Brandenburg Gate

Chapter 10

* * *

Thursday, November 8, 1945
1:30 p.m.
Lancaster House
Fehrbelliner Platz
Berlin

A long, wooden table, in a long, white-painted room, well-lit by large windows.

The Lieutenant Colonel at the head of the table was clearly not happy.

"I see … ", he said; calmly, and cooly. He looked back silently at Mister Grey for ten seconds, then twenty; his face perfectly still.

It was intimidating. It was meant to be, I thought.

Mister Grey stirred, very slightly, in his chair.

"I'm afraid I'm constrained in what I can tell you, by the Official Secrets Act. I wish it were otherwise. However, I can assure you that your presence at the exchange is requested purely as a formality, as a matter of routine. Everything has been arranged in advance."

Another long, multi-second silence from the Colonel. I actually felt myself holding my breath, a little.

I hadn't known what to expect, when it came to this senior British Army officer. I suppose I'd pictured him in advance as a kind of Montgomery, Field Marshal Montgomery from the newsreels; shorter, mustachioed, outgoing, maybe carrying a riding crop, or something.

But this man — Lieutenant Colonel Thorne was his name, commander of the 8th Battalion of the Coldstream Guards — was the opposite. He was surprisingly young; tall, and lean, clean-shaven and composed, and his uniform was impeccable — 

And his eyes scared me.

There had been a few senior officers in my Bomb Group who had stayed on after their 35-mission rotation was done, out of a sense of leadership, or obligation to their men — 

Or maybe as a kind of apology, to the men they'd lost.

In any case, I remembered their eyes. 'Dark', would have described them, perhaps; or 'haunted'. One Major I remembered in particular had a stare that could cut right through you, to the very bone. He did not suffer fools at all gladly. He'd been killed fairly soon after I'd arrived in Italy, and I'd always secretly wondered if he'd been glad to go.

Lieutenant Colonel Thorne had eyes like that. They'd obviously seen far too much.

This time it was Thorne who broke the silence.

"'Routine'. Yes."

Another long, few seconds.

He glanced down briefly at a note he'd taken, then looked back up at Mister Grey. "If you cannot tell us more about this American Captain, who is also apparently a United States Foreign Service officer, or the circumstances of his arrest — can you perhaps tell us something about the prisoner you propose to exchange for him — ?" His tone was carefully neutral.

Mister MacLaughlin cleared his throat.

"Yes, sir," he began, quietly. "Not that there is much of substance to tell. He calls himself Kozlovsky, Pavel Ivanovich Kozlovsky; although that identification is rather doubtful, as he has no documentation. And he is, in essence, a petty criminal, and something of a would-be, amateur spy. It was his attempts at intelligence-gathering that brought him to the attention of, well, our organization."

A raised eyebrow from the Lieutenant Colonel.

"A petty criminal, and a spy — ?" from one of Lieutenant Colonel Thorne's aides; a Major named Blackwell. I saw him glance sideways, at the Colonel. I had the impression that Thorne's men were as careful of him, as Mister MacLaughlin so obviously was.

MacLaughlin's expression grew slightly pained.

"Yes. Well, you see, not to put too fine a point on it … he is, or was, a procurer. A pimp." He shrugged. "That, in itself, was hardly enough to bring him to our attention. But he made his girls specifically target our people, British service members, with an eye towards obtaining intelligence via means of blackmail."

"Do you seriously mean to suggest that the mere fact of visiting a prostitute would be considered grounds for blackmail — ?" This from the other officer at the table, a rather stout Captain named Clark. He actually seemed amused.

"Hardly, sir. But Kozlovsky chose his targets with some care. He preferred slightly-older, happily married NCOs, non-commissioned officers, who had access to classified information." He paused, slightly. "Or so he was led to believe they were, anyway, once we became aware of him."

Another silence, for a few seconds, as we all absorbed that, with all the associated implications.

Mister MacLaughlin cleared his throat, again.

"I'm afraid it was a rather sordid business, all the way around. But it was decided at higher levels to keep Kozlovsky fed with harmless information, as we investigated his operation. Opportunities to pass on misinformation, or to roll-up espionage networks directed at one's own forces are rare, and are always valuable."

"No doubt," from Colonel Thorne. Very dryly.

I thought I could see MacLaughlin try not to wince.

"And can you tell us what you found? Or is that covered under the Official Secrets Act, as well — ?" This from Major Blackwell, very neutrally.

A shrug, from Mister MacLaughlin.

"This is hardly the stuff of the Official Secrets Act. It is more the stuff of a comic opera. We discovered that Kozlovsky — or whatever his name might be — has had no contact with the Soviets whatsoever. We watched him, and tracked him, very closely. We additionally discovered that as an intelligence operative, he is singularly and spectacularly inept."

MacLaughlin paused, and made a wry face.

"For a time, we actually entertained the idea that he was foisted upon us by the Soviets as a kind of inside joke, from one professional organization to another. But at last we became convinced that he is a rank amateur."

"But what would be the point of trying to spy on us, without having a way to pass the information back to Soviet intelligence — ?" This from Major Blackwell, who was clearly fascinated.

"Ah," from Mister MacLaughlin. "Yes. Well, we wondered that as well. But we think we have that worked out." He looked at each of us, in turn. "You see, under interrogation, Kozlovsky can give no coherent reason why he should be in Berlin; his stories are preposterous. But we now believe, with some reason, that he is in fact a deserter from a shtrafbat unit; or perhaps 'survivor' would be more appropriate. He was badly wounded in one leg, and it has not healed well."

A dark look from Lieutenant Colonel Throne. Blackwell and Clark glanced at each other.

"'Shtrafbat' — ?" from Mister Grey; pronouncing it carefully.

"Soviet shock troops," from Thorne; colorlessly. "Expendable, low-value ground troops, pushed at gunpoint into assaults against fortified positions. Or into minefields, for that matter, in order to clear pathways through them. They are frequently made up of cadres of convicted criminals."

 

A long silence, at that. I tried to come to grips with the horrible idea.

 

"If we are correct," went on Mister MacLaughlin, "then Kozlovsky is effectively stranded, here in Berlin. He certainly cannot go home; if he were to be picked up by the Soviets, he would be shot as a deserter at once. Unless, perhaps, he had something of value, to trade for his life." He looked at each of us, meaningfully. "That is what we believe motivated him to try this little stunt. It is the only explanation which makes sense."

Another long, pregnant silence.

"My God," from Captain Clark, at last. "What a position to be in. In a foreign place, on the run from his own countrymen, at the risk of his life. One can almost feel sorry for the man."

I immediately felt intensely uncomfortable. I wondered if that described Rhys' situation, too.

"I would not feel too sorry for him," said MacLaughlin, tightly. "When we stopped making our people available to his little criminal enterprise, he beat one of his girls badly enough to send her to hospital. That is when we decided to pick him up." MacLaughlin's mouth was set. "He is a liar, and a bully, and a thug; he treats his girls badly. Talking with him is an extremely unpleasant task. I will be very glad when we are shed of him."

 

A pause, then.

 

All eyes turned to Lieutenant Colonel Thorne. He said nothing, for second, after second.

 

"So," from him, at last. "A petty criminal. A pimp. A failed, amateur spy. And this is the man the Soviets are willing to exchange for this Captain Williamson of yours, about whom you can tell me nothing. And the Soviets will provide a Lieutenant Colonel and several dozen heavily armed men for the occasion, which naturally obliges us to do the same." He gently rolled his fountain pen around in his fingers, over and over again. "What exactly are we to make of this — ?"

His eyes locked on Mister Grey. I tried not to wince, at the question, and the dry, emotionless tone.

"As I said, Colonel, the exchange has been agreed upon in advance. Your assistance is very welcome; but surely it is all a matter of routine." Mister Grey kept his tone mild, and even.

It occurred to me, then, that Mister Grey was in his own kind of uniform; a beautifully-tailored, gray pin-stripe suit, that I hadn't seen before. He looked every inch the ranking government official which he, in fact, was.

Another silent, unnerving stare, from Thorne. The pen kept moving, in his fingers.

"Actually, Mister — Grey," he said, glancing down at his notes, and then back up — "exchanges such as this are not routine in the slightest. Prior to our posting in Berlin, my Battalion was in Vienna. I was present at three high-level exchanges there, of a similar general nature."

He paused, to glance at Major Blackwell and Captain Clark.

"As anyone who has experienced one can tell you, whenever groups of armed soldiers of different countries face off against each other, the potential for accidents or misunderstandings is very real." Another silence; and more rolling of his pen. "I do not like putting my men in unnecessary danger. Particularly when I do not fully understand the circumstances."

Another tense, seconds-long silence. Mister Grey raised one eyebrow, just slightly; he said nothing.

"Additionally," went on Colonel Thorne; his eyes locked on Mister Grey's. "In point of fact, relations between the Soviets and ourselves, and the Soviets and the Americans, have been growing increasingly contentious, of late. Very little of this has reached the newspapers. We try not to contribute to the situation."

"I wasn't aware that relations between us had ever been all that warm," from Mister Grey; ironically. He almost drawled it, in his cultured tones.

 

And I had a horrible flash of memory, of hearing the story for the first time about Rhys and Mister Grey in Shanghai in '37, when Rhys had come close to being killed by the Soviet NKVD …

 

Another silent look, from Colonel Thorne. The pen paused, in his fingers, for several seconds. The tension in the room, increased.

"As I was saying," from him, at length. "Relationships between the Soviets and ourselves have been growing increasingly contentious. I have attended several meetings of the Allied Control Council, where our representatives meet to make decisions about the Occupation. The level of hostility and vituperation at those meetings, from the Soviet side, has to be experienced to be believed. An endless series of grievances is expressed. Speeches accusing us — ourselves and the Americans — of the most shocking bad faith and behavior are delivered daily, in the most scathing language. It is quite obviously a matter of official policy, decided upon at the highest levels."

I could believe it, easily enough. My camp-mates and I had been rescued by a Red Army tank unit, and we'd been very kindly treated; but their C.O. had been very reluctant to talk to us at all, and we'd been kept under constant, close watch by their Political Officer. From what I'd seen, there was good morale in their unit, but also an undercurrent of fear. The Party line was taken very, very seriously.

"Interestingly enough," the Colonel went on, "the Soviets seem to have focused their displeasure on our possession of Tempelhof and Gatow airfields."

His eyes flickered to mine, very briefly. Because of my uniform, I assumed. It was the first time he'd seemed to take any notice of me.

"There is not much they can do about Tempelhof, given the geography. But the Soviets have heavy mechanized units stationed close outside of Gatow's Western perimeter fences, and I assure you, they are not there to protect us. They are there to intimidate … or, perhaps, to roll in, at a time of their own choosing." He shrugged, and moved the pen in his fingers, gently, again. "They actually tried to put up checkpoints, aggressively-manned checkpoints, in our sector, to inspect and inhibit road traffic to Gatow. It took the most strenuous objections at the Council to have them removed." His eyes locked on Mister Grey, again. "We came close to armed confrontation, then."

Mister Grey said nothing.

The silence went on, for another span of seconds. Twenty, seconds, thirty; maybe a whole minute.

Eventually Colonel Thorne shrugged, very slightly; and looked down at his notes.

"And then, there is the matter of the Pariser Platz, where this exchange would, in theory, take place."

Would. In theory. I felt chilled, at once.

"It is, of course, the most important public space in Berlin. It is hugely symbolic … an odd setting for the exchange of a petty criminal and procurer, for a young, low-ranking U.S. Foreign Service officer, no — ?"

A flash of his eyes, at all three of us. None of us spoke.

"It is also, at the moment, almost impassable. Half of the platz is still covered with heaped-up rubble; much of the rest is riddled with trenches and excavations, resulting from the removal of UXO, unexploded ordinance. Our respective forces, the Soviets and ourselves, would be standing the whole length of the platz apart. The exchange, then, were it to take place, would require quite a long walk, in the open, without cover."

Another look at us.

"The surrounding buildings, on the other hand, are completely shattered; the ruins would provide cover for a small army. And that small army would, of course, be Soviet; the platz is in the Soviet Zone, under exclusive Soviet control."

Mister MacLaughlin had told us about conditions in the Pariser Platz. He'd seemed worried about the choice of it, by the Soviets. Now I could see why.

Colonel Thorne went on, remorselessly.

"I have to tell you, gentlemen, that this entire arrangement seems … deeply suspicious, to me." Another, multi-second pause. "And I have to tell you, that, lacking additional explanation, I am strongly disinclined to put my men in danger by allowing them to participate in this exchange."

 

Oh, no. Oh, no.

 

Mister Grey sat, motionless, for a long, fraught, silent moment; and then, he inclined his head, just a little. Apologetically, I thought.

"Colonel … perhaps I was mistaken, in my assumption that the mechanics of this arrangement were purely routine. I can see that, now." He was clearly choosing his words carefully. "However. The fact remains, that Captain Williamson was in the British Sector when he was arrested by the Soviets; and that makes him very much our responsibility."

A long, meaningful pause, from him.

"And I must tell you, that Whitehall is very interested that this prisoner exchange takes place successfully. It is considered to be a matter of the highest importance."

Another, long, multi-second silence. Mister Grey's eyes were locked on Colonel Thorne's.

"Nevertheless," from Colonel Thorne, at last. "The decision, and the responsibility, is mine."

 

The seconds ticked on. Colonel Thorne, facing off against Mister Grey. Both of them, implacable.

Beneath his light, dry, flippant exterior, I hadn't realized Mister Grey had the intensity, in him.

 

I held my breath.

 

The pause, intensified.

 

"Colonel Thorne? If I may — ?" from me.

"Yes, Captain Molloy?" His look towards me was sudden, bright, and piercing. He hadn't needed to consult his notes, to remember my cover name.

I cleared my throat.

"I don't believe I'm covered by your Official Secrets Act," I offered, a little tentatively. My American accent sounded strange, to me, in this room. "And I'm certainly not covered by it, for anything Rhys — Captain Williamson — told me, before he was arrested." I glanced over, apologetically, towards Mister Grey and Mister MacLaughlin.

"Go on," from Colonel Thorne; after a moment. Neutrally.

I shrugged. And then I looked back at him, evenly.

"For starters — my real name is Van Doern; John J. Van Doern, Captain, 15th U.S. Air Force."

I felt a surge of relief, and of a kind of pride, as I said it. I hadn't liked using an alias. Not at all.

"And I can tell you, sir, that Captain Williamson was an officer of the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, during the War; and he's still doing similar work, now … "

*

And so, I recounted the whole story; in as much detail, as I remembered.

How Rhys was assigned to go to Berlin; on short notice, under a trumped-up, illogical rationale, and with a wholly inadequate briefing.

How, in the wreckage of the ending of the OSS, he had been left reporting to a State Department civilian, whom he didn't know …

And — this hurt the worst, to admit to a room full of British officers; oh, how it hurt — how Rhys clearly suspected some sort of treachery, in his own chain of command. Suspected that he was being set up. Suspected, that someone in his chain of command might possibly even be working for the Soviets …

And, finally, how I'd contacted Mister Grey when Rhys disappeared; as Rhys and I had arranged.

I kept the whole story as dry and factual as I could make it. As I've said, having spent a flying career being debriefed after every mission, helped.

At last, my story came to end. I sat in silence, under Colonel Thorne's steady, dark gaze.

The seconds ticked on and on, again. No one else spoke, in the room.

 

"What is your relationship to Captain Williamson, Captain Van Doern — ?", from Colonel Thorne, suddenly. "Are you also in American Intelligence — ?"

I was taken aback, for a moment.

"No, sir. Captain Williamson and I are friends. Close friends."

"Friends," from him. "Close enough friends, for you to choose to spend a thirty-day leave with him, in Paris. With no one else, no other family members, present." His dark eyes showed his skepticism.

I had a brief, intense memory of Rhys' bedroom. The feel of him, warm, naked, in my arms, after so many months apart. The smell of him. The living sense of him …

"Yes, sir."

I looked back at him, evenly. Not caring what he thought. Not caring what he saw in my eyes.

More silence, from Colonel Thorne.

"Well, Captain Van Doern," from him, at last. "I hope you understand, that you have hardly helped your case."

He regarded me, darkly.

"The situation seemed merely inexplicable, before. Now it appears that you are asking me to insert my men — British soldiers — into what may be an internecine feud between rival factions of American Intelligence, possibly even rogue, or compromised, factions of American Intelligence, with the Soviets participating in an unknown capacity. Do you seriously expect me to approve this operation — ?"

I felt a quick, fierce stab of anger, at his words and his tone, and I knew I was flushing a bright red. At the same time, I felt a flash of horror; horror, that it really and truly wasn't going to work, that we weren't getting Rhys back. Oh, God …

I looked down for a long moment, holding my tongue; then I looked back up.

I made a decision.

"With respect, sir; I am not asking or expecting you to do anything. You asked for more information. I provided it." I looked at him, steadily. "I will only say that I will be at the Pariser Platz on Saturday the 10th. Alone, if need be." I paused, for a second. "Well, alone, except for Pavel the Pimp, that is."

I said this last part lightly, as a kind of tag-line of a joke. To my surprise, I saw Colonel Thorne's face darken, in his turn.

"He will not be alone, Colonel," from Mister MacLaughlin, at my side.

Thorne looked at him.

"Sir, I cannot go into details. I can only tell you, that Captain Williamson saved my life, and the lives of the men under my command, during the war. At great personal risk, and cost, to himself, and to his own people."

I felt MacLaughlin draw his breath.

"I am instructed to assist in Captain Williamson's retrieval, in any way possible. But apart from that, I consider that I owe him a deep, personal debt of honor. I will be at the Pariser Platz, as well."

Silence, then, for seconds. MacLaughlin held the Colonel's implacable gaze. I remembered that they were stationed together here in Berlin, and that they likely knew each other, well enough.

Mister Grey cleared his throat.

"Do you know," he said, conversationally, "as it happens, there are senior figures in Whitehall who share my colleague's feelings? However. There are other, rather more pressing considerations, to take into account. Colonel; may I have a few words with you, in private — ?"

I blinked at him. Nonplussed.

Colonel Thorne looked at him, silently, for a good ten seconds. Then he shrugged.

"Very well."

He slowly gathered his notes from the table top, and inserted them into a manilla folder. Then he carefully placed his fountain pen into the front pocket of his uniform blouse. Finally, he stood up.

A scraping of chairs, as the rest of us in uniform stood to attention.

Their footsteps receded, as they walked away.

"As you were," from Major Blackwell, into the silence.

I caught Mister MacLaughlin's eye, as we sat down again; and I tried to express my thanks, with my expression. He gave a slightly-embarrassed shrug of his own.

"What's Grey doing?" I whispered to him; as some desultory conversation started up, between Blackwell and Clark.

"I do not know," he whispered back.

*

And so, we waited. A minute; then five minutes, then more.

It was torture.

I figured Rhys' fate was on the line; and there was nothing I could do about it.

Oh, I'd been serious about trying to go through with the prisoner exchange, by myself, or even with Mister MacLaughlin; but I doubted we'd be allowed.

And without the exchange, what would happen to Rhys? Indefinite detention? Would he simply disappear somewhere inside the Soviet Union, as so, so many others had already disappeared, were continuing to vanish, daily — ?

And, what the hell was Mister Grey up to — ? What other 'pressing considerations' were at work, here — ? He'd said nothing of the sort, to either MacLaughlin, or to me …

 

Mister MacLaughlin and I said nothing further to one another. I was left alone with my own chaotic thoughts. My thoughts, my mind, racing around, frantically; my idea of focus and discipline, lost.

The long wooden table held two large, highly-polished brass ashtrays, spaced feet apart. They were spotless; they gleamed. Every other officers' meeting table I remembered, every officers' mess table I'd ever encountered, seemed to have had overflowing ashtrays. The Colonel, I guessed, didn't smoke.

No one smoked, now.

What little conversation there had been, died down. I thought I could feel occasional glances, from Major Blackwell, Captain Clark, and the staff sergeant and orderlies standing along the wall. Glances of sympathy, I thought, or of curiosity.

I was still ashamed of having had to air the doubts about my own country's intelligence service, the suspicions about Rhys' own chain of command, to this British audience. I kept my eyes down on the table. I met no-one else's eyes.

The minutes, ticked on.

 

Finally, finally, movement. The sound of footsteps, returning.

The scraping of chairs, again, as we all stood at attention.

Colonel Thorne resumed his place at the head of the long table. Mister Grey took his place, at Mister MacLaughlin's other side. His expression was bland.

Lieutenant Colonel Thorne did not sit.

"Please report here at eleven hundred hours, Saturday, November 10th," he said to the three of us, evenly. He looked at MacLaughlin. "With the prisoner."

"Sir," from Mister MacLaughlin.

A short pause.

"Dismissed."

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