Chapter 1CHAPTER 1 Berlin, 1963 The exchange, it was decided, would take place at the Invalidenstrasse checkpoint. The press kept an eye on Glienicke Bridge now, hoping for another Powers-Abel swap, and the international crossing at Checkpoint Charlie would be crowded, cars streaming out of the American sector on day visas. Invalidenstrasse had the virtue of being discreet, out of the way, designated for the few West Germans heading east. And it was in the British sector. This was officially a British exchange, Martin for an MI6 operative the East Germans had held for years and two English students caught helping friends over the wall. Small fry. For someone who''d made headlines. Well, years ago.
How many of the young guards up ahead would even know who he was? All they''d see would be the prisoner skin, the unmistakable pallor of someone who''d been inside. There was a different light in prison, even in the exercise yard, the sun itself filtered, behind bars. "We get out here," McGregor said, his escort since Heathrow, guiding him through customs at Tegel and across the British sector, staying close, as if he were afraid Martin would pick his moment and bolt. Where? "We walk?" "Just to the other side of the bridge," McGregor said, nodding to the checkpoint barrier up ahead. They had stopped on the western side of one of those canals that trickled out of the Spree. "The car needs to turn around here." Martin got out, feeling the cold through his coat. There it was, the wall he''d seen in a thousand pictures, more brutal somehow in real life, a gray slab running along the water, broken here by a gap the width of a car.
Some men were getting out of a black sedan on the other side. "Right on time," McGregor said, checking his watch. "Germans." A few minutes and he''d be free. Which wasn''t how Digby, the junior warden who''d handled his release, had seen it. "You ask me, it''s changing one prison for another. Different walls, that''s all." But how could he know, someone who went home at night? "They''re trying to get out over there, not in.
You''ll be getting parole soon. You''d have a choice. And who''d choose--?" "I have a son there. A wife." Digby looked at him, surprised. "A wife. Who never visits. Not as long as I''ve been here.
" "Ex-wife." Digby took this in, then side-stepped. "Now, Moscow, that would be different. I mean, that''s who you did it for. The spying. A hero''s welcome there, wouldn''t it be?" Martin smiled a little. "Except they haven''t asked for me. The East Germans have.
" "And that''s the wife asking, is that it?" Martin ignored this. "I didn''t do it for the Russians." "No. Who, then?" "I thought I was doing it for everybody." Digby looked away, uncomfortable. "But that''s not the way it worked out." "No." Digby handed over his personal papers, the American passport on top.
"I still say, hold on to this. Ticket home. You never know." Home. Where they''d executed the Rosenbergs. Getting caught in Britain had saved his life. Under British law, only high treason, working for the enemy in wartime, was a capital crime. They gave him the maximum sentence, fourteen years, but he was alive.
"They''ll miss you at the library. You''ve done a nice job there." "It passes the time." "Well, that''s what it''s all about, isn''t it?" Digby turned to go, then hesitated. "I wish you luck. I''ve enjoyed our chats." Martin looked up, not expecting this. What had they talked about? "You keep your cards close to your vest, though.
A wife. First I''ve heard of it." "Before your time." "Still. You don''t give up much." "Less for you to pass along." To whom, Martin wondered. MI5? The head warden? Was anyone still interested? "You think that?" Digby said, pretending to be offended.
"Not very nice. But I suppose you have to think like that. In your line of work." "My line of work." "On second thought, maybe you''ll fit right in. With the Krauts. They say everybody''s got an ear out over there." The men on the other side had now formed a line, like a team taking positions, their clothes so similar they might have been uniforms: gray baggy raincoats, mufflers, rimless German glasses.
Except the last one, smart in a belted camel-hair topcoat and thick black-framed glasses, the fashion look a surreal touch in the morning gloom. But what wasn''t surreal in Berlin? Even on the drive in from Tegel he had been disoriented, once familiar streets now unrecognizable. There were still pockets of bomb damage, after all these years. Stretches of wasteland next to new apartment buildings. An empty space where Lehrter Station had been, the whole ornate pile gone, vanished. At least the Charité hospital complex was still there, across the canal, its nineteenth-century red brick evidently strong enough to survive the wolf''s blast, like the clever little pig''s house. Or just lucky, the bombs falling somewhere else. Hospital wards and classrooms shoehorned into Wilhelmine mansions, Luisenstrasse with its medical supply shops and textbook sellers, the streets running off it lined with old apartment buildings where students rented spare rooms or pooled their money to share a place of their own.
And gave parties. How he had met Sabine. A casual invitation from Georg, a break from Göttingen, carrying his overnight bag from Friedrichstrasse Station, the rush of hot smoky air and music when he opened Georg''s door, music the Nazis disapproved of, just playing it an act of rebellion. A beer thrust into his hand before he could even put his bag down. And then, a sudden opening through the crowd, her eyes looking up at the same time. She''d been sitting on a couch, legs curled beneath her, an ashtray in her lap, a cigarette in one hand, the other at her elbow, as if she were holding herself down, about to float away with the smoke. She stared at him, a snapshot second, head half-turned, like someone who''d been tapped on the shoulder. Yes? Then Georg came over to greet him and he lost sight of her again behind the crowd.
That had been the beginning. A party at the Charité. Just across the bridge. "Now what?" "They start. Then we start. High Noon ." "Without the guns." "Now," McGregor said, beginning to walk.
"Not too fast. We want to be there at the same time. When you get to the barrier, they''ll raise it and you keep going. The others will pass you coming out. So nobody''s first. Nobody pulls anything." "That ever happen?" A chess piece yanked off the board. "No, they''re just like that.
By the book." Over the water now, the wall ahead. Behind it a heavy turn-of-the-century building big enough to have been a government ministry, its façade unscarred by bombs. Massive doors and pediments, built to last. The confident years. The man in the camel-hair coat stopped, as McGregor had, the three in raincoats coming on by themselves. Three for one. The road barrier was raised and Martin walked through the checkpoint, the others passing on his left, nobody hurrying, wary, as if they were expecting something to go wrong at the last minute.
And then they were in the West and Martin was in East Berlin, free. He stopped for a minute, breathing in the damp air. He was through. Nobody was going to pull him back, lock him up again. He''d paid and now it was over. A smile from the man in camel hair, hand outstretched. "So. Welcome to the better Germany.
As we like to say. I''m Kurt Thiele. You had an easy trip?" "Sabine''s husband." "Yes," he said, still smiling. "She''s anxious to see you. After so many years. And of course Peter." "You arranged this," Martin said, waving his hand to take in the whole border crossing.
"It''s what I do," he said easily. "These exchanges with the West. It''s a kind of specialty. I used to work with Vogel, the lawyer. You''ve heard of him?" "No, sorry." "He arranged the Abel swap. And many others. Now too many.
So there''s business for me," he said, breezy, a car salesman. But she''d married him. Made him Peter''s father. Did Peter call him that? "Then I have you to thank." "No, no. Sabine. The British would say no and she would say, ask again. Offer them more.
I think she feels--you know, you''re so many years in prison. Only you." So he knew. But of course he would. "But the British still said no. I think because the Americans didn''t like it." "And then you changed their minds." "Well, the Americans.
It''s a long time and maybe they don''t care so much anymore. And I made the point that your parole would come soon. After that, they don''t have you to trade, so why not make a deal now? Get something for you." "Like those dangerous characters," Martin said, cocking his head back toward the raincoats. "Yes, Boothby. Just in time for his pension. The students." He waved his hand in dismissal.
"So also some political prisoners for the West Germans. They''ll be exchanged tonight at Herleshausen. And the West Germans will be very grateful to their British friends. So everyone gets something." The salesman smile again. What was he talking about? Political prisoners. Martin just a piece of contraband. But what did it matter? He was here.
"Sabine didn''t come?" "No. This business, it''s better if it''s done quietly. But you will come tonight. For dinner." He hesitated. "You know, I.