Ice Cold: Tales of Intrigue from the Cold War

THE HONEY TRAP ^{BY BEV VINCENT}

Anna picked up her latest target at Tempelhof shortly after he arrived on a Pan Am flight from New York via Frankfurt. She recognized him from the photographs in the dossier tucked under her arm. Though her handlers were in charge of surveillance, she always wanted to see her men in the wild, to get a sense of what they were like when they didn’t know they were being observed. This helped her decide how to approach them. If she was too aggressive with a man who was awkward around porters and taxi drivers, she’d scare him off. If she was too timid with a blustery man who acted like he owned the world, he’d soon tire of her.

Her target was Donald Weatherly. He was fifty-nine and looked it. He wore a brown suit with the jacket unbuttoned, and no hat. He was taller than average, but only slightly. His hair, disheveled after his long journey, was receding at the front and thinning at the back. He wore black-rimmed glasses and had a small, neat mustache that was tinged with grey, as were his eyebrows. He was paunchy but not fat. All in all, not the sort of man a young woman would have typically afforded a second glance.

Older men, she had learned, were particularly susceptible to seduction because they thought their chances of ever being with a sexy young woman again were nearing an end. Not at an end, but almost. This gave them an unusual sense of optimism. They flirted with waitresses, cashiers, stewardesses, and any other pretty women with whom they came into contact. Deep down, they probably knew that their only real option was to pay for it—which many of them did—but they never stopped hoping. Eighty-year-old men flirted with her. She admired their spirit, in part because it made her job easier.

She made sure Weatherly didn’t notice her. With over three million people in Berlin, it would have been too much of a coincidence to run into a person twice in different parts of the city. It happened, of course, but she couldn’t risk making him suspicious. Weatherly wasn’t a spy, but he had a degree from Princeton, so he wasn’t stupid. Gullible, perhaps. Susceptible, she hoped. But not stupid.

She stood at a pay phone, smoking a cigarette and holding an imaginary conversation with the dial tone. A kerchief was wrapped around her dark hair, and she wore oversized sunglasses with tortoiseshell frames. She never looked directly at Weatherly after he came through the security checkpoint with his luggage—one suitcase and a briefcase—but she never let him escape her field of vision either.

A porter approached, offering to take his bags. Weatherly handed over the suitcase, but maintained his grip on the briefcase. He pointed toward the exit and let the porter take the lead. A professional exchange, she decided. The man was neither timid nor brash. Average.

As they drew near, she turned aside and crushed her cigarette out in an ashtray. Weatherly looked straight ahead, displaying little interest in his fellow travelers, the airport shops, or overhead signs. Neither did he look over his shoulder. Civil engineers weren’t typical targets of espionage.

The porter led him through the exit doors to a queue of taxis. She followed at a discreet distance. The porter signaled a taxi driver and loaded the suitcase into the trunk. When Weatherly tipped the porter, the man smiled and touched the brim of his hat, an effusive display of emotion for a German, she thought. Weatherly got into the back of the cab. A few seconds later, the car merged with traffic and headed toward the nearby city center. She returned to the terminal and made a phone call.

Anna watched him discreetly for three days, getting a sense of his rhythms and schedule. Each morning, Weatherly entered the breakfast room in the hotel at seven thirty on the dot, poured a cup of coffee—black—and had a light meal of bread and jam, with a slice of cheese on the side. After eating, he returned to his room for fifteen minutes, then descended to the lobby, picked up an English-language newspaper from the front desk, and asked the doorman to hail a cab.

She didn’t know where he went during the daytime—that was for others to worry about. He returned to the hotel at around six, and had a couple of drinks in the hotel bar before going out to a nearby restaurant for supper. After that, he retired to his room.

Starting with the second morning, she allowed Weatherly to notice her. She was a legitimate guest of the establishment, after all, and she wanted him to gradually become aware of her presence. That day she arranged to leave the breakfast room just as he was arriving. As they passed each other, she glanced at him with casual interest. The next morning she greeted him with a dazzling smile as he was leaving, as if she remembered him from before. She wanted him to carry the moment in the back of his mind as he went about his business that day.

She spent the morning window-shopping on Kurfürstendamm and had lunch at an outdoor café, treating herself to a glass of Riesling. She could see, in the distance, the Mercedes Benz star logo atop the new Europa-Center near the entrance to the zoo and, closer and to the left, the damaged spire of the Gedächtniskirche, which the locals called “the hollow tooth.” A new bell tower had been constructed beside it a few years ago, but the ruins remained as a war memorial, even though the city seemed determined to ignore the past.

Anna had been in West Berlin for nearly a year, after proving herself in Moscow. She started out in Volgograd—known as Stalingrad until Khrushchev’s de-Stalinization program—entertaining her father’s guests. At first that simply meant bringing them drinks or plates of cold meats and cheeses. One of his colleagues noticed the way men responded to her and asked if she would be willing to go farther. When she did, and was amply rewarded for her efforts, she knew she’d found her calling. Between assignments, she became fluent in German and English, thereby increasing her value.

She enjoyed the relative freedom of living in this surreal city, where people partied as if there would be no tomorrow. Everything was bigger, brighter, and louder here, as if to deny the blighted scar that ran through it and the darkness beyond. The city was an island of Western culture a hundred and fifty kilometers from the rest of the free world. One of her targets had likened it to a head walking around without a body. Every way out of West Berlin passed through hostile territory. Every flight—French, British, and American airlines only; German airlines weren’t allowed access to their own former capital—used one of three narrow corridors through East German airspace.

City walls were usually built to keep the outsiders at bay, but here the outsiders had built a wall to prevent their people from getting into the city. The mayor called it the Wall of Shame, but people in the GDR referred to it as the Antifaschistischer Schutzwall. She had gone to see it once, but had never returned. The guard towers and barbed wire reminded her that she wasn’t truly free here, and the closer she got to the eastern zone, the stronger the feeling that everyone was up to something. Spies spying on other spies who were in turn spying on them. This city was the Cold War in a test tube, and she had a part to play in it.

She finished her wine, paid her bill and returned to the hotel. Back in her room, she took a long, hot bath—a decadent Western luxury she had grown to appreciate—anointing herself with oils and perfumes. This evening, she would meet Weatherly officially for the first time, in the hotel bar. Generally, one encounter was all it took, but he wasn’t scheduled to leave for several days, so she had time to defeat any defenses he might attempt to erect. In the end, they always surrendered. She hadn’t failed yet.

She waited in the lobby, pretending to be engaged in a conversation on a pay phone near the bar. This time, she wasn’t trying to hide from Weatherly—she wanted him to notice her. When she saw him approaching, she dropped her lipstick. The clatter of the metallic tube on the marble floor made him look in her direction. She picked up the lipstick and continued her make-believe conversation.

Anna waited until he found a place at the bar and ordered his first drink—two was his limit—before strolling in. American jazz played in the background. She was prepared to wait if there were no open stools around him, but she was in luck. While seating herself, she got close enough to allow her perfume to waft toward him. She ordered an old fashioned in her best Hochdeutsch, which was tinged with a Bavarian accent, not that she’d expect an American to notice.

In the mirror behind the bar, she saw Weatherly glance at her. She touched her hair and smoothed the bodice of her dress. Then she fumbled in her purse, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, shook one out and placed it between her lips. She continued rifling through the bag, pulling out cosmetics, change, and other bric-a-brac, strewing them on the bar in front of her. After several seconds she sighed, tossed everything back into the purse and pushed it away. She made a show of looking around before touching him gently on the arm. She smiled when he looked at her. “Entschuldigen Sie, bitte. Haben Sie Feuer?” she asked.

Weatherly furrowed his brow. “I, uh, sorry?”

“Oh, English,” she said. “Never mind. I was asking for a light, but I’m sure the bartender—”

“No, wait. Allow me,” he said. He plunged his hands into his pants pocket and came up with a gold lighter.

She inhaled deeply after he flicked the flame to life, and blew a cloud of smoke into the already hazy room. “Thank you,” she said, and turned back to her drink. She took a sip, staring straight ahead, waiting for him to make the next move.

“I saw tanks in the streets today,” he said.

Sometimes men wanted to talk about the strangest things, she mused. She took a measured sip from her glass and said, “This is your first time in Berlin?”

He signaled for his second martini. “No,” he said. “It’s been a number of years, though.”

“Business?” she asked. “Let me guess. You’re a banker.”

He laughed. “No!”

“Politician?”

He shook his head. “You’ll never get it. I’m an engineer. Don Weatherly.”

She shook his extended hand and crinkled her nose, a gesture that most men seemed to find appealing. “You drive trains? Into the Bahnhof Zoo?”

Another chuckle. “Not that kind of engineer. I design things before they’re built.”

“Like a—how do they say? Architekt?”

“Sort of,” he said. “They design buildings. I do just about everything else. Bridges, roads, things like that. Pretty boring stuff.”

She nodded. Weatherly’s dossier said that he worked for a company in Virginia. According to her handlers, he was in Berlin overseeing the construction of tunnels under the wall to assist defectors and to create spy stations. “Have you seen our great architectural achievement?” When he frowned, she said, “Our wall?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he said. “I’ve even been to the other side. Through Checkpoint Charlie—that was an experience. It’s depressing over there. Smoggy and dark. No one would talk to me.”

“You look too American,” she said.

“Do I?”

“It’s quite charming,” she said.

“You’ve been across, of course,” he said.

She shook her head. “Someone escaped over the wall several days ago. One of the guards. They shot at him, but missed. He went straight to a bar. Of course, he had no money, but everyone treated him to drinks to celebrate his bravery. They had to take him to the hospital afterward.” She smiled and raised her drink. “Willkommen in Berlin.” He clinked his martini glass against hers.

“I think I saw you this morning at breakfast,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“A trade show,” Anna said. “Also boring. Mostly they just want me to stand in a booth and smile at the customers.” It was her stock answer. There was always a convention of some sort going on. If he wanted to know more, she could fill in the details, but most men weren’t interested. Their questions were gambits toward their end games. “I’m Petra, by the way.”

By now, Weatherly had turned to face her, and she had done the same. Their knees brushed against each other from time to time. They talked a while longer about inconsequential things. He leaned forward when he spoke, as if they were part of a conspiracy, which in a way they were—only not the same one. He was trying to bed her and she was trying to trap him.

“Can I buy you another drink?” he asked. He blushed. “Or dinner, perhaps?”

She had to hold back a laugh at the eager-puppy look on his face. She waited long enough to make it seem like she was giving serious thought to the question. “How about room service instead?” she replied. Her hand went to the front of her dress, as if her audaciousness had taken her by surprise.

“My room is a little messy,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.” He signaled the bartender for his tab.

“Let’s use mine instead,” she said. And just like that she had him. From this point forward, everything was predetermined.

She let Weatherly kiss her in the elevator. His lips were soft. This was a job, but it had its moments. Now that he was on the hook, she could relax and enjoy herself.

She rarely allowed herself to think about the consequences of what she was doing. Life as this man knew it was about to end. Here he was, thinking he was having such good luck. In a way, he was, she supposed. His job had brought him to the attention of some very dangerous people, and she could just as easily have been preparing to slip a stiletto between his ribs. But killing him wasn’t the plan. That would bring unwanted attention, and he wasn’t irreplaceable. Her handlers wanted something to hold over his head so he would surrender information. Knowledge was the most valuable commodity in this city. The events of the next few hours would cause a subtle shift in power between two vast nations intent on expunging each other.

After they entered her room and started to undress, he reached out to turn off the lights, but she asked him to leave them on. “All the better to see you with,” she said, but what she really meant was “all the better to photograph you with.” He relented. They always did. The promise of sex turned them into overeager and compliant teenagers.

Later, she did turn the lights off, but by then the damage was done. She held him in her arms for a while—another of the job’s benefits—and listened as his breathing slowed to a deep, steady rhythm. She quietly dressed and slipped out of the room. Her handlers would clean up in the morning, after they explained to Weatherly how things were about to change for him.

How many had stood up to them over the years? There was a Frenchman, she’d heard, who’d laughed and asked for copies of the photographs to share with his friends, but very few resisted, she suspected. Shame was a powerful weapon.

Two men she didn’t recognize were waiting for her downstairs. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning and, though there were still distant sounds of revelry out on the street, the hotel lobby was quiet, the lights dimmed. Her new handlers, she assumed. They were changed out every month or two. None had ever met her after an assignation before, but they all did things differently.

They led her to a car waiting by the curb. One of the men held the back door open for her. He was young, bright-eyed, and eager. Not her type.

He was still in bed, admiring the patterns the morning light was creating on the ceiling and luxuriating in the afterglow, when the door burst open and two men stormed in. They wore dark suits, dark hats, and the grim demeanors of the oppressed nation they represented. One man held a gun. They dragged him from bed and shoved him into a padded chair in the corner of the room.

The gunman stood in front of him while the other man pulled the chair from the desk across the room and stood on it to remove something from a panel in the ceiling. A few minutes later, he handed it to the gunman, who held it out for Weatherly to see. A canister of film.

“If you’re looking for money, I have a little cash,” Weatherly said.

“He thinks we want money,” the man with the gun said to his companion. He had a heavy German accent. The other man snorted but said nothing. “This,” he said, waving the film in front of Weatherly’s nose, “is your future.”

Weatherly said nothing.

“It could be a dream, or it could be your worst nightmare.” He paused. “Wasn’t she beautiful, our little Anna?” the man said. “I hope she was worth it.”

Weatherly maintained his silence.

“Our cameras are very good, you know. Crisp, clear pictures, every time. Imagine what your boss will think when he finds out what you’ve been up to.” He winked at Weatherly. “Never mind him—maybe he doesn’t care. But what about your wife? Or your kids. Your little boy and your daughter. We know everything about you, Donald Weatherly. Where you work. Where you live. Where you go to church, even. Everyone will find out what kind of man you are. We’ll plaster your neighborhood with pictures. You’ll lose everything.”

Weatherly remained quiet but attentive. He licked his lips.

“Or we could just keep this little roll of film hidden away.” He placed it in a pocket inside his jacket. He patted his chest. “Nice and safe. It’s up to you.”

“What do you want?” Weatherly asked.

“Only a little information. We understand you are designing some tunnels. Never mind how we know that—we do. Tell us where they are going to be built and when, and what they’re for, and this can all be our little secret.” He smiled. “There might even be a little money in it for you. If you provide satisfactory results.” He paused. “Now, and in the future, of course.”

It was a lot to take in. Another man might have been overwhelmed by the unexpected situation and the decisions he was being forced to make under duress. However, he’d heard the same threats at least a dozen times before, in Vienna, London, Washington, Helsinki, Oslo, Geneva, Bonn, and Paris. If his name had been Donald Weatherly and if he’d had a family in Norfolk, Virginia, he might have been concerned. He didn’t say a word. He simply crossed his legs, folded his arms, and waited.

The gunman said, “Do you understand what I’m saying?” He moved in, holding the gun at waist level, close to his body.

The hotel room door swung open and several armed men swarmed into the room. The gunman dropped his weapon and raised his hands. The other man, taken equally by surprise, offered no resistance. Less than a minute later, he and his confederate were escorted from the room in handcuffs. Where they went and what happened to them—or to “Petra,” who would have been scooped up as she was leaving the hotel—was of no real interest to him. His job was over, for the time being.

He wondered where Operation Apiary would take him next. Somewhere interesting, he hoped. He would be given a carefully constructed identity and a background that would make him a prime target for foreign operatives. His impending arrival would be leaked through various back channels and double agents. If the other side didn’t take the bait, he would enjoy a nice vacation in a city he might not otherwise have gotten to visit before moving on to the next job. Eventually the other side would catch on to the scheme and they’d have to try something else.

He’d been telling the truth when he told Petra—or Anna—he’d been to Berlin before. The previous time had been a decade earlier as part of Operation Stopwatch, building a tunnel into the Russian sector so they could tap into the Red Army’s communications. A mole had revealed the presence of the tunnel to the Russians before it was even finished, although it was years before MI5 and the CIA found out. All part of the game. It wasn’t often like chess, as many claimed. Opposing pieces were rarely removed from the board as the ones this morning had been, and they were mere pawns. It was more like the game of Reversi, where opposing players were surrounded and forced to change allegiances until one side controlled the entire board.

He’d been on the verge of retiring when he was asked to join Operation Apiary. They needed men of a certain age, and he fit the bill. Once his role had been explained, how could he refuse? The benefits were obvious—and they paid him, to boot.

He got dressed, washed his face and combed his hair before going downstairs to have breakfast. He found a seat at a table next to one occupied by a pretty young woman who was by herself. She glanced at him, then returned to her muesli and yoghurt. That was the way the world normally worked. What sensible young woman would be interested in an old guy like him?