John Cheney - City of Spies

He was just a few miles southeast of Neubrandenburg, driving through a small village, when he came to a roadblock. A large panel truck was parked diagonally across the narrow street, completely blocking all lanes of traffic. It seemed the truck had been backed up to the entrance of a small shop to offload wares, but at this moment, no one stood by the vehicle’s open back gate. Hans watched for the driver, but there was no movement in the truck’s cab. Seeing he was hemmed in by the panel truck in front and houses on both sides of the road, Hans sighed and shifted into reverse.

Before the Trabant began to lurch backward, the passenger door opened.

To Hans’ shock, Scharf climbed in. “Hello, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Brandt. Where are you headed?”

Hans knew he had been caught. Still, he vowed to remain calm and play along until he found an opportunity to resist.

“Stralsund,” Hans said.

“That’s exactly where I’m going,” Scharf smiled. “But… my car broke down. Mind if I come along?”

Still reeling, Hans focused on projecting outward calm. “Not at all.”

Suddenly, the panel truck began to move, clearing the road ahead.

Hans shifted into first gear and drove on. Within moments, they were out of the village and back in the rolling countryside.

The men rode in silence. Hans found himself back on a narrow tree-lined road. Again, only inches separated the thick oaks from the edge of the asphalt. Large white rectangles were painted along the trunks of trees to alert drivers at night or in bad weather. As Hans rounded a curve, he felt the torque push the car toward the trees. Hans’ hands tensed on the wheel as he looked to the edge of the road. He contemplated swerving the car into the trees, smashing the passenger side and Scharf with it. But he decided against it, sensing this posed too great a danger to himself.

Hans felt his Makarov against his right hip, hidden by his overcoat. He hoped Scharf would not see its outline. Regardless of its concealment, Hans would not have enough time to draw the gun before Scharf could react. He could not pull his hands from the wheel, reach into his coat, and unbutton the holster before Scharf could stop him. Hans continued to drive and brainstorm his options, all the while glancing off to the side at Scharf.

Scharf was relaxed in the passenger seat. Hans was now well within the jaws of his trap, and Scharf intended to toy with his prey. “You know, it’s a funny business we work in. We both search for weakness. Yours, along the border; mine, with people. Deficiencies, discrepancies, disloyalties—weakness. Our methods may be different, but in the end, the work is the same. Yes, you’re dealing with a problem of engineering and I with psychology, but in the end, it all ends up being about analysis, containment, control. It’s a strange thing, separating people and countries. We can’t always use the most benevolent methods. I’m sure you feel conflicted at times by your duty―I know I do.”

“It is never hard to do one’s duty,” Hans replied flatly.

Scharf laughed, a boisterous eruption that only served to heighten the tension in the car. “Please, Comrade Brandt. There’s no one here to placate. Let us be honest with each other.”

“If you want to speak honestly, you’d be the first member of State Security to do it.”

Scharf stared at Hans for a moment, his eyes turning icy. Then something melted, and his smile returned. “That’s the problem. Too many lies. No one can know who’s telling the truth anymore.”

Hans had enough. “I’m not sure most of you can take the truth.”

Scharf sighed and looked toward the road. “There are many who can’t, Comrade Brandt. But I must. There are no secrets in this country—only lies. Lies the people tell to each other, lies the government tells to the people, lies the people tell to themselves. It is my job to know every lie—and the truth behind it. There are millions of lies, but only one truth.” He smiled his thin, devilish smile. “No, it’s not that communism is man’s salvation. Surprisingly,” he laughed, “that is one of the greatest lies of all. Ideology is a lie, the excuse we make to justify our actions. The only real truth, the only thing imperative to man, is survival .”

In a flash, Scharf pulled a Makarov from his coat and aimed it dead at Hans. “And you, Comrade Brandt, should have learned that.”

Hans braked hard, throwing Scharf forward. Hans curled himself up, trying to avoid the inevitable gunshot, but it never came.

Scharf, caught off-guard for a brief moment, regained control before Hans could act further. Pressed against the dashboard and windshield, Scharf aimed directly at Hans’ heart. “Not good enough.”

Merely annoyed, Scharf ordered Hans out of the car, warning him to make no sudden movement.

They were now in a ravine, the road cutting through the base like a black river. Scharf ordered Hans to walk uphill to the neighboring pasture, all the while keeping his hands visible. After climbing about twenty feet, they came to the crest of the hill. Before them the pasture fell into a rolling small valley. Beyond it was thick forest, already deeply hued with the colors of fall. The valley was perhaps a quarter of a mile wide. Scharf pushed them on, moving out of sight of the road. Hans walked in front with the pistol jammed into the small of his back.

When they reached a point some two to three hundred feet from the road, Scharf ordered him to stop. He circled around to face Hans, keeping the gun aimed at him. “Now, slowly, take off your coat. No sudden movement.”

Hans complied.

“Throw it aside. Hands up. Now, tell me about the girl,” Scharf said. “What was it that made you come after her?” He searched Hans’ face for a reaction. “Was she your lover?” Scharf indulged in the moment, even giving himself to a lie just to add to Hans’ torment and confusion. “She can do amazing things, can’t she? But not worth getting killed over.”

Hans didn’t fall into the trap of reacting. Silently, he watched for an opportunity to act.

“Take off the belt,” Scharf ordered, “but don’t even think about touching that holster.”

Hans removed his belt, dangling the holster at the low end, away from his hand. In his hand, at the belt buckle, was his only usable weapon—the concealed spring-loaded belt buckle gun.

“Should I toss it?” Hans asked, making a mock movement of tossing the belt and holster.

Scharf was not amused. “Ah ah.” Scharf raised his gun toward Hans’ head.

Scharf used his free hand to reach into his coat pocket and pulled out a paper. “So, let’s get to it. I have a warrant for your arrest, Brandt. Attempted murder, espionage, treason against the state… I could go on. There will be a helicopter here in a moment to take you to State Security headquarters.” His eyes narrowed to black pinpoints. “I promise you, the rest of your life will be spent in great pain.” He gripped the pistol tight in his hand as he walked toward Hans. “It will be like your every nerve and pore is on fire. Or, you can tell me what you know now, and I swear, we can forgo all of that.”

Hans’ shoulders fell in defeat. “What do you want to know?”

Scharf lowered the gun from Hans’ head. He was only a few feet away from Hans, standing directly in front of him. “Now,” said Scharf, “who are you working with?”

Hans squeezed a hidden lever on his belt buckle, firing a bullet at Scharf. The bullet grazed past Scharf’s cheek, taking him off-guard. In nearly the same motion, Hans sprang toward Scharf, leaping so quickly into action that it caught the Stasi man by surprise. The Makarov fired, grazing Hans’ arm, but he was already on top of Scharf, swiping at the gun with his left arm as he drove the heel of his right hand upward into Scharf’s nose.