Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

He stayed by her side and would not let her out of his sight. Not for five days.

After that, he buried her in a corner of the cellar.

Ernst Roeder removed his glasses and wiped his forehead and upper lip with the back of his hand. “Please,” he said, “let me have one more pill.”

Rogov ignored him.

Twenty minutes later Roeder’s agitation subsided even without his medication. He had been driven to an unpretentious little house and taken up a flight of stairs and into a room that was half kitchen, half parlor. He was grateful for the overstuffed chair he’d been offered.

There was nothing threatening about Colonel Aleksei Andreyev, who sat opposite him—probably not a good sign. Andreyev’s reputation preceded him, Roeder having been in his presence more than once. Even so, he thought it polite of the colonel to speak to him in colloquial German.

“—so in order to save us both time which, for me at least, is essential,” the colonel was saying, “I will tell you what I already know, and you will then tell me what I do not know. I know that you are in the business of selling secrets to the West. I know that one of your partners-in-treason was Stepan Brodsky. I know that the two of you conspired to pass certain information to our enemies regarding the summit negotiations and that your partner was planning, for reasons not yet clear to me, to deliver what I have reason to believe was only a first installment.”

He held up Stepan Brodsky’s cigarette lighter.

“Through my efforts, Brodsky’s lighter has just been found.”

He paused.

“It has recently come to my attention, Herr Roeder, that you were about to finalize the sale—your backup copy of microfilm—with the help of an American courier. The lovely Adrienne Brenner.”

He paused. Leaned forward to scrutinize Roeder’s expression.

“The microfilm you concealed in the wooden toy you passed her is being developed as we speak,” he said.

Roeder looked at the man incredulously. He hadn’t the faintest idea what Andreyev was talking about. He reached into his pocket, his chest pain reminding him that he no longer had any nitroglycerine.

“Who else is involved in your little enterprise? Who are your contacts? I want the name of every person who has any knowledge of this affair.”

“You can trust me,” Aleksei said, sounding as gently forgiving as a father confessor. “I can help you. We can help one another.”

Roeder opened his mouth but no sound came out. A sudden fog had rolled into his brain and he lost his bearings in it…

Where to begin? How to explain that yes, he was involved, but not in the way Colonel Andreyev was suggesting. The microfilm in the wooden toy had nothing to do with espionage.

“You are wrong,” were the only words he was able to form out of the fog.

Aleksei took hold of Roeder’s arm and led him into the kitchen area, motioning for Luka to follow. He led Roeder to an open door.

“I wish I had time to play the usual cat-and-mouse games, Herr Roeder, but unfortunately you are not a man I can afford to detain too long. Not until I have something incriminating in hand. A confession would do nicely. For that I must rely on my associate, Luka Rogov.”

Luka Rogov advanced like a tank edging into battle.

“Luka does his best work in a cellar. Of course if you were to cooperate—”

A cellar.

Roeder screamed without sound. Gasped, choking, in a futile effort to blot out the laughter—the screams.

Sobbing, rocking in his arms, all bloody and broken, so lovely and golden, so still—

One oversized hand began to claw at his chest.

Colonel Emil von Eyssen strode up to a parked car where his sergeant was waiting.

“Which house?” he rasped—and realized the man had noticed his agitation. “My poor brother-in-law has a history of heart disease—scarlet fever,” he explained. “You remember how it was in Berlin right after the war. Prolonged stress. Malnutrition. How long have they had him?”

“A quarter of an hour, not counting the time he was in the limousine. It’s that house over there,” his sergeant said, pointing.

“Wait here unless I call you,” von Eyssen said in a tone that substituted for clenched teeth.

He headed for the house in rapid strides. Took the steps two at a time. Kicked at the front door with his boot. They have had no time, he told himself. They cannot have a confession yet.

A scowling Luka Rogov opened the door.

Von Eyssen rushed in. Ernst was on the floor, Andreyev kneeling beside him, holding his brother-in-law’s wrist.

Taking his pulse?

Aleksei dropped Roeder’s wrist and stood up. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s been a regrettable accident. Your brother-in-law has had a fatal heart attack.”

“Brought on by your so-called interrogation, no doubt.” von Eyssen glared pointedly at Luka Rogov. “You tortured him.”

“I assure you, he was not tortured,” Aleksei said calmly.

“I don’t believe you. Do you have any idea how young my brother-in-law was? He may have looked older—he had a history of scarlet fever—but Ernst was only in his mid-thirties. We were about to celebrate his 34th birthday. You have made my sister a widow,” he said hotly.

“You’re bluffing,” Aleksei retorted. “The fact that you’re here—and so quickly—tells me you know there’s been a security leak.”

“I do,” von Eyssen admitted, unwilling to say more.

“What you don’t know,” Aleksei said caustically, “is that ultimately I located Stepan Brodsky’s cigarette lighter. The microfilm inside was intact. The prints of the film I obtained from your late brother-in-law are on their way here. They will prove that Ernst Roeder was a traitor and a spy. That he was about to deliver a backup copy to Adrienne Brenner, who in turn intended to courier the microfilm to the CIA—information about the Four Power summit.”

Stunned by Andreyev’s revelations—microfilm, backup copies, Dr. Kurt Brenner’s wife a courier who passed sensitive information to the CIA—von Eyssen managed to mutter, “You are mistaken. The security leak originated in your office, not mine.”

Aleksei gestured to a chair. “Shall we both reserve judgment until the jury arrives?” he said snidely.

Von Eyssen’s expression was one of disdain, as if to say, Why should I lend myself to this charade? But he sat down.

The doorbell rang. Aleksei stopped Luka with a glance and went to answer it himself. He took an envelope from the uniformed messenger, and with the smugness of a poker player who raises his bet without looking at the last card dealt him, tossed the unopened envelope to von Eyssen.

Hastily tearing the envelope open, von Eyssen quickly scanned the photographs. Frowning, he went through them again slowly.

“But this is nothing,” he said, genuinely puzzled as he waved the photographs in front of Aleksei’s startled face. “Of what significance are a few harmless pictures of Stepan Brodsky on Glienicker Bridge? Or of a German border guard killed at the midpoint? As a matter of fact, Ernst photographed the border guard on my orders—a kind of consolation prize for the widow. As for the photographs of Air Force Captain Stepan Brodsky, he was Russian, not German. As I’ve said all along, he is your problem, not mine.”

Aleksei grabbed the photographs out of von Eyssen’s hand and studied them. His brain reeled, unable to process the knowledge that his nearly airtight theory was fallacious. That he was left with more questions than facts. Because Brodsky had worked for him, his traitorous actions, together with his aborted escape attempt, were indeed Aleksei’s problems!