Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

Stopping.

Someone slid open a door. He forgot about Adrienne Brenner’s suitcase, about helping her out of the window seat, standing aside so she could exit first.

He was moving toward the open door when he became aware of a noisy cluster of people who waited at the bottom of the aircraft’s steps.

But all he saw was pavement. All he felt was the desire to fall on his knees and kiss the ground. The instant his foot made contact with the tarmac all he felt was a sweet solemn wonder, coupled with an overwhelming exuberance.

I made it, Stepan! Anna! Kolya! I’m here!

“Look this way, please, Dr. Brenner.”

A flashbulb went off in his face. Then an unbroken series of them, popping like firecrackers, reducing his eyesight to white glare. Raising his arm like a shield, he blinked to clear his vision.

“Is it true you’re defecting to the Soviet Union?”

“Are you here to say goodbye to your parents?”

“What about your wife? Does she stay or go?”

“When do you leave for Moscow?”

“What’s behind the defection?”

“Was your family aware of your plans?”

“What are your plans, Dr. Brenner?”

The questions pitched at him were mostly in rapid-fire English, only a few in German. None in Russian.

He waited. Adrienne Brenner had joined him and stood groggily at his side.

As soon as the voices began to subside, Kiril said, “I wish to make a statement.” He took a cautious few steps away from the plane. “But not here. Is there someplace we could go?”

“Right this way, Dr. Brenner, Mrs. Brenner. It’s a short walk to the quarantine section of the terminal. You won’t have to go through customs or immigration yet,” an American reporter said, a hint of disapproval crossing her face. “Your mother and father are in a bad way about your defection,” she told him. “They have refused to make a statement until they’ve had a chance to talk to you.”

“Where are they?”

“Somewhere in the terminal. No one knew exactly what time your plane was due—or, for that matter, whether you’d even show up. I’m pretty sure your parents are still here. Should I find them and bring them to the VIP lounge? There’s a private room inside.”

“Please. I’d be extremely grateful.”

“No problem,” the reporter said, sensing the man’s acute distress; the sharpness no longer in her tone. “No one will disturb you in the lounge.”

By the time they reached the private room, Kiril’s thoughts were in turmoil. For the first time, he realized how difficult it would be to give a full explanation to Dr. Brenner’s parents. Should he tell them that a Soviet KGB colonel had a hold on their son because of some allegedly despicable act he’d committed during World War II? That only when Kurt Brenner had threatened to turn him over to the KGB had Kiril knocked him out and switched places with him?

But not to explain was futile, he thought. The truth would surface soon enough when the real Dr. Brenner stepped off a plane tomorrow. The only thing he could do for Brenner’s parents was tell them the truth face to face—and in private.

He thought of how, in desperation, he had used Adrienne Brenner. He owed her the truth as well.

Steeling himself for what was to come, he steered a still-woozy Adrienne Brenner into the VIP lounge. The American reporter had just passed some Swiss francs to a couple of bored VIP lounge attendants. As soon as they gave her a key, she handed it to Kiril.

“Your private room,” she said.

He gripped her hand. “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness.”

“Good luck, Dr. Brenner,” she said, and was surprised to realize that she meant it.

How incongruous we must look in this dingy little room of an airport in the middle of the night, Kiril thought. You in your beautiful green gown , Adrienne Brenner , m e in bowtie and tuxedo…

And because he had been forced to deceive her and knew it was far too late to earn this woman’s love, he reached out and drew her into his arms.

It was all he meant to do. But suddenly he was kissing her with a punishing violence, an unquenchable thirst—

Adrienne broke free, breathing in gasps, the back of one hand pressed against her mouth. “Where’s Kurt? Where’s my husband?”

“Forgive me. I had no right—”

“What’s the meaning of this masquerade? Where is he?”

“Still in East Berlin. I never intended this to happen, but your husband left me no choice. At the moment, he’s probably still unconscious from a harmless drug.”

“What did you hope to gain, damn you?”

But even as she asked the question, things began to fall into place.

“My freedom,” he told her simply.

“And Kurt’s?”

“He’s safe enough. In a few minutes I’ll reveal my true identity and expose my brother’s attempt to coerce your husband into defecting. Don’t worry. He’ll be allowed to leave East Berlin. Neither the Soviets nor the East Germans would dare to forcibly detain a man of his prominence— especially after all the publicity.”

“I don’t understand. Why would the Soviets want to detain Kurt in the first place?”

“Not for his surgical skills, certainly. He’s the victim of Moscow-style propaganda,” Kiril said bitterly. “One of my KGB brother’s jobs involves defections. He was blackmailing your husband—something to do with when he was in Germany during the war. He was very young.”

“You had no right—”

“I had every right,” Kiril bristled. “It’s called self-defense. Your husband threatened to trade his knowledge of my defection plan for the blackmail Aleksei was holding over his head.”

He turned away from her. “I’m free,” he said, turning away from her. “By tomorrow, your husband will be too.”

“You could be wrong about that,” Adrienne said slowly. “You must have been under a great deal of stress. You were making split-second decisions. Hoping to keep me in the dark. Figuring out what to say to the press. Wondering and worrying about whether you could pull this off.”

All true, he thought. “What are you getting at?” he said tensely.

“Something I hope doesn’t occur to your KGB brother. What if he doesn ’ t let Kurt go? If Dr. Kurt Brenner’s own wife was fooled—and no one knows him better than I do—why not the rest of the world?”

“But—”

“I know what you’re thinking. I had so much champagne I couldn’t see straight—literally. But only a handful of people knew about that—mostly East German butlers in tuxedos. If my husband is kept in a semi-drugged state and paraded in front of the cameras—not too close, just close enough to make it look good—it’s conceivable that KGB apparatchiks like your brother could get away with it. Over time, they might even trust Kurt with a microphone and a rehearsed speech.”

She closed her eyes briefly, as if she could picture the scene. “Drugs and blackmail are a lethal combination,” she said grimly.

Kiril spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “You’re right, of course. The only thing I can do is hope that Aleksei isn’t as clever as you.”

And hope even more that Brenner’s parents realize that I never intended to harm their son—that he forced my hand.

A knock on the door.

“What will you tell them?” Adrienne whispered.

“What I lost the courage to tell you,” he admitted, “even after I was safely on the plane.”

The press, held in check by the American reporter, buzzed with impatience.

Dr. Max Brenner, grim and ashen, helped his wife enter the lounge’s private room. Pausing to clasp Adrienne’s shoulder for a moment, he closed the four of them inside.