Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

Aleksei began filling a pipe, his fingers milky white against the dark wood of the stem. “What would you say were the chances of someone with Dr. Kurt Brenner’s impressive credentials defecting to the Soviet Union?”

“Whatever else you are, Aleksei, you’re no fool. Would-be defectors head for the West, not the East. There’s also the problem of medical facilities. Ours can’t begin to compare with what the West has to offer. You mention Brenner’s impressive medical credentials. What would be in it for him?”

Aleksei lit up and watched the lazy upward drift of the smoke. “Suppose it were a question, not of what Brenner had to gain by defecting, but of what he stood to lose?”

“I thought your specialty was extorting confessions,” Kiril said drily, “not seducing westerners to Mother Russia.”

“How shortsighted of you. Think of me as an expert at collecting the fascinating bits and pieces that form the mosaic of a man’s past. Anyone who could reverse the usual direction of defections and persuade a prominent figure like Dr. Kurt Brenner to ‘relocate’ from West to East would be held in great esteem in certain circles.”

“No doubt. And by ‘persuade,’ I take it you mean blackmail?”

“What else? Not that I’m so naïve as to think I could pull off a coup like that,” he said sourly.

“What if you could?” Kiril said slowly.

“Could what?”

“To hell with Medicine International’s symposium in West Berlin next year! What if the Soviet Union were to hold its own medical conference in East Berlin—say a one- or two-day affair? What if you scheduled it for a few days before Medicine International’s symposium in West Berlin? Brenner would still have an opportunity to work with Dr. Yanin and our heart specialists in East Germany. Knowing how it must have rankled him when the Soviet Union abruptly withdrew from the West Berlin symposium, Brenner would almost certainly accept.”

Clever of you, Little Brother. First you push me to send you to Canada, supposedly in the name of science but in fact so you could defect. Now you want me to send you to East Berlin—right where your pal Brodsky almost pulled it off. On the other hand…

“Brenner would be unlikely to refuse, wouldn’t he?” Aleksei said thoughtfully. “Especially if we were to invite some prominent heart surgeons from the People’s Democracies. The West Berlin symposium doesn’t happen for what—another sixteen months? I’d have plenty of time to make plans.”

“And plenty of time to implement them,” Kiril observed.

Aleksei’s pipe had gone out. Switching to cigarettes, he offered one to Kiril and held out a match. “Why the sudden desire to cooperate with the KGB, Little Brother?” he said, pushing back his chair.

“I’ll cooperate even more if you’ll let me. In case you’re busy just before the conference, I’ll entertain Brenner.”

“Don’t you think Dr.Yanin would be a more suitable substitute host?”

“He would if he spoke English.”

“But you don’t know Berlin. You don’t know East Germany.”

“You’re wrong,” Kiril countered, not having to feign bitterness. “Thanks to Stepan, I know a great deal about both. From time to time, he would describe East Berlin in great detail. Shall I anticipate your next ‘problem’? That I lack the credentials for the job? I’m your brother. I’m also a longstanding member of Dr. Mikhail Yanin’s surgical team—much of it, I admit, behind a heart-lung machine. Before that, I was a doctor with nearly twenty years of experience. I’d say that qualifies me to describe the life of a Soviet heart surgeon. In glowing terms, of course.”

“You amaze me, Little Brother. Why do something so out of character?” Aleksei said softly, leaning forward to stare at Kiril.

Kiril, his face impassive, felt like an insect being examined under a magnifying glass. “If Brenner does defect, which, frankly, I doubt, I could say that observing the undeniably brilliant Dr. Kurt Brenner at work would enliven things at the Yanin surgical center. I could say that whatever else he is, Brenner is a heart surgeon without peer. That he’d need his own surgical team here in Moscow. I’m egotistical enough to think I could persuade him to train me as chief assistant surgeon. I’m tired of watching from the sidelines,” he said, feeding weariness into his tone. “Given half a chance, I could be as good as Yanin, maybe better.”

“So childhood ambition dies hard,” Aleksei said. I have to admit that the thought of you as my co-optee in this enterprise is intriguing.”

“Co-optee, as in cooperate? I find that amusing,” Kiril countered.

More than amusing. If Kiril could help me pull Brenner in, isn’t it a risk worth taking?

“I’ll do it,” Aleksei said without ceremony. “But on one condition, Kiril.”

He waved Luka Rogov back inside.

The Mongolian’s head was shaved, his face flat. His eyes were deep-set and slanted, his skin neither brown nor yellow, but some of each. The coarse black hairs of his full mustache framed his mouth.

“Tell my brother about your credentials, Luka.”

“In 1945 I help liberate Berlin. I was six years in Red Army,” Rogov said, his eyes gleaming with the memory.

“I discovered Luka Rogov during the war, lost track of him, then found him years later on a Moscow street. He comes from a small town near the Mongolian border. His name has been modernized, but not his soul. Can you guess why the Lukas of this world are invaluable in security matters? They know how to obey orders. I don’t think I need to add that Luka enjoys his work.”

Aleksei studied Kiril’s indifferent expression. “Let me clarify my position,” he said. “When you were a child, you used to fear me. I see that this is no longer the case, even though you have much more reason to fear me now. If I permit you to visit East Berlin next year—let alone play host to Kurt Brenner—Luka will be your constant companion. If you make any move to follow in the footsteps of your late friend Brodsky, Luka will take ‘extreme measures.’ There’s a story that circulates among my colleagues about the sister of a general, picked up in Moscow for black market speculation. The police who contacted the general expected him to dismiss the charges. I still have in my possession a copy of his order. ‘Speculation during wartime is treason. Shoot her.’ Any questions?”

“Just one.” Kiril tossed the Brenner file folder onto Aleksei’s desk. “What makes you think Brenner will accept the invitation? Dr. Yanin tells me Brenner has consistently declined invitations from communist countries—apparently because of his wife’s anti-communist bent.”

“Not this time, he won’t. Not after his recent May Day reaction in New York to the Potsdam incident. Not after his eagerness to defend our country at the expense of his own. And certainly not after his disappointment over our withdrawal from September’s Medicine International symposium in West Berlin.”

“I see.”

“Then too,” Aleksei mused, “I suppose Brenner could claim he was eager to visit his birthplace.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He was born in what is now East Berlin.”

“You’re not serious!”

“Oh, but I am. Not that it matters one way or the other. Herr Dr. Kurt Brenner will accept our invitation for only one reason. Fear.”

“Mind telling me what you’re blackmailing him about?”

“I do, actually.” Aleksei smiled thinly. “We intelligence types play by the need-to-know rules.”

In the days after he left Aleksei’s office, Kiril noticed that Galya’s attitude seemed to have changed. She acted more guarded. Paid close attention to everything he said—especially about the East Berlin medical conference he was working on for the following year.