Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

But if Roeder hadn’t been spying, what in hell had he been up to? Where did Adrienne Brenner and her trusty Minox fit into the puzzle? Most important, who was Brodsky’s Russian confederate?

Von Eyssen stuck his head out the window and yelled for his assistant.

“You have killed a prominent citizen of the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, my dear Colonel,” von Eyssen said in a voice filled with triumph. “You murdered him in a crude attempt to cover up your incompetence and the treason of one of your own people. I will not allow you to point the finger of suspicion—”

Von Eyssen’s assistant burst into the room, revolver drawn.

Aleksei continued to stare at the photographs, his expression that of a man who scrupulously follows a road map and ends up on a dead-end street.

“How many times have we Germans been encouraged to get on the hot line and call critical matters to the attention of our Soviet friends?” von Eyssen said caustically. “Rest assured that the wires between Berlin and Moscow are about to heat up. By tomorrow morning, you will be up to your neck in an investigation—your own.”

“Before you do anything rash, Emil,” Aleksei said—the personification of reasonableness—“there’s something you should consider. You and I are in this mess together. It’s in our self-interest to act accordingly. There’s no getting past the fact that Stepan Brodsky almost pulled off a defection on your watch—and worse, that he managed to push a cigarette lighter with microfilm off Glienicker in order to protect the identity of god knows who. As for your brother-in-law, even if these photographs really are harmless, too many people in both East German and Soviet intelligence will continue to be suspicious about what may or may not have been going on between him and Adrienne Brenner.”

“I hate to admit it, but you’re right,” von Eyssen said, scowling. “How do we get to the bottom of this?”

“We track down Brodsky’s confederate, then handle it however we have to. Look, Ernst Roeder wasn’t tortured. I used Luka as a threat—it’s an effective interrogation technique of mine. That’s why I conduct my interrogations in this house. That’s why my co-optee’s report to me here. But rarely have I ever had to go that far. Had I been aware of your brother-in-law’s history of scarlet fever, I’d never have tried to frighten the truth out of him. My sincere apologies to your sister.”

Von Eyssen nodded. “I believe you, Colonel.”

“Under the circumstances, why don’t you call me ‘Aleksei’?”

Von Eyssen clicked his heels and bowed slightly. “‘Aleksei’ it is. I’ll arrange to have my brother-in-law’s body picked up as soon as possible. As to our joint project, please keep me apprised. Let’s go,” he told his assistant.

As he was leaving the building, von Eyssen barely noticed the woman he passed on his way down the steps.

Galya stared after the imposing German officer, wondering what was going on. Something important, that much was clear. Maybe she should leave and come back later…

Stop procrastinating, she scolded herself. What you have to tell Colonel Andreyev is important too—and besides, he expects you. A matter of great urgency, you told him.

She came to a startled halt the minute she walked in the door. Cool, imperturbable Colonel Aleksei Andreyev pacing the room?

When she saw why, she gasped. Hand pressed to her mouth to choke off a scream, she whispered, “Is he… is Mr. Roeder dead?”

“What does it look like, a beauty nap?” Aleksei snapped.

Galya backed out the door cautiously. Eased her way down the steps and into the street. She’d gone half a block when she gagged, bent over, and threw up her lunch. After that, she walked at a snail’s pace, unaware of distance or direction.

When she finally looked up, darkness was approaching. She found herself on a quiet residential street, deserted except for an old woman who was frowning over the flattened tire of a bicycle.

Galya sat down on an empty bench.

Murderer. You are as guilty of killing Ernst Roeder as if you’d put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger .

She examined her motives with ruthless unforgiving clarity, forcing herself to name what she had done, and why.

Envy, she thought bleakly. I envied Adrienne Brenner’s good fortune when the woman’s only “crime” had been kindness.

Jealousy. Sensing Kiril’s attraction to Adrienne Brenner, she admitted for the first time that she had always known Kiril wasn’t in love with her. What he felt for her was affection—no, more than affection. He brought to their relationship thoughtfulness and encouragement, a steady gentle optimism.

She let Kiril’s face take form—let it hurt. In exchange for spying on her lover, for being Colonel Andreyev’s most charming co-optee, she had focused only on the prospect of beautiful things, ironically immersing herself in ugliness.

The least of what I owed you, Kiril darling, was loyalty.

Another image began to form.

This time she squeezed her eyes shut to stop it.

But the body of Ernst Roeder sprawled on the carpet loomed… only it wasn’t Roeder’s body, it was Kiril’s.

She shuddered violently, knowing she had been a breath away from delivering Kiril to Ernst Roeder’s fate.

She approached the old woman who was still muttering over her disabled bicycle and pressed something into her hand.“I hope it brings you better luck,” she said in faltering German.

The old woman would repeat the story endlessly to family and friends. How a Russian lady, with tears streaming down her face, made her a gift of a beautiful wrist watch made of gold .

The express elevator opened onto the 38th floor. Adrienne Brenner hurried through a deserted cocktail lounge, following the unmistakable sounds of a party. She stopped, caught by a view of the city. Her glance was drawn to a streamer of red lights blinking from the upper stem of a television tower—East Berlin’s proud landmark. She could almost feel the pulse of the lights… like exposed heartbeats, captured and strung together. It reminded her of the amplified sound of a beating heart. Regular, rhythmic, followed by the terrifying sound of silence in an operating room and the pounding of her own heart. Poor Kurt…

She glanced at her watch as she hurried through the lounge and into the hotel banquet room. Every small table was full, every booth. A long table centered on a raised platform had only a couple of empty seats, the most conspicuous being the place of honor. She couldn’t help wondering whether Kurt was really late because of his penchant for making an entrance. Even the television cameras looked impatient. As for the press—

She frowned at a small cluster of newsmen… and realized she’d been hoping to see Ernst Roeder in the press section.

A waiter wearing white tie and tails unceremoniously stuck a drink in her hand and walked off. Her throat was parched.

Annoyed with herself for smoking again after breaking the habit two years ago—not to mention the non-stop smoking she’d indulged in since she’d set foot in East Germany—Adrienne drank deeply. Her glass was empty for about a minute, two at the most, before a waiter refilled it.

She was wondering idly how one was supposed to distinguish the waiters from the guests since everyone was wearing a tux when she happened to look up. Not everyone. Dr. Andreyev, wearing his tired-looking blue suit, broke away from a conversation, made eye contact, and crossed the room toward her.

There it was again, she thought. He had a way of moving that invariably made her think of a coiled spring…

“Good evening,” Kiril said with a faint smile.