Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

“Kiril?” a preoccupied Aleksei said, gesturing toward the door.

“See you later, Stepan,” Kiril said cheerfully, getting to his feet. “You too, Aleksei.”

If you only knew about me and Stepan—and yes, about Dr. Yanin, you smug bastard . Did you really think I’d betray my mentor?

Aleksei didn’t waste any time.

As soon as Kiril left, he told Brodsky to clear everything from his schedule. “Your top priority is VIP security for a two-day Four

Power summit. April 30th to May 1st in Potsdam.”

“Potsdam, East Germany? How much time do I have?”

“Relax,” Aleksei said. “You have a few months to work out the details.”

“Why Potsdam?”

“Time for a mini-history lesson, I see.” Aleksei lit his pipe and pushed back in his chair. “Glienicker,” he said thoughtfully. “It went through many architectural phases—wooden, brick stanchions with a movable wooden center to accommodate steamer traffic, and eventually a suspension bridge. What makes it unique is that half the bridge is in East Germany, half in West Berlin.”

The bridge that straddles East Germany and West Berlin!

Brodsky willed himself to stay calm. If only he were as adept as Kiril at hiding his emotions.

“What makes it historic,” Aleksei continued, “is the Potsdam Conference in the summer of 1945. It was the first meeting between General Secretary Joseph Stalin and the late Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s successor, Harry Truman. The General Secretary had charmed an ailing Roosevelt. Truman, as it turned out, was not so malleable.” Aleksei paused to take a bottle of vodka and a glass from a desk drawer. Russian style, he emptied the glass in one gulp.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself. During the closing days of the Great Patriotic War, the Nazis began blowing up all bridges leading into Berlin. Glienicker suffered a slightly different fate—a random artillery shell. By the end of April ’45, a makeshift wooden bridge parallel to Glienicker’s damaged steel had been built in order to restore the important road link between Potsdam and Berlin. Between ’47 and ’49 the bridge was rebuilt and reopened as Bruecke der Einheit. Bridge of Unity.”

“The word unity seems an odd choice to describe our relations with the West Germans,” Brodsky said drily.

“Indeed. According to some accounts, as repairs were underway in Ceceilienhof Palace on the eve of the 1945 conference, Glienicker Bridge was referred to as Bruecke der Freiheit—Bridge of Freedom—to commemorate work done by American GIs and Russian soldiers.”

Wait until Kiril hears that , Brodsky thought.

Aleksei’s pipe had gone out.

Anxious to hear more about the upcoming Potsdam conference, Stepan lit a cigarette and offered one to Andreyev, leaving pack and lighter on the desk. “What’s so important about this conference,” he pressed.

“Chairman Khrushchev and President Eisenhower will meet to discuss Berlin and a nuclear treaty,” Aleksei said, his voice—slightly thick from the vodka—assuming a conspiratorial tone. “At least that’s what the Americans, the British, and the French think the agenda is.”

Frowning, Aleksei put out his cigarette—a sure sign, Brodsky thought, that the conversation was about to come to an abrupt end. He couldn’t resist slipping in one more question. “At least give me a hint, Colonel,” he said casually.

“The Chairman has something else in mind,” Aleksei said in a tone reserved for subordinates. “Let’s just say the Americans don’t own the skies.”

KGB Colonel Aleksei Andreyev had good reason to make such a cryptic remark. His thoughts wandered back to 1957 when President Dwight D. Eisenhower had obtained the Pakistan government’s permission to park America’s super-secret spy plan—a fixed wing high altitude U2—at Peshawar Airport, from which the plane would launch photo intelligence sorties over the Soviet Union.

Now, in early April 1960, the CIA’s U2 had just flown over four top-secret Soviet military installations: a strategic bomber airfield, a surface-to-air missile test site, a missile range, and a nuclear test site.

Aleksei’s superior, General Vladimir Nemerov, was livid. Even though the American spy plane had flown hundreds of miles over the Motherland for seven hours, neither Russian MIG-19s nor their SU-9s had been able to intercept it. The CIA operation was an intelligence coup of the first order!

Another flight had been scheduled in a few weeks, several days before the start of the Eisenhower-Khrushchev summit in Potsdam. Civilian CIA pilot Francis Gary Powers was to fly his U2 high over the Soviet Union, photographing Soviet Intercontinental ballistic missile sites.

Aleksei smiled. This time, Soviet intelligence had been forewarned by its agents in Italy. Air Defense Forces would be on red alert.

Waiting.

A pale sun peeked through dirty puffs of gray, a mid-April promise of spring. Kiril shivered in his unlined raincoat at a sudden blast of wind. Entering the café, he ordered breakfast and let his eggs grow cold as he waited for Stepan Brodsky.

“Coffee?” he asked as soon as Stepan walked in.

“Nothing, thanks.”

Kiril left a few rubles on the table to cover the bill. They walked out and headed for a construction site roughly three blocks away. With the reverberating sound of jackhammers making it impossible for listening devices to pick up their conversation, Stepan reiterated his earlier conversation with Aleksei about Americans not owning the skies.

“But where I’m going—Potsdam, East Germany—offers a golden opportunity for me to defect,” Stepan said, gripping Kiril’s arm. “I’ll be so damn close to West Berlin!”

“Then you must seize the opportunity,” Kiril said fervently. “I’ll help you any way I can.”

Don’t worry about me, Stepan. I’ll find another way out .

As if reading his thoughts, Stepan said, “A friend of mine—an American diplomat—will be at the summit. If I can make a deal for myself, I’ll find a way to include you. I have a strong suspicion that the bargaining chip for both of us is your brother’s remark about Americans not owning the skies. Something’s going on that ties in with the Four-Power summit.”

“But you can’t ask Aleksei without arousing his suspicions.” Kiril mused. “We better talk tactics, Stepan.”

Which they did, for another half hour. They agreed that Kiril’s goal was to shed some light on Aleksei’s cryptic remarks—the sooner the better. They disagreed about using the cancelled Canadian trip as the lever to get him talking.

“You know how paranoid Aleksei is,” Kiril said. “If I ask him to reinstate the Canadian symposium, he’ll conclude that my intention is to defect. After all, it really was my intention three months ago . ”

“Ironic, isn’t it? But what choice do we have?” Stepan countered.

Kiril shrugged. “None.”

An hour later, Kiril entered his brother’s office, having decided on what he thought of as a direct, unapologetic approach.

“You wanted to see me?” Aleksei asked in his usual abrupt fashion.

“Is there any way that funding for the Canada trip can be found?” Kiril said, equally abrupt.

Kiril’s opening salvo predictably triggered suspicion in Aleksei’s glance. Ignoring it, Kiril pulled up a chair without asking—and on closer scrutiny realized his brother’s eyes were a bit red-rimmed.

Hitting the vodka again, Aleksei? Now there’s a piece of good luck!

“Why Canada?” Aleksei snapped.

“I’m a doctor,” Kiril said tartly. “Dammit, Aleksei, we have a lot to gain from the new heart-lung machine technology being developed there.”