Ultimate Issue

Ultimate Issue

by

George Markstein

Captain John Tower The man who knows more than he should .

. .

Tony Verago The army attorney who smells a rat … Helga Braunschweig An East German woman with secrets to hide… Captain Matt Kingston An American electronics specialist whose spy mission is covered up and who is presumed dead until Tony Verago winds up in his prison cell… ULTIMATE ISSUE A thriller of Cold War intrigue with a shattering climax. Also by George Markstein Published by Ballantine Books: CHANCE AWAKENING THE GOERING TESTAMENT TRAITOR ULTIMATE ISSUE George Markstein BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW YORK Copyright ›) 1981 by (George Markstein

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada, Limited, Toronto, Canada.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:

81-69506

ISBN 0-345-2903 1-3 Printed in Canada First Edition: January 1982

For Jacqui, because she first sounded the alert and then kept it going It is a political error to practice deceit, if deceit is carried too far.

Frederick the Great, 1740

I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade.

Alan Seeger, 188~1916

Lncs a buzzing hornet, the olive-green painted Mi-1 helicopter with the colors of the German Democratic Republic whirred its way over the suburbs of East Berlin.

The journey to the enclave would have taken him only half an hour by road, driving at high speed in the bulletproof Zis limousine with a Volksarmee escort, but Walter Ulbricht preferred traveling this way. A thousand feet up in the air. It was safer.

The helicopter was a present from the Kremlin, for his personal use. He appreciated the gesture. And the fact that it made him a more difficult target.

Below him he could see the Tetolow canal and the S-bahn and the network of roads that led to Bernau and the east. He watched a Russian army convoy, looking like a collection of toy tanks. There would be many more convoys soon. Moving westward …

Walter Ulbricht, the most powerful man in East Germany, first Secretary of the Party, had plenty on his mind. He was a short-tempered man, and he hated wasting time. Now that the decision had been made, he wanted to get things going. Of course he understood that the complicated preparations would take time, and he had agreed to Moscow’s schedule.

But the August deadline still remained eleven weeks away.

He resented the hiatus the delay would cause. The quicker the plan was implemented, the better. Each week of inaction was costing the Democratic Republic dearly, as he had pointed out.

Through the glare-proof plastic of the observation window, he could see, far away on the horizon, three MIG fighters in the clear early June sky. They would keep well away, of course. Air control at Schoenefeld had given the helicopter a VIP air corridor all to itself. No aircraft was allowed within ten miles of the chopper.

He heard his personal pilot talking to ground control,

1

and as the Mi-1 started to descend he saw the enclave spread out below him. The two roadblocks that guarded the approaches. The six-foot wall that surrounded the enclosure. Floodlit at night, it was steel reinforced so that even a tank would have difficulty breaching it. And along the top ran a fine wire guaranteed to electrocute anyone climbing over.

Slowly the helicopter lost altitude and then, gently, it touched down on the landing strip inside the VIP compound. Steel-helmeted, jackbooted Volksarmee soldiers, drawn up in a rigid rank, sprang to attention.

Ulbricht’s aide, a captain, jumped from the helicopter first and stood ready to help him alight. Ulbricht, who prided himself on his spartan fitness, ignored him.

The captain handed him the slim, locked briefcase, and the soldiers gave Ulbricht the state salute, the sun glinting on their bayonets. The men of the Wachtregiment, his personal bodyguard, 150 dedicated volunteers, were the elite of the entire People’s Army. Ulbricht had personally approved each man. He had followed a good example for the unit, Adolf Hitler’s Leibstandarte.

Ulbricht gave a curt nod and entered the shiny black limousine, flying his own personal standard, which had drawn up by the landing strip. Although his villa was close by, he avoided walking.

The car drove past the tennis courts, the swimming POOL the private cinema, the kindergarten, the concert hall, and finally reached the most exclusive part of the compound: the residences of the state leaders.

Smoothly the limousine halted in front of Ulbricht’s custom-built villa. The Volksarmee captain who sat in front beside the NCO chauffeur jumped out and opened the door for Ulbricht.

The two sentries in front of the villa presented arms. Again Ulbricht just nodded, then walked into his residence. He was carrying the locked briefcase.

In it was a sealed folder that contained a document with the highest security classification existing behind the Iron Curtain.

On the folder there was just one word: BERMS.

She typed slowly and very carefully. The major from security sat by her desk, watching her as she transcribed her shorthand notes.

“How much longer?” he asked.

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“I’m almost finished,” she replied. The memorandum of agreement was a short one. Only half a dozen paragraphs. But there was no carbon copy.

Ulbricht himself dictated it ta her on his return from the three-day summit meeting at Pankow. It had been a very secret meeting, and throughout the doors were guarded by Volksarmee, fingers on the triggers of their submachine guns.

The conference had been held in an ornate room with glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and thick carpets on the floor. In deference to Ulbricht, nobody smoked though ashtrays had been courteously provided. So had bottles of mineral water.

Not often had Pankow seen such a high-powered delegation from Moscow. Marshal Rodion Malinovsky, defense minister of the Soviet Union had led it, and with him he had brought the top brass, including Marshal Andrei Grecho, Commander in Chief of the Warsaw Pact forces. The East German contingent comprised Grotewohl and Willie Stoph, the sinister one, as well as Ulbricht himself.

They had sat facing each other across a big polished table, each man with a notepad and pencils laid out ready for him. After every session, the military aides made sure no incriminating notes had been left on the pads.

They had talked about Berlin, and several times they had looked at huge, large-scale maps of the city spread out before them.

As soon as he’d returned to his villa, Ulbricht called her into his private office and dictated the aide memoirs.

‘Hype it on one page,” he instructed. “No copy, you understand.”

After that, the major never left her side, walking along the corridor with her and not taking his eyes off her as she removed the cover from her typewriter, inserted the sheet of paper, and started typing.

Helga’s face did not betray any emotion when she saw what they had agreed.

“Right,” she said finally and stopped typing. She took the sheet of paper out of the machine and put it in a folder.

‘All have that,” said the major.

“But … it’s most secret,” she protested. “It must not be seen by anyone.”

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“Exactly,” said the major, who was Ulbricht’s most trusted aide.

Then he leaned over and ripped the page of shorthand out of her notebook.

“I don’t have to remind you that divulging a state secret is high treason,” he said pleasantly, “Do I, Fraulein Braunschweig?”

She shook her head and watched him leave

But she remembered what she had typed She remembered it very well.

She looked at the calendar on her desk. It was less than eleven weeks away.

She didn’t have much time.

On June 3, 1961, President John P. Kennedy arrived in Vienna to meet with USSR Premier Nikita Khrushchev

The following day they issued a joint communique reaffirming support for the neutrality of Laos and stating they had discussed disarmament, a nuclear test ban, and the German question.

Later, in the afternoon, President Kennedy flew to London.

Hours before his arrival, the crowds started gathering in the streets. They stood patiently, lining the pavements waiting for the presidential cavalcade to pass. All along the route from Heathrow, enthusiastic Londoners greeted his arrival.

The President and his entourage drove straight into central London.

That night, while the Kennedys stayed privately in Princess Lee Radziwill’s small town house, across the street from Buckingham Palace, the Soviets issued a memorandum urging the demilitarisation of Berlin.

At the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square and in the Foreign Office in Whitehall, the lights burned late.

The next morning, a top AngloUS meeting was scheduled for 10:30 A.M. to discuss the Khrushchev talks. But something went wrong. The summit was suddenly canceled.

Instead, unexpectedly, the President and Prime Minister Harold Macmillan met alone for two and a half hours behind closed doors. There were no witnesses, and whatever they said was off the record. To this day their discussion remains secret.

That was on Monday, June 5, 1961.

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Wednesday, June 7,1961 Mannheim

VERAOO was sweating. It was a warm, beautiful summer’s day, and the weather wasn’t the reason he felt uncomfortable. Private Pirst Class Benjamin L. King was the reason. Verago wasn’t looking forward to their meeting.

He hated stockades, especially the one at Mannheim. He suspected the army encouraged the reputation the place had. A spell inside Mannheim was calculated to teach an errant soldier the folly of his way.

The tall guard towers dominated the square complex. At night the surrounding spiked brick walls were brightly lighted. The MPs who moved around the penal barracks were unarmed, so that if they were overpowered, the prisoners couldn’t seize any firearms. Mutinies were not unknown at Mannheim. But the perimeter guards had guns, and anyone foolish enough to make a break for it would quickly find out they were loaded.

Inside the place smelled of carbolic. The provost lieutenant who escorted Verago to King’s cell block smelled of it too.

He was aware how much the lieutenant disapproved of him. The man was scrubbed and spruce like the floors and walls of the barracks. To him Verago looked like a civilian in uniform. Too portly. Needing a haircut. Uniform unpressed. Unpolished shoes. The lieutenant’s shoes shone like a mirror, his creases were razor sharp, his figure athletic.

“Is he your only client here, Captain?” asked the lieutenant.

“At the moment,” grunted Verago. But he was no stranger to Mannheim. In his tour of duty as an army lawyer in Germany, he had had many occasions to visit GIs in custody there. Too many occasions.

“I guess he’ll be moved on soon,” remarked the lieutenant.

“I imagine so,” agreed Verago.

“He hasn’t given us any trouble. Not so far anyway.”

God help the poor bastard who does, thought Verago.

A helmeted face peered at them through the grille of a

S steel door, and then the door was unlocked and they entered another corridor. It was lined by cages, and in the cages were men. One of them was King.

“Open up,” ordered the lieutenant, and the MP unlocked the cage door. King was sitting on his bed, in fatigues. He didn’t stand up when he saw Verago.

“Get up, soldier,” ordered the lieutenant.

King stared at them, then slowly got to his feet. The movement was a study in dumb insolence to rank.

“God damn it, stand straight,” shouted the lieutenant.

“It’s all right,” said Verago. “You leave me with him.”

“Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant. He gave King a last angry look and slammed the door as he left.

The cage was made of fine wire mesh. The floor was spotless. On top of the locker, King’s toilet things were symmetrically laid out, like a parade. Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, rigid at attention. The razor was missing. There was a Bible.

“Smoke?” suggested Verago, offering the soldier his pack.

King shook his head.

He doesn’t look the part of a Gl caught trying to rape a fraulein in the backseat of a car, Verago thought yet again. A clean-cut, lanky young man, studious, aloof. Not the type to spend his time in a Kaiserlautern off-limits joint. But after two years with the army in Germany, nothing surprised Verago any more.

“Sit down,” said Verago, lighting his cigarette. He pulled the single stool over and at down. King perched on the edge of the bed.

“How they treating you, Ben?”

King shrugged. “Okay.”

“Chow all right?”

“Okay.” The same flat tone.

“I got some good news,” said Verago. All night he’d been bothered just how he was going to tell him. He knew what the reaction would be. “They’ve cut your sentence.” He didn’t wait for King to say anything. “By a third.”

That sounded better, at least.

“Eight years?” asked King.

Verago nodded. “It’s been reduced to eight years.”