Chapter Nine.
The Constellation came rumbling in down the twenty-mile-wide corridor between Washington DC and Baltimore with her engines throttled back, on inbound approach to Andrews Air Force Base. The floor of the cabin deck shuddered slightly as the undercarriage went down and locked in. There was a final short burst of power to lift them over the threshold, and hardly a bump as the wheels touched down, before the final roar of the propellers as the pilot selected reverse pitch. The Constellation slowed and turned off the main runway along the southern taxiway; coming to a standstill on the south ramp. The young airman came back down the fuselage aisle and opened the passenger door. The landing steps had already been brought up. Callaghan left the airplane first, followed by Charlotte. She noticed that the airplane parked well away from the main buildings. Two Air Police jeeps were drawn up alongside, with a group of officers waiting for them to embark from the airplane. Callaghan handed some documents to a white-helmeted officer wearing Captain's bars. The officer inspected, and returned the documents with a salute.
There would be no customs inspection today. The immigration officers were already in the first Air Police jeep which was slowly disappearing back towards the administration buildings to the north. The Air Police Captain accompanied Callaghan and Charlotte off the ramp and led them to a side entrance of the nearest hangar where two men were waiting. Both were wearing black suits, black ties, and black sunglasses even though it was only 3am in the morning. They really couldn't have done anything more to advertise that they were spooks, if they had tried.
The taller of the two spoke.
'Captain Mckenna, Agent Callaghan; welcome home. Your ride to Foggy Bottom awaits.'
He motioned to a side door with all the wit and charm that went with the typical coldness of a spook. Their sparse luggage was brought round, and they were taken to the side door and out to where a black Lincoln Continental was waiting, its engine purring and the blinds in the rear window pulled down.
As the car swept away towards the north gate of Andrews in the half-light of dawn, only a thin haze from the city softened the glare of the lights across the air base. The taller of the two spooks turned and spoke.
'We are to take you both direct to Foggy Bottom on the orders of the Director, Ma'am.'
Charlotte nodded.
'Thank you, Agent....?
The man merely gave a thin smile and turned back in his seat.
At the north gate, the driver turned right and drove up to Pennsylvania Avenue, where he turned left for the drive up through the suburbs towards downtown Washington.
There was little traffic this early in the morning, and the driver made good time. As they came down to the long, sweeping "S" between the suburbs of Dupont Park and Randike Highlands, most of the houses on the outskirts still slept, while others appeared to be just waking, with lights coming on. Now, they were coming away from the suburbs and approaching Washington proper. The black Lincoln swept across John Philip Sousa Bridge... named after the famed conductor and composer of patriotic marches, spanning the Anacostia River. They would soon see the vast white dome of the Capitol Building through the trees lining the Avenue. Charlotte smiled to herself. Josie Pullen had taken this same route all those years ago, when Charlotte had first arrived in the United States.
The Lincoln turned off Pennsylvania Avenue, past the imposing Library of Congress, and sped down Independence Avenue; with the massive Capitol building looming on the right through the trees. Just beyond the splendid Neo-Classical, Revival-style House of Representatives; the black Lincoln turned hard right onto 1st Street S, and accelerated up towards the substantial President James Abram Garfield statue. Behind his monument, the Capitol Building rose in splendid majesty across the wide, green expanse to the right of the road. The driver didn't slow, but continued at speed along to the extension of Pennsylvania Avenue, which merged with Constitution Avenue NW; and then turned left onto Constitution Avenue NW, proper. The broad Avenue was also lined with dramatic buildings that flashed past as the Lincoln accelerated through the early morning traffic. The buildings thinned out; to be replaced by open parkland.
Across to the right; in the distance; The White House came into view, while, to Charlottes' left; the huge obelisk of The Washington Monument built to commemorate the first U.S. President, General George Washington rose grandly into the early-morning sky. A little farther on, they passed the Constitution gardens, and through the trees, could be seen the glitter of the reflecting pool and The Lincoln Memorial. The driver made a sharp turn to the right, into E 23rd Street NW, and drove halfway along the street; then turned into the drive of an imposing building complex at number 2430. There were no guards, no checkpoints... nothing. The car drove around to the grassed square in the centre of the compound and stopped outside a long, two-storey building lined with Doric pillars along its entire frontage. The driver climbed out of the driving seat and opened the rear door for them. They were there.
The complex consisted of four buildings, including the Central Administration Building which had contained the office of William Donovan, the O.S.S. chief when Charlotte had arrived there for the first time in 1945 after her flight out of Germany. The North, Central, and South buildings didn't look any different to those she remembered.
Charlotte and Callaghan walked from the car up the wide flight of stone steps of the central building to the large entrance door surmounted by a towering white Doric pediment supported by pillars spaced across the front of the building. Inside the large, marble-floored entrance hall, a handsome young man with a military-style haircut; and wearing a dark civilian suit, stood from behind his polished reception desk, smiled amiably; and addressed her.
'Welcome home, Captain Mckenna; Agent Callaghan. Director Dulles will see you now.'
The Director of Central Intelligence occupied a modest office. There was nothing ostentatious about it… an ordinary desk, a few comfortable armchairs, and the obligatory flag… artistically draped as they always were; in the corner. Director Dulles also portrayed a modest appearance. Grey-haired, with a trim moustache, and wearing thin-rimmed spectacles with round lenses; behind which, his grey eyes held an avuncular twinkle… giving him the appearance of a friendly favourite uncle. He put down the pipe he was smoking; closed the thin file that he had been studying, which confirmed Charlotte Mckenna as being a brilliant covert operations officer; but also something of a maverick who constantly twisted the rules to her own ends; and invited them to sit. He opened a buff file on his desk and scanned the first page. He studied Charlotte over the top of his glasses.
'Your reports out of Pyongyang have been of significant advantage; both to us, and to the South Korean Intelligence Service. You are to be congratulated, Miss Mckenna.'
Charlotte was puzzled. Why did Dulles not use her rank title? This was the first time that anyone in the Company had used a civilian title when addressing her. Dulles had noted her reaction and smiled in his unfailingly friendly manner.
'You may wonder why I did not address you as Captain. As of now, both you and Mr Callaghan no longer retain a quasi-military title. You are now Specialized Skills Officers and I am sending you on what may turn out to be one of the most significant operations of the entire cold war.'
Charlotte glanced at Callaghan, who gave an imperceptible shrug. Dulles continued.
'As you may be aware; the situation in Europe is becoming dangerous. Two years ago, the Soviet Premier Khrushchev delivered a speech in which he demanded that the Western powers of the United States, Great Britain, and France pull their forces out of West Berlin within six months. This ultimatum has developed into a crisis over the future of the city of Berlin. We are about to enter a Presidential election, and the incumbent President, Dwight D. Eisenhower, is not eligible to run again. All the signs are that the Democrats' nominated candidate, John F. Kennedy; the Senator from Massachusetts will win. If he does, I don't think he's the man to take any sort of crap from the Russians. I'm sending you into Berlin as a team. Berlin station will brief you when you arrive.'
He closed the folder and leaned back in his chair.
'I'm sorry that this is so sudden, but it is imperative you get into Berlin as soon as possible. Take a couple of days to unwind, and we'll send a car for you Thursday morning. I've arranged for an apartment to be prepared at the Riggs Street address for you. Now, Callaghan; would you mind waiting outside, whilst I complete my conversation with Miss Mckenna?'
Callaghan nodded, rose, and left the room. Dulles leaned forward.
'I was so sorry to hear about the loss of Max Segal, Charlotte. I know that you and he were significant to each other. I have Presidential agreement that he is to be interred at Arlington. It's the very least that a grateful nation can do for him. Charlotte nodded sadly.
'Thank you, Director. He would have liked that... and I will always know where he is.'
The car arrived promptly outside the apartment complex on Riggs Street at six-thirty pm to take them to Andrews Air Force Base for their flight to Europe. The airplane was a Douglas C-118A Liftmaster ... the military variant of the DC-7 four-engined, prop airplane. It was a night flight full of all Army and Air Force ranks and dependents of all ages-wives, kids, and babies, flying to Frankfurt am Main, Germany; stopping at Gander Airport in Newfoundland, and Shannon in County Clare, Ireland for refuelling.
The airplane landed at Gander just after ten pm. The refuelling would take about half an hour. The futuristic terminal was filled with pretentious avant-garde art and furniture, but the coffee was good. The next leg of the track was across the Atlantic Ocean to Shannon. The Captain announced that there would be tailwinds of anything up to one-hundred-knots, and because of this; the Atlantic crossing would take something approaching ten hours, whereas, going in the opposite direction, it might take an east to west flight twelve hours. They would probably be landing at Shannon at around 8am the following morning.
The Liftmaster taxied out to the runway and turned her nose into the south for the rush down the long north-south runway. With the engines roaring at full power she sped down the ten-thousand-feet of asphalt ribbon and soared into the blackness of the night sky, with blue flames gouting from the engine exhausts in exactly the same way that the Constellation had done during Charlotte's trans-Pacific flight.
A little over ten hours later, the Liftmaster began its ten-mile descent into Ireland. As it crossed the coast, the clouds broke up revealing the dark mass of Loop Head peninsula, the south-westerly tip of County Clare; with nothing but a lighthouse beam's penetrating gaze sweeping out across the western approaches to the Shannon estuary spearing through the darkness below. Slowly, the darkness began to be flecked with pinpoints of light from the scattered, dwellings; the swinging headlight beams of early-morning cars on the lanes and roads, and at last, in the distance, the blinking green-and-white identification beacon of Shannon airport.
The Seat belts and No Smoking signs flashed on and below; the bright red and gold of the approach lighting rushed beneath them. With a gentle bump and a squeal of rubber, the Liftmaster touched down between the brilliant blue ground-lights which blurred past as the airplane rushed down the runway; slowing as the pilot braked and applied reverse pitch to the propellers. With the blue lights now drifting past; the airplane turned from the runway and trundled to the brightly-lit terminal.
Whilst they refuelled and checked the airplane, there was time for a quick bite to eat. Charlotte and Callaghan tried the Cod and chips. They were surprised to find that British and Irish chips were significantly thicker than the American-style French fries; and the fish was coated in a light, golden-fried batter. Salt and vinegar were sprinkled liberally over the meal which was eaten with a fork, although they noticed that many of the locals merely used their fingers.
With the meal consumed, they each ordered an "Irish Coffee"… hot coffee laced with Irish whisky topped with half-an-inch of thick, fresh cream; and served in impressive, stemmed-glass goblets with a small finger handle moulded to the stem. Following this, there was time to wander around the souvenir shop easily resisting the singularly non-existent impulse to purchase any of the "Genuine Irish Trinkets" on display. Somehow, "Connemara Marble Bead Rosaries," "Miniature Irish Bog-Oak Harps," and "Genuine Brass Leprechauns" didn't quite fit into what might be awaiting them in Berlin.
Their mild amusement at these tasteless, gimcrack artefacts was interrupted by an announcement over the loudspeakers in a thick Irish brogue, in which only the words "Frankfurt" and "Boarding" were intelligible; that their flight was ready to leave.
15.30 Hrs. Tuesday, October 25, 1960.
Frankfurt Airbase.
Rheinisch Hessen.
Federal Republic of Germany
The Liftmaster touched down at Frankfurt in gusting rain. Charlotte and Callaghan were met by a local CIA operative who identified, and introduced himself as Vern Madsen. He explained that the connecting flight to Berlin was delayed by a storm front tracking up across the Hartz Mountains, and that he had arranged rooms for them on the Air Base. He said that there were three alternative methods by which they could get to Berlin… by flying, driving, or taking the "duty train." The duty train was made up of two, or three cars belonging to, and operated by the U.S. Army; attached to a German train. It ran from the Haupbahnhof in Frankfurt in the West to Berlin in the East. Both of these alternatives necessitated transit through the hundred-mile-long corridor in the Soviet Zone of the German Democratic Republic… which was not the brightest idea… considering who they were. Consequently, they would be flying. The accommodation was in the Air Force "Motel" on the base. Charlotte and Callaghan were given adjoining rooms furnished in the usual spartan military fashion. Food was available in the Officer's Club. After a half-decent rib-eye steak, there was little to do except wander around the base, for the rest of the day and explore the terminal building of the adjoining Flughafen Frankfurt am Main, the chief commercial airport for the greater Frankfurt area, which was situated on the north side of the complex.
After a few drinks in the Officer's Club, Charlotte and Callaghan decided that an early night might be a good idea in view of the lengthy trans-Atlantic flight they had experienced. The room allocated to Charlotte was cold. The window faced east, and already, the wintery chill that always swept across Europe from the Ural Mountains at this time of year was causing the temperatures across Germany and Poland to drop rapidly. She undressed and slipped naked, between the chilly sheets. Had Callaghan taken the hint? Would he come to her room when the motel had quietened down?
She waited, with the sheets and blankets pulled up to her chin for almost half-an-hour before she heard the soft click of the door handle being turned as Callaghan slipped quietly into her room. She sniffed.
'Damn you, Callaghan; you took your time.'
The bed dipped as Callaghan slipped under the covers beside her and wrapped her in his arms.
'Sorry, baby. There were two passengers chatting out in the corridor by your door. I thought they'd never leave. Shall I go and lock the door?'
No, it's cold out there. If you move the blankets, you'll let in the cold air.'
He grinned, pulling her into his arms.
'I could warm you up.'
She pulled him on top of her.
'Don't just talk about it, Callaghan… do it!'
Callaghan woke in the early hours as the predawn light crept through the curtain that was pulled across the window of the room. He was on his back, naked, and Charlotte lay on top of him with her head nestled in his arm, in more or less the position in which they'd fallen asleep. He didn't move; she looked so peaceful, and he could feel her heartbeat gently pulsing on his chest. God, she was beautiful, and he was the luckiest man in the world.
After breakfast in the Officers' Club; an orderly came and asked them to get ready to take the courier flight to Tempelhof Air Base in Berlin. Their airplane was, as expected, one of the famous wartime "Gooney Birds," a Douglas DC-3 or in military terms, a C-47 Skytrain. The best deal on this particular flight would be cold, metal bucket seats and coffee from a thermos flask. Charlotte smiled. The last one of this type of airplane she had flown on was the Russian license-built version of the DC-3 Skytrain that the CIA had used for covert operations out of Osan Air base in South Korea, and in which she had been inserted into North Korea. It was just as noisy and uncomfortable as she remembered. Fortunately, the flight down the Berlin southern corridor would only take about one- and three-quarter hours. She just hoped that the storm front which had delayed them had moved through by now.
The young Loadmaster… a first-term airman, by the look of him; advised them to remain buckled up for the flight. He explained that The Soviets were trying to institute new restrictions on flights approaching the city while allowing their fighters to buzz allied airplanes flying through approved access corridors. They were attempting to limit Western Allies traffic use of the Berlin corridors to altitudes of between two thousand, five hundred, and ten thousand feet. That was why they were flying in a Gooney; the jet, and turbo-prop airplanes needed to use a higher altitude.
He said that, five months previously, Soviet fighter airplanes had forced down an American C-47 transport that had strayed off-course on a flight from Copenhagen to Hamburg. Although the airplane and its crew were released a few days later, the incident had really heightened the tension for pilots flying the Berlin routes.
The flight was uneventful… different, but uneventful. Approximately five, to ten minutes before landing; as the airplane began its descent, the lakes around Potsdam, and the city, itself became visible just to the left. Several familiar landmarks in the city of Berlin came into view… the Funkturm… the large radio tower near the stadium built for the 1936 Olympics; the Brandenburg Gate… now a checkpoint between the British and Soviet Sectors. The final leg of the approach took them out over the East Berlin border. The massive Soviet monument in Treptower Park… half-as-high-again as the Statue of Liberty, and built to commemorate all Russian Troops lost in the Battle of Berlin towered in the distance as the Skytrain banked steeply over Marx-Engels Platz; the renamed square on the Museum Island in the middle of what had once been central Berlin, and that Charlotte had known as Der Schlossplatz; and turned south towards Tempelhof.
The final flight path into Tempelhof was flanked by the five-storey apartment blocks of the western fringe of Neukölln district. The approach was turbulent, and the Skytrain pilot descended very quickly… the so-called "Tempelhof landing"… whereby, due to the restricted runway length, airplanes touched down with a high-nose altitude and were held nose-high until the engines were throttled back. This caused the wing to act as an airbrake and use of the wheel brakes was cut to a minimum.
From the air, the sprawling airport cut an oval-shaped basin out of the south-west suburbs of Berlin. The huge concrete apron in front of the immense terminal's long sweeping curve... eight-storeys high, with at least five levels of tunnels and bunkers beneath ground; and laid out in the shape of an enormous Nazi eagle, with a wingspan of over a mile; merged with a broad, oval swathe of grass encircled by a wide taxiway. The enclosed grass was bisected by two runways running east-to-west, and the whole airport was surrounded by misty silhouettes of apartment blocks, factory chimneys, and ancient church steeples.
The Skytrain touched down on the southern runway and taxied right up to the building, halting beneath the huge, cantilevered canopy that ran the entire length of the massive, mile-long quadrant containing the hangars and the terminal facilities, and which sheltered the disembarking passengers from the weather. Charlotte and Callaghan descended portable stairs, which had been brought up to the airplane, to be met by a middle-aged man in a dark suit pretending to be invisible behind a pair of "Made in Saigon" mirrored lenses. He identified himself as Emerson Gilley from the Berlin Office, and pointed along the massive hardstanding beyond the Air France Caravelle jet and the BEA Viscount turboprop disgorging their passengers; towards a Pan American DC-6 surrounded by a crowd of journalists, and smiled.
'Great timing! They're all occupied by the arrival of the movie actress, Romy Schneider. We'll disappear through hangar five and miss the circus through customs controls to the reception hall. We have a car waiting outside.'
They walked across the concrete ramp to hangar two. Inside, leading off from the huge space it was an endless maze of dark halls, stairways, anonymous doors, and brief detours out into the other hangars, which once housed the fighter airplanes of the German Luftwaffe. There was an atmosphere here; a cold, ominous, spine-chilling feeling.
Gilley remarked that the SS troops had made a final stand at Tempelhof, during the last days of the Battle of Berlin. They offered stiff resistance to the Red Army troops in the labyrinthine Tempelhof structure. After two days of heavy fighting; two of the five layers of the underground redoubt under Tempelhof were cleared by the Red Army... and the remaining levels had been simply flooded in the end to drown the remaining defenders. There were thought to be literally tons of old explosives, munitions, and booby traps still down there in the flooded labyrinths... not to mention the remains of those who had been trapped and drowned. They would probably never be cleared, and had been sealed up by the American forces when they occupied the complex. These forsaken victims were said to haunt the halls and crevices of Tempelhof. Charlotte repressed a cold shudder, and quickly followed Gilley to the exit.
By the time they reached the hallway through the women's barracks in Hangar Two of the east wing they were breathing through their mouths, trying to keep the putrid air from entering their noses and making their stomachs heave. Gilley said it was a problem with the plumbing. Apparently, the old pipes just couldn't take it anymore and sewage was backing up into the women's showers.
Outside in the Platz der Luftbrücke, a black, government-issue Chrysler sedan was waiting. Settling themselves in the rear seat, the car swept out onto Tempelhofer Damm and travelled south through the Tempelhof suburb, then turned right into Friedrich Karl Strasse. Charlotte was surprised. This street had been named Lothar Erdmann Strasse when she had last been in this area. How many more street names had been changed... and for what reason? The car took the south-western exit from the Platz into what was now called Attilastrasse. She shook her head quietly. This street had also had its name changed. She remembered it as being Kurt Eisner Strasse.
This part of Berlin had not been damaged by bombs to such an extent as other parts of Berlin, and it was still possible to get an impression of what Berlin's nineteenth-century architecture had looked like. When she had left in 1945, most of Berlin was little more than an expanse of ruins. Almost half of the city's buildings had been completely destroyed. Although much of Berlin's rubble of war had been cleared, and most of the demolished buildings rebuilt; out here… save for the odd bomb site, it appeared to have changed very little since she had travelled to and from the old O.S.S. Berlin Operations Base in Föhrenweg back in the late Forties.
Emerson Gilley turned in his seat as the driver turned into Steglitz Damm.
'Not too far, now. We just have to cross through Dahlem via Albrechtstrasse, Grunewaldstrasse, and Königin-Luise-Strasse; then it's up Clayallee to the U.S. headquarters compound. That's where you and Agent Callaghan will be brought up to date with what's going on around here.
Charlotte nodded. Clayallee?… She'd never heard of that one. Gilley smiled.
'You probably knew it as Kronprinzenallee during your time at BOB. They changed the name on June the First, 1949 in honour of the U.S. military governor of the American occupation zone in Germany… General Clay; the "father" of the Berlin Airlift.'
The Berlin Operations Base was located in the grounds of U.S. Army headquarters complex on the north-east corner of the Clayallee/Saargemünder Strasse junction. The huge, gated complex of two-storey stone buildings were built in 1938 as a barracks and administrative headquarters for "Luftgaukommando III" which coordinated air defence in the region stretching from Berlin to Frankfurt-Oder in the east, and Dresden in the south. In 1943, when the seven Luftwaffe air defence districts were consolidated into one central command, the compound became the headquarters for the air defence of the whole of Germany; reporting directly to Hermann Göring. In 1945, the U.S. Army confiscated the facility, which hadn't suffered too much damage in Allied bombing, and the military government, headed by Eisenhower, established itself there. Ten years later, the relatively new Central Intelligence Agency had needed offices for its expanding Berlin operations based in Föhrenweg, and had been allocated a building in the compound.
The driver turned the black Chrysler sedan off Clayallee at the entrance to the U.S. headquarters compound and stopped at the sentry station building on the left, behind the large entrance gates. Gilley flashed a security pass to the MP Corporal and was immediately admitted. The driver drove up the tree-lined driveway that led directly to the portal of the main headquarters building, and stopped outside. Gilley led them into the building past the reception desk and into the main hallway.
Head of Station's office in this grandiose Teutonic bastion was something of an anti-climax. It was a smallish room, sparsely furnished with utilitarian military furniture, and dominated by a large, plain, beechwood desk, behind which, a man in his mid-thirties; wearing black-framed, Buddy Holly-style spectacles and unassuming civilian clothes, glanced up as Charlotte and Callaghan were shown into his presence. He gave them a thin smile.
'Welcome back to Berlin, Captain Mckenna. You'll find things are run a little differently these days to the way that Washburn ran BOB.'
He glanced at Callaghan.
'We won't need you, Staff Sergeant Callaghan. As of now, you are attached to the cypher section. Gilley will show you the way down.'
Callaghan glanced at Charlotte. He saw her face tighten imperceptibly, and watched; fascinated, as any trace of warmth in her eyes vanished... as though someone had suddenly thrown a light switch. Head of Station either didn't, or chose not to notice her sudden change of demeanour. He paused momentarily to draw breath, and then opened his mouth to continue his pronouncement.
Charlotte cut in. Her voice held a portentous, icy edge.
'Mr Murphy; as you are fully aware, we are not just two more pawns in your private chess tournament between CIA Station Berlin, and the KGB at Karlshorst.'
She knew his type. She had met far too many of them during her days in Washington… Yale men who imagined themselves to be real smooth operators. She regarded them all as pretentious, Ivy League assholes who justified their superiority complexes by conjuring up images of Uncle Sam, The Stars and Stripes, or soaring eagles, or some shit like that; when they wanted to make a point.
David Murphy gave her a shocked look. No one in the CIA Berlin Station had ever been permitted to use his real name. None of his CIA officers were ever permitted to refer to CIA Berlin Station by any other name than Clayallee.
He was Head of Station, for Chrissakes. In his rigid, authoritarian empire, when he spoke, they all jumped; and this bloody woman was effectively ignoring him. Before he could say anything, Charlotte continued.
'I am attached to Berlin for a specific operation on the direct orders of Director Dulles. Mr Callaghan is my support officer for the Internal operation that I am instructed to expedite. This operation is on a rigid "need to know" collocation, and you do not need to know. All I require from you is logistic support.'
She stood up and leaned on Head of Station's desk.
'My team is not covert; we are low-profile, and wear civilian clothes so others cannot distinguish officers from NCOs, since as Special Operations Agents we all have the same authority in the field, but we don’t disguise who, and what we are. For this reason, we do not employ rank titles at any time, and I expect you, and your operatives to adhere to this protocol.
Washington expects your complete cooperation, Mr Murphy. We shall relocate into the city tomorrow. For tonight, should you need to contact us; we shall be staying in the Dahlem Guest House. Good day to you, Sir.'
She turned, and stalked to the door, followed by Callaghan; leaving Head of Station, Berlin wondering what the hell had just blown in from Foggy Bottom.
Dahlem Guest House, Ihnestrasse 16, was located just across the road from the Officers and Civilian Club located in the substantial white stone Harnack House at Ihnestrasse 19. The four-storey guest house, although post-war built, had been designed in quasi-Bauhaus style, with a frontage that curved into a full-length, ground to roof glass next to the entrance. After a trouble-free night in the comfortable reserved room and a substantial breakfast in the dining room, a car arrived to take them to the apartment that had been allocated.
The driver handed them a large manila envelope bearing the Company seal, and carrying the red-inked stamp: "Confidential." Charlotte opened it and studied the sheaf of close-typed papers. They contained information on Charlotte's and Callaghan's new Legends together with documents supporting them; relevant documents concerning their apartment, bank credentials; and a detailed briefing on their mission. She slipped the papers back into the envelope and smiled at Callaghan.
'Congratulations, "Herr Streckenbach." It seems we have been man and wife for three weeks!'
Callaghan was still looking a trifle bemused as the driver turned off the northern end of Clayallee and accelerated away up Hubertusbader Strasse that dog-legged east, and then north through the Grunewald district. It was very noticeable that most of the bomb-damaged buildings out here had either been demolished or rebuilt. Berlin certainly had not wasted any time in the ensuing fourteen years since Charlotte had last been here, in re-inventing itself. What the eastern Soviet zone districts would be like was another matter. The Russians were not supposed to be very big on reconstructing the capital of their former mortal enemies. At Henrietta Platz, the driver skirted the Rosen Eck traffic island over the Stadt Autobahn bridge and accelerated up Kurfürstendamm.
Charlotte was surprised to see that there was no real sign of war damage anywhere along this broad Boulevard. It was lined with fashionable shops and cafes and thronged with people. The driver explained that in the middlle-to-late 50's, the trend in Berlin was to tear down buildings damaged in the war and to build new. In the distance, the stark, ruined fang of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche fire-blackened, main bell-tower spire now shared Breitscheidplatz with a towering slender rectangle of steelwork that rose almost as high as the original. The driver remarked that the old church was saved by public opinion, and the new structure was a bell tower that was being built. The car turned into Leibniz Strasse lined with a mix of traditional buildings interspersed with modern apartment blocks, and travelled north to Kant Strasse. It brought back memories to Charlotte; she had driven down this street as she escaped the final days of Berlin.
An old Schupo had advised her to take shelter in the Zoo flak tower; and when she refused, had told her to take this route out of the city. She wondered if he had managed to escape the final onslaught. She recognised the next landmark…the wide space of Savigny Platz. It was here that she had deceived the Hitler Jugend checkpoint by driving the Red Cross Sanitäts-Staffeln vehicle straight through with its Martin horn blaring and headlights blazing. She smiled quietly. She was young, and stupidly brave back then.
The driver turned left immediately after Savigny Platz and drove to the end of Uhlandstrasse. He stopped outside an impressive, five-storey apartment block; turned, and handed Charlotte a key.
'Your apartment is on the third-floor, Ma'am; number twelve. Your car is in the allocated parking space over there.'
He pointed towards a. black Mercedes-Benz sedan parked on the opposite side of the street and smiled.
'It's a two-year-old, 220SE… six-cylinders and fuel-injected. "They" won't ever manage to catch you in that if you happen to get into a chase. The car keys are in the apartment. As far as the concierge is concerned, you are Herr und Frau Streckenbach, from Potsdam. You are in business as footwear agents and are opening up new market opportunities in the Soviet sector.'
The magnificent pre-war Prussian Altbau apartment block at Uhlandstrasse 192 was one of the survivors of the wartime bombing campaign. Prussian Altbau general courtyard design, apartment blocks were separated by walls or fences from neighbouring courtyards, and their courtyards contained old trees, paved pathways, and beautifully tended decorative garden-beds.
The apartment was reached from the entrance hall by a classical Viennese elevator, known in Germany and elsewhere as a Paternoster… an open-front continuously-moving chain of open compartments that moved slowly in a loop up and down inside a building without stopping. For those residents who preferred stairs; these flanked the paternoster's shaft. The concierge; a portly Berliner in his mid-sixties, welcomed them, and introduced himself as Herr Günsche. He gave them a quiet smile.
'Welkommen! I am officially the concierge; but I am also the "Gatekeeper." You will not be disturbed by unwelcome guests; and your apartment will remain secure at all times.'
He turned to the paternoster.
'Could you make your own way up? I'm afraid my rheumatism is bad today. It's the Berlin weather. It is too cold and too damp; and on the few occasions that the sun does come out, you can barely see it through the smoke from the cheap brown coal everyone has to burn especially in East Berlin.
Fifteen years since the war ended, and it is still mostly a pile of rubble over there; and it's noisy, with four occupying armies; and something is going on every hour of the day and night... mostly things involving sirens. Fortunately, we don't get too much of that out here in Charlottenburg.'
The ride in the paternoster was strange. It needed a certain skill to step out whilst the cabinet was moving… albeit slowly. Apartment twelve was to the right. Charlotte slipped the key into the latch and opened the door. The typical, old Berlin apartment comprised four big rooms; each retaining the typical features of the late 19th century... high, stucco ceilings, wing-doors and original wooden cassette doors; and beautiful old solid oak parquetry flooring throughout. The main living area and bedroom had the original Prussian bow-top windows. The whole place was furnished with Bauhaus-style furniture which must have cost a fortune. Charlotte turned to Callaghan.
'Well, "Herr Streckenbach"; what do you think?'
Callaghan smiled.
'I think I'll be able to rough it here, "Frau Streckenbach." Let's go check out the bedroom!'
She arched an eyebrow.
'You know your trouble, Callaghan? You've got a one-track mind.'
He grinned.
So? Are you complaining?'
She turned, and walked towards the bedroom door, fully aware that Callaghan's gaze was locked onto her ass. She glanced back over her shoulder.
'Well? What are you still standing there for?'
Friday, October 21, 1960.
San Francisco International Airport.
California.
USA.
The Northwest Orient Airlines Constellation touched down at San Francisco International Airport at five minutes past six, Friday morning, after a fifteen-hour flight across the Pacific Ocean from Japan. Her mail cargo was transferred to the Customs shed where U.S. Customs Officer Douglas Conrad inspected every package for the chalk clearance marks and checked each label for evidence of contents. He gave the small package from Japan with the Korean Air freight label scarcely a second glance; the Japanese Customs blue chalk squiggle denoted that there was nothing suspicious about it. Japanese Customs checks were painstaking to the point of paranoia. The package was passed on down the Customs shed to be deposited in the secure cage awaiting the arrival of the next U.S. Postal Service truck.
Three hours later, the U.S. Postal Service truck stopped outside the elegant, bay windowed property at the top of Montgomery Street. The postman approached the front door of number 1120 and pressed the doorbell. A pretty, young oriental girl answered and accepted, and signed for the package he was delivering.
The girl closed the door and hurried to the room where an old oriental man was sitting with a book open on the table in front of him. He looked up and smiled.
Well, daughter of my daughter's daughter; what have you there, my child?'
The girl bowed and proffered the package.
'The postman has just delivered it, honourable great-grandfather.'
The old man accepted the package and studied the labels. His lined, and weathered face wrinkled into an amenable grin as he gazed at the Korean Air freight label.
'It is from your mother's sister, Su-Dae; little one. I have been anticipating its delivery.'
Chang Ho-Pyong; patriarch of the Chang criminal family of San Francisco, carefully unwrapped and opened the package. Reaching in amongst the shredded paper, his fingers closed over a smooth, cold object. Carefully, he lifted it out of its protective nest and held it up in his fingers.
The girl gasped.
'Great-grandfather; it is beautiful. What is it?'
The old man smiled benignly.
'It is a magical gem of great rarity and value; child. It is a flawless Garnet that has been brought out of our Homeland at great risk, to prevent it falling into the hands of an evil warlord. Its possession will be of great advantage to the family.'
Little Chang Soon-Ei stared, wide-eyed at the pigeon-egg-sized stone.
'A magical stone, great grandfather? What does it do?'
Chang Ho-Pyong held out the Garnet to her.
This stone carries great reverence in Chinese beliefs, child. It is said to bestow immunity from harm or injury upon its wearer. It is also believed to attract the energy and influence of the Sun. The larger the gem, the greater is the attraction; and a Triad Dragon Lord will give great benevolence to one who presents such a stone to him. Such beliefs also exist in our Homeland; but that is not the reason why we have possession of it.'
He nodded sagely.
'It is also believed to protect us from the "Ghost Flames"... the "Hon Bul"... the eerie spirits said to hover over the unknown graves of our dead lost in the struggle that was called by the Northern Barbarian "Chōsenjin" the "Fatherland Liberation War"; and which will bring misfortune if we forget them. We shall use this stone to our advantage in the matter of manipulating the seats of power in this land of the round-eyed barbarians.'
09.15.Hrs. Saturday, October 29, 1960.
Berlin-Charlottenburg.
West Germany.
Callaghan turned the black, six-cylinder Mercedes-Benz sedan into Strasse des 17 Juni; crossed the Charlottenburger Brücke and accelerated through the partially refurbished porticoes of the Charlottenburger Tor flanking either side of the Strasse and headed down towards the Grosser Stern. The whole area of the Tiergarten presented a much more open impression than the last time Charlotte had driven down this particular Avenue into central Berlin. Most of the trees in the Tiergarten had been destroyed in the Soviet bombardment or chopped down for fuel by the surviving Berliners during those terrible days before, and after Berlin fell to the Russians The Tiergarten had been replanted after the war, but the Avenue lined with fifteen-year-old trees was nothing like the lush, towering tree-lined Boulevard that she remembered.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
What was bizarre, was, that in the middle of what had been a virtual sea destruction; many of the elegant street lamps that had been designed by Albert Speer as part of Hitler's Grand design for his "Welthauptstadt Germania", and that had lined the broad Avenue, were for the most part, still standing and apparently undamaged… at least at the western end. Farther along; they had been replaced with modern lamp posts. The "Speerleuchten" were indeed elegant; designed as a slender pillar with a cruciform top bearing two opaque glass cylinders, topped with round ferruled covers. The glass cylinders appeared to be originals. How they had survived was one of war's ironies, when all around, most of Berlin had been pounded into rubble.
As Callaghan negotiated the Grosser Stern, Charlotte noted that the Siegessäule appeared to be virtually undamaged. The Statue of Victory… "Goldelse"… or, as the Berliners had nicknamed her… "Golden Lizzie" still stood shining in the sunlight almost sixty-seven-metres above the roadway, and in the distance, the Brandenburger Tor loomed, apparently fully restored; topped by the Quadriga, which had been a shattered ruin when she had last seen it. The effect was somewhat marred by a substantial flagpole atop the Tor, from which, a large red flag fluttered ominously. This was supplemented by a complimentary flagpole in front of each of the Tor's flanking guardhouses, from which another red flag fluttered.
A little further on towards the Brandenburger Tor, they passed the enormous Soviet War Memorial flanked by two Russian T34 tanks mounted on plinths at either side of the entrance over to their left.
Callaghan glanced at Charlotte.
'What the hell? Are we in the Russian sector? I didn't see any signs.'
Charlotte smiled.
'No; this is still the British sector. The memorial was erected on Remembrance Day, 1945, in the hope the British would simply vacate their area and let the Soviets move their zone further into the west. Unfortunately, for them, it didn't work out that way, and so building it here put it beyond everyday reach for the Soviet Army. To be able to visit the memorial it was agreed that Red Army troops had free passage to the memorial on certain days of remembrance, and allowing a Soviet guard of honour to mount arms there. The border proper is at the Brandenburger Tor. Look! Here's the warning sign coming up.'
Callaghan began to slow the Mercedes-Benz as they approached a sign attached to one of the lampposts. It proclaimed in large black letters…
Achtung!
Sie Verlassen nach
70m West-Berlin.
Which roughly translated, informed them that they would leave West Berlin at a point seventy metres ahead… at the Brandenburger Tor itself.
Immediately in front of the west Brandenburger Tor was another sign standing peremptorily, and in splendid isolation; directly in their path. It proclaimed:
Achtung!
Sie Verlassen jetze
WEST-BERLIN.
Beneath the central arch stood a grey-green uniformed Volkspolizist who raised his hand in the universal "Halt" sign. Callaghan pulled up, and flashed their passes. The young Volkspolizist saluted smartly, stepped back, and waved them on.
Beyond the Brandenburg Gate, East Berlin was another world. The vast boulevard of the Unter den Linden, still elegant, with young, re-planted Linden trees was largely deserted with wide, open spaces where the once-sumptuous buildings of Parisier Platz had stood. The Adlon Hotel had gone; great tracts of weeded wasteland had been left where substantially damaged buildings had been razed to the ground. The huge Soviet Embassy stood broodingly on one side of the wide thoroughfare.
Farther along Unter den Linden, the destruction the war had brought was still visible. Buildings stood derelict, next to empty spaces where others had been destroyed. Posters everywhere proclaimed, "Baue das sozialistische Vaterland"… "Build the Socialist Fatherland."
Even out here; in what was once Berlin's most beautiful Boulevard, the dead hand of the Soviet zone was creating a dour transformation into an ugly, grey, concrete corpse of a once proud city. The intersecting streets of towering, two-tone, foggy-grey concrete slabs stretched out along the wide boulevard of grey tarmac, almost empty; save for a few pedestrians, a scattering of cars and military vehicles; and the inevitable Volkspolizei, and uniformed Soviet soldiers. Occasionally, they passed a civilian who seemed to take more than a passing interest in the Mercedes-Benz. They were almost certainly Stasi… Ministry for State Security officers.
As they approached Marx-Engels Platz… the large, vacant space at the eastern end of Unter den Linden, where the old Imperial Palace had once stood; the decaying ruins of which had been demolished by the Communist authorities in the early fifties… Callaghan glanced at Charlotte.
'OK; so tell me. What the heck are we doing out here?... and where are we heading?'
Charlotte was silent for a moment.
'Just take the bridge to the right of the Cathedral. We're heading up through Alexanderplatz to a place in Prenzlauer Berg. I'm meeting a contact there. He sent me a message that he has uncovered something that could be very significant to our government.'
Callaghan raised an eyebrow.
'So, when were you planning to tell me this?
Charlotte smiled.
'Gil; what you don't know can't be beaten out of you. I've done this before… with the Gestapo; and the Stasi aren't all that different, by all accounts. They've taken the Gestapo's methods of extracting confessions from enemies of the state to new levels of sophistication. Torture is not just physical but psychological as well.'
Callaghan snorted.
'Bullshit! I'm no rookie spook, y'know. I can pay my way!'
Charlotte looked at him
'I know you can, Gil. I want you as a back-up I can rely on… not a dead hero or one who's been beaten to a pulp by these Commie bastards. You have to remember that East Germany really does deserve its reputation as being West Germany's evil twin.'
Callaghan said nothing and drove across the bridge into Karl Leibknecht Strasse which Charlotte remembered as being named Kaiser Wilhelm Strasse. She glanced at him.
Oh, come on, Gil; don't be sniffy. We need to stay sharp. Take the next right into Spandauer Strasse, and turn left at the Rotes Rathaus.'
The Rotes Rathaus… the Red Town Hall; a distinct landmark in Berlin, appeared to be pristine. It had been heavily damaged by Allied bombing in World War II and rebuilt to the original plans in the early fifties. Many buildings along Rathausstrasse had survived; but many had been rebuilt. The Stadtbahn viaduct… the railway bridge leading out of Alexanderplatz Bahnhof had been repaired; but the front of the Alexanderplatz Bahnhof itself was still a gaping void, although the station had been partially re-roofed and appeared to be fully operational. Charlotte indicated that Callaghan should turn the Mercedes-Benz into the station car park. As he did so; the unobtrusive DKW saloon that had followed them from Marx-Engels Platz accelerated past, belching thick blue smoke from its straining two-stroke engine, while the two men inside turned their heads and gave the smart Mercedes-Benz cold stares in the best "Knallharte" tradition… the tough, almost violent quality that post-war Germany rewarded with admiring glances. As the DKW disappeared under the bridge into Alexanderplatz, Callaghan glanced at Charlotte.
'Commie spooks?'
She nodded. They were probably Stasi; just keeping an eye on these two "Wealthy West Germans." She pointed to a shabby Wartburg sedan parked at the far end of the station car park and told Callaghan to park up next to it. This was their ride into the Prenzlauer Berg district. Her contact had said this old wreck would invite less curiosity than their Mercedes-Benz. He was obviously of an excessively optimistic nature. The Wartburg was painted in a garishly obvious, bilious lime-green colour between the patches of rust, and its presence was almost impossible to ignore. Stepping out of the Mercedes-Benz, they hurried into the station, as though they were about to catch a train. The plan was that this would raise no suspicion from anyone who might be watching.
They waited for ten minutes on the draughty platform, then made their way quietly back out into the car park. The air was filled with the smell of burning coal; the odour of Communist totalitarianism. Perhaps it was just their imagination; but it was difficult to feel safe or comfortable in East Berlin. There was something threatening, menacing about the place; somehow enhanced by the pervasive, sulphurous odour of the brown coal smoke in the air… the cheap, peculiar, sandy lignite used to heat most buildings in the Eastern Sector. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them as they reached the scruffy Wartburg. Callaghan moved towards the driver's side, but Charlotte caught his arm.
'Let me drive. I know the way; and a woman driving might make us look less suspicious.'
Callaghan nodded, and opened the driver's door for her. She reached up and felt under the sun visor. Her fingers touched a bunch of keys. As Callaghan climbed into the front passenger seat, she slipped the ignition key into the lock, turned the key, and the asthmatic three-cylinder, two-stroke engine burst into clattering life, belching out a huge cloud of blue smoke from the exhaust pipe which drifted lazily across the car park. Apprehensively, Callaghan glanced around. Nobody seemed to be taking the slightest notice, as Charlotte shoved the column gear stick into reverse and pulled out of the parking bay. Banging the column gearshift into first gear she drove out into Rathausstrasse, and turned left towards Alexanderplatz trailing a pretty cloud of blue smoke in time-honoured, two-stroke fashion.
Once beyond the Stadtbahn viaduct, Alexanderplatz opened out before them. It bore no resemblance to the "Alex" that Charlotte remembered. The only recognisable pre-war structures were the Behrens-designed, eight-storey Alexanderhaus, and Berolinahaus flanking the entrance to the otherwise windswept wasteland. The whole of pre-war Alex had gone… the Herti department store on the corner of Alexanderstrasse, the brooding Polizeipräsidium opposite, on Dircksenstrasse; all gone. Even the spire of Georgenkirch, which had withstood the Allied bombing and the Soviet onslaught of Berlin, had been demolished. She swung the Wartburg around the oval traffic island in the middle of Alexanderplatz and accelerated away up Memhard Strasse into Münzstrasse. The damage out here was lessening. Prenzlauer Berg had not been as badly affected by the bombing and fighting in the Second World War as other parts of the city. The Soviets had fought their way into Berlin along Frankfurter Allee, which the Communists had renamed Stalin Allee some two kilometres to the east. Many of the old Scheunenviertel "Mietskasernen"…the turn of the century "Rental barracks" had been torn down.
Many had been bombed; and in their place, the ugly, grey, Stalinist "Zuckerbackerstil"… "Wedding cake style," low-cost, prefabricated concrete slab apartment blocks were being constructed. On the surviving Mietskasernen, the stucco facade ornamentation had been removed and replaced with the same flat, plaster exteriors as their post-war concrete neighbours. The jumbled wings and some entire internal buildings had been demolished to dispel the permanent gloom of the narrow courtyards. This had exposed blank firewalls which had abutted onto adjoining properties; and seventy-foot-high rough brick walls stretching up to a hundred-feet-long along the property lines were common in this area. Everything was the same, smoke-stained, dingy grey-brown colour above the narrow, stained, grey pavements.
It made Charlotte's skin crawl driving down the streets of East Berlin The drab sameness, the ugly council apartments where the workers lived… all reminders of daily life under Communist rule. It was supposed to be their workers' paradise, but in truth, it was a grey, unbeautiful excuse for a city where the ghosts of the monstrous Third Reich still lingered in the shadows of uninspiring, drab stucco blocks of apartments, alongside ancient neglected, smoke-stained churches. The contrast between this place; and the colourful, vibrant West Berlin was stark.
Charlotte turned the Wartburg into Alte Schönhauser Strasse, and then turned left into Mulackstrasse and right into the short, narrow Rücker Strasse lined with original Mietskasernen. She stopped a little way inside the street and glanced at Callaghan.
'OK. This is it. Let's go, but let me do the talking.'
Callaghan nodded. The dank smell of crumbling bricks mixed with the unmistakable scent of cat piss wafted into the car as he opened the door and stepped out onto the grimy, narrow, pavement flagstones; shadowed by Tenement buildings five, and six-storeys high closing in on the narrow, deep cobblestone street like two granite cliffs, linked only by dingy lines of washing stretching high above their heads. Cautiously, they approached what looked like a deserted Mietskaserne across the street. It was a desolate area, even by East Berlin standards. The shell of a house stood precariously on the corner of the block, rising out of the debris of its own wreckage. It was as though the bombs had fallen yesterday, not fifteen years earlier. An old iron gate led into a dim passageway that gave access to the first courtyard. The whole place looked as though it had been deserted since the end of the war; the windows were broken; the brickwork was crumbling, and it didn’t look like there was much left of the roof.
A short flight of worn steps led to a massive weather-beaten hardwood door. Callaghan gave it a push and it moved, but not much. He put his shoulder to it and it opened a fraction more… enough for them to slip inside. Even with the door ajar, it was almost pitch black, and they could feel that the floor was covered with debris… probably pieces of plaster from the ceiling and walls, some broken roof tiles, and God knows what else. Glass crunched under their feet as they took a few steps into the inky-black interior. The whole place was goddamned eerie… anyone could be waiting in the shadows. Callaghan drew his SIG semi-automatic pistol and chambered a round. Charlotte glanced at him.
'You won't need that, Gil.'
A voice answered from the black void in front of them.
'Listen to the Lady. You are perfectly safe, and I am unarmed.'
A figure approached from the darkness, with his hands held out from his sides… palms forward. He spoke with a pronounced Russian accent.
'It's so nice to see you again, Nadia… or should I say, Charlotte?'
Callaghan glanced at her and slowly lowered his pistol. The man came closer. She gasped in complete surprise.
'Viktor? What the hell are you doing here?'
Viktor Malinovskii; who had been Second secretary at the Soviet Embassy in Pyongyang, North Korea when she was under deep cover as Colonel Nadia Tolenkanovna at the T17 sniper academy in Pyongyang ; smiled amiably.
Callaghan slowly raised his pistol again, but she reached out her hand and pushed its muzzle down towards the ground...
Viktor Malinovskii smiled; a slow, knowing smile.
'Captain Charlotte Mckenna; Deep cover agent of the CIA. We knew all along who you were, and why you were really there. I was so sorry to hear about Max Segal. He was very well thought of in Karlshorst, even after he had defected. That is why you were allowed to remain in the heart of the military administration of those crazy North Koreans. With the information we allowed you to pass back to Seoul; we both successfully kept the black channels open and probably averted a Third World War…'
He smiled.
'… and I did so enjoy the few brief times we were together.
Charlotte stared at him through the gloom.
'So, what do you want, Viktor?'
His smile faded, and he became serious.
'We have uncovered a most dangerous situation. It is my opinion that we are dealing with…'
His eyes held steadily on hers;
'… A matter of extremely high security, not only within the intelligence community; but on the highest levels of both our governments.'
Charlotte nodded. She had always suspected that Malinovskii was much more than an Embassy Second secretary.
'OK, Viktor tell me what you know.'
He hesitated and then pulled himself upright in his dark trenchcoat.
'There is a Cuban ghost buried in Berlin, on this side. He is a grave danger to both our sides.'
Charlotte stared hard at Viktor Malinovskii in the dim light.
'So what are the Stasi doing about it?' The East German Counterintelligence guys are usually extremely efficient.'
Malinovskii shrugged… a typically acquiescent, Russian shrug.
'They cannot reach him.'
Charlotte smiled.
'What about your people?'
Malinovskii shrugged again.
'If we could reach him, I wouldn't be asking for your help.'
Charlotte nodded.
'Quite a Ghost.'
Malinovskii's demeanour changed. His tone of voice became solemn.
'He is so much more dangerous than that. From what we have learned, he is here to gather information and tradecraft in order to fulfil a specific assignment.'
Charlotte studied Malinovskii for a few moments.
'A specific assignment? For the Castro government?'
Malinovskii shook his head.
'No. For whoever is paying him.'
Charlotte was silent for a few moments as she absorbed the information. What the hell was a Cuban operative doing here, gathering intelligence and tradecraft… and from whom? Studying Malinovskii's expression for any faint sign of complicity or deception, she saw none.
'You don't know who's paying him?'
Now, Malinovskii paused. His eyes flickered from Charlotte to Callaghan. Then he spoke.
'We believe it is someone in the Kremlin. They couldn't risk using a Soviet for their purpose.'
The silence was deafening. Charlotte went cold.
Malinovskii spoke again.
'We made the approach. We have to trust you… and your Mr Dulles.'
Charlotte thought for a few moments, and then said,
'Viktor; you're talking about a Cuban operator buried in East Berlin and preparing some kind of a strike, and he's being paid to do it, possibly by someone inside the Kremlin. Is that right?'
Malinovskii nodded.
'Yes.'
This was deadly serious… especially at this particular stage of the Cold War, and especially here in Berlin. It was probably the most dangerous place in the world at this point in time. Two years previously, Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev had delivered a speech in which he demanded that the Western powers of the United States, Great Britain, and France pull their forces out of West Berlin within six months. This ultimatum had sparked an ongoing crisis over the future of the city of Berlin. President Dwight Eisenhower became determined not to give in to Soviet demands. Instead, the two sides opened a foreign minister's conference at Geneva in the summer of 1959 and made an attempt to negotiate a new agreement on Berlin. Khrushchev wanted the Western garrisons out of West Berlin as a precursor to reunifying the city, but Eisenhower firmly believed that protecting the freedom of West Berlin required an ongoing U.S. presence.
Although Khrushchev and Eisenhower made some progress toward mutual understanding during talks at Camp David in the United States in 1959, relations had since been badly damaged after the Soviet Union shot down an American U-2 spy plane snooping over Soviet territory last May. In the wake of this incident, there appeared to be little hope for any sort of accord. At that point, talks ceased, and the Soviet Premier appeared willing to wait for the U.S. Presidential elections to take place so he could begin anew with the incoming administration. It really wouldn't take very much for the tense situation to escalate out of control and a loose-cannon Cuban could so easily be just the catalyst that was needed.
Charlotte took a deep breath, and held Malinovskii's eyes in a steady, calm gaze; although her stomach was fluttering at the awful possibility of what he was about to reveal to her. Her voice was calm, and steady.
'OK Viktor; who is his target?'
Malinovskii looked steadily at her, and then spoke.
'Senator John F. Kennedy.'
Charlotte shivered. Kennedy was tipped as favourite to be elected within a month as the New President of The United States. Kennedy seemed to have it all; looks, charm, intelligence, a sense of humour, power, and the Kennedy fortune. He was a man's man and a woman's man. He was also impatient, self-absorbed, a womanizer, an adulterer, physically unhealthy, dishonest, and extremely reckless; but he had the hearts and minds of the American people.
During the campaign, Kennedy charged that under Eisenhower and the Republicans the nation had fallen behind the Soviet Union in the Cold War, both militarily and economically, and that as President he would "get America moving again." He had also given support to the Civil Rights movement during his campaign speeches saying that discrimination stained America as it led the west's stance against the Soviet Union during the Cold War. He also said that a decent President could end unacceptable housing conditions by using federal power. His call of sympathy to Martin Luther King’s wife, Coretta, when King was in prison was seized upon and well publicised by the Democrats. None of this had enamoured the young Massachusetts Senator to the many White Supremacist groups of America.
Charlotte glanced at Callaghan and then, back to Malinovskii.
'You are absolutely certain about this, Viktor?'
He nodded.
'Yes. The information was uncovered quite by accident, in the course of our normal intelligence activities. However, we are unable to take appropriate action, for obvious reasons, which is why you have been called upon. Unfortunately, you won't have much time to act. The Cuban is thought to have been here for several weeks, and is about to transfer to a secret training facility, which of course, is outside the inner German border.'
Charlotte studied Malinovskii.
That's it? Somebody has a plan to assassinate the man who is likely to become the future President of the United States? You have no other information… no clues, no leads, no hints… nothing except, there's a conspiracy somewhere out there?'
Malinovskii nodded.
'That's correct. This threat is believed by certain officials of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union to be some well-organised conspiracy on the part of some group or groups inside the United States… or somewhere close by, in that part of the world. The suspicion is that it is being covertly funded by Kremlin black funds through an intermediary who has contracted this Cuban. They'll try to make it look like it was our side. … But it will be your side.'
Charlotte caught her breath.
'Jesus H. Christ, Viktor! You expect me to believe…'
He interrupted her and put his hand on her arm.
'No, Charlotte; I don’t expect you to believe. I expect you to find out. You must get this information back to Alan Dulles. If they succeed, it could spark another World War. These are very dangerous people… fanatics. Promise me, if only for old time's sake, that you will not try to stop this by yourself. I don't want to have to arrange for you, and your partner to be returned to West Berlin in pine boxes.
Charlotte put her hand over his.
'I'm sorry; Viktor. I can't make you that promise. I must try to uncover more than you have told me. It's what I do.'
He nodded, almost sadly.
'I knew you'd say that. The only other thing I can tell you is that this plot does not come from First Secretary Khrushchev, or any members of the Presidium Central Committee. The KGB have conducted extensive investigations since we first heard of the conspiracy, but have uncovered nothing.'
He reached into his trenchcoat inside pocket and brought out a manila envelope which he handed to her. His face lost its serious expression, and he gave a slow smile.
'Knowing you as I do, Milaya moya; I knew you would need these. The envelope contains your identity documents. You are once again, Colonel Nadia Tolenkanovna, KGB. Karlshorst. The other document names your partner as Major Sevastian Levkova; also of Karlshorst. All it needs is his photograph and this…'
He handed her a rubber stamp. She stared at him.
He grinned.
'Yes, it's real. Just don't let your Bureau use it too often. I must go now. Take great care, Charlotte. "Do novyh vstrech!"… Until we meet again, "Do svidan'ya, Nadia."
He turned, and slipped away into the darkness. Clutching the envelope and rubber stamp, she called softly into the pitch-black void of the passageway.
"Do svidan'ya, Viktor."
Monday, November 14, 1960.
Tauentzienstrasse,
West Berlin.
Charlotte came out of the main entrance of the Kaufhaus des Westens… the famous KaDeWe department store that was said to be the West German equivalent of Harrods in London, where she had been enjoying a few hours relaxation, shopping; and looked up the street towards Breitscheidplatz and the gaunt spire of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, in the hope that she could hail a taxi. She, and Callaghan had been searching almost continuously for any small lead that might lead them to the Cuban operative who was supposedly still in the city. This expedition was a small relaxation to try to inject some sort of normality into the fraught, and dangerous existence they had both been keeping over the last couple of weeks… the systematic searching of East Berlin for the slightest clue, without attracting the attention of the Stasi. Callaghan had dropped her off earlier that day, and then driven over to Clayallee to report in, and send a signal to Washington.
Burdened with several bags and parcels, she spotted a black Mercedes-Benz with a taxi sign on its roof approaching. Flagging it down, she approached the driver's window and asked to be taken to Uhlandstrasse, Charlottenburg. The driver nodded, and opened his door… apparently to help his fare with her bags. As he opened the rear door to allow her to get into the rear seat; suddenly, he pushed her hard.
Overbalancing; she fell across the rear seat and felt handcuffs being snapped onto her wrists behind her back. A dark fabric hood was pulled down over her head, and her legs were roughly shoved into the car. She heard the doors slam and felt the car accelerate away. After what seemed like hours, the car stopped and someone else got into the front passenger seat. She felt the car begin to move again, and muttered voices from somewhere in front of her. There was another long drive, and then, the car abruptly screeched to a halt. From the back seat, Charlotte heard one of the men grunt as he opened the car door. This was followed a moment later by his vice-like hands seizing her by the upper arm. A harsh voice yelled at her,
"Hinaus!"... "Out!"
She struggled to sit up, but obviously not quickly enough to suit her captor. As she managed to sit up, he violently yanked her by the arm. Now completely disoriented, she lost her balance and lurched forward. Because her hands were handcuffed behind her back, she was unable to break her fall and fell heavily on her left shoulder. The man ignored her cry, and roughly jerked her arm again. He yelled to her,
"Steh auf, du ungeschickte Schlampe!"... "Get up, you clumsy bitch!"
Someone else, probably the driver, took her by the other arm and together the two men hoisted her to her feet. They began shoving her along over what felt like rough cobblestones. She was having difficulty maintaining her balance. It would have helped if she had been able to see, and her shoulder was hurting like hell. The hood they had jammed down over her head when they grabbed her was loose fitting, but was causing her to have trouble breathing properly. After what seemed like miles, she felt her foot touch steps. They must be at the entrance of a building; although where, and what, was another story.
The two men shoved and dragged her up the steps and through a door. Inside, at the head of the steps, Charlotte, and the two men passed through a door. Once inside one of the men snapped,
"Informieren Sie Major Richter dass wir die Verhaftung gemacht haben"… "Inform Major Richter we have made the arrest."
She heard a third person begin to dial a telephone as they dragged her to a flight of steps that led downwards. Once at the bottom they turned left. It was much colder down here… wherever this was; and the whole place smelled like a latrine… the unpleasant odour of urine, and God only knows what else. They dragged her along an echoing corridor and then stopped. She heard a jingling noise followed by first a soft click, and then the unmistakable squeal of rusty hinges as a door swung open. She was pulled forward and held firmly by the arms. While one of them unlocked her handcuffs someone else removed her hood, and for a fleeting moment, she was able to catch a glimpse of where she was. She stood in a long corridor; there were three men, and several steel doors. They were cells!... Prison cells!
She opened her mouth to say something, but was not even given time to form the first word before one of the men forcefully pressed his hands up against her shoulder blades and roughly pushed her into the stinking cell. She stumbled forward and heard a loud clang as the big steel door slammed shut behind her. The cell was now completely dark. There wasn't even a window.
Her shoulder was aching from the fall. She sat on the iron bedstead for a few minutes, whilst she tried to figure out what the hell was happening. Everyone was speaking in the thicker German accent that was prevalent in East Berlin. She could only be in one of two places... Stasi headquarters on Ruschestrasse, in Lichtenberg; or the Gedenkstätte Hohenschönhausen Stasi Remand Prison on Genslerstrasse; also in Lichtenberg. Because of the cobblestones, it was more likely to be the latter. This grim place had been a Soviet "special camp" set up after the end of the Second World War. It became the main Soviet prison in Germany for people awaiting trial. Thousands of political prisoners were held here at one time or another; including almost all of the GDR’s best-known dissidents.
The snatch off the street had been a slick, professional job. It had to be the Stasi... but why? With the addition of the new identity that Viktor had arranged for her, her cover was impenetrable. What did they want? She decided that sitting here in the darkness was no way to find out. She moved to the door and began banging on the cold, rough metal with the flat of her hand. It probably wouldn't have any effect, but the sensation of slapping of her palm on the cold metal was focussing her thoughts. She heard heavy footsteps out in the corridor. They stopped outside her cell door. She heard the jingle of keys and the rasp of the lock and stepped back. The cell door banged open to reveal a large, heavy-set guard. She opened her mouth to speak, but in the same instant, the guard drew back his arm and smacked her hard across the mouth with the back of his hand. He snapped.
"Gefangene dürfen nicht sprechen!"... "Prisoners are not allowed to speak!"
He drew back his arm and punched her hard in the stomach. With the wind driven out of her, Charlotte collapsed on the filthy floor. The guard took two paces forward and kicked her hard in the ribs as she lay gasping on the floor of the cell. He laughed; a harsh, brutal laugh, that almost had sinister echoes of the Gestapo in it.
"Gib mir keine Ärger mehr! Schlampe" … "Don't give me any more trouble, slut."
He turned, and left the cell; slamming the door and leaving her gasping in pain and shivering on the cold concrete floor in complete darkness.
After what seemed like hours, keys jingled in the door lock again. An authoritarian voice outside in the corridor demanded sharply, in German…
"Was hier geschehen?"… 'What happened here?' The reply was unintelligible. The door opened, and light from the corridor flooded into the cell. Charlotte painfully sat up in the bedstead and blinked at the doorway as she tried to adjust her eyesight to the glare. As her vision became slowly accustomed to the light, she saw a figure in a civilian suit standing in the doorway; flanked by two guards. He stepped forward and spoke in Russian;
"Nadya, ty v poryadke? Eti glupyye ublyudki prichinili tebe vred?"...'Nadia; are you alright? Have these stupid bastards harmed you?
She recognised the voice. It was Viktor Malinovskii.
Quickly gathering her scrambled wits, she replied, also in Russian.
"Net, tovarishch. Nemnogo. Vsego neskol'ko shlepkov"…'No, Comrade. Not much. Just a few slaps.'
Viktor turned and glared at the two guards who shrank back, apprehensive of what might now be about to explode in their faces.
He spoke quietly, in German. His voice was as cold as the Siberian Steppes... you could almost hear the chains rattling in the snow.
'Get me a proper physician and find us a warm room. The fools on your watch have falsely imprisoned and mistreated an officer of the Committee for State Security. She is a Colonel of the Second Chief Directorate, attached to Karlshorst. Now, find me the pig who did this to her.'
As one of the guards clattered away to carry out Malinovskii's orders, he put his arm around Charlotte and helped her out of the cell into the corridor. The other young guard helped to support her as they guided her to the stairs. The Watch Commander came rushing down from the front office and directed them to a warm, anonymous interview room where a pot of steaming coffee, cups, glasses and two bottles of vodka had been speedily placed on a table. Malinovskii helped Charlotte across to an examination bed and helped her up onto it. As she lay back, he studied her face. Bruised mouth and cheek; cut lip. As to what her other injuries might be, was for the physician to establish. He didn't like the way she had flinched as they had moved her from the cell in the basement. His thoughts were interrupted by a soft tap on the door. Malinovskii called out in German,
"Kommen!"... "Come in!"
The door opened and an oldish civilian entered. He carried one of the old-fashioned, "Gladstone" portmanteau Doctor's bag, which he placed carefully on the end of the examination bed. He smiled gently, and encouragingly at his patient, and turned to Malinovskii.
'I am Doktor Lehrhardt. I have a practice in Lichtenberg. They said you needed my assistance.'
Malinovskii nodded.
'Yes, Herr Doktor. Could you please check over my associate? She has had a recent altercation with a guard in this pigsty, and I need to know the extent of any injuries she may have sustained.'
The old Doctor nodded and asked Malinovskii to leave the room. Turning to Charlotte, he asked that she removed her outer garments. As she did so, he studied her movements, observing that she winced as she raised her left arm. He noticed the livid bruise gathering across her solar plexus from where the guard had punched her. Her facial injuries were superficial and would heal without scarring. What did worry him was the mottling around the ugly scrape along her right side. He looked down at her.
'Fraulein; I have to feel your side. You show trace evidence of a previous injury directly above this new one. Have you perhaps recently broken a rib?'
'Charlotte nodded.
'Yes Herr Doktor. I was in a car accident and broke three ribs; one of which punctured my lung.'
Otto Lehrhardt nodded.
'I must examine the injury site. I will be as careful as I can, but it will hurt you.'
She nodded. He gently laid his fingers over the injury site and began to probe. Charlotte bit her lip. The stabs of pain were brief but sharp. At last, the old Doctor looked at her.
'There is no recurrence of rib fracture, but the underlying tissue is badly bruised. You will be uncomfortable for quite a few days, and I would suggest that you refrain from any physical exertion for at least a week to ten days.'
She nodded.
'Thank you, Herr Doktor.'
Upstairs, Malinovskii was questioning the Watch Commander as to which of his guards first went down to the woman's cell.
The Watch Commander said it was Obergefreiter Munz. He had reported that there had been an accident. The woman had "slipped over" in the cell. The old Volkspolizist who had brought the Doctor caught Malinovskii's eye. He moved quietly towards the old Policeman who surreptitiously informed Malinovskii that this guard; Obergefreiter Gerhardt Munz had quite a reputation out on the streets. He enjoyed hurting women. He had almost killed a couple of whores a few years previously, but nothing was ever proved. The old policeman said that in his opinion, Munz needed putting down in the same way you would have a rabid dog put down… before he actually did kill some girl out in the dark, grey streets of East Berlin one night. Malinovskii nodded and thanked the old Volkspolizist.
The Watch Commander returned with Obergefreiter Munz, a hulking brute, who now stood sullen, and arrogant before them. Stony-faced; Malinovskii said that Munz should show him where, and how the accident had happened. With Munz leading the way, they disappeared down the steps into the basement. Two minutes later, the sound of a single, echoing gunshot shattered the silence. The Watch Commander and two of his men rushed down the steps and found Malinovskii nonchalantly replacing his Makarov pistol into its holster, and Munz sprawled across the floor of the empty cell with a bullet hole dead-centre between his eyes and most of the back of his head and brain splattered across the cell wall.
Malinovskii turned, and merely said that the guard had turned sharply and attempted to attack him. Perhaps, in view of the fact that this pig had also attempted a serious attack on a Soviet Officer… namely the female Colonel; it might be advantageous for the Stasi to clean up their own shit rather than have a couple of investigators pay them a visit from Karlshorst... unless, of course, the entire Gedenkstätte Hohenschönhausen Stasi prison detachment fancied a tour of duty out on the Polish Border. The Watch Commander swallowed hard and almost ran back upstairs to sign the release papers for the woman prisoner.
Viktor's car was parked up outside the main prison block. It was an old EMW 340... the East German version of the same model, West Berlin BMW saloon. This particular example was finished in a particularly mundane shade of off-white. Malinovskii opened the passenger door for Charlotte and, walking around to the driver's side; opened the door and climbed into the bench seat alongside her. As he started the engine, he turned to her.
'I am so sorry about this; Charlotte. The idiots were only supposed to pick you up on the pretence of arresting you. I should have realised that the Stasi would overreact and fuck it all up.'
She smiled painfully.
'It's OK, Viktor. It wasn't your fault. Why did you want me picked up?'
He glanced at her as he turned out of the prison into Genslerstrasse; and drove down towards Frankfurter Allee.
'There has been a major development. As you know, Kennedy has now been elected as President. Consequently, the Cuban's preparations have been brought forward. We are tracking several leads, and may run him to earth quite soon. It is quite possible that you, and Callaghan will be called upon to "retire" him before very much longer.'
He paused, and jerked his thumb towards the back seat.
'Your equipment. Compliments of Karlshorst.'
She turned gingerly and saw a black leather satchel embossed with the KGB Sword-and-Shield emblem. Malinovskii smiled.
'It contains two ex-GDR Makarov nine-millimetre pistols with extra magazines, and a pair of silencers. Ballistic investigation will prove that the demise of the Cuban was expedited by East German assassins. No one will believe that your government had any hand in this; You Americans would never use a Makarov… you much prefer your own domestic weapons. It has been decided by the Central Committee that this is now entirely your game. The Soviet Union cannot allow itself to be even suspected of any involvement in this situation. Therefore, Karlshorst has received a direct command that you are to be facilitated in any way you need. This is the first facilitation in compliance with that command. Informations will be provided as acquired by us and transferred by dead-letter drop in a mutually specified location.'
He glanced at her.
So; how are you feeling? Are you ready to return to West Berlin?
She nodded.
'I'm OK, Viktor... I've had worse... and yes; please take me back to the Tiergarten. I can walk from there; and Callaghan will be getting worried.'
Viktor Malinovskii nodded, and cut out into Frankfurter Allee; accelerating through the sparse traffic; and heading west towards Friedrichshain. The journey was uneventful. They were not followed, and reached the Brandenburger Tor without incident. As he drove onto Strasse des 17 Juni, Malinovskii glanced at Charlotte.
'Where would you like me to drop you?'
She smiled.
'Down by the Charlottenburger Brücke would be fine, Viktor.'
He nodded.
'I could drop you outside your home if you like.'
She shook her head.
'It's better if you don't know the location, Viktor. It's not that I don't trust you… but what you don't know can't be gotten out of you.'
He grinned.
'Wise decision… but then, you always were the careful one.'
Stopping the car a little beyond the Charlottenburger Tor. He turned to her.
'So where will we arrange for the dead-letter drop location?'
She looked at him
'Do you have paper and pencil?'
He nodded, and brought out a small diary and a silver pencil. Opening the diary to the address page, she wrote a name and a telephone number. Handing them back to him, she smiled.
'This is my contact point, Viktor. Keep it safe.'
He nodded, and squeezed her arm as she got out of the car.
"Do svidan'ya, Charlotte."
She closed the car door and leaned in through the window.
"Do svidan'ya, Viktor."
As she walked away towards Charlottenburger Brücke, he opened the diary and read what she had written…
A single name: "Frau Streckenbach."
Beneath which, was a telephone number: Berlin. 32-37-95. He nodded, watched for a gap in the traffic, and swung the car around; heading back towards the Brandenburger Tor.
On the other side of the Atlantic; far away from the tale-of-two-cities that Berlin had now become; the Cold War was creeping closer to home. The United States had become alarmed by Castro's involvement in the overthrow of the U.S.-backed Cuban President Fulgencio Batista, and his relationship with Soviet First Secretary Khrushchev; and had implemented an economic blockade of the island.
As a response, Castro had agreed to provide the USSR with sugar in return for crude oil, fertilizers, and industrial goods. Relations were also established with other Marxist-Leninist governments, such as the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, the People's Republic of Poland, and the People's Republic of China.
The Cuban government had ordered the country's refineries... then controlled by U.S. petroleum corporations... to process this Soviet oil, but under pressure from the U.S. government, these companies refused. Castro responded by confiscating the refineries and nationalizing them under state control. In retaliation, the U.S. government cancelled its import of Cuban sugar, provoking Castro to nationalize most U.S.- owned assets on the island, including banks and sugar mills.
Added to this; relations between Cuba and the U.S. had been further strained following the explosion and sinking of a French vessel, the Le Coubre, in Havana harbour in March. She had been carrying weapons purchased from Belgium, and the cause of the explosion was never determined; but Castro publicly accused the U.S. government... and the CIA, in particular; of sabotage.
In March, the previous American President Eisenhower approved a document laying out a program of: "Covert action against the Castro Regime in Cuba to bring about the replacement of the regime with one more devoted to the true interests of the Cuban people and more acceptable to the U.S. in such a manner to avoid any appearance of U.S. intervention."
In August, Eisenhower approved a multi-million-dollar budget for the operation. By the end of October, most guerrilla infiltrations and supply drops directed by the CIA into Cuba had failed, and developments of further guerrilla strategies were replaced by plans to mount an initial amphibious assault, with a minimum of fifteen hundred men. Now, ominous signals were being received from Washington by the Berlin operations base on Clayallee.
Although Charlotte and Callaghan were working autonomously, Washington was advising all foreign stations that there was uncorroborated intelligence circulating Berlin concerning a foreign asset... of possibly Caribbean extraction; who was thought to be in the eastern sector undergoing training as part of a conspiracy. Against what, or whom this conspiracy was targeted was unclear, but it was apparent that the foreign asset was high value; which suggested that the suspected conspiracy was well funded. In keeping with Agency protocols, a signal was sent out to all CIA operatives in the city. Charlotte received the sealed signal by courier on the morning of 16th November, whilst she and Callaghan were having breakfast. She had briefed Callaghan on her meeting with Viktor Malinovskii concerning the Cuban operative, but had decided to wait for him to contact her as arranged, before she proceeded with any investigation. Now, she handed the signal across the kitchen table to Callaghan. He frowned as he read the close-typed words. At length, he looked up.
'D'you think this is the same thing?'
She shrugged.
'What else could it be? It's too damned close to be anything else. The problem is; that we can't tell if the asset is an operative for a hostile government, or a Cuban exile hired by the Mafia as a contract hit-man. Don't forget, he could be contracted to anyone. Kennedy has upset enough people already, and he hasn't even been inaugurated yet!'
Callaghan shot her a quizzical look.
'Like who?'
Charlotte gave him a gentle, pitying look.
'Do keep up, Gil! Do I really have to spell it out?'
He nodded.
'Yes.'
She sat down and poured herself another cup of coffee.
'OK, first off; there's the Cuban Regime. There's no love lost between Washington and Havana, because the trade embargo has really hit them hard. After that, there are the Cane Sugar Refining Companies. Since Cuba cut off supplies and began trading with Khrushchev, their raw material costs have rocketed, and they are losing money. Next, you can add the crazy White Supremacists. Kennedy really pissed them off during his campaign speeches with regard to the Blacks. It was probably nothing more than vote-catching rhetoric, but those good ol' boys down south are too dumb to see the difference. Then again, it might simply be the Mafia. Kennedy has already hinted that he will make his brother Bobby, Attorney General, and it's common knowledge that he is down hard on organised crime.'
She glanced at the signal once again; then looked up at Callaghan.
'I think it's time for us to start sniffing around in East Berlin again... with or without the benefit of Viktor's intelligence.'
Friday, November 18, 1960.
The White House.
Pennsylvania Avenue NW.
Washington DC.
USA.
CIA Director Allen Dulles and his Deputy Director for Plans, Richard Bissell gave the initial briefing of the outline plans to overthrow Castro to President-elect John Kennedy. Having experience in actions such as the 1954 Guatemalan coup d'état, Dulles was confident that the CIA was capable of overthrowing the Cuban government as led by Prime Minister Fidel Castro since February 1959.
On 29th November, outgoing President Eisenhower met with the chiefs of the CIA, Defense, State, and Treasury departments to discuss the new concept. No objections were expressed, and Eisenhower approved the plans, with the intention of persuading John Kennedy of their merit. Kennedy was ambivalent; in spite of the CIA's alacrity to take swift action in Cuba, fearing the rise of a dangerous communist regime only ninety miles from American soil; Kennedy, however, was in two minds. While a successful invasion would topple Castro's anti-American government, a failed mission could be disastrous for his image, both at home and abroad. After the CIA assured him that the "invasion force could be expected to achieve success," and that the United States would be only minimally implicated in the operation, Kennedy appeared to accept Eisenhower's decision.
On the 8th December, Bissell presented outline plans to the "Special Group" while declining to commit details to written records. Further development of the plans continued, and on the 4th January 1961, they consisted of an intention to carry out a "lodgement" by seven-hundred-and-fifty men at an undisclosed site in Cuba, supported by considerable air power.
On the 28th January, three days before his inauguration; President-elect Kennedy was briefed, together with all the major departments, on the latest plan which was now code-named Operation Pluto. It involved one thousand men to be landed in a ship-borne invasion about one-hundred-and-seventy-miles south-east of Havana. Kennedy authorized the active departments to continue, and to report their progress.
New Year's Eve, December 31, 1960.
Georgievsky Hall. The Kremlin,
Moscow.
USSR.
As the clock struck midnight, Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev surveyed his New Year's Eve Gala guests thronging the magnificent multicoloured parquet floor in the sumptuous Georgievsky Hall of The Great Kremlin Palace on Red Square. He watched them as they drank and chatted amidst the carved, and gilded furniture upholstered in watered silk of the same colour as the Decoration Ribbon of The Military Order of St. George; and admired the delicate relief work; the sculpted and gilt-bronze decorations adorning the snow-white walls and the vaulted ceiling.
He quietly mused on what these well-fed, louche apparatchiks were thinking as they gazed in wonder at the glittering, many-tiered openwork bronze chandeliers and wall lamps set all along the cornices; whilst they waited for him to deliver his much-anticipated New Year's Eve toast.
Although he exuded an outward aura of contentment and bonhomie, his thoughts were elsewhere. The Soviet Union had suffered her second straight failed harvest. He was failing miserably in his campaign to overtake U.S. living standards by 1970; not even meeting his people's basic needs. His advisers were telling him the chances of a workers' revolt were growing. Compounding this; his foreign policy of peaceful coexistence with the West, which in itself, was a contentious relinquishing of Stalin's conviction that eventual confrontation with the West was inevitable; had foundered spectacularly when a Soviet missile brought down an American U-2 spy plane over Soviet territory the previous May.
As if this was not enough to sour his enjoyment of the Gala proceedings, he was apprehensive about forthcoming Twenty-second Communist Party Congress in October, where he knew his enemies would be sharpening their knives behind his back. He had used just this gambit himself to purge his own adversaries, and he would need all his guile to avert the same fate himself. Draining his Vodka flute, he faced the guests and commenced his speech. He informed the gathering that the American people, by voting for Kennedy against the then Vice-President Richard Nixon, had cast their vote against their country's confrontational Cold War policies, and hoped the new U.S. President would be like a fresh wind blowing away the stale air between the USA and the USSR.
As his guests applauded, he neglected to say that through a number of intermediaries, he was already urgently seeking an early summit meeting with Kennedy in Berlin on other matters. If that didn’t succeed, internal pressures from the Central Committee would push him towards a quasi-Stalinist-style confrontation. Khrushchev was fully aware that The Soviet Union; born in blood at the dawn of the twentieth century and tempered by war, was gradually turning a corner into a modern era of prosperity. To do so, it must shed the poisonous legacy of Stalin and his Gulags. The unfortunate truth was that at this point in time, relations between the two Super Powers were as cold as the howling wind of the storm outside which was depositing a thick layer of snow on Red Square.
Nothing threatened Khrushchev more than the deteriorating situation in Berlin, through which; the massive emigration westward was stripping East Germany of its most capable professionals: Industrialists with their engineers, and technicians; physicians; teachers, lawyers and skilled workers. He knew that this irreverent city had become his Achilles' heel… the one place in the Soviet bloc where communism lay most vulnerable. It would soon become inevitable that the East German authorities would have no option but to stem this flow of defectors; and, as if he didn't have enough worries; Khrushchev had a particularly annoying thorn in his side.
Walter Ulbricht, former First secretary of the S.E.D… the Socialist Unity Party of Germany Central Committee, and an archetypal Stalinist; had been named chairman of the newly formed G.D.R. Council of State; and was therefore, effectively the supreme leader of the country. Since before Christmas he had been pressuring Khrushchev to stop the emigration outflow and resolve the status of Berlin. How this was to be undertaken was, as yet undecided; but the exodus of professionals had become so damaging to the political credibility and economic viability of East Germany that the re-securing of the German communist frontier was imperative.
12.51 Hrs. Friday, January 20, 1961.
Capitol Hill.
Washington, DC.
USA.
On a bitterly cold, snowy day, The Oath of Office for the President of the United States of America was administered by the Chief Justice of the United States to John Fitzgerald Kennedy at 12:51pm, Eastern Time on the newly renovated Eastern Portico of the United States Capitol Building.