Red Romeo: Stasi Gigolos and the Spy Hunter of Germany

Glossary

Main Characters

Sabine Maier, Agent, Federal Intelligence Service, West Germany.

Stefan Malik, East German journalist/writer, recruited as a Stasi Romeo. Cover: Günter Freund, writer for Gemeinschaft Unbegrenzt, a fictitious Vienna peace organization.

Werner Heinrich, Lieutenant General, Stasi spymaster.

Monika Fuchs, Executive Secretary to Chief of the West German Chancellery.

Horst Kögler, former intelligence agent turned computer consultant.

Helga Schröder, General Heinrich’s secretary.

Traude Malik, Stefan’s daughter.

Bernd Dorfmann, Sabine’s boss.

Gisela Sturm, Executive Secretary to the West German Foreign Minister.

Hans Mertens, Agent, Office for the Protection of the Constitution, West Germany.

Organizations

STASI: Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, East German Secret Police, East Berlin.

HVA: Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung, Stasi Foreign Intelligence Service, East Berlin.

BND: Bundesnachrichtendienst, Federal Intelligence Service, West Germany, Pullach, Bavaria; reports to West German Chancellor.

BfV: Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz, Office for the Protection of the Constitution, Cologne. West Germany’s domestic intelligence service that reports to the Bundestag (lower house of parliament).

ASBw: Amt für die Sicherheit der Bundeswehr, Office of Security, Federal Armed Forces, Cologne; 1956-1984. Since 1984: MAD: Militärischer Abschirmdienst, Military Counterintelligence Service, Cologne.

BKA: Bundeskriminalamt, Federal Criminal Investigation Bureau a/k/a Federal Criminal Police Agency, Wiesbaden, West Germany; reports to the Federal Ministry of the Interior.

RAF: Rote Armee Fraktion, Red Army Faction terrorist group.

GDR: German Democratic Republic; in German: DDR: Deutsche Demokratische Republik (official and euphemistic name for communist East Germany).

BRD: Bundesrepublik Deutschland; Federal Republic of Germany (West Germany).

Definitions

mole: 2. a spy who becomes part of and works from within the ranks of an enemy governmental staff or intelligence agency.

double agent: 1. a person who spies on a country while pretending to spy for it.

2. a spy in the service of two rival countries, companies, etc.

www.dictionary.com

Inspired by Actual Events

According to his autobiography, Stasi spymaster Markus Wolf perfected the use of sex in spying by grooming East German men to woo and seduce lonely West German women with top security clearance to spy for love. During Wolf’s 34-year tenure as East Germany’s spymaster, his Stasi Romeos wormed the most guarded West German and NATO secrets out of the women they professed to love. Romance, sex and the promise of marriage induced as many as 50 women to hand over state secrets to their lovers.

How the Stasi Romeos pulled off one intelligence coup after another, inspired me to write this story populated with fictional main characters.

Actual cases are documented in these books:

Stasi: The Untold Story of the East German Secret Police, by John O. Koehler, at 182 et seq.

Man Without a Face: The Autobiography of Communism’s Greatest Spymaster, by Markus Wolf, chapter 8, Spying for Love.

Chapter One

The Choice

Rummelsburg Prison, East Berlin, Friday afternoon, 15 July 1977

The guard shoved Stefan Malik across the threshold and slammed the cell door. The scraping of the giant key sliding the deadbolt into place bore the sound of permanence. A stench from the toilet at the far wall, its splintered seat hanging off to one side, pervaded the damp cell, but the foul smell was the least of his problems. His apprehension turned to alarm at the sight of three prisoners staring him down. Two lurked behind a burly redhead, the obvious ruler of this space.

An ugly smirk spread across the stout man’s fleshy face, barely visible in the faint light spilling through a small, iron-barred window high on the wall. What’s the matter, pretty boy, never smelled shit before?

His two cellmates, leaning against one of the bunk beds, cackled—the forced laugh of subordinates at a superior’s bad joke.

The redhead asked, What’s your name?

Stefan.

We are your new best friends. I’m Emil. He turned to his left, Anton, then to his right, Hans.

Both gave slight nods at the mention of their names. But Stefan kept his eyes on Emil, who appeared to be listening to the sound of the guard’s boots striking the cement floor in the hall.

When the sound faded, Emil turned to his cellmates. Don’t you think Stefan has a nice ass? What say, boys, we get better acquainted with him? He leered at Stefan. Lots better.

Stefan took a step back. He’d heard about Rummelsburg housing homosexuals, branded social deviants by the state, and now perhaps he’d fallen in with three of them. Gays or not, they had rape on their minds. Before he could react, Hans and Anton had circled behind him. One twisted his right arm against his back while the other pushed him onto his knees. He struggled against excruciating pain. It felt as if his arm were coming out of its socket.

Just relax, pretty boy. Emil lowered the trousers of his prison uniform. Do as you’re told and we’ll get along fine.

Stefan stared at the bulge in the man’s gray boxer shorts. The next few seconds would determine his fate. Sweat popped onto his forehead. Raped in prison? If he succumbed now, there’d be no end to it. Yelling for the guards was pointless. Even if they heard, they probably wouldn’t care. He was on his own.

Stefan quit straining against the hold the two guys had on him. You want a blow job? He feigned a smile. Why didn’t you just say so?

Emil wasn’t so easily duped. Anton, bring him over here. Hans, don’t let go.

Stefan forced his eyes from the yellow stains on Emil’s shorts and made his body go limp. The ploy worked. When the grips loosened the slightest bit, Stefan jerked himself free. He jumped to his feet and thrust his right shoe into Emil’s groin, hard.

The bully stumbled backward. He snarled through clenched teeth, You’ll pay for this. Grab him, guys!

Stefan pivoted to face Emil’s minions, but not in time to fend off a violent kick to his right leg. He collapsed, scraping his knee on the cement floor. He tried to roll off to the side, but one of the convicts straddled him, keeping him pinned while the other pressed his face against the floor. He strained to breathe.

Emil’s angry voice rang in Stefan’s ears. Big mistake, boy. I’ll show you who’s boss.

Stefan winced at a violent jerk that forced his head back and upward at a sharp angle. His eyes transfixed by the boxer shorts moving toward him, Stefan fought panic. He would not give in. If he had to, he’d bite the brute’s cock off. But wait, why was Emil retreating?

The sound of the deadbolt sliding back provided the answer. Emil yanked his pants up from around his ankles. The cell door flew open and two guards rushed in.

One pulled Stefan to his feet. Starting a fight on your first day?

These perverts—

The guard yanked him from the cell. Save your excuses for the boss.

He pushed Stefan down the hall, while the other guard locked the cell. There was no point in trying to explain. The whole thing stank. The guards had appeared so fast, as if they’d expected the brawl.

When the police had picked him up at his apartment less than an hour ago, they’d told him it was just to clear something up. Of course, he hadn’t believed them. He’d heard of too many citizens being swept up in the dragnet of the secret police. The Stasi was the most feared institution in all of East Germany for a reason. To clear something up was a euphemism for harsh interrogation, torture, long prison sentences, or worse. Was his name about to be added to the growing list of missing East Germans?

During the ride in the unmarked van through the city streets, he’d mentally reviewed the article he’d submitted for publication earlier this week. Always careful to toe the party line, he couldn’t think of anything that could have gone against official doctrine. Still, one never knew when the winds in a totalitarian state might shift. Perhaps he’d unwittingly offended one of the party bosses.

The guard shuttled him through the cellblock gate toward the administrative offices. Stefan wondered what disciplinary action he’d face. The thought of being locked up with rapists was unbearable. He slowed when they reached the prison director’s office, but the guard pushed him past toward an unmarked door and knocked.

"Herein," a deep voice bellowed.

The guard eased the door open and pushed Stefan onto the tattered linoleum floor of a small room. Flaking olive-green paint on bare walls made for a drab place. Behind a large imitation teak desk sat a man in gray uniform, black hair neatly parted. Dark eyes peered at Stefan through wire-rimmed glasses.

Gone was the guard’s officious attitude. He addressed the man, who looked to be in his fifties, in a deferential manner. "Generalleutnant, prisoner Stefan Malik."

The officer leaned forward, affording Stefan a glimpse of the two-star insignia of a lieutenant general on his shoulder. Guard, close the door behind you and wait in the hall.

While the guard complied, the general pointed to an angular metal chair that proved to be as uncomfortable as it looked. But more important things occupied Stefan’s mind. This was no ordinary army general, but a Stasi officer. What could he possibly want from him? Whatever it was, nothing good ever came from run-ins with the secret police.

♫ ♫ ♫

Lieutenant General Werner Heinrich watched the prisoner take the chair. So far his plan was working. He liked what he saw. Malik appeared cautious, but not obsequious like the guard. The task he needed to recruit him for demanded boldness. It was not for the demure or faint of heart. Malik’s blue eyes spoke of intelligence, and most important, he was as handsome as his file had promised. Who could resist the open face that suggested sincerity, the black hair combed straight back, the athletic build?

First pleasantries, then pressure. May I call you Stefan? At the silent nod, Heinrich continued, I’m Lieutenant General Heinrich. You may address me as General.

No response.

Heinrich opened the large manila folder on the desk. If you’re as smart as this says you are, you’ve figured out by now that I’m a Stasi officer.

No reaction.

But you don’t know why you’re here.

Stefan shifted in his chair.

"It’s not your writing. Your articles are entertaining and stick to the party line or Neues Deutschland wouldn’t publish them."

Heinrich looked for signs of anxiety or fear. If Stefan felt either, he hid it well. Perfect. A poker player mentality was ideal.

Almost time to start the recruitment, but first a little more praise. You’re here because you’re good at something we can use.

Stefan arched his eyebrows but said nothing.

Heinrich made a show of flipping through the folder on his desk. You’re a regular Don Juan, aren’t you? He looked up. Still no reaction. We know of at least a dozen women who . . . to put this delicately . . . who’ve succumbed to your charms.

Having sex is not illegal, is it? Stefan’s baritone rang measured but firm through the small office.

Another plus.

Illegal? Not usually. Heinrich paused for emphasis. Except for a couple of things. He stared at Stefan. One, several of the women you seduced are married. Two, you bilked them out of money because you can’t live on your writing. And three, our state does not look kindly on freeloaders who don’t contribute to society.

That’s why you had me thrown into a cell with a bunch of queers?

I’m asking the questions here. Heinrich leaned forward. Time to apply pressure. I hoped we could clear all this up with a friendly chat. Regrettably, you attacked your cellmates.

I didn’t start it.

So you say. Unfortunately for you, it’s your word against that of two guards and three prisoners. After a pause to let his message sink in, Heinrich continued, Well, there is a way to get yourself out of this. Put those charms of yours in service of the state.

An informer for the Stasi?

Something more important, more difficult, more challenging, and more fun.

Heinrich relished the quizzical expression spreading across the prisoner’s face. If you’re as good at seduction as this file indicates, you can get laid and serve your country. It pays well enough so you won’t have to hit up your lady friends for money.

Are you asking me to become a Stasi spy?

We call it ‘ficken fürs Vaterland.’ Fucking for your country is a nice privilege, don’t you agree? You’re uniquely qualified for the romance part, and we’ll teach you the tradecraft.

General, I have no interest in spying for you, fringe benefits or not.

Heinrich shot up from his chair, moved around the desk, and towered over the seated prisoner. Let me put this in plain language, Stefan. Either you join us and serve your country or you languish in this prison. You just got a taste of what that might be like. An easy choice, don’t you think?

Stefan twitched in his chair, possibly weighing whether to challenge the accusation of starting the fight with his cellmates. But he held his tongue, clearly sharp enough to realize that protest was futile; the court would hand out whatever sentence the Stasi dictated. Heinrich returned to his chair, all the while keeping an eye on the prisoner.

Stefan met his gaze. What do I have to do?

I knew you’d make the right decision, Heinrich said, as if the prisoner ever had a real choice.

He rose, stepped around the desk and shook Stefan’s hand. "Willkommen. Report to me at Stasi headquarters at nine Monday morning. And not a word to anyone. Is that clear?"

Yes, sir.

There’s a car waiting to take you to your apartment.

Heinrich escorted Stefan into the hall and instructed the guard to have him discharged. Long after they had disappeared around a corner, the image of one of his most attractive recruits remained with Heinrich. Stefan Malik was handsome indeed. He would no doubt make a seductive Romeo.

Chapter Two

The Assignment

Bundesnachrichtendienst [BND], Federal Intelligence Service, Pullach, West Germany, Friday afternoon, 15 July 1977

Sabine Maier drove her VW past the blue-lettered Bundesnachrichtendienst sign, anchored to the ground in front of a massive concrete wall engraved with an oversized depiction of the Federal Eagle—the emblem of all things official in West Germany like the national flag, banknotes and coins, and federal buildings. She waved at the young guard who stood by the open gate. He raised his hands in a questioning gesture, a not-so-subtle reminder of his repeated invitations for an after-hours drink.

For a moment, she thought about encouraging him. A few more years and she’d hit the big four-oh. How much longer would men find her attractive? Still, she cherished her independence too much to risk getting stuck in a ho-hum relationship. She shook her head and smiled sweetly. The guard grimaced and motioned her through.

She parked in her assigned slot and pulled the Beetle’s convertible top over her head just as the first raindrops fell from dark clouds. It had been muggy all day and now the skies opened up. She couldn’t decide whether to welcome the cooler temperatures or dread the prospect of another gray, rainy weekend. Whatever had possessed her to buy a convertible? German summer—an oxymoron.

She fastened the clamps securing the top, snatched her purse from the passenger seat, extricated herself from the cramped space, and locked the car. Careful to dodge deepening puddles, she made a dash for the building across the lot through the downpour.

After the security guard waved her through, she bypassed the elevator, climbing the staircase two steps at a time to the second floor. Breathing hard, she rushed down the hall past the secretary cubicles, rounded the corner to her office, and stopped. The door stood open, affording her a view of her boss sitting in a visitor’s chair.

The gray-haired fifty-something in a blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie turned to face her. Caught in the downpour?

Self-conscious, Sabine dabbed at her damp auburn curls, tugged at her red blouse, which clung to her body, and smoothed her black skirt. Realizing the futility of attempting to make herself look more professional, she dropped the purse on the desk and sank into the leather swivel chair. Sorry—

Bernd Dorfmann cut short her apology with a wave of the hand. Another rainy weekend. Perfect for working, don’t you think?

She studied his face for signs he was kidding. He often joked, but not this time.

You don’t have any plans that can’t be put off? he said.

She shook her head at the rhetorical question, not volunteering she had promised to take her mother to the opera Saturday evening. No way would she miss Don Giovanni, sold out like most Munich Opera Festival performances. She hadn’t stood in line for hours to give up their seats now. Her opera evenings were sacred. If he made her work, she’d manage to squeeze it in, even if it meant pulling an all-nighter.

Good. Dorfmann leaned forward. I’m giving you a new assignment.

But—

I know I’m working you too hard, but that’s the price you pay for doing such a great job.

Except for finding the mole in our midst.

Don’t blame yourself, Frau Maier. If there is a mole, you will expose him.

She knew if her boss had any qualms about her performance, he would tell her. Still, she couldn’t help searching his face for signs of insincerity.

He continued, We need a change in direction.

She sat up.

"What do you know about Rasterfahndung?" he asked.

Not much. It’s used to create profiles of likely terrorists. A kind of dragnet investigation.

"Right. It’s painstaking detail work that has paid off for the Bundeskriminalamt in catching Red Army Faction members."

You’re not assigning me to hunt down RAF terrorists?

He made a dismissive gesture. Heavens no. In five years, you’ve caught more spies than anybody. You make the BND proud. But in spite of all your arrests, we’re still being overrun by Stasi agents. We’re under pressure from the chancellor to use Rasterfahndung to stop this deluge.

She hesitated, unsure whether to raise her concern. Since he’d always encouraged her to voice her opinions, she spoke up. There’ve been rumblings about the legality of such a data-mining approach, profiling individuals through computer searches.

Once again, he waved her off. Never mind that. Until the constitutional court in Karlsruhe tells us otherwise, we’re not going to forgo using this method.

Puzzled, she stared at him. How does this relate to my spy-catching?

Good question. I want you to shift your focus. We thought the arrest of the chancellor’s right-hand man meant the end of Stasi spies infiltrating our ministries. Were we ever wrong!

Günter Guillaume, Sabine said, her tone hushed, as she recalled how the unmasking of the chancellor’s trusted assistant as a long-time Stasi spy had caused Willy Brandt’s downfall three years ago.

But now it’s pretty clear that the communists are still stealing our most guarded secrets. It’s as if they’re reading the ministers’ mail and sitting in on cabinet meetings. Dorfmann clenched his fist. I want you to put an end to this.

And you think Rasterfahndung can accomplish that?

Look, I’m going to be honest with you. I have my doubts, but I’m under orders to determine whether it’s feasible.

You mean you’ll have me work on the weekend learning about something we both know won’t work?

Dorfmann raised a hand. Don’t jump to conclusions. I don’t know that and neither do you.

You do realize I just told you all I know about it.

He tapped a thick folder lying on the desk she hadn’t noticed before. Nothing like a rainy weekend to remedy that. His stern gaze relaxed the slightest bit. By next week, you’ll be the expert.

She searched his face for a smile that wasn’t there. She sighed. You’re serious. All right, tell me what I’m looking for. Stasi agents in general or something more specific?

He shrugged. I wish we had more to go on.

Which agencies do you suspect have been infiltrated?

Dorfmann leaned back and studied her as if deciding what to reveal. After a long pause, he said, We can’t rule out any. But the type of secrets that have made their way east point to the Federal Foreign Office, the Chancellery, and the intelligence services, even our own BND.

A big job for one person, was all she could say.

Look at the rewards. You break the Stasi spy network wide open, and I’ll see to it that you get a healthy raise. Now he did smile. High time you traded that Volkswagen for a car large enough to keep you from twisting yourself into a pretzel to get in.

A silver Mercedes or a red BMW would be nice. She laughed. That prospect really makes me want to work all weekend.

That’s the spirit. He turned serious. Study that file and get up to speed on Rasterfahndung. I hope you prove us both wrong. But if you do find that we can’t catch spies that way, give me solid reasons why not. And if that’s what you conclude, you need to think of an approach that will work. The chancellor doesn’t like to be told no.

Dorfmann stood. First thing Monday, I want to hear your brilliant ideas for putting these Stasi operatives out of business. He strode to the door and stepped into the hall.

Sabine turned the file right side up. It looked every bit of five centimeters thick. Better get started if she hoped to spend Saturday evening at the opera and still be prepared by Monday morning.

Chapter Three

The Divorce

Bonn, West Germany, Friday evening, 15 July 1977

With a burst of energy she hadn’t felt in months, Monika Fuchs climbed the steps of the Stadtbahn station escalator. She clutched her umbrella, ready to defend against the rain that had been pelting Bonn all afternoon. While most women might consider rain fitting for a day of divorce, she did not.

She emerged from the station to a balmy evening. The rain had stopped, as if the weather had decided to match her buoyant mood on this day she’d regained her freedom. She restrained her impulse to skip down the sidewalk, hopping over puddles instead. A few hundred meters and she stood in front of Café Diplomat. A silly name for a restaurant, which would be out of place in any town but this one. Its international cuisine catered to the plethora of diplomats assigned to West Germany’s capital.

Monika almost chided herself for not modifying capital with temporary or provisional, which any West German politician hoping to get reelected was obliged to recite at every opportunity. Neither her colleagues nor the higher-ups at the Chancellery really believed they’d see Germany united during their lifetime. Bonn, not Berlin, would remain the seat of West Germany’s government for a long time, perhaps forever.

But why think politics on this day of her rebirth? Determined to let nothing sour her mood, she pushed the door hard, almost knocking down an elderly gentleman. He exited before she could apologize.

If the hostess had noticed, she didn’t let on, asking Monika whether she had a reservation.

It’s under ‘Sturm.’

Your party is already seated. This way, please.

Monika followed red stiletto heels and a swinging bottom that stretched the teal miniskirt to its limits. The long-legged hostess pointed to a table in the far corner. Gisela rose. Reddish-brown hair in a pageboy cut framed her round face. They hugged.

Congratulations. You’re finally rid of that brute. After a kiss on each cheek, Gisela let go and they sat.

Monika pointed to the half-empty glass of red wine on the table. Am I late?

No. I got off work early.

How did you manage that? I thought you told me the Foreign Office was a sweatshop.

Yeah, well. It usually is. But the minister left late afternoon, and I cleared out right after that. He works me hard enough when he’s there, I figured I deserve a break now and then.

Good rationalization. Monika glanced at the wine glass. What are you drinking?

Beaujolais. Your favorite. She waved over the waiter hovering near the table. One for my friend and another for me, please.

After the waiter withdrew, Gisela said, I can’t wait to hear how it went. Did Jochen make trouble?

I thought he might after all the haggling he and his lawyer did for weeks on end. But he was surprisingly civil.

You’re telling me the bastard behaved himself?

Hard to believe, I know. It was rather anticlimactic, if you ask me. A few perfunctory questions and the judge signed the divorce decree. You can’t believe how liberating this feels. Time to celebrate.

As if on cue, the waiter set down their drinks. They clinked their glasses. Monika took a long, slow sip, reveling in the sensation of smooth French wine spreading relaxation into every cell.

They studied the menu. After the attentive waiter had taken their dinner orders, Gisela raised her glass. Here’s to you and romantic adventures coming your way.

During the toast, Monika studied her friend. Expertly applied makeup smoothing out wrinkles of forty-year-old skin, blouse and skirt accentuating her voluptuous figure while deemphasizing the few extra pounds Monika knew were there—in short, Gisela was not beautiful but reasonably attractive.

Monika set down her glass. Romantic adventures? I’d take your sexy husband anytime you want to trade lives.

Gisela laughed. Not a chance. You keep your mitts off.

Monika raised her hands, palms toward her friend. Understood, of course, but Klaus is a great catch, and you must be very proud of your son.

A frown passed over Gisela’s face. Rainer is almost a teenager, and it shows. I’m not looking forward to the next few years. The frown disappeared. But let’s talk about you. Aren’t there any eligible bachelors at the Chancellery?

Monika scoffed. A choice between married fuddy-duddies, most of them bald with beer bellies, or overly ambitious climbers who’re in love with politics, certainly not women.

Yeah, it’s the same in the Foreign Office. Not that I’m looking. Gisela reached across the table and squeezed Monika’s hand. You’re young and attractive. With that great figure of yours you’ll have to fend off admirers. Just choose better next time.

You can count on that. Monika returned the squeeze, then withdrew her hand as the waiter brought their meals and more wine.

Midway through her pasta dish, Gisela said, Don’t tell me you’re going right back to the daily grind. You need some fun in your life.

Monika swallowed a bite of salmon, washed it down with Beaujolais, and tried for her best mysterious smile. Matter of fact, I do have plans.

I knew it. Gisela pointed her fork, her eyes playful. Do tell.

I’m on vacation for two weeks. Leaving tomorrow.

And . . . where are you going?

Viareggio. It’s on the Italian Riviera, close to Lucca and Florence. I can only lie on the beach so long and not get bored.

Sounds wonderful. Wish I could go with you. Watch out for those dark-haired gigolos pinching you. They do like blondes.

Maybe I’ll leave the bikini at home.

Don’t you dare! A holiday romance is what the doctor ordered.

Monika shook her head. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

What’s the matter? You look disappointed.

"You know me too well. I tried to get a ticket for Aïda at the Arena di Verona. It’s my favorite opera, and the open-air production on the giant stage is supposed to be spectacular. But it’s sold out."

Gisela again squeezed her hand. I’m sorry. Maybe someone will turn in their tickets.

Monika sighed. If not, I’ll go to the Puccini Summer Festival in Torre del Lago.

You haven’t told me the name of your hotel, Gisela said. Come on, don’t make me drag everything out of you.

Why do you want to know? Sending a good-looking bachelor my way?

Gisela hesitated. Right. She laughed.

There was something in her laugh, the way she’d hesitated, that gave Monika pause. But Gisela was a friend. There was no harm in telling her. Pensione Garibaldi.

Gisela nodded. Can’t wait to hear about your adventures when you get back.

They finished their meal amidst more small talk.

As she descended the steps to the underground Stadtbahn station, Monika wondered once more, why Gisela had expressed so much interest in her Italian sojourn. Maybe it was her way of being supportive, except she’d never been that curious before.

Chapter Four

The Training

Stasi Headquarters, Berlin-Lichtenberg, Monday morning, 18 July 1977

Stefan exited the underground station and squinted against the morning sun. It took him a moment to orient himself. He knew the Stasi headquarters were on Normannenstraße, but he’d never gone near the state’s most feared institution. Now he had no choice. Once in the cross hairs of the secret police, there was no way out.

A man in his thirties hurried down the sidewalk. His gray uniform, his imitation-leather briefcase that spoke of government issue, and his purposeful stride surely meant he was headed for Stasi headquarters. Stefan fell in behind him. The uniform led the way down Normannenstraße toward a massive building complex.

To combat tiredness from the weekend’s insomnia, Stefan took deep breaths. He’d fretted endlessly over what he’d done to attract the general’s attention. What reason could there be, other than having published in the state’s official newspaper? That had to be it, unless—he’d sat straight up in bed when the thought formed—unless one of his lovers had tattled to the Stasi. But he hadn’t mistreated any of them. Matter of fact, they’d been all too happy to help a poor writer with expenses, hadn’t they? If those thoughts hadn’t been enough to keep him awake, worries about being returned to prison if he didn’t perform had kept him chasing elusive sleep the entire weekend.

The man ahead disappeared into a covered entryway jutting out from a brown-brick eight-story structure and Stefan followed him into the dreary building. The man flashed a picture ID at two armed guards sitting behind a metal table. They waved him through.

The shorter of the two guards rose and stepped in front of Stefan. May we help you?

I’m here to report to Lieutenant General Heinrich.

Your name?

Stefan Malik.

The guard held up a hand. One moment. He about-faced and entered an office behind the table.

Stefan could make out sounds of a rotary phone dial and a muffled voice. Within a minute, the guard reappeared. Raise your arms.

Stefan complied.

After a thorough pat-down, the guard said, Wait here. Someone’s on the way to take you to HVA in Building 15.

What’s HVA?

The guard shot him a quizzical look, no doubt astonished that anyone could not know. Whether he liked Stefan’s looks or was simply bored with standing around and waiting, he deigned to give an explanation. "Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung." With that, he returned to his seat behind the table.

So Heinrich was a lieutenant general in the Stasi’s foreign intelligence service. He should have guessed.

A low voice interrupted Stefan’s thoughts. Herr Malik?

He turned to face a guard, who looked to be retirement-age. Yes.

Follow me.

With a pronounced limp, the guard led Stefan through a labyrinth of hallways, the pistol in his holster swinging with every step. The slow pace tested Stefan’s patience. He grew anxious at the sight of a wall clock that was a few ticks away from straight up nine. When the old man climbed a flight of stairs by dragging his bad leg up to his good one on each step, Stefan felt like running ahead. The general would not look kindly on his being late for their first appointment.

The clickety-clack of typewriter keys ceased when the guard lumbered to the top of the staircase. Stefan pulled up beside him, and they crossed the tile floor of a reception area.

A thirty-something woman sitting at a small desk regarded him, her eyes showing signs of curiosity. Herr Malik?

Stefan nodded while taking in her features—well endowed, short-cut brown hair, high cheekbones. As the guard withdrew, she spoke Stefan’s last name in a hushed tone into the receiver of a yellow desk telephone.

She terminated the call, got up and beckoned him to a door across the way, which he hadn’t noticed until now, its ochre shade almost indistinguishable from the surrounding drab wall paint. A plate at eye level displayed the general’s name and title in stark black lettering. She knocked, and at the sound of a deep voice, opened the door. Keeping an eye on Heinrich seated behind a large desk, Stefan took a few hesitant steps forward. As the door latch clicked into place, the general looked up and pointed to a small table with four chairs by a window. Stefan settled in a chair below the portraits of Socialist Party leader, Erich Honecker, and Stasi chief, Erich Mielke.

While the general shuffled papers on his desk, Stefan noted the absence of family portraits. Either Heinrich wasn’t married or he chose not to put his personal life on display. Stefan took a quick look around. Though larger and better furnished than the one at the prison, this office did not match Stefan’s image of a Stasi lieutenant general’s quarters. The blond imitation wood paneling clashed with both the dark-brown wooden desk and the olive-hued linoleum. A framed depiction of the Stasi emblem, a hand clutching a rifle with a bayonet, encircled by the words, Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, hung from the wall behind Heinrich. Large enough to hide a wall safe?

Stefan quit speculating when Heinrich grabbed a file off the desk and carried it to the table. He pulled out the chair across from Stefan, sat and placed the file on the glass tabletop.

He stared at Stefan. I said nine o’clock.

Stefan glanced at the clock above the door. Five minutes past the hour. I didn’t know which building—

I didn’t ask you why you were late, comrade. He slammed the file with his fist. I will accept no excuses. You will always be on time. Understood?

Yes, sir. Stefan suppressed the urge to point out he’d been at the office for several minutes already.

First lesson—disobey instructions or flout procedures and you’ll blow your cover. Never forget that.

Stefan nodded.

Did you tell anyone about coming here?

Surprised by the question, Stefan hesitated. No, I . . . I didn’t.

That sounds like you had to think about it. You’re sure?

Yes. Stefan held the general’s gaze.

No one outside the agency is to know where you work. Is that clear?

Yes, sir.

Heinrich pulled a paper from the file, slid it across the table, and handed him a pen from his coat pocket. It’s spelled out in our standard contract.

Stefan was scanning the first paragraph, when the general barked, Turn it over and sign. You can read your copy later.

This time, the general didn’t make any pretense of choice. Stefan complied and handed the signed original back. Heaven only knew what all he’d agreed to.

During the next few weeks you’ll be learning tradecraft from the best in the business. The general’s face gleamed with pride.

Are you teaching—?

No. The training is in Golm. It’s west of Potsdam, about forty kilometers.

But—

You don’t have a car, I know. A driver will pick you up at your apartment after lunch. Pack for a few weeks’ stay. It’s all arranged. Questions?

Stefan shook his head.

You’ll be trained in the essential tools of the spy trade. But that’s just the beginning. I’m going to teach you to be a Stasi Romeo.

Heinrich flipped through the open file. Here it is. He stabbed a finger at a paper. This will give you expert advice on how to approach West German secretaries, how to court them, how to establish a relationship, how to get them to trust you, how to get them to fall in love with you, how to persuade them to turn over state secrets.

Stefan fought conflicting emotions. While he enjoyed romance and sex, he always picked attractive women for his flings. Sure, he’d borrowed money from some, but he never faked love to manipulate them. The general was grooming him for something entirely different. Could he woo a dumpy-looking secretary, sleep with her, and pretend to love her, all so she’d spy for the Stasi?

Heinrich resumed his instructions. I’m just going to cover a few points this morning. Take this file with you and study it. When you come back from Golm, I’ll expect you to know every last detail.

Yes, sir.

Heinrich regarded him for a long moment, then returned his gaze to the place in the file he’d marked with his thumb. We’re interested in secretaries in the Chancellery, in government ministries, and other West German institutions for several reasons. They know more than you’d think, and many have access to sensitive, often secret, materials. Managers and ministers come and go. Secretaries stay. They are therefore an excellent investment for the long haul. Heinrich looked up. You’re with me so far?

Yes, General.

We focus on secretaries who are single or divorced, which is not too difficult. Believe it or not, about thirty percent of the secretaries in Bonn who work for the government and the parties fall into those categories. Heinrich sounded triumphant.

The man’s smugness grated on Stefan, but he managed to blurt, That’s great, General.

I’d say fertile hunting ground for you. Heinrich leaned forward. The easiest targets are lonely women who have trouble making friends. And if they happen to be looking for a husband, so much the better.

The general shut the file with a thump and slid it across the table. That’s enough for today. You study the rest. Questions?

No, sir.

Heinrich stood. My secretary will take you downstairs to get your picture ID. Then go home and pack. Be ready at one o’clock sharp.

I will be, General. Stefan picked up the file and walked to the door.

Don’t forget. Tell no one what you’re doing, where you’re going, or who you work for.

Stefan turned to face Heinrich. I won’t.

And that includes Traude. You wouldn’t want to do anything to harm her, would you?

No, of course not.

The mention of his daughter’s name and the threat it implied brought Stefan up short. He wanted nothing more than to charge the bastard and drag him across the huge desk. But he couldn’t, or he’d find himself back in prison. He grasped the door handle so hard that his fingers slipped. With his second attempt, he undid the latch and stepped out.

As he approached the secretary, he pondered Heinrich’s veiled threat. What would he do to Traude if her father didn’t do the general’s bidding?

Chapter Five

Rasterfahndung

Federal