic, she tried to remember it. Gone for good, unless she was able to relax. She drew a deep breath, looked out the window at more falling leaves, and then shut her eyes as she tried to clear her head. She recalled the moment when she had first unfolded the typewritten message that had contained the phone number, and in a flash she saw it again, as clearly as if the sheet of paper was in her lap.
Exhaling, Helen again committed the number to memory, repeating it to herself three times to make sure. Her lifeline was still intact. She decided then that she would hop another train in Wolfsburg, on a route that, with one more switch, would take her to Paris.
Contemplating all the contingencies made her think of NASA, and all those space missions she’d followed so raptly as a young girl, hanging on every word from Walter Cronkite, whose grandfatherly tone had always reassured her in moments of peril. Don’t worry, he’d say, NASA had backups for backups.
But what if, once she got to Paris, CDG recoiled in horror? Or cut her off? Or, worse, turned her in? Alas, Helen was not NASA. There was no backup for her backup. All hopes rested on CDG.
At the very least, she would finally see the City of Light. If her plans never got off the ground, then she would try to take in a few sights as a final consolation prize before turning herself in. The Louvre, a café, the Eiffel Tower. Then she would throw herself on the ramparts at the Agency’s Paris station and be done with it. She ordered a coffee from a passing cart. Bitter and lukewarm. With renewed alertness she again grew cautious and watchful, her sense of well-being cursed by everything she’d ever learned in her training.
A curly-haired young man wearing a backpack and dressed like a hippie in a tie-dye shirt and jeans wandered by her compartment, glancing inside as he passed. It was the third time she’d noticed him in the past fifteen minutes. He looked either lost or stoned, but maybe that was an act. He might also be someone’s scout—Gilley’s, or Herrington’s, or Edward Stone’s. Helen memorized his features.
The woman seated across from her was also beginning to get on Helen’s nerves. She had seemed almost preternaturally alert throughout the journey, eyes flicking in all directions. No book or newspaper to distract her. No aimless gazing out the window. Watchful and still, like a heron waiting to spear a fish.
A gray concrete monolith passed on their left, followed by a watchtower and then a long line of razor wire. The train began slowing, brakes squealing. Outside, police whistles sounded on the platform. She almost couldn’t bear to look, but when she finally did she saw there was no commotion, no uproar. Just the usual collection of VoPos, loitering and smoking and looking officious. They had reached the crossing for West Germany. Wolfsburg would be next, and then, another nine hours beyond it, Paris. She took out her Canadian passport, smoothed her wig, and prepared her smile for the authorities.
On the third stop after Wolfsburg, a trim young man in a light gray suit boarded the train and seated himself on the opposite side of her compartment. He was fresh-faced and smiling, as American as Johnny Appleseed.
“Hi!” he said cheerily. “Are you American?”
“Canadian,” she said, after nearly answering in the affirmative. He’d almost tripped her up. Was that his job? Her radar began to beep.
“Where are you headed?” Why was he so curious?
“Here and there. I’ll know when I’m there.”
“Must be nice having that kind of freedom. I’ve been on a schedule for two weeks running. Between that and the food I’m about to have a coronary. Where do you live in Canada?”
“Montreal.”
“How lucky. Your French must be great.”
Shit. She’d meant to say Toronto, a place she’d actually been. Her French consisted of a few dozen words left over from high school, most of which had to do with food. He smiled again, as if coaxing her to do the same. Was he trying to get a read on her, or trying to pick her up?
“I’m Hal, by the way. Hal Douglas.” He offered a handshake.
“Nice to meet you.” Helen offered neither her hand nor her name. She pointedly turned to face the window, although she kept an eye on his reflection. Hal opened his mouth to say more, seemed to think better of it, and then waited a while longer for her to turn back around and give him a second chance.
Should she change compartments, or would that arouse further suspicion? He was probably a harmless Chamber of Commerce type from the Midwest, peddling widgets or office supplies, a lonely sales rep looking for an easy lay, or maybe just a sympathetic ear. So this was life on your own in the secret world, then, a heightened existence in which you always assumed the worst.
Hal picked up an attaché case from the floor and placed it on his lap. He popped the latches, raised the lid and reached inside for something. Helen’s view was blocked by the lid, but she braced herself for action. If he pulled out a gun she would kick his shins and slap the barrel to the side. All the while she kept her face averted and watched the reflection.
He shut the case and she saw he was holding a copy of the Financial Times, which he shook open and began to read. Her brain sounded the All Clear while her heart beat time to the clacking of the train on the tracks. She wiped her damp palms on her slacks, and recalled something Baucom had told her on a fine summer night in a beer garden about the demands of staying safe in hostile territory.
It gets easier after a while. You get used to the whole idea that you need to notice everything, and I mean everything. But of course then you start to get comfortable, because you’ve convinced yourself that you’re covering all the bases. And that’s when you’re the most vulnerable. That’s when you’re the most likely to make a mistake and get somebody killed.
Somebody like yourself, for example.
The man flipped a page of his newspaper, the sudden movement making her flinch. She checked her watch. Seven more hours until 8 p.m., and she was already a wreck. Helen sagged against the wall. But she kept her eyes open, and continued to watch the reflection.