Chapter Fourteen.

1949 dawned with Berlin infested with espionage agents. As many as eighty secret service agencies would eventually operate their offices and branches throughout the divided city, masquerading as anything from fruit importers to building contractors; from academic researchers to Press bureaux. The two major players were, on the Soviet side, the MVD; successor to the NKVD; and on the American side, the CIA. The British M16 and French Intelligence also had an interest. It was a war without weapons... a struggle for the psychological upper hand using propaganda campaigns, snooping on the opponents' scientific, technological, and military developments; and discrediting opponent spies and governments by leaking embarrassing indiscretions in their past. The atmosphere in Berlin was tense. Kidnappings by the Soviets were becoming more frequent. The smallest incident might spark off hostilities. As it was; something like thirty agents had been found floating face-down in either the Landwehrkanal or the River Spree during the previous six months.

The Airlift was proceeding. The Berliners were not being starved into submission. With the memory of the failed Luftwaffe effort to save the German Sixth Army in Stalingrad foremost in his mind, Stalin had not anticipated that Berlin could be supported by an airlift. Berlin, buried deep in the Soviet zone would remain the central focus of the conflict between the Soviets and the West in the emerging Cold War. It had become, for all practical purposes, the most dangerous place in the world. The "Berlin Economic Emergency Society" attempted to continue production in the city. Some of the airlift flights actually carried out products manufactured in Berlin. This merely goaded the Soviets, who had intended that Berlin would also suffer an economic Armageddon, and be totally reliant on such economic crumbs that their Soviet Masters chose to throw to them.

Meanwhile, The CIA Act was steam-rollered through Congress on May 27th, 1949. With its passage, Congress gave the agency the widest conceivable powers. The CIA now had free rein: unvouchered funds... untraceable money buried under falsified items in the Pentagon's budget. This gave the agency unlimited license. A key clause of the 1949 act allowed the CIA to let one hundred foreigners a year into the United States in the name of national security; granting them "permanent residence without regard to their inadmissibility under the immigration or any other laws." The CIA had limited methods of collecting intelligence on the Soviet Union and felt compelled to exploit every opportunity, however slim the possibility of success or unsavoury the agent. This would lead to problems later; but, for now, was seen as an acceptable gambit.

The two big, white R.A.F. Sunderland flying boats undulated gently at their moorings out on Grosse Wannsee, shining in the early autumn sunlight like two huge, reposing seagulls. In the early days of the Airlift, the Allies had used them for hauling coal, before the big, four-engined American C-54 Skymasters had been impressed into service. Now, the Sunderlands, due to their ability to withstand salt corrosion... being maritime patrol flying boats; were detailed to carry urgently needed bulk salt which the other aircraft could not carry.

Wannsee was peaceful. It had always been a playground for Berliners, and now, three years into the peace, the little sailing boats were out again. Those Berliners from the more affluent areas around, and to the west of Spandau, that had escaped the majority of the destruction were enjoying the late Indian summer on the broad and shallow, sandy eastern shore. The famous Strandbad Wannsee open-air lido was closed due to the Soviet blockade power outages. The waste pumps were shut off and the accumulating waste would have polluted the lake. Nonetheless, the place provided an escape for Berliners from their existence in the devastation and debris - albeit without running water, and gave them the opportunity to forget their miserable struggle for survival for a few hours whilst they were at the lake.

In Dahlem, seven kilometres to the east; in broad daylight in the middle of Saargemünder Strasse; an incident took place that was so commonplace these days that scarcely anyone took any notice... let alone, tried to give any assistance. A black sedan screeched to a halt; two men jumped out and grabbed a young blonde woman from the pavement; bundled her into the back of the car, and sped off towards Kronprinzen Allee. The passers-by carried on with what they were doing; breathing a sigh of relief that it hadn't been their turn this time. At the corner of Kronprinzen Allee; the sedan stopped and another man got into the back seat beside the blonde. He turned to her.

'Guten Morgen, Fräulein Mckenna. Don't look so shocked, this is not what you think.'

She stared at him. Lieutenant Colonel Maksim Siegel smiled.

'I am merely inviting you to spend a pleasant day in the sun with me down on Grosse Wannsee strand. The method of collecting you was necessary to avoid any suspicion. Now, let's not waste time with idle chat; just sit back, and enjoy the ride.'

As the sedan sped through Zehlendorf, Charlotte's mind was racing coldly. How had Siegel discovered her true identity? Was this a one-way trip? Had her Siebenschläfer network in the Soviet zone been blown wide open? If so… by whom? Was there a double agent in one of the chains? Which one of her agents had they tortured until he revealed her identity? She had left BOB on foot to go to collect a car from the transport garage to use on her leave period. Had they discovered the base in Föhrenweg and followed her?... Or was this purely by chance? No; it couldn't be that. This had been planned to the last detail. There were so many questions that could not be answered. She gave Siegel a brief, tight smile and settled back into the seat wondering what the hell she would do next.

The two men in the front of the sedan were silent during the drive. They looked like typical, MVD-trained hoodlums who dispensed broken legs and bullets through the backs of heads. Occasionally, the driver's eyes flicked from the road to the rear-view mirror and back again. He drove down onto Potsdamer Strasse, turned onto Spanische Allee, and headed for the AVUS. Siegel was silent; occasionally smiling quietly to himself as if he was savouring some private joke which he was not about to share with her.

Beyond the AVUS; the driver turned onto the short Wannseebadweg, which led down to the pristine blue waters of Grosse Wannsee. He brought the sedan to a halt behind the southernmost of the four large, two-storey buildings arranged in a row along the lower flank of the slight hill, and parallel to the beach line. Siegel helped Charlotte out of the sedan and escorted her to the building. This was the celebrated Strandbad Wannsee that some had called "Berlin's Riviera."

The long, low, yellow-brick "New objectivity style" buildings designed in late 1920's had escaped unscathed by bombs and contained changing rooms and showers; wicker beach chair and chaise longue rentals, as well as various shopping facilities and a covered promenade. As they walked through the building, Siegel guided her to one of the shops that sold bathing suits. He smiled amiably.

'You can't sunbathe, or go for a dip dressed like that. Choose a bathing suit... whichever one appeals to you.'

Charlotte chose a white swimsuit with a halter neck top, shaped cups and a skirted bottom; whilst Siegel picked himself out a pair of black swimming trunks. Having paid, he guided Charlotte towards the changing rooms, and ordered two chaise longues to be set out on the private area in front of the old Lido beach restaurant, which had burned down due to an electrical fault in '47, and was effectively closed, to the public.

Back up in the car park, the two MVD goons were having a quiet smoke before they headed back to headquarters. Guren; the larger of the two; dragged the smoke from his smelly Pachka cigarette deep into his lungs, and glanced slyly at his companion.

'That blonde's a little scorcher... a really great piece of ass.'

His colleague, Chenko, nodded, and grinned.

'Yeah; a real peach and a nice pair of tits as well. I managed to get a quick feel when we popped her into the car.'

Guren snorted.

'You would, you lucky bastard. All I got was a scraped shin. That's fucking typical. The officers always get the good, classy ones. We always end up with the fucking sluts and snappers.'

He gave an uncouth snigger.

'Let's get out of here. He's probably lining up to slip her one... I would, if I was him. I bet she’s got a plum like a Siemens vacuum pump, so we'd better not be around to cramp his style!'

Laughing coarsely; they tossed their cigarette butts out onto the concrete; started the sedan and drove away up Wannseebadweg to the main road.

Charlotte had settled comfortably on the chaise longue, and was gazing out across the pristine waters of Grosse Wannsee from beneath the big floppy brim of her woven sun hat when a shadow fell across her. Glancing up over the tops of her "Ray-Ban" aviator sunglasses, she saw Siegel standing over her, with a large Martini glass in each hand. She studied him discreetly; broad shoulders, his muscles firm from almost four years of combat; slim waist, sturdy thigh muscles; an impressive male at the apex of his virility. What a shame he was on the opposing side.

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Accepting the offered drink, she studied him.

'So, is this the condemned girl's last treat?'

He looked truly hurt.

'No. You do not understand. This is nothing to do with the fact that you are one of Donovan's people. I have known that for quite some time. The "Paula Lukanovna" identity document was good... but not quite good enough. When I checked, I found no trace of that name at Soviet Central Kommandatura at Luisenstrasse. What this is about; is that, three days ago, a Zapiska... a memorandum, came across my desk at Karlshorst, instigating a sweeping up of several agent rings operating in our sector. You have been denounced as being the elusive "Monokel." Under normal circumstances, I would have come to arrest you; but these are not normal circumstances. I have also recently discovered that my parents, who are White Cossacks, were deported to Siberia during the Bolshevik regime. If they discover that I too, am a White Cossack, then my career is finished and I shall probably be sent to join them.'

He shrugged.

'This is why I have decided to come to live the rest of my life in your world.'

She stared at him.

'You wish to defect?'

His face became serious,

'No. I am not a traitor. My hope is that we can both disappear together from this mad-house.'

He looked at her steadily. She was very beautiful; poised, elegant, and very desirable. It would be so easy to fall hopelessly in love with her.

Charlotte smiled at him. Yes, he was an attractive man... but, was this revelation on the level?... Or was this one of the notorious Soviet honeytraps that she had been briefed about? There really was no way of knowing for sure. She needed to be very careful.

The answer came from an unexpected quarter. They had been relaxing in the sun and enjoying the soft breeze off Grosser Wannsee for something like three hours, when they became aware of a movement behind them. Looking over their shoulders, they saw that the two MVD goons, Guren and Chenko had quietly returned, and now stood, pistols in hand in the shadow of the wall behind them.

Siegel stood up and faced them; about to demand why they were disturbing the peaceful afternoon; when Guren spoke; his voice sneering and portentous.

'We have received a message from Headquarters. You are exposed as "Khokhol" scum, Colonel, and...'

He waved the muzzle of the pistol in Charlotte's direction.

'...your slut is a decadent Imperialist spy.'

He waved the pistol in the direction of the changing rooms.

'Let's go Colonel... unless you want us to run you, and your trollop down to headquarters in your bathing costumes.'

Siegel gave a typically stoic, Russian shrug and turned towards the building. As he did so; he glanced at Charlotte and imperceptibly raised an eyebrow. She tried to read his expression, and failed. What did this subtle signal mean? Followed by Guren, he disappeared into the shadows of the building. Chenko turned back towards her, covering her with his pistol and leering at her breasts and legs as she lay on the chaise longue in her tight, white swimsuit. He moved closer to get a better view. She watched him carefully from behind the deeply-tinted lenses of her sunglasses. Well, let him get a good eyeful. She knew she had a good body and the effect it had on men. He might just get careless. She slightly shifted her position on the chaise longue, gently flexing her hips, as though she was positioning herself more comfortably. She saw him unconsciously run his tongue across his thick, wet lips.

Preoccupied with his mental molestation; Chenko didn't see the vague movement in the shadows of the entrance to the changing rooms. He didn't hear the soundless approach behind him; but he certainly felt the iron hand clamped across his mouth and the cold, searing kiss of Guren's switchblade as Siegel drove it up under his fourth rib, piercing his heart, and killing him instantly.

The pistol clattered onto the paving as Siegel dragged Chenko's twitching body back into the shadows. Charlotte sprang out of the chaise longue and glanced around. There was no one close enough to see what had happened. She picked up the pistol and followed Siegel into the building. Wide-eyed, she saw him dump the corpse into one of the changing cubicles that was already occupied by a very dead Guren who now possessed a third, bloody eye socket in the centre of his forehead.

She gasped out.

'Max; How? What do we do now?'

He gave her a grim smile.

'He was so cocksure of himself that he didn't even imagine that I had a weapon; especially this one.'

He held out his hand which contained a tiny pistol. He smiled again.

'Single-shot, fired by compressed air, and absolutely silent. They're just beginning to equip our side with them.'

His expression became serious.

'Now, get changed, and let's get the hell out of here. It will take them some time to realise these two thugs are missing. We have their car and can be well away before they realise anything is wrong.'

The black sedan was parked in almost the same place to where they had been dropped off earlier. Quickly they jumped into the front seats. Siegel saw that the keys were still in the ignition; sloppy, very sloppy! The engine started immediately, at the first try. He banged it into gear and accelerated away out onto Wannseebadweg; turned left onto the wooded road up to the AVUS with the intention of them both going to ground temporarily in a safe house he knew of in Reinickendorf.

The AVUS was deserted. Siegel was pushing the sedan fast along the northern carriageway. The speedometer needle was steady on the one hundred-and-ten Km/h mark. Ahead, the pale concrete ribbon glittered dead straight for ten kilometres through the forest, there was a smell of autumn pine needles in the air; and the boom of the engine echoed back from the walls of fir and pine. In the distance, on the southern straight; a tiny black speck suddenly appeared; a speck that became a fly, and then materialised into a solitary black car approaching fast from the direction of Berlin. As it passed on the opposite carriageway, Siegel swore softly under his breath. His face was grim; his lips pressed into a tight line. Charlotte glanced at him, startled.

'Max; what's wrong?'

He let his breath out in a hiss.

'It's another of our cars. Two shadows, by the look of it. Surely they can't have discovered the bodies and raised the alarm yet. Hang on; we're going to have to move.'

He stamped the accelerator pedal to the floor. The engine note rose to a bellow. He glanced into the rear-view mirror. The other car was turning round... crossing the grass median... and yes, it was coming after them. The bridge over the little road to Hüttenweg was coming up fast. The pale concrete ribbon rose slightly as it crossed the bridge, then fell away again. The pursuing car was about a kilometre behind, and would be lost from sight for a few precious moments.

Siegel shouted to Charlotte to hang on, and swerved the sedan violently into a little track at the side of the carriageway immediately beyond the rise. He slammed on the brakes and was half-out of the driver's door before it had skidded to a standstill. He ran to the trunk; tore it open, and grabbed something. He then sprinted towards the road; crouching against the trees. The sound of the oncoming car's engine drummed through the pines. As she watched, he threw something out onto the carriageway that tinkled as it hit the concrete, and then he ducked back into the cover of the trees.

The approaching engine note rose to a roar. There was a momentary glimpse of the vehicle, then a loud bang; the squeal of tortured rubber, and the echoing, explosive crash of fracturing metal and glass. She jumped out of the car and ran to where he was crouching. Cautiously, they moved to the edge of the trees and peered along the carriageway. The calamitous black rubber snakes of the skid marks curved into the tree line where a great gouge had been torn out of the bark on the trunk of a substantial birch tree. The impact had sent the car ricocheting back across the median in a welter of debris, and slammed it over onto its roof, which had collapsed onto the occupants. Two figures were clawing at the jammed and buckled doors to try to get out of the simmering wreck. The doors of the car didn't come open.

Suddenly, there was a bright blossom of flame. Someone was screaming inside the mangled wreckage. Any moment now, and the flames would find the fuel lines and flash back along the chassis to the fuel tank. She stared towards the burning coffin and gave Siegel a frightened look. His face was set in a hard, emotionless mask. Compassion was not an option for the winner in the espionage game. Spare one of the opposition, and one day, that same man could well be the one who centred you in the cross-hairs of his sights and coldly squeezed the trigger. Chivalry had no place in the Berlin spy community.

As she watched, horrified; the fuel tank suddenly exploded with a huge "Whumph," and a seething chrysanthemum of orange fire rolled up into the sky. The car burned and the men screamed.

Siegel moved out onto the concrete and gathered up several objects. He returned, and she stared questioningly at him. He held out his hand. It contained several small, steel caltrops... spiked metal devices in the form of a four-pointed star; designed so that one spike was always uppermost, no matter how they fell. These had caused one or more of the pursuing car's tyres to burst, catapulting it into the trees, out of control. She looked at him and shivered.

Returning to the sedan, he reversed out onto the AVUS and stopped some twenty metres back from the wreck... as though they had just chanced upon the wreck. In the distance they heard the braying tones of a Martin horn approaching swiftly from the direction of Berlin. The billowing plume of black, oily smoke must have been reported in by someone living close by.

A Polizei BMW saloon was racing towards them on the southern carriageway with its headlights blazing. It squealed to a halt a little way north of the burning vehicle and a young Berlin policeman ran across to them. He glanced at the two charring corpses. His face was white. He blurted out,

'Was ist passiert?'... 'What happened?'

Siegel shrugged, and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

'Ich habe keine Ahnung'... 'I have no idea.'

The young policeman nodded, and told Siegel to return to his car and drive on. As they slowly drove past the wreckage, there was no movement in the roaring maw of the funeral pyre. Gaining distance away from the scene; Siegel glanced into the rear-view mirror. The young policeman was standing there, helplessly watching the inferno and unable to do the slightest thing about it. No other vehicles were involved; it would have to be written up in his report as just one more pair of speed-freaks who had run out of luck trying to imitate Hermann Lang, or one of the other drivers of the streamlined Mercedes-Benz, back in the 1937 AVUS-rennen.

He had lost count of the number of these crazy assholes whose bravado was greater than their driving skills that he had been called out to scrape up from what had once been the fastest closed motor racing circuit in the world; and he very much doubted that this fiery trip to Valhalla would be the last one. Now he would have to wait. The crash site was just inside the British Sector boundary, and the British Military Police would have to arrive and take over before he could even think about calling out a crash truck. Why they were still bothering was anyone's guess. Within a few weeks, the three Allied sectors were to be incorporated into Die Bundesrepublik Deutschland... the Federal Republic of Germany; which most Berliners would immediately start calling West Berlin.

He leaned against the front of his car and idly lit a cigarette to try to mask the pungent odour of petrol, burning rubber and upholstery; and of... yes, that was it... roast mutton, floating across the AVUS.