Palace of Treason

28

Benford had traveled incognito to Berlin to approach the SBE, the Spezialle Bundestatigkeiten-Einheit, the Federal Special Activities Unit, a discreet civilian intelligence outfit of twelve officers that reported directly to the office of the president. No one outside the German president’s office was aware of the SBE, which was charged with managing operations that were either so sensitive — or so politically risky — that it was preferable the larger federal intel services like the BND or BfV not be involved.

Smelling baked bread as he walked through the pleasant Mitte neighborhood to Robert Koch Platz, Benford entered the unguarded front door of the Bibliothek der Akademie der Künste, the Library of the Academy of Arts, and rode the shuddering elevator to the disused fourth floor, where the offices of the SBE were concealed behind a plain door enigmatically labeled “Werkzeug,” Utility. He was greeted by Herr Dieter Jung, the chief of the SBE, a man of average height and thinning hair, with a large nose and round glasses, who was skeptical, perceptive, and droll beyond his fifty years. It was also clear to Benford that Herr Jung was a consummate politician. Perfunctory introductions to a handful of SBE officers were made — two were attractive women in their thirties — and Benford was given coffee and cake.

Without preamble, Benford outlined the requirement and asked Herr Jung for assistance in aiding a technical team to gain unescorted access to the Wilhelm Petrs factory on Puschkinallee in Alt-Treptow, southwest of the river. He omitted most of the technical details, but he did tell Jung that this operation had the potential to set the Iranian nuclear program back five years. Benford airily said he needed a discreet escort for the team to and from the facility.

“I’m sure you do,” sniffed Jung in fluent English, lighting a cigarette and then delicately picking a speck of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. “But it’s out of the question.”

Benford pressed, invoking Euro-Atlantic amity and the NATO alliance. Herr Jung was a picture of Olympian detachment, sitting with his arms crossed over his chest. Benford plunged on, now bringing in the Berlin airlift, John F. Kennedy, Marlene Dietrich, and David Hasselhoff. Stony silence, but slight wavering. Benford made to get up from his chair but paused, and then quietly suggested that he could share reporting on Russian intelligence activity in Germany.

“That information would be of mild interest,” said Jung distractedly as he looked out a window.

Benford knew that despite SBE’s protected status, Jung always needed operational successes to justify budgets, maintain presidential favor, and improve his prospects of promotion out of this library attic and into a Minister’s office. He leaned forward and summarized a specific report detailing the recent SVR recruitment of a male Bundestag member from the Green Party, a recruitment based chiefly on the parliamentarian’s weekend predilection for steam baths and birch branches.

“An interesting lead,” said Jung, twirling a pencil, “if true.” But Benford knew he was hooked.

The two attractive female SBE operatives were assigned as liaison officers for the team, which consisted of the whip-thin tech Hearsey and the two PROD engineers Bromley and Westfall. Marty Gable was included, primarily to manage operational equities, which essentially meant he would handle the two SBE officers, Ulrike Metzger and Senta Goldschmidt, to ensure no flaps occurred.

In the very early hours of a chilly fall morning, the SBE officers drove the CIA team to the closed rear gate of the Petrs factory and watched as Hearsey leaned over the lock in the sally door and fiddled for two minutes before straightening up and easing it open. A wave, and the German officers were gone — they would wait around the corner in the van until the team signaled for a pickup.

Hearsey opened the inner employee door to the main factory building in ninety seconds, and the four proceeded silently through an entrance hall. Bromley and Westfall wore backpacks and each dragged a large, wheeled, black canvas duffel bag.

“No cameras?” asked Gable.

Hearsey shook his head. “German employees’ union won a national lawsuit to have security cameras taken out of all canteens and break rooms. EU privacy laws. Not bad.”

“Guards, alarms?” whispered Gable.

“Door alarm on the main office door only. Not even a watchman. Not so many secrets to a seismic isolation floor,” said Hearsey.

They walked down a corridor past a cold café that still smelled of coffee and rolls, and stopped before turning the corner of the hallway.

“They leave the factory floor unguarded?” asked Gable.

“Not quite,” said Hearsey. “Final hurdle.”

Hearsey put his mouth next to Gable’s ear. “Last stretch of corridor before the factory floor,” he whispered. “Motion-detection sensor at the end.”

Gable watched as Bromley and Westfall took a series of telescoping plastic tubes out of their packs and quickly fit them together in a frame six feet square, over which they stretched an opaque gauzy fabric that they clipped at intervals around the frame.

“Stay close together,” whispered Hearsey, holding one side of the frame up in front of him while Westfall held the other. Bromley, grinning, stepped up to Gable, put her arm around his waist, pulled him close, and eased in tight behind the two others. They all had done this before, Gable noted. Bunched together, arms around shoulders as if in a rugby scrum, bent behind the gauzy barrier, they rounded the corner and started shuffling slowly down the corridor, medieval siege troops approaching the castle wall, air full of arrows.

“Slow,” whispered Hearsey to Westfall.

“The barrier absorbs infrared, microwave, ultrasonic. No Doppler if you move slowly,” whispered Bromley, squeezing Gable’s ribs and smiling at him. As close to tech foreplay as you’re going to get, thought Gable.

Then they were past the sensor and into the factory. It was a cavernous assembly hall that was dimly lighted by single orange safety bulbs in cages set high on the ceiling. A colossal bridge crane, motionless on its rails, loomed over their heads. There was no sound, no movement in the plant. The occasional headlights of a vehicle moving down Puschkinallee — not many passed at two in the morning — would wash over the floor-to-ceiling glazed windows that ran the entire length of the west side of the hall.

The bulbs created diffused pools of light in the otherwise darkened plant. Sections of honeycomb panels rested on cradles in the center of the hall — floor assemblies being fitted and tested. Farther down along the white-painted brick walls were thick polymer blocks suspended from square aluminum frames by heavy-gauge springs — shock dampeners. At the end of the hall, on stainless-steel shelving gleaming in the orange overhead light, were scores of numbered plastic trays. In each tray lay five four-foot-long aluminum struts side by side, a small piezoelectric cell affixed to one end of each.

They walked silently in single file past the plastic trays, comparing lot numbers, verifying the project code and shipping designator labels, all provided by DIVA from Moscow. The duffel-bag wheels thumped softly in the still factory. Bromley took digital photos of the shelves with a miniature camera using an invisible infrared flash. These aluminum beams, nestled in trays in this immaculate German factory, would eventually support the eighty-thousand-square-foot floor of the cascade hall in the uranium enrichment facility buried in the Iranian desert in the shadow of the Natanz Mountains. Gable picked one of the struts out of a box.

“Don’t look like much,” he said.

Bromley took an identical strut out of the duffel. “Trade you. This one is the devil’s matchstick — forty percent white phosphorus.” They started unpacking the bags.

An hour later, Gable and Hearsey made a last quiet security check. It was otherworldly that no sound — no whir of machinery, no click of cooling metal, no ticking of clockwork — was generated in such a place. Hearsey tapped Gable’s arm and moved slowly forward in the gloom, keeping an eye on the striped tape markings on the spotless floor delineating safe walking lanes through the elephant graveyard of floor components, milling machines, aluminum blanks, and component bins.

Bromley was finishing repacking her bag. “You get everything done?” asked Hearsey.

Bromley nodded. “Westfall and I decided to keep the replacement beams together rather than spread them out. Looking at all those beams convinced us to concentrate the WP. We want to create a big hot spot right away.”

“Once the fire starts, what about suppression?” said Gable. “The Iranians gotta think about that.”

Westfall shook his head. “White phosphorus burns underwater, and when enough of the aluminum catches, there’s not enough foam in Iran to put it out.”

“And the mullahs will be running around like raccoons in a room full of disco balls,” said Gable. The two techs looked at each other, trying to remember whether raccoons were indigenous to Iran.

Westfall double-counted the beams they had substituted to verify that the numbers matched. Checking the photos she had taken, Bromley made sure the plastic trays were aligned with the edges of the shelves as they had been when they came in.

Hearsey checked his watch. “Ten minutes early. Let’s wait by the door.” The duffel wheels thrummed in the night air as they made their way back. The team sat on the floor, backs against the wall, listening for the sound of the van pulling up outside the gate.

Gable wanted a cigar, but he knew he’d have to wait. “One thing bothers me,” he said to Hearsey. “Say these turkeys put the floor in, but before they get the centrifuges installed, there’s a quake and the strain gauges spark and ignite our beams, and the whole thing goes off too early. We can’t put a delay timer in the control panel — the Persians would find that. We can’t fuck with the software — they’re gonna rewrite all the code themselves. We can’t control the timing, so, what, we just hope for the best in this clambake?”

“Yeah, essentially we’re taking a chance. Lots of discussion about that back home,” said Hearsey. “We get a big quake too early, they have a fire in an empty room. It’ll slow them up, but they’ll just dig a new hole for Hall D.”

“It’s still a good chance,” said Westfall. “We tried to calibrate for that. The strain gauges won’t spark with tremors, or even with minor quakes in the two-point-oh-to-three-point-oh range. We need a bigger event, with sustained S waves.”

Gable put his head back and looked at the dim overhead safety lights. “Okay. And what happens if there’s no quake for five years? Iran gets the bomb?”

“Unlikely in that part of the world,” said Westfall. “Nationally, they average five shocks a day — little ones, all over the country. Statistically, they have a good S wave event every seventeen months. That’s why they want the floor, and that’s our window.”

Bromley looked over at Gable, knowing what he was thinking, feeling defensive about the covert action. “It’s not perfect,” she said. “No one’s saying it is. But we have no other way of getting something inside their program. If it works, we get a cascade crash and meltdown. Everything inside the Natanz fence line will be hot for twenty-five thousand years. It’s worth the risk… At least, it is to me.”

Gable looked at her earnest face, the light catching the braces as she spoke. Kid had guts. And was claustrophobic. And came up with a technical operation to send white phosphorus into Iran. She was all right.

They quietly left the hall five minutes later. They waited in the interior courtyard of the plant, hugging the wall in the predawn shadow of the building’s overhang. Incongruously — at least, it was incongruous for the exhausted CIA technical team — a bird chirped in a tree somewhere beyond the factory walls. The sound of an engine grew louder, a vehicle stopped outside the sliding metal gate, and the pedestrian sally port opened. SBE officer Ulrike Metzger stuck her head in the door and waved them forward. She was an ash-blonde and dressed as if she had just come off her favorite corner on Oranienburger Strasse, wearing fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, and a tight leopard-print jacket beneath which could be seen a sliver of the black, lacy cups of a bustier. Gold hoop earrings caught the reflection of the streetlights above the courtyard wall. She waved again to hurry them up.

They piled into a black VW Routan idling at the curb with only its sidelights on. Bromley and Westfall climbed into the third rear seats, slinging their tool kits ahead of them. Gable and Hearsey got into the rear seats, and Ulrike slid the rear door closed, then climbed in beside Senta Goldschmidt, the driver, another blonde dressed just as outlandishly as the first. From behind, Gable could see her purple jacket in raw Thai silk worn with a popped collar over which dangled antique chandelier earrings with amethyst drops. The van was swirling with three or four competing fragrances: the women’s perfumes, one sandalwood, the other roses; someone’s peppermint body wash; and pine air freshener coming from a plastic dispenser stuck on the dashboard. Gable could hear Bromley — she was allergic to everything — wheezing in the rear seat. He cranked his window down an inch.

Dawn was showing in the eastern sky when the minivan dropped Hearsey and the two junior techs at their hotel, and then Ulrike and Senta told Gable they could drop him at his separate hotel, the Cosmo near Checkpoint Charlie, or he could join them for katerfrühstück, a hangover breakfast, at the Café Viridis in Kreuzberg, across the river. The girls had been up all night, waiting on the street for the CIA officers to finish, and they were hungry.

Gable accepted the invitation; he liked these two SBE cowgirls who were young enough to be his daughters, and he approved of their easy familiarity and narrow-eyed professionalism. They had followed directions exactly, drove their routes with precision, and watched the street like pros. Gable’s practiced eye estimated they carried pistols in their oversized hooker bags. And they did not once ask why the SBE had secretly enabled the surreptitious entry at one in the morning by four Americans with tool kits into the state-of-the-art assembly plant, unescorted, for three hours.

Senta inspected Gable out of the corner of her eye as they parked and walked to the café. Gable felt her studying him. His ops instincts were humming — a case officer never turned them off — and there was no such thing as a friendly liaison service. The SBE ladies ordered coffees, cognacs, and Obatzda, a smoky Bavarian cheese spread spiced with paprika and cumin. They all sat on a worn leather couch in the corner of the café, Gable in the middle of a cyclone of perfume, swinging earrings, and fishnet thighs.

The two of them talked nonstop, often at the same time — no way were they eliciting. Gable assessed away and watched them eat, looking for the various tells and tics revealed when humans feed themselves. Exuberant, boisterous, confident — what else? Curious, clever, covering their full mouths to laugh. Gable tried throwing a long pass, asking a nosy question about pay scales in their service to see who would answer, who would defer to whom. Both answered at once, laughing, complaining about their low pay. Huh. Same rank. Coequals.

“You guys did great tonight,” said Gable. “I appreciate your assistance.” Ulrike smiled, pleased. He had them laughing, telling war stories.

“I love the hooker getups, too,” said Gable looking at them both. “Perfect for waiting in a parked van at night.”

“What hooker getups?” said Ulrike.

“I want to ask you a favor,” Gable said quickly, bailing. “We need to keep track of when the seismic floor is totally packed, and when it ships. Can you cover that?”

“The Bundeszollverwaltung will alert us ahead of time,” said Senta. Her Thai silk jacket had a plunging front, and, as far as Gable could see, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it.

“Who will alert you?” asked Gable.

“Our Federal Customs Service,” said Senta.

“Learning of the date of shipment will be no problem,” said Ulrike. “It will be in the newspapers and on television. Three years ago the company shipped a huge package to a laboratory in Istanbul. They used a truck with one hundred and twenty tires to move it to the port. It took them thirteen hours, they go so slowly. It will be on television for nights.”

“And there will be more coverage of them loading it on a ship,” said Senta.

“I’ll let our guys know,” said Gable. “Thanks.” They sipped the last of their coffee. Gable refused another brandy. They were at a “mile marker” moment in the conversation, when the subject would change or the evening would end. This is when the first puffs of a cold pitch would come, thought Gable, but it can’t happen, not here, not from these gals. As if they read his thoughts, the SBE officers stood up, smoothed their minis, and slung their saddlebag purses over their shoulders. Ulrike signaled to the sleepy barman and left euros on the bar.

Outside the sky was a shade brighter, the underside of the clouds red with a rising sun not yet above the horizon. City traffic was still light. Ulrike said she had to return the van to the motor pool before 0600 — strict rules — but that Senta would get Gable a taxi and see him safely back to the Cosmos Hotel. Gable, amused, said absolutely not, it had been a long night, he wasn’t going to inconvenience them further, and he certainly could get back to his hotel on his own because, after all, Berlin wasn’t Beirut or Vientiane or Khartoum, no offense, so he’d say good night and thanks for covering them.

Ulrike looked at her watch and said she had to go, kissed Senta on two cheeks, shook hands with Gable, and walked away. Senta flagged a taxi, yanked open the door, and slid in across the backseat. Gable got in and pulled the door closed while Senta fired directions at the driver. She sat back and looked over at Gable to see if he was angry. She spoke quickly, apologetically.

“Martin, I know you can get back to your hotel yourself,” Senta said. They had not passed around names the evening before, but the SBE could be expected to read hotel registers like any other service. Per Benford’s guidance and to display goodwill to their hosts, the entire team had traveled to Berlin in true name.

“You understand, you are a professional with much experience,” said Senta. “Our chief, Herr Jung, is very stur, very stubborn, and he gave instructions to see you safely home. Perhaps he wants you Americans to pass along praise to the president for our efficiency. Perhaps he doesn’t want a CIA Kopfgeldjäger running around Berlin unescorted. Perhaps he just likes barking orders.”

“What’s a Kopfgeldjäger?” said Gable, looking out the window.

“A headhunter,” said Senta, smiling.

Gable smiled back. He guessed she was about twenty-five, with blue eyes and an upturned nose. The blond hair fell loosely to her shoulders, framing a ready smile with even teeth. Not a knockout like DIVA, he thought, but she’s got confidence and smarts, and she’s not afraid of an old CIA buffalo like me.

“How about you?” said Gable, kidding around. “You ain’t nervous riding around alone with a Yank headhunter?”

“Aren’t nervous,” said Senta, laughing. “No. I have a gun in my purse to protect me.”

Her handshake in the lobby was correct and firm, and Senta’s heels clicked as she walked away with a backward wave. Good legs, thought Gable. Shaddup, you’re as bad as Nash. But she has a cute stern; you’re tired, get some sleep. He had a couple of hours before the car was to take him to the embassy for a full fucking day of writing cables to Benford about last night and listening to Bromley and Westfall ordering gluten-free lunches.

Upstairs, in his room, his face in the steamy mirror of his bathroom looked tired, and he ran fingers through the buzz-cut hair that looked grayer than he remembered. A sharp clink sound came from the bedroom, and Gable bent his head and listened. Someone — maybe — was moving out there. Chambermaids always tap on the door. So, what? At seven thirty in the morning in a four-star hotel in Berlin? Hotel thief? Some sort of comeback from the Germans? Russians? The worst answer, had they found out about the factory entry? LYRIC? They always were brazen in Berlin, habits from the old days.

Gable straightened up, wrapped a towel around his waist, and, with a practiced eye, inventoried the bathroom for weapons in three seconds. Damn little: toothbrush handle into the hollow of the throat, hair dryer cord garrote if he could get close, astringent mouthwash into the eyes. All bullshit if the threat was real, if there was a top pro in his room. He took a big bath towel from the rack, knotted the end, and plunged the whole thing under running water. He had seen a knotted wet rope used as an arm’s-length distance weapon in Manila, an ugly little fight in a back alley swept by wind gusts during a tropical deluge. His agent had told him about Sayaw ng Kamatayan, the martial art of the islands that used whipping weapons. Okay, the knotted end of a sopping bath towel. Gable opened the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom, ready to start the overhand swing.

Senta Goldschmidt lay on his bed, covered by a sheet drawn up to her eyes. One eyebrow went up when she saw Gable with the dripping towel in his hand. He shook his head, tossed the wet mass into the tub, and sat on the edge of the bed. Senta lowered the sheet to her chin.

“Did I frighten you?” she said.

“What are you doing here?” said Gable softly, taking one of her fingers gently.

“If my chief knew, I would be fired before lunch,” said Senta. Her blue eyes searched his.

“And so?” said Gable.

“You interest me,” said Senta. “I was attracted to you—”

“I’m not exactly in your age—”

“You know a lot, you’ve seen a lot—”

“And you’re too pretty to be with—”

“And your eyes are empfindlich, sensitive,” said Senta.

“Listen,” said Gable, “I was guarding the Fulda Gap before you were born.”

Senta looked at him and wrinkled her upturned nose. “What is a Fulda Gap?” she said.

Gable squeezed her hand. “Cold War? East German border? The two valleys where the Russians would attack west when World War Three started? Any bells?”

Senta laughed and slowly pulled the sheet off her body. She was wearing only fishnet stockings and her pendulous earrings. “That’s history.” She pouted, moving her legs. “Is there a modern Fulda Gap?”

Mix room temperature Camembert with cream cheese, soft butter, amber beer, finely diced onions, paprika, cumin, salt, and pepper until smooth. Serve with red onion or chives on dark bread or with pretzels.