Asterian Spy: A False Truth

By Raven Ennis

During the post-war era in Communist East Germany in the seventies, Karen von Wagner is enjoying her life in East Berlin. She had grown up indebted and grateful to the GDR for giving her an excellent education in the arts in spite of what her father had done and was imprisoned for--guilty of war crimes as an SS Nazi. He had been arrested and taken to prison when she was barely five. At fifteen, she was told by an official he had died in Siberia. She had always been ashamed of him for his diabolical crimes and felt no remorse. In fact, she was glad he was dead.

In her schooling, she achieved high marks in most of her classes, if not all. By twenty-one, she had become East Germany's famous actress and singer and, above all, a staunch communist.

During a party in a ballroom she was hosting (her apartment in the same building), she rescues an unconscious American, Mike Whitman, from Russian robbers whom she believes had drugged him. The man is taken to her apartment by her uncle and a friend.

Her grandfather, a doctor, saves Whitman's life. But soon, all three realize the robbers are KGB agents, and Whitman is a unique CIA spy. Karen demands that her uncle and grandfather, who live with her, turn him over to the authorities. But her two and only family members are against it.

During Whitman's recovery, Karen discovers the true reason why her father was imprisoned. It was for being a pastor of an underground church in East Berlin. Her whole world turns upside down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662470738

Book preview

Chapter 1

East Berlin, 1977

Late October

A burst of laughter. It was louder than the music from the orchestra or the shuffling of feet on the dance floor or the constant chatter from the hundreds of guests. Rare was ecstatic laughter heard in East Germany. Rare were parties allowed. And rarer still were parties with free liquor.

Agent Colonel Grinkov, wearing an eye mask, like many of the guests, turned his gaze toward the laughter and knew he’d see her.

He did.

Fräulein von Wagner, the hostess of the masquerade party, stood across the room in the grand ballroom in a small circle of seven of her friends. They also wore simple black eye masks, though it hid none of their identities, especially Fräulein von Wagner, with her distinct glistening chestnut hair with amber glows and her grand smile. Her hair, if left down, was a few inches beyond shoulder length and was pinned up under a sparkling beret. Her circle of seven, eight including herself, were from the inner core of the acting troupe she starred in.

Grinkov stared at her, longer than he knew a KGB agent should, and a small smile formed. His voluminous, drooping mustache hid the upturn of his lips from his two subordinate agents if they happened to glance his way. He felt a nudge. Agent Sgt. Boris Baum, one of his two agents surveilling the party, came up behind him and handed him a small device.

Just arrived from Moscow…special courier.

Grinkov nodded. He had been told the palm-sized defector would arrive during the masquerade party and that the design engineer had fixed the problem.

Why would headquarters think an Asterian is here? Boris asked.

They don’t. Grinkov chuckled. They just want me to test it. You know, aim its beam on the fancy jewelry worn by many of the guests to see if the scanner has stopped giving false positives. Hell, not even a CIA agent is present.

But you said the pirate was and to keep an eye on him—

"I said possibly. And I said it to put some excitement into your boring evening and Fronk’s."

Oh. Boris grinned. Then we can enjoy some vodka?

No. Grinkov glared through his eye mask to reaffirm his answer. After all, they were still on duty. After twelve, go indulge. We’re on duty till then, and much of the party will be over.

Boris grinned. He was fine with that.

The grand ballroom was on the first floor of a nine-story apartment building called the Albrecht-Moritz. Grinkov was among 497 guests. Many came dressed in an array of period and outlandish costumes, wearing full facial disguises of latex. Others, like himself, who lacked a full-face mask, had been handed black eye masks upon entering. Hired clowns with painted faces juggled balls; some walked on stilts while performing the skill. Several hired fräuleins, wearing white aprons over a long black dress and white hair cap, walked about the room, carrying trays filled with a variety of hors d’oeuvres. A twelve-piece orchestra played at the far end of the room. Its conductor, well-indoctrinated as to what music were allowed by the East German government­­, called the German Democratic Republic the GDR. Nothing could be played which would remind its citizens of Germany’s division—only approved East German melodies written after the Wall was built, from 1961 on, with an occasional Russian song, folk tune, or vintage classical. Also thrown into the mix of instrumentals were popular songs written by the hostess.

Directly in front of the orchestra was a forty-foot-squared polished oak dance floor raised an inch off the underflooring of marble. Couples moved to the rhythmic beat; they jostled for space, their bodies brushing against other bodies. A wide area surrounded the dance floor where guests conjugated in varied numbers of cliques with a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. A rectangle bar was at the other end of the ballroom. It was long, almost twenty feet, its connecting ends ten feet wide. Inside its mahogany perimeters, two barmen worked feverishly to satisfy the encircling crowd. Between the bar and the end wall was an area where chairs and tiny circular tables had been set up for those who wanted to enjoy their drink seated or have intimate conversation or both, though the noise level made communication difficult, if impossible.

Col. Grinkov reached into his pocket and pulled out a small case which held contact lenses fitted to his pupils. The lenses would allow him, and only him, to see the beam cast by the device. He turned into a corner wall for privacy and inserted the contacts. He had practiced this countless times and had it down to seconds. Turning back, he flipped on the detector. A tiny red light appeared on the topside, and a red beam, much like a laser, jettisoned out the front of the device. If the tiny light stayed red, he’d know it was truly repaired, for an A-spy would never be assigned to one of Fräulein von Wagner’s party or, for that matter, even a CIA agent. Her parties were primarily for cast and crew. The politically powerful and their spouses and friends were also invited, which resulted in quick approval of her parties. In other words, the world of espionage had little to no reason being there. All were patriots to the Communist Party—so the KGB thought.

He swept the beam over the masqueraders—to his right, to his left.

The dot of light stayed red.

Grinkov had used the experimental device at various functions, and time and again, it had failed: the solid red light turning to a blinking green in error when the beam struck jewelry worn by women—and women were never A-spies. One time, it had blinked green when its beam had swept upon the Premier’s wife!

Grinkov aimed the beam on several ambassadors’ wives. The light stayed red. So far, so good. He moved to a different position and swept the beam. The tiny light stayed red.

Another position. Red.

Another. Red.

Grinkov considered the defect possibly fixed. At least it stayed red. Whether it would blink green when aimed at an Asterian was still in question. He was about to pocket the device for the night when the tiny light flashed green. His gaze lifted following the laser line. It settled on the pirate standing at the bar. He chuckled to himself for the thought that that man could be an Asterian was humorous. He sighed, looking down at the device.

The man, Grinkov knew, was American. He had noticed him earlier by simply overhearing him speak English too loudly while making out with a fräulein who knew little English. Having no idea who he was, he had informed Agent Fronk and Agent Baum, as well as Hilda Schmidt, he might possibly be CIA and to keep an eye on him, but he never believed it himself. The American was just too out there. An operative’s first rule was to shun attention. Blend in. Be surreptitious. He wasn’t.

But the flashing green light made him wonder, Who exactly was this American? He wasn’t on Fräulein von Wagner’s personal guest list of two hundred—no American was. Her guests were East Germans from her theatrical troupe—actors, actresses, stagehands, dancers, the chorus, as well as teachers from her school and their spouses. They held yellow-card invitations and stood in a designated line for yellow-card holders as they entered the lobby. After showing their invitation to Herr Heinrich, the security guard at the Albrecht-Moritz, as well as additional ID, Heinrich then checked off their names from a roster the East German authorities had given him.

Fräulein von Wagner had submitted her list of names along with a request for a party to the authorities a month earlier. It was all proper government procedure to submit names of those who’d be present for any kind of assembly, and Fräulein von Wager always followed proper procedures to a tee. Once approved, she handwrote the name of each guest onto a yellow 3 × 4 card which had been imprinted with the time, date, and location of the event. She then handed the invitations to a couple of her friends to distribute for her. A copy of her list had been sent to Col. Grinkov from the Premier—that too was proper government procedure.

There was a second designated line—guests with purple-card invitations. The hostess had sent three hundred purple invitations to the Premier to give to whomever he wished. The Premier then had liberally given those invites to GDR and Russian officials and to every foreign ambassador living in East Berlin, along with extra invitations to be given to whomever they wished. This was without knowing the names of who those extra invites were given to, and most of those were handed off to still others—spur of the moment or to impress.

Those with purple invitations were allowed to enter the party with just a signature and an ID for verification since there was no comprehensive roster of names from which to check off. This had made Grinkov a little uneasy, knowing there’d be guests with purple invites whom he wouldn’t know and couldn’t vet beforehand. But at her parties, he was never too concerned. People came for two things: free booze and a good time. And since Grinkov had always been asked by the Premier to kindly stay away from both lines, he assigned Agent Sgt. Boris Baum the job of checking those with purple IDs.

But to cover himself with the Kremlin in case an incident happened, Grinkov made it a point, each time Fräulein von Wagner threw a party, the Premier signed a release. It was to verify that he, the chief KGB agent in East Berlin, had officially informed the Premier to comply with all rigorous security measures by requesting names of those who held purple invites so their credentials could be checked out prior to the event and that only a partial list had been presented to him. Grinkov followed this up with a phone call, to which the Premier responded, "Colonel Grinkov, you and the Kremlin are much too suspicious. It’s just a theatrical party. You shouldn’t even be there, but I get pressured from—"

Central Command, Grinkov had injected, knowing what he was going to say, "they consider any party a potential risk for intelligence to pass into Western hands."

This is her fourth in two years. Has there ever been an incident?

Not that I’m aware.

The Premier laughed. "And there never will be. Grinkov, some things are meant to be enjoyable—hers are."

I have my orders.

"Yes, well, my order to you, as always, is to keep—"

"Premier, being a KGB colonel, you cannot order me. But I will stay out of the lobby when the guests arrive."

"Thank you. You’re such a bear of a man, you’d intimidate me if I didn’t know you." He chuckled again.

Sign the release, Premier, and send it back to me. Grinkov kept it to a formal tone even though the Premier tried to soften the conversation with his light chortles.

It will arrive on your desk this afternoon…and Grinkov…

Yes?

"I appreciate, at her parties, you and your men have stayed undercover and innocuous."

"As ordered by my commander—to keep a low profile, he said perfunctorily. As you said, ‘Some things are meant to be enjoyable.’"

You and your agents don’t fool me one bit—you go there to drink like the rest of us—

"We do not drink while on duty, Premier."

"You do after twelve." He chuckled and hung up.

Hum. He had mused over the Premier’s words, You go there to drink like the rest of us, and thought of the real reason he had always looked forward to securing her parties.

Grinkov had to assume the American carried a purple invitation acquired from someone with political influence, had to assume he had stood in line in the lobby for purple card holders, and had to assume he signed his name on the designated registry after flashing proper ID to Stg. Baum. How else could he have gotten in? There was no other way to entered than through the front lobby door. The windows were barred in a decorative iron rod design, though thoroughly functional to keep anyone from sneaking in, and the exit doors were set with alarms if opened. It was all part of securing the Albrecht-Moritz, an apartment building for citizens held in the highest regard—the talented athletes, pianists, violists, opera singers, circus performers, artists, actors, actresses.

After the lobby had cleared and the guests had moved into the ballroom, Grinkov had glanced over the two registries, wanting to get an exact count. On the purple registry, he had recognized well over half of the signatures, which meant over one hundred were strangers to him. There were, on any given day, a thousand-plus West Germans and Americans who crossed into East Germany at varied border checkpoints. They either had working permits or short-term visas. To remember their names or what reasons they had given at the border as to why they wished entry was impossible. Anyway, it wasn’t the responsibility of the KGB but the Vopos, the military police, to check their IDs, their permits, and their visas and question them as to the validity of their entry.

Probably the man received his invite from the American ambassador or from his wife. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven. He looked again at the man for some piece of jewelry setting off the device. He was wearing a watch, but it seemed nothing out of the ordinary. He wore no fancy rings, no rings at all. His pirate shirt had a drawstring opening from the neck down to the center of his chest and was pulled closed and tied. A fräulein approached the man. The pirate responded to her advances quite openly. The man’s indiscreetness further verified he was no spy. Well, the contraption will go back to Moscow for some more fine-tuning. Fortunately, it was one of a kind before going into production.

Music came to a finale. The conductor approached the mike. The PA gave off an annoying screech. The conductor quickly retreated from the mike as the guests howled at the invasive high-pitch squeal. Gingerly he stepped back to the mike and announced all masks were to be removed. Latex disguises quickly came off, revealing faces glistening with sweat, accompanied with expressions of relief. Those guests dropped their masks in specially marked bins to be fished out later upon their departure and returned along with their costumes to whatever shop they had rented them from. Those wearing paper eye masks threw them in trash containers; some simply let them drop to the floor.

The music commenced.

Grinkov hung his mask on a branch of a large potted tree set in front of a window. He caught his reflection: the wide nose, the full mustache, the liberal forehead, the extensive cheekbones, the massive body. He had to agree with the Premier—his appearance made few people want to approach him. And tonight, his appearance loomed even larger wearing a Kevlar vest under a Russian Cossack costume: a loose-fitting, long, black coat over a black turtleneck pullover, black riding boots, and a fake fur turban. Hiding his true nationality, thankfully, wasn’t a prerequisite for he couldn’t anyway—his Russian accent was too thick when he spoke German. He also carried a concealed Makarov. When on duty, the two items were always with him. His two fellow agents—Fronk and Baum—also carried concealed Makarovs, but vests were optional, and neither wore theirs. Fronk was serving drinks behind the bar, along with a German barman. Baum was a floater like himself.

All three KGB agents knew none of the guests possessed any weapons which could have been easily hidden under their costume, for a metal detector was embedded in the perimeter of the entrance archway and would have triggered an alarm. But CIA agents, as well as Asterians, would have known not to carry a piece into such a high-profile party, having assumed there’d be hidden detectors and assumed there’d be KGB agents who would immediately apprehend them when the alarm sounded. But neither type of enemy agents was at this party, as neither had been at Fräulein von Wagner’s other parties—so Grinkov thought.

Still, the colonel’s curiosity stayed on the pirate who continued wearing his eye mask. The fräulein had taken hers off. Grinkov recognized the woman, knew her reputation. She was one of the singers in the chorus who availed herself to any male who wanted it in return for money. There were several promiscuous fräuleins in every theatrical troupe, usually among the chorus and dancers. Their side occupation supplemented their meager wages.

Grinkov was incapable of looking at another man the way a fräulein would, but he tried. The word exquisite came to mind. The American possessed a superb physique easily seen through the tight fit of his costume. A thought sparked: His build is Asterian. Grinkov’s gut tightened. He scrutinized the man closer. His next thought countered his previous: Even with his eye mask on, one can tell he’s strikingly handsome, and Asterians hold the prize for being plain, some downright homely. If this man sat in a corner, reading a book, he’d draw attention from the fräuleins. No, an operative he is not. Still, something nagged at him. Why is the man’s drawstring pulled so tightly closed? With a body like his, he’d want to loosen them and show off a bit of his chest. Grinkov gaze drifted down to the man’s waist to see if he wore an A-spies’ belt, for it would have passed through the metal detector without setting it off—and Asterians were never without it.

There was no belt at all, only a bright-yellow satin sash. Yet another reason to discount the device. Grinkov knocked the detector against his hand, hoping to shake loose whatever was wrong with it. He re-aimed. His huge hands shielded it from being seen by passing guests as the beam shot out through a slight separation in his fingers. The American was standing some thirty feet away, his backside resting against the bar. The fräulein was kissing him. He kissed her back.

Turn this way just a little, he whispered to himself in Russian, the beam needing a clear reading. The American turned a bit. Good. The tiny light remained red. Maybe all it needed was a good shake, or maybe the man hadn’t turned enough for a clear reading.

The fräulein lifted the pirate’s mask. Its elastic cord rolled, twisting up over his head, which was covered with a red bandana and tied in a knot at the back of the neck. She let the paper mask drop to the floor and kissed him full on the lips. The man pressed his cheek against hers, spoke something into her ear, took her arm, and they walked toward the dance floor, in Grinkov’s direction.

Grinkov steadied his gaze on the device. The tiny solid red dot flashed green, then solid red, then flashed back to green as several guests interrupted the beam. Grinkov casually turned away as the two passed within feet of him, and as he did, his eye caught sight of Hilda Schmidt. She was working her way through the crowd, zeroing in on someone. Grinkov trailed ahead to whom she was focused on. It was Fräulein von Wagner. Now what is she up to?

He detested Hilda like the plague. She wasn’t Russian but a German who worked as a chaperon for the female dancers and chorus in the acting troupe and was always interfering into KGB business ever since her father had made her an informer. And not just an informer but an upper-level informer who was assigned to report to his office instead of the Vopos Police Station unlike other East German informers. And since her recent appointment as an upper-level, she had acted like an equal to Col. Grinkov and got away with it because her father was his commander—Deputy Director Herr Felix Schmidt.

His thoughts jumped back to the device, not to dismiss it so quickly. His thumb and forefinger smoothed down over his billowy mustache—it was a well-ingrained habit when he contemplated or speculated. His fingers smoothed over a second time. His brow sparked upward, remembering Asterians traveled in pairs. If he is an A-spy, it would be rare if the two were in the same room, but it would explain why he’s so out there. He wants attention! More exactly—he wants KGB attention while his partner makes contacts and acquires intel. Should I trust the device? If it’s in error, it will cost an innocent man his life.

As the couple danced, the fräulein’s hand toyed with the man’s drawstrings. She worked the knot loose and spread the top strings open. She kissed the side of his neck. Grinkov stared hard for a glimpse of an Asterian’s unique medallion, which would cause the device to turn green, but the fräulein was in the way. Then very smoothly, the American brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it then pulled at the strings, closing the gap around his neck.

Grinkov grinned. My, my, aren’t you modest? I think I have myself an Asterian.

Chapter 2

Another burst of laughter cut through the noisy chatter and robust music. This time, Grinkov was too engrossed in implementing the termination of an A-spy to hear it. If he had, it again came from Fräulein von Wagner’s circle of friends over someone’s humorous remark. A few in the circle barreled over with laughter. A few held onto the person next to them, too weak in the legs to stand on their own or be splayed on the floor in hilarity. Fräulein von Wagner dropped her head back, laughing at the witty jest. As she did, her attention fastened onto a three-tier chandelier suspended from a circular recessed portion above the dance floor.

The chandelier glistened and shimmered with over a thousand lead crystals, while graceful swirls of cigarette smoke, like floating ghosts, drifted in and around the tiers, unable to dull its reflective brilliance. It was magnificent and epic in size and radiance, the bottom tier spread to a circumference of eight feet; middle tier, six feet; top tier, four. Multifaceted glass ornaments, called ziratens, were cut in a varied number of shapes: fluted, snub icicles, circles, and dropped pendants. They were all linked to chains attached to metal branches. The branches spread outward enwrapped with clusters of miniature tapered electric lights. So profuse were the ziratens that the underlying structure—the brass shaft, the branches, the wiring of tapered lights—were hidden from view. Yet, with all its elegance, the chandelier had a misshapen quality, lacking continuity and balance because of the assorted shapes of ziratens.

Bluish-gray script in German was painted inside the curved perimeter of the recessed lip on the ceiling bordering the chandelier. It read, Scattered pieces of glass brought here to give light to war’s blight of shattered dreams. What others saw as a period, to her perceptive eye, was a faded tail of a comma. And the beige paint behind the bluish-gray script was a shade lighter after the word dreams—someone had painted over the remaining words.

She recalled at her last party, six months ago, noticing vestiges of an r, an o, a d. Now the whole word ever so faintly appeared: restored.

Scattered pieces of glass brought here to give light to war’s blight of shattered dreams, restored. More vague shadows of letters appeared around the remaining recessed perimeter but spaced too sparsely apart to make out the words.

Probably something like "restored with allegiance" or maybe the word "duty" or "commitment ending with to the Party." Those words were all over East Berlin. But why paint over them?

She had always been captivated by the chandelier’s odd beauty at some time during her festive affairs and had always wondered how such a mismatched of crystal opulence came to be hung in the grand ballroom and about the veiled words. But the curiosity each time had been short-lived, the thought interrupted, fleeting away by someone’s conversation or a young man asking for a dance. This time it was from her co-star, Alex Kruz.

Alex, dressed as a Roman soldier, glanced up at what had grabbed her attention. He put an arm around her shoulder and whispered in her ear. You outshine it by miles. Her smile flashed at his compliment. She kissed his cheek.

Dance? he asked.

The next song, she said.

Within those brief seconds Fräulein von Wagner had been mesmerized by the scintillating crystals, Grinkov had moved behind a cluster of potted trees for privacy. The fifty-four-year-old seasoned professional of twenty-five years calmly whispered in his native tongue into a lapel microphone. His voice transmitted soundlessly through the air into wireless earpieces worn by his two agents.

Guess what, comrades? That American, dressed as a pirate, is more than CIA, he’s Asterian. I stake my rank on it. Change from knockout to lethal. He’s on the dance floor. Watch him while I try to locate his partner. Boris, when I give the order, go in for the kill.

The two agents’ heart rates elevated over the prospect an Asterian stood in their midst—they weren’t as seasoned. Just contemplating the promotion they’d receive if they succeeded in taking out an A-spy made them want desperately to pull this off. But they had to be careful; there were people of importance in the ballroom, not only the entire cast and crew of a prestigious East German acting troupe but the chairman of the Council of Ministers, the Premier himself, and his wife and friends; several members of the Volkshammer Parliament and their family and friends; European ambassadors, including the American ambassador and his wife and their friends; along with various diplomats. And none of them could be endangered with a sudden explosion of gunfire as well as being subjected to viewing a bloody corpse on the floor. Ambassadors of the free world would want answers. And if no answers came, the capitalist press would print, Yet another despicable act by the KGB. And the KGB had had enough bad press from the West—so the Kremlin had conveyed to their agents.

They were the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti—the KGB—with tremendous power in East Germany, but over recent years, the Kremlin had ordered them to show a less visible presence and do their dirty work—their strong-arm tactics and arrests—at night. The chief of the German sector, residing at KGB headquarters in Moscow, Deputy Director Herr Schmidt, Hilda’s father, had reminded Grinkov it was imperative to keep a low profile at Fräulein von Wagner’s parties, and if any covert objectives materialized, they were to be dealt with stealthily using the weapon of the day—drugs. Popular on both sides. And more importantly—bloodless.

There was one other challenge the three KGB agents faced: They were dealing with a highly trained enemy spy, so their kill had to be accomplished while the man remained inside the four walls. Once outside, the chance of escape increased dramatically. This had happened time and again to the bewilderment of the KGB. Even when A-spies were captured, handcuffed, and locked in a van with armed guards and driven to an airport to be transported to Moscow, sometime during the journey, they had managed to render the guards unconscious and escape. After several failed transits, the KGB officials in Moscow changed the mandate: "Asterians captured or spotted outside Moscow are to be terminated immediately. No more transporting. Their medallions confiscated. Their bodies incinerated." This change had accomplished two kills in East Germany, and one in Romania—a total of three kills in the past year. Tonight, the pirate would make four. And if Grinkov could locate his partner—five.

Agent Baum, also dressed as a Cossack, lowered into a chair against a side wall. Using his coat as a curtain, he pulled from his pocket a single-action dart gun. He slid open its metal chamber, revealing a soporific dart. He tilted the gun. The dart dropped into his palm. He slipped the weapon into a pocket and pulled from another pocket a velour case. With his thumb he flicked it opened and set the soporific dart into its empty molded form. In an adjacent form lay another dart marked with a red X. He took great care in removing it, closed the case, and returned it to his pocket. He pulled out the dart gun, inserted the red X barbed syringe into the chamber, and closed it. He turned about, his gray eyes spun dark in the deep hollow between his brow and protruding cheekbones, searching for his target among the dancers. He spotted the pirate. He leaned back with a smirk on his lips and waited for further orders, his dart gun grasped under the folds of his coat.

The pirate stopped his rhythmic movements even though there was no break in the music. He kissed the fräulein affectionately. She smiled and responded to his affection. He spoke into her ear again. This time, her mouth gaped open. She stiffened, stepped back, and swiftly left the man.

Arrogant bastard, Boris whispered in Russian. He had seen, over the course of the evening, ever since Grinkov had pointed out the pirate to him and saying he was possibly CIA, the American flaunting his affections on two other fräuleins on separate occasions. Then after a time, he spurned them. With shocked expressions, each had turned abruptly and deserted the man. Boris assumed he must have spoken crass words in German for the fräuleins were from the chorus and they spoke little if no English. And speaking German wouldn’t be a problem to an Asterian.

Chapter 3

Before World War II, the Albrecht-Moritz had been one of the more renowned hotels of Europe, famous for its elaborate rooms and ornate ballroom. Miraculously, the building had escaped major damage throughout the heavy bombing of Berlin and was restored and converted into a much-needed apartment building.

Since the Russian Occupation in 1948, what is called East Germany was now governed by the GDR, with Communist leadership and under the shadow of the Kremlin. Large gatherings except for government celebrations were illegal. Those possessing the patience to go through proper channels to obtain access papers were denied apart from the politically powerful—top functionaries, dignitaries, military commanders, and the exceptionally gifted and talented. One in particular was Karen von Wagner. She was never denied.

At twenty-one, beautiful at every turn and angle, she possessed a voice pure in tone, which scaled octaves yet edged with an earthy quality which appealed to the men. She mastered the piano but not to achieve classical acclaim; it was to grasp the theory of music and write her own songs. She had a poetic way of turning a phrase and putting lyrics to a melody, which delighted her listeners. Fluent in Russian and English, the Kremlin ordered her teachers to have her translate her songs into those languages and record them. This made her fame expand throughout the Russian-speaking Soviet states to the delight of the Communist Party. She was told by her teachers that her songs in English were class exercise. In all her other studies, she was exemplary—in her stage work and in her respect to the GDR.

To the East German and Russian workers—the commoners, the populous, the poor—when they heard her songs over the airwaves, it was as good as owning her albums for few could afford the luxury of a phonograph, let alone purchase her records. The resonance of her voice singing any type of song: romantic, catchy, sweet, even patriotic among the blaring unending propaganda lifted the spirits of the oppressed at least for a few minutes. East Germans had one advantage over Russians when it came to Fräulein von Wagner—she was their entertainer.

When it came to seeing her perform in the theater, given the commoners’ meager salary, they would purchase the cheap seats in the back rolls or cheaper tickets still—standing behind those rolls. The better seats went to Germans of higher status and income. But all East Germans, rich or poor, came first to see Fräulein von Wagner and hear her sing; second, to hear her sing with Herr Alex Kurz. The show, the storyline, wasn’t even a close third, a grandiose production of propaganda and patriotism, the plot drab and overworked: boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy dies for country and communism. The overworked plot bored even the officials.

Fräulein von Wager acquired swift approval for her parties by sending a personal handwritten invitation to the Premier, along with an abundant supply of purple invites. She’d then hire an orchestra, never a band, and serve an unlimited supply of German beer and liquor. The beer the government provided, providing she’d cover the cost of the vodka and the fancier drinks for those who indulged in weightier beverages. She gave no thought about the debt she’d incur for the benefit far outweighed such cost. Parties provided a stress release for the troupe for they were never given a holiday of much duration, only a day here and there. With the constant working together, traveling together, and eating together, eventually tempers flared and patience ran thin, which cued the actress to remedy the situation by filling out the proper forms to occupy the ballroom for one of her grand affairs. And tonight, tensions were lifting, escaping into the smoke-filled air, speeded along with their drink of choice.

Her circle of friends—two male actors, four female dancers, and her co-star Alex Kurz—had one more way of venting: outsmarting one another in jest by putting comical jabs into their conversation. They liked the challenge of testing their mental quickness. The eight looked forward to these verbal sparring, getting their pokes and counter pokes in, in non-threatening ways. Karen von Wagner did it best; Alex Kurz, better.

Alex was equivalent in age to his costar and nearly in talent. His strong, handsome Germanic features with white-blond hair, parted to the side and chopped precisely above his white brows, attracted the audience’s eye, and once there, his acting ability proved he had much more to offer than good looks.

East Germans could only guess about their relationship. There were no magazines, tabloids, or talk shows to inform the public about the personal lives of their gifted. Many assumed they were married, having shared the limelight for the past two years. If not married at least engaged—they were so suited to each other. But in reality, there had been little opportunity for the two to develop any intimacy. Their time was consumed in theatrical productions and taking those shows on the road throughout East Germany; and, when back home in East Berlin, they attended classes.

But the two were friends.

In fact, Alex Kurz was Karen von Wagner’s closest friend outside her family of two—her uncle and grandfather. They had known each other since they were twelve, when they were plucked from their government schools and admitted into the East Berlin School of the Arts.

Chapter 4

Thirty-four-year-old Frau Hilda Schmidt had been told by Colonel Grinkov the pirate was American and possibly CIA, but she wore no wireless to hear his latest pronouncement that he was Asterian. If she had, she wouldn’t want to touch the man with a ten-foot pole, let alone do what she was about to do.

Dressed as a Greek goddess, Hilda had hoped her costume would turn her boxy figure more sensuous or, for that matter, even a tad toward the feminine, but the sleeveless, ankle-length white chiffon raiment was patterned for a woman of average height—Hilda was barely five foot one. So she had gathered and stuffed the excess material under the wide gold-painted metal costume belt to prevent the hem from dragging on the floor and tripping her. This defeated her goal, causing her chunky waist to look chunkier. And her platinum wig, adorned with dozens of long spindly braids, which covered her crop of dyed red hair, was a nuisance. Each time she turned her head, one or two of the dangling strains would catch on the chintzy gold-painted necklaces cascading down the front of her dress, causing the hairpiece to tilt. Constantly, she was readjusting and setting the wig straight.

Hilda nudged Karen’s shoulder as another burst of laughter erupted—Alex had just topped one of the dancer’s clever remarks.

Hilda! You look stunning! Karen said, welcoming her. The male actors followed her lead and made similar cordial compliments. The fräuleins did so with cautious smiles.

Can I get you a drink? Karen asked.

Hilda shook her head. A braid snagged. Her wig tilted. She glared sharply at the four female dancers for any trace of a giggle or slightest smirk. None did. She was their unrelenting overseer who had made many in the chorus and in the dance troupe miserable on the road. One mistake on stage and Hilda replaced the fräulein from a waiting list of hundreds.

She leaned into the circle, scanning their faces, and asked, Does anyone know who the American is? He’s been making quite an impression with the fräuleins. She looked to where the man was. He’s walking toward the bar.

The eight turned their heads, but all they saw was a sea of people in motion. One of the actors commented, How do you expect us to pick him out?

He’s dressed as a pirate, wearing a red bandana over his head.

The eight shifted their heads this way and that. There was a solid embodiment jammed around the length of the bar, some areas two rolls deep. Soon, they spotted him by his costume, except for Karen von Wagner. Like a magnet, her eyes stopped on the most attractive man she had ever seen. His costume served only to confirm whom Hilda was inquiring about.

Oh yeah…the swashbuckler, said one of the actors. I noticed him earlier. He seems to attract the fräuleins, all right. But no, I’ve never seen him before.

They watched as twins from the chorus approached the man. By the movement of their mouths, the threesome was conversing rapidly. The fräuleins giggled and blushed, being charmed by him.

You sure he’s an American? Look who’s he talking to, remarked the other actor.

"Yeah, Nanny and Flo, our nonstop chatterers. The only words they know in English are—and the actor spoke them in English—hello, goodbye, see ya.’"

There’re the only words you know too, George, jested one of the fräuleins.

They all laughed.

Erma, a fräulein in the circle, added, No American, no matter how good his German, can keep up with those two—

"For that matter—any German," Alex said.

Their laugher bellowed louder.

The group turned away from observing the pirate and reformed their circle, missing a link—Fräulein von Wagner. Fine lines appeared between her brows as she watched the twins step back from the man, their smiles vanishing, and they scurried away.

Hilda leaned into Karen. Who is he, comrade?

Karen turned back to Hilda, unsure of her sincerity, having used the Russian word for friend instead of the German. They were both staunch Communists, but they were also Germans, and Germans were proud to keep the purity of the language.

Karen shook her head.

Well—Hilda patted the entertainer’s hand—"I’ll find out for you. But you are the hostess…" There was a touch of daring in her voice.

Upon hearing Hilda’s challenge, the fine lines remained—for her to approach any stranger she’d be breaking protocol, and Hilda knew this.

It’s a party. Rules are relaxed. I’m sure he’d love to meet you, she encouraged.

"All right, Hilda. But he’s not American. It’s what Erma said, ‘No American, no matter how good his German, can keep up with those two.’ She lowered herself slightly at the knee, leveling to Hilda’s height, and straightened her hairpiece. She waited a second for an appreciative word. None came. With a miniscule shake of her head, she wondered why she even thought a word of gratitude could come from Hilda’s lips. Never had she overheard her say a please or thank you" when ordering about the fräuleins in the troupe. Karen turned to her friends and excused herself.

Our dance? Alex called after her.

She smiled and nodded. I’ll be back.

Dressed as a German peasant, Karen had kept her last change of wardrobe on from her evening performance, a costume which appeared at first glance as a commoner’s dress, but at a second glance it had a smart, crisp, showy look. The rich blue leather of the jumper dress was dotted with colorful rhinestones and sequences against a long-sleeved white blouse. Her hair was collected under a blue velvet beret with bold metallic threading.

As she worked her way toward the bar, she felt a host of glances. As a teenager, she had been self-conscious of the stares. Now as a young adult, she was comfortable with them and enjoyed the attention, reminding herself every morning when she closed the door to her apartment that was where her stage truly began.

She stopped and greeted several she knew from the troupe and those of political prominence. The energy she emitted in her attentive look, her gleaming smile, and her exchange of words exhilarated the receiver, making them feel as important as one of her close friends. The males who stood beyond her pathway stared, and those who didn’t wanted to. The GDR officials who were in proximity, also watched—extremely proud of their creation.

Hilda observed their admiring glances, seething with disgust and jealousy. Then a trickle of a smile formed at one corner of her mouth as she pictured in her mind’s eye how the arrogant American, CIA or not, would bring her down a peg or two, unimpressed with who she was. And her admiring onlookers would see her embarrassed. Hilda’s smile grew, even though knowing her gratification would be short lived, nonetheless, it would give her some pleasure. And she felt confident her interference with the KGB would matter little, no matter how she used the man. After all, if he is a CIA operative, he’d undoubtedly be arrested before the evening was over. And, she presumed, the Russian agents were delaying their capture in order to observe who his contacts were, more precisely who the German traders were. If just an arrogant American—same result—he’d shun her and she’d be embarrassed.

Chapter 5

Approaching closer to the man, Karen hesitated; for fräuleins of her statue, introductions were made by their teachers, superiors, friends, or family. Never had she been placed in a position where she had to introduce herself. There was protocol to follow, always. And she was about to break it unless Hilda called off the silly challenge.

She craned back. Hilda smiled with an eager nod, as if to say, It’s all right…go ahead. What are you up to? Well, grow up Karen. You can’t always be pampered. Play along and somehow come out having the last laugh. He’s probably a Volksarmee who asked, maybe even paid, Hilda to meet me. Then she thought, She just wants me to take her dare within inches, then she’ll motion me away.

She slipped in behind the man. His left side was leaning against the bar, with his left elbow resting atop of the bar. His gaze took in long stretch of the ballroom in front of him. She scanned the back of his costume. His purple pants seemed molded to his skin, so tight she could see a bulge of a wallet in his rear pocket. His brown vinyl boots gave the appearance of leather, which rode to his knees, doubling over at the top for the swashbuckler look. His tan vest, made of felt, gave a suede appearance. Under the vest, he wore a dusty white shirt with billowing long sleeves. A yellow sash encircled his waist. Unruly spits of coal black ringlets peeked out from underneath a crimson bandana covering his head.

She looked again at Hilda. All right, call this off!

Instead, Hilda gave a swift, approving nod of her head.

Karen’s two fine lines showed again; she bobbled her head, unsure to proceed. A few guests, standing several feet away, were staring at her. They too knew she was breaking etiquette for one in her position. There’s got to be some joke involved.

She spoke in English, knowing few East Germans, military police or soldiers, had little understanding of the language. Pardon me, pirate. We haven’t met. I’m­ Karen von Wagner. She noticed his back stiffen, arching slightly.

The man turned completely around and faced her.

His eyes were the darkest brown she had ever seen. With a quick glance, she took in the front of his costume. His shirt fit snugly across a solid chest. A wide, high collar was brought together with a drawstring laced through eyelets running down to mid-chest. Tucked in under his yellow sash, a rubber handle of a toy knife showed.

I’m Gene Gates. And you speak very good English—he paused before adding in a snobbish tone—"that is, for an East German."

Her mouth parted a bit in surprise that he was unmistakably an American. Then she wondered if his criticism was a tease, for her English, she knew, was excellent. She waited a moment to see if he’d break into a grin. He didn’t. Instead, he turned, placing the full of his back against the bar’s edge, giving her a cold right shoulder; his gaze was back at scanning the crowd. He slipped his hands into his pockets—but only as far as his knuckles because of the tightness of his pants. Hands in pockets were an inappropriate show of bad manners dating back to the war when pockets concealed guns. Today, it was considered an act of disrespect. Did he skip the part in the guidebook on German customs and manners?

"So you are an American?" she asked just to make sure.

He swiftly turned his head, his dark eyes narrowing into hers. His gaze gave her a quick once-over. Unimpressed, his focus switched to the activity of the crowd, as he said, Is that a problem?

"Mr. Gates—" She was taken aback by his manner.

You remember names. Very good, he said without a glance to her.

Never had anyone spoke so rudely to her. "In case you don’t know, I’m the hostess, and I would like to see your invitation," she voiced sternly.

He pulled from under his sash a purple card.

How did you acquire it?

A friend, whom I’m trying to locate.

His name? I’ll have him paged so you can leave. You’re not welcome here.

There he is. Allow me a few words with him, then I’ll gladly leave. I’ve been to far better parties.

A chill went through her. She shuddered while watching him disappear into the blur of colorful costumes of unmasked masqueraders. The few who were staring stared wide-eyed in astonishment. Not that they heard what the man said to her; they merely had been observing how her expression had changed from polite inquisitiveness to one aghast.

She shrugged and wobbled her head with a closed-lip smile, as if to say she didn’t know what his problem was and not to feel sorry for her—her skin was thicker than they perceived. She glanced to where Hilda had been standing but only saw her circle of friends huddled in close symmetry, oblivious to the man’s affront to her.

From an obscure vantage point, behind a pillar, Hilda had observed everything. At first, she was pleased at seeing the man do an expert job of spurning Fräulein von Wagner, but disappointment soon followed seeing Karen facing up to him. Fräulein von Wagner wasn’t the least bit intimidated or embarrassed. Hilda turned on her heels, swearing under her breath. Braids went flying. Several good snags caught on the necklaces this time. The wig more than tilted—it slid off her head. Attempting to catch it, she collided into a trash bin. The bin fell over. Paper and bits and pieces of food scattered onto the floor. The men, immune to her power, laughed at the comical way her one foot went out from under her, slipping on some cheesy goo.

In anger, she set the bin aright and flung her wig into it.

Chapter 6

Good show tonight. Great party too. But then any party in East Germany is a welcome relief from the drab life here. Herman Strittmatter came up on her blind side and kissed his niece’s cheek.

Karen embraced him. Thank you for rescuing me from that awkward moment, Uncle.

You handled it with perfect decorum.

"Where have you been all night?"

On the other side of the bar, having a beer, and—he paused—watching you. He raised his hand, getting the attention of one of the two very busy barmen. You know—he glanced back into the long stretch of ballroom—there must be more color in this one room than all East Germany and the Soviet Union combined.

Herman Strittmatter looked ten years younger than his forty-six years; just a few telltale streaks of gray feathered at his temples. He managed almost every aspect of his niece’s life. He was her chaperone and