Danger in Dresden: The Nikki Sinclair Spy Thriller Series, #4

By Jaye Rothman

If you enjoy lesbian thrillers, you'll love reading the Cold War spy novels featuring MI6 agent Nikki Sinclair.

 

Doctor Helene Zimmermann is the mastermind behind the Stasi's evil plan to dope female swimmers without their consent to achieve gold medal glory for East Germany. Nikki's mission - seduce the ice queen and obtain evidence to present to the Olympic Committee, but danger looms everywhere in this taut thriller based on actual events.

 

Immerse yourself in Nikki's world - buy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaye Rothman
• Release date: Nov 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224287864

Book preview

Chapter 1

SV Dynamo Swimming School

Dresden

Deutsche Demokratische Republik – (East German Democratic Republic)

October 1974

I'm not ill. The girlish voice climbed to a higher pitch. Mama doesn’t give me tablets unless I’m sick.

Standing in the corridor, Bettina Frank shuddered at the words floating through the half-closed door. Greta was only ten, the same age as Tina’s sister. 

Coach Beck softened her tone. Your family will be so proud when you win a medal.

I don't care about a silly medal. Greta sniffled. I want to go home.

Do you want your father to lose his job?

Tina raised a fist to her mouth and puffed out her cheeks. The Coach often made threats against their families. Her method of ensuring compliance from them all. Threatening a little girl though.... Tina’s blood boiled.

No! Loud sobs punctuated Greta’s words. Of course not.

Then take the pill, Brandt.

Tina swivelled around. Julia Weber, behind her, stared at the door and shrugged as if indicating they were powerless to intervene. Twenty pupils, all female, stood in the line, waiting their turn. Not one of them said a word. Several had wrapped both arms around their slender bodies. Whether to ward off the cold or to stop their limbs from trembling was beyond Tina’s ken.

All wore regulation swimsuits and rubber caps coloured to match the dark green painted on walls, ceiling, and doors. The Deutsche Demokratische Republik emblem was emblazoned on the front of each costume. The hammer and compass surrounded by a ring of rye  a reminder they never forget their duty to country and communism.

Water dripped from Tina's costume, ran down her legs and pooled on the ridged green tiles beneath her wrinkled feet. Today’s training had been ruthless. She’d swum without a break for two solid hours. Beck, screaming through a megaphone, had insisted they need to swim faster if they wanted to qualify for the team.

And they did. The honour and prestige of representing the Workers and Peasants State at the Olympics and bringing home a gold medal was the only thing keeping them motivated. For what other reason would they willingly endure the harshness and brutality of the SV Dynamo school system?

The door opened, and a diminutive figure appeared, tiny fists wiping tears from eyes and cheeks. Greta gave one last sob as she trudged down the passage and out of sight. Tina wished she could comfort the girl. But ambition was all. If Coach Beck marked her as a troublemaker, any chance she could represent her country would end. And, she hadn’t suffered these last four months merely to fail. 

Frank! Beck yelled. It’s your turn.

She clenched her teeth to stop them chattering and entered the Coach’s domain. Over the last four months, Tina had come to hate this small room stinking of chlorine and disinfectant. Likewise, for the two metal trays sitting on Beck’s desk. Only ten doses on each tray now. Since Ilse missed the nine o’clock curfew two nights ago.

The next day, shortly before breakfast, the swimmer had shuffled in, her face tear-stained and her head bowed. Tina’s endeavours to discover what had happened had gotten no response from the girl. Then, late last night, Ilse’s parents had come and taken her home.

Tina’s gaze drifted to the cups crowding the trays. Swimmers’ surnames were inscribed in the coach’s neat handwriting on the side of each one. Beck picked up Tina’s and handed the cup to her without a word. Tina stared at the small blue pill. The coach’s reassurance it contained an essential vitamin to aid performance no longer rang true. Not after the changes to her body.

Two months ago, her periods had ceased. She’d researched the subject and the encyclopaedia had been most informative. Apparently, young women don’t stop menstruating unless they’ve fallen pregnant, a condition Tina immediately ruled out.

Then, shortly after, a thin ridge of fur had appeared on her abdomen and, to her dismay, hairs had sprouted around her nipples. When she finally plucked up the courage to speak to her peers, they had shaken their heads and advised her to say nothing. Tina thought the situation deserved some explanation. So, with only one recourse left, she talked to Beck. The coach, ignoring her concerns, had given her an ultimatum. The choice is yours, Frank. Take the tablets or leave the team.

Tina settled for the tablets.

Beck stared down her thin nose as she tipped the little blue tablet into Tina's palm. Tina placed the pill in her mouth and took a sip of water. This time, however, concealed beneath her tongue, the dose did not reach her stomach or bloodstream. She turned to leave the room.

Beck’s shout stopped her in her tracks. Comrade Ärztin Zimmermann is here. It’s time for an injection.

Tina's stomach roiled. I don't need one, Trainer Beck.

The coach glared at her. Hurriedly, Tina cleared her throat and rushed to explain. You said so yourself, Comrade, my times are good.

So they are, Frank, but they can always be improved. Beck pulled her lips into a smile that would make a clown shudder. Don’t keep the doctor waiting.

Tina tapped lightly on the green door, praying Zimmermann wouldn’t hear her, or that she’d already left the facility.

Come in.

Tina cursed her luck. Still damp and cold to the bone she entered the room. Her eyes fixed on the large syringe and needle arranged on a metal tray. This was not her first injection. A thundering heart joined the chattering teeth loud in her ears.

When Tina first arrived at the school, the doctor had welcomed her warmly. Although she had little life experience, the doctor's eyes roving over her body had struck her as unprofessional. So too the examination of her breasts, which lasted more than ten minutes. The tip of Zimmermann’s tongue constantly moistening her upper lip and the woman’s increasing respirations had been off-putting.

Today, Zimmermann wore a black suit teamed with a blue blouse under her regulatory white coat and had scraped her blonde hair into a severe bun. Her eyes, the colour of an uncut diamond, displayed not a hint of warmth. Painted lips were a red slash in her pale face.

Pull your costume down! The doctor picked up a vial from the countertop and stuck the needle into the rubber seal. Her eyes narrowed as the syringe drew up the liquid.

Tina cleared her throat. Comrade Ärztin, I was hoping I wouldn’t need an injection.

But my dear, I want to give you the best possible advantage. Zimmermann lowered her voice. Rivalry is fierce between you girls. And we need a clean sweep in the medals when we compete in the World Aquatic Games. She stared at Tina with wide eyes. By the way, where is the competition taking place this year?

As if the woman didn’t know. Tina didn’t know Zimmermann’s game but played along anyway. In Columbia.

Already excitement among the swimmers was building around the event. Last month, two of their team had represented the DDR at a friendly competition in Moscow. They had spent two days being escorted around the city, marvelling at the monuments dedicated to Lenin and communism. The opportunity to visit South America, which seemed incredibly exotic and as far away as the moon, conjured far more competition at the pool.

Not much time to reach the pinnacle of success. She placed the syringe on the table and stepped towards Tina. The rise and fall of the doctor’s chest had increased in pace. There is a way to avoid an injection.

How? The question had escaped from her mouth before Tina could censor the word.

I’m a woman with particular needs. Zimmermann’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. And they require fulfilling.

Tina’s shoulders slumped. She’d known Zimmermann would proposition her sooner or later. What sort of needs? she said, hoping to buy some time.

Chuckling, the doctor replaced the syringe on the table. Haven’t the other girls told you? Tina’s eyes followed Zimmermann’s finger running backwards and forwards on the metal surface.

It’s probably a rumour, Tina said, but I’ve heard you... Tina’s mind raced with possibilities, anything that would serve as an alternative. You enjoy playing board games.

Zimmermann threw back her head and laughed uproariously. Well, I’ve never heard my interests described in quite that way. She picked up a tissue and wiped the tears from her eyes. But yes, we can play games and begin with the ones I enjoy the most.

If I agree, do I need an injection?

The doctor picked up the syringe and studied the needle. Then she replaced the loaded hypodermic on the table and, in a gravelly voice, said, I think we could postpone your injection for now.

Chapter 2

Nikki Sinclair, MI6 officer, picked up the bag. In ten minutes, the cleaners would arrive to sanitise the apartment, so no trace of Nicole Schwartz remained. The clock was ticking down in her head. She unzipped the holdall. A sheet of paper lay on top of the pile of clothes. Immediately, Nikki recognised Lonnie’s scrawl. The note contained written directions from the train station in Dresden and a sketched map indicating the safe house's location. 

Nikki sighed. Why hadn’t she asked PD, her mentor and handler, to extract her from Berlin? Her nerves were stretched to breaking point after six months of working undercover in this hostile regime. The constant deception: the strain of expunging herself to become someone else had taken its toll. She lived in constant fear. A knock on the door, a car screeching to a halt, a heavy hand on her shoulder; any one of these could herald the words she dreaded to hear: "Nikki Sinclair, I’m arresting you on the charge of espionage."

She couldn’t remember when she’d started swigging vodka from the bottle. Perhaps two weeks ago. Maybe a little longer. A shot of alcohol steadied her nerves and helped her sleep. Not too much though. PD’s warning after Istanbul was still fresh in her mind. ‘Excess drinking makes you sloppy, and then mistakes are made."

Nikki hurried into the next room and emptied the bag's contents onto the bed: a bile-coloured pullover, black acrylic slacks, and a pair of scuffed brown shoes. She swiftly removed the clothes she was wearing that marked her out as a student and rolled the flared trousers, the baggy jumper that nearly reached her knees and the set of wooden bangles from her wrist into a neat bundle. Her new identity document in a plastic wallet lay in the bottom of the bag. She flicked the holder open and stared at the grainy black-and-white photograph inside. The boffins at Broadway had removed her mane of hair, instead transforming the style into a bob that reached her shoulders. She didn’t like her new look but had to admit it unlikely anybody encountered in Berlin would recognise her.

Nicole Schwartz was done with, and now she must erase the woman’s persona from her memory. From this moment on, she must play the role of Nicola Schreiber. She was a twenty-four-year-old shop assistant who had left her job at the Centrum in Alexanderplatz when her marriage ended and intended to make a new life in Dresden. Nikki rushed into the living room and stood before a shelf crammed with second-hand books. Most of the titles pertained to the subject Nicole Schwartz had been studying at Berlin University: nuclear engineering. Not Nikki Sinclair’s speciality at all. She sighed. Many long hours had been wasted listening to those incomprehensible lectures.

Nikki removed Eine Geschicht Aus Zwei Staden, a German translation of Charles Dicken’s A Tale of Two Cities,  from the shelf and opened the last page of the book. Her finger and thumb eased back the paper. A smile played around her mouth as she stared at the hidden photo. Citizens of East Berlin were forbidden to own cameras, but Dagmar, a Stasi officer, had purchased one from the Intershop at the Ministerium für Staatsicherheit. She’d placed the camera on the table and set the shutter to delayed release. The image captured them perfectly. Gazing boldly at the lens, smiles on their faces, laughter in their eyes, they sat with arms wrapped around each other in a loving pose.

Nikki ran the tip of a finger over their images. They’d spent a wonderful day together, strolling in the park despite the freezing temperatures and eating lunch in a café. Then, they’d adjourned to bed for the remainder of the afternoon. Their relationship had progressed to the point when Nikki’s failure to disclose the truth was tearing her apart. Safe practice demanded she destroy the photo. But then she’d have no memory of the woman she’d fallen in love with.

Lonnie’s instructions and the photo clutched in her hand, Nikki headed into the bathroom. She removed a lighter from a pocket in her slacks. The note from Lonnie was short, and, at the bottom, he’d written: We’ll be home for Christmas!

She struck the flint and touched the flame to the corner of the paper. A moment later, she was flushing the ashes down the sink. Then she picked up the photo. Misty eyes blurred the image. For the thousandth time, she wished that they’d met somewhere else at some other time. The lighter lit once more, and she moved the photo nearer to the flickering flame.

Her eyes swept over the three rooms that had served as both prison and sanctuary for several months. She picked up the bag, laid the key on the table and walked out through the front door for the last time.    

Chapter 3

After the train departed Berlin, Nikki focused on the grey, dreary landscape passing by. The villages they passed all looked the same except, occasionally, a brightly coloured Trabant injected an odd splash of colour to break the monotony.

Would you like one? The older woman’s quiet voice startled Nikki out of her reverie.

Nikki smiled but shook her head. The elderly woman, clad in a shapeless brown coat, woollen hat, and knitted scarf held out a rye bread sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. The sausage filling poked from one end.

No thanks. I’m not hungry. Nikki’s rumbling stomach belied her words. She hadn’t eaten yet today. Last night, she and Dagmar had cooked a meal together. To Nikki, a re-enactment of the Last Supper in some ways, knowing she would betray her girlfriend in the morning.

She turned and gazed out the window once more. By now, Dagmar must have arrived at the safe house in the rolling English countryside, and PD would have begun her debrief.

The day they’d asked her to take the minutes at a meeting attended by the three most influential men in the German Democratic Republic: General Secretary Erich Honecker; Mielke, head of the Ministry for State Security; and his deputy Marcus Wolf; had changed Dagmar’s life. They had authorised the use of androgenic steroids to improve athletic performance without obtaining the athlete’s consent to administer the dose. At considerable risk to herself, Dagmar had smuggled a copy of the document out of Stasi Headquarters.

Go on. It’s a long journey.

Thank you. Nikki smiled, took the proffered sandwich and chewed on the food. It’s delicious.

I make the sausages myself when I can source the ingredients.

You’re very kind. Nikki’s gaze wandered to a man wearing a black belted raincoat sitting next to the aisle further up the carriage. His head was buried in Neues Deutschland, the Communist Party newspaper, but every few minutes, when he turned the page, his eyes would lift and rest on her.

A bead of sweat broke out on Nikki’s brow. Had he recognised her? Three tram rides, two short bus trips, and doubling back on herself before boarding the train should have shaken any tails. Then again, the reality of life in the DDR meant no matter how careful, she couldn’t discount that an informer or an eagle-eyed agent might alert the Stasi. For all Nikki knew, the elderly woman sitting opposite might work for the secret police.

Nikki finished the sandwich and rose from her seat. Under the pretence of removing a magazine from her bag, she scanned the carriage, checking whether the man had a  partner and where he sat. Stasi agents always worked in twos. A young couple locked in an embrace caught her eye. Then, a man who looked to be in his seventies smoking morosely and staring out the window. Next to him sat a younger man dressed in a donkey jacket, eyes closed, snoring softly.

Squealing brakes took Nikki by surprise. She staggered, grabbed hold of the headrest and dropped back into her seat. The train juddered to a halt. Nikki’s stomach roiled. Why had they stopped? Adrenaline coursed through her system. Had the Stasi discovered she was on the train? She forced herself to take a steadying breath. That the Stasi would stop a train in the middle of nowhere seemed highly unlikely.

Why has the train stopped? Nikki enquired.

The elderly woman must have seen the concern on her face as she reached out and patted Nikki’s knee. Maybe a cow has strayed onto the line?

Yes, of course. A cow. Nikki pinched the bridge of her nose in an effort to calm down. She needed to keep her agitation in check to avoid drawing attention and arouse suspicion among the other passengers.

Forcing a smile, Nikki turned to stare through the grimy window. In this part of the country, the fields lay submerged under the heavy rains that had pounded East Germany over the last month.

Are you getting off at Leipzig?  

The question jolted Nikki from her thoughts. Innocuous when asked in the West, here in the Eastern Bloc any enquiry posed a dilemma. Citizens never looked or spoke to strangers without cause.

The woman smiled. I’m visiting my daughter in Dresden. She leant forward. Tomorrow is her birthday.

That’s nice. Nikki lowered her voice. I’m going to Dresden too.

The man’s newspaper rustled, and his head poked out from behind the page. Serious eyes lingered on her for a second or two, and then he disappeared again.

The train jerked and slowly recommenced its journey.

Nikki flicked through the magazine in her lap. A bright journalist in London described Sibylle as a socialist version of Vogue. The emphasis rested on fashion, but featured articles on art and culture also peppered the pages. Unlike women’s magazines in the West, Sibylle didn’t have the obligatory problem page. Propaganda, of course. Peddling the idea women experienced perfect relationships in the German Democratic Republic.

Nikki pretended to read, but