The Utopia Experiment

39

It was a part of Berlin that Smith had never been to — old warehouses and dirty streets lit by security lights that came to life as their car drifted by. Randi, on the other hand, seemed to know where she was going, so he leaned back and closed his eyes.

The car came to a stop and he jerked upright, not sure if he’d been asleep or not. “Are we there?”

“It’s about three blocks west,” Randi said. “I didn’t want to park right out front.”

She hadn’t provided a great deal of detail on who they were going to see, only that the man’s name was Johannes and that he might have some records they would find useful.

When Smith stepped out, though, the area didn’t look terribly promising. She’d parked in front of a boarded-up building and it was dark enough that he stumbled a bit as he jogged up alongside her.

“I thought they moved the Stasi Records Office over by Checkpoint Charlie,” Smith said as they continued along the empty street. The frigid wind was funneling between the buildings and through his light jacket, but at least the forecasted downpour hadn’t materialized.

“Johannes doesn’t exactly work for the BStU,” she said using the German acronym. “He’s more of a private consultant.”

The euphemism was classic CIA — entirely ambiguous, yet vaguely official sounding.

“Private consultant,” Smith muttered. “More likely former Stasi.”

“Why devolve into labels?” she responded with a wry smile. “Aren’t we all just people in the end?”

“Christ…”

East Germany’s secret police had the dubious honor of being the most paranoid organization in history. At its peak, it had employed over a hundred thousand people to watch over a population of only sixteen million. According to some calculations, spying on its own citizens had been East Germany’s largest industry.

When it became clear that the wall was coming down, the Stasi started shoveling their literally billions of pages of documents into shredders and incinerators. And when those broke down, they cut them up. And when they ran out of scissors, they ripped them by hand. Eventually, the country’s citizens figured out what was happening and began storming the Stasi buildings, taking control of the records and keeping any more from being destroyed. Now they were housed on the BStU’s endless expanse of shelves, waiting to be organized, deciphered, and disseminated.

The building they finally came to looked as abandoned as the one they’d parked next to. A rap on a steel portal that looked like navy surplus, though, caused an immediate reaction. A bulb hidden in the jamb came to life and lit their faces for a moment before the door opened and they were motioned inside.

“I’m Konrad,” the young man said, glancing out at the empty street before closing them in with the throw of a heavy deadbolt. “Johannes’s assistant.”

Smith and Randi nodded politely but declined to introduce themselves. It seemed to be a custom that the German was used to and he led them down a narrow corridor to a much more modern-looking door — this one complete with a retinal scanner and keypad that he made use of.

When it slid back on quiet motors, Konrad stepped aside. Smith was initially a little hesitant to enter but his reticence faded when Randi strolled casually through in front of him.

“Darling!” the man rushing toward them said. He had a narrow head with a few wisps of gray hair still clinging to it and a spherical torso that suggested a lengthy love affair with sausage and beer.

“Johannes. It’s been too long,” Randi said, switching to German.

They embraced, but Smith barely noticed, instead looking in awe at the room around them. It was probably twenty meters high and seventy-five square, filled with teetering shelves that rose almost to the ceiling. Every inch was covered with some kind of crate, box, or garbage bag stuffed to the point of overflowing.

What little open floor existed was dominated by four huge machines that were a steampunk kluge of copper funnels, conveyor belts, and exposed electric cables. What they did or whether they were even functional, Smith could only guess.

“Colonel!” Johannes said, offering his thick hand. “What do you think of my little recycling center?”

“Impressive. Where did you get all this?”

“Oh, a bit here and a tad there. When East Germany began to fail, I understood that it was time to embrace capitalism. To become a Westerner, yes? But what did I know? What could I do? And then it came to me. I knew the Stasi. I knew the files.”

“The important ones,” Smith added.

“Just so. The rabble became bold very quickly, but I had three weeks before they gained control. And in that time, I managed to spirit away the documents you see around you. To keep them out of their hands and the hands of the BStU.”

Smith tried to calculate how many tiny pieces of shredded paper they were surrounded by. A hundred billion? A hundred trillion?

“Seems like intact files would have been easier.”

He laughed. “Never pay for an intact file, my good Colonel. The Stasi shredded the most important things first. That is where the valuable information is contained.”

“And is that what the machines are for?”

“Exactly! My son built them for me.” His expression transformed into one of pride. “I know that every parent says this, but he is a very fine young man. And a brilliant engineer.”

“So the machines can put it all back together?”

“We used to do it by hand. Unbelievably time-consuming and tedious work. But now we pour the scraps in these machines. They create three-D images of each piece and send the data to my computers. There they are reassembled like a puzzle.”

“Seems like it would have been expensive to develop and build machines like that.”

“Well, I do provide the fruits of my labor to select clients. And they’ve been very generous.”

Smith didn’t doubt it. Individuals, newspapers, politicians, intelligence agencies — even academics — still had a great deal of interest in what had gone on behind the Iron Curtain. Hell, even if Johannes just used what he found for simple blackmail, he wouldn’t exactly be wondering where his next meal was coming from.

“The CIA got in on the ground floor,” Randi said. “And in return for our early support, we get a peek at anything interesting he turns up.”

“And what is it you’re interested in today, my dear?”

“Christian Dresner.”

His jovial expression turned to one of caution. “He has done very well for himself.”

“Have you had requests for files relating to him before?” Smith asked.

“Of course. Many.”

“And have you fulfilled them?”

The German shook his head. “Dresner is a powerful man and I suspect has the resources to discover where they came from.”

“But you have something?” Randi said. “You have the Stasi records on him?”

“Yes.”

“What’s in them?”

He hesitated. “I know this goes without saying, but I’d ask you to be very discreet.”

“As always, Johannes.”

He sighed quietly. “There is a great deal of information. The Stasi were fanatics for recording every detail of people’s lives — particularly ones they considered important or subversive. Can you give me an idea of what you would like to know?”

“What did he do for the Soviets?” Smith said. “Bioweapons research?”

“Not at all. At the time, you’ll remember that the East Germans were quite dominant in athletics…”

“He doped athletes?” Randi said, surprised.

“Doped them, created training programs for them, studied their physiology. Along with a young psychologist named Gerhard Eichmann, Dresner is largely responsible for East Germany’s success during that period.”

“I was expecting something a little more sinister,” Randi said, sounding a bit disappointed.

Again, Johannes seemed to speak with reluctance. “You might be surprised, dear. The Soviets were very committed to their athletic program. Like the Nazis, they saw it as a way to showcase their superiority. Many of these people were experimented on in ways that would never be allowed now. And not only adults. Often gifted children were taken from their families, separated into test groups, and subjected to different programs to judge which was best. Between the strain, the unproven drugs, and the psychological abuse — brainwashing you would say — many didn’t survive. And the ones who did were never the same.”

Smith kept his face impassive, unsure how to feel about what he was hearing. In fairness, the young Christian Dresner wouldn’t have known anything other than the communist machine that dominated every aspect of his life. And when he’d finally come to understand what he was doing, he’d escaped and devoted the rest of his life to making the world a better place.

“Gerhard Eichmann,” Randi said. “He’s the one who escaped with Dresner, right?”

The German nodded. “Theirs was a very close friendship. No evidence exists that either ever informed on the other. A rare thing in a country where everyone was on the Stasi payroll in some way or another.”

“It must have been tough for two people who were so important to get over the wall,” Smith said. “I’m surprised it went so smoothly.”

“Not entirely smoothly. On the way out, Dresner went to the orphanage where he was raised in order to face the man who ran it.”

“Face?” Randi said.

“More accurately, beat to death with a cane.”

They both must have looked a bit shocked, because Johannes seemed to feel compelled to elaborate.

“He was a cruel man, you must understand. The abuse the children suffered at his hands was truly horrible. It was a fitting end, I think.”

Smith remembered what Klein had told him about Dresner — the fact that he’d been too mentally unstable to hold a job after his escape. In light of this hidden history, it wasn’t surprising. What would it be like to grow up like that and then suddenly have your position changed from victim to victimizer? When he’d looked into the faces of the children he was experimenting on, had he seen his own?

“What about Eichmann,” Randi said. “Do you have files on him, too?”

“Of course,” Johannes said, turning toward the back of the cavernous building. “If you would follow me to the terminals, we can begin sorting through the information you’re interested in.”

His phone rang and Konrad picked up immediately, speaking softly, though he knew that nothing said in his office could be heard in the warehouse. “Did you receive the photos I sent?”

“I did,” the electronically altered voice on the other end responded.

He’d been contacted by the anonymous man only a few weeks after he’d taken the job with Johannes. The request had been simple: Notify him if anyone should ever come asking about Christian Dresner.

Konrad had initially refused, but when the subject of payment was raised, his resistance had faded. Three million euros for a simple phone call.

He’d begun to wonder if he would ever have an opportunity to actually earn the money he’d been paid, but then a few minutes ago, a subtle alarm on his computer had sounded. Christian Dresner’s name had been entered into their network’s search function.

“Are they alone?” the voice said.

“I think so, but I can’t be sure. They arrived on foot. I never saw a car.”

The line went dead.