Variant Exchange Page 25

  “Now, surveillance inside your own host sovereignty only comes with one singular problem: not spooking the target. This is because you are surveilling for the country you are doing it within. Therefore you don’t need to worry about where you sleep at night once you are finished. You have a bed, you have a life, you have normalcy. You can openly surveil someone with a camera because you don’t necessarily care who else sees you doing it, as long as it doesn’t set your target off. The worst that happens is that the cops get called on you, and you have to flash a badge. At which point they leave you alone.

  “Now, most folks that work for the Stasi are familiar with surveillance—rote spying on friends and neighbors, then providing information to the Stasi who further curate that information into intelligence. But when we are talking espionage...well, Lena, that’s an entirely different ball-game. Sure, you are still conducting the same type of surveillance and information-gathering tactics, but now you are not doing it with the permission of the sovereignty you are residing within. You are doing it inside of a country that doesn’t want you doing it. This means you have to worry about anyone seeing you, because if anyone spooks, it could mean a lot of trouble.

  “Furthermore, you have to use means of concealing your activities. This means concealing absolutely everything: your cameras, your employers, your day-to-day activities, even what your name is, or what your hobbies are. I’m sure you have received some sort of counter-surveillance training…maybe how to tell if you are being followed, or how to lose someone who is following you...ring any sort of bells?”

  “Yes,” Lena nodded, remembering Wart-face and the others.

  “Well, that’s all legally-sanctioned stuff. You don’t have to worry about getting in trouble if you get caught, because who’s going to catch you? Your employers? Worst case, if your target spooks on you, the Stasi will just send someone else. But in the world of espionage, if you are being followed, that means they know you are worth following. If you try to lose them, you only prove that you are who they think you are. Now, that doesn’t seem very smart, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.” she shook her head.

  “Furthermore, attempting to lose a surveillance team only makes their job more difficult. A lot of times, these folks are underpaid and work incredibly long hours out in the elements. If you upset them, they will absolutely bring the wrath upon you. That’s not something you need, is it?”

  “No, Sir,” she shook her head honestly.

  “Alright. So, your first mission is simple: when you get back to the GDR, you are going to build yourself a routine. This will consist of a series of cafes you eat at, a series of stores you shop at, a series of places you frequent for whatever reason. Do you know what “Three sides of a Square” means?”

  “No, Sir.” Lena answered.

  “It’s very simple. If you are walking west to east down a road on the right-hand side, picture that you are walking across the bottom line of a square. If you want to find out if you are being followed, you take a left across the street, which forces anyone following you to cross as well. Then, you turn right and keep going in the same direction you were before. Then, you take a right-hand turn and cross the street again…once again, forcing anyone following you to cross again…only to turn left back into the same direction you were first going, on the same path you were on in the first place.

  “Now, normally no one would be taking this winding path. It takes too long for people who are on a schedule. Do you know why you do this?”

  “Because if someone is taking the same winding path as me, that means they are following me?”

  “Correct!” Mr. Collins said happily. “Remember this: Potential, Probable, Actual. If they make the same first turn as you, they are ‘potentially’ following you. It may just be a coincidence, as they may have needed to take that turn anyway. If they follow you on the next turn, however, it’s probable that they are following you. And if they follow you on the third, well, you know they are actually following you.”

  “What do I do if that happens?” Lena said, a little scared.

  “Just make a note of it,” he answered. “Until that point, however, you are going to build a daily routine, and all of the steps you take on it. Every day you will do more-or-less the same thing, for most of the day. You will be the most boring person in existence. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Buy a puppy,” Matt said. “Puppies like to run around and get into stuff. They shit in places they shouldn’t, and run up to random people. This is a great opportunity to look around normally.”

  “That’s actually a good idea,” Lena laughed.

  “For now, just be boring,” Mr. Collins laughed. “Get to know all of your neighbors. Recognize their routines as well as yours. Know when they missed a day at the coffeeshop, or when someone isn’t reading the paper like he or she normally is. Notice when two people are talking that normally don’t. Make sure that you use the sidewalks for walking—that’s what they are there for. Cross the street at stop-lights, look at things in windows—not cracks in the wall or the sky—and make sure that you watch for people that are doing these things. Watch for people walking on lawns, or looking at walls, or looking around corners. Just...watch. You will be surprised at the things you see.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Lena said. On the one hand, her first mission sounded boring, but she could sense it was just the beginning. It was introductory training like she had done before with Patrick.

  “Second” he continued, “always remember this above everything else: your job is to know if you are being followed. And if so, by whom. Your job is not to lose them, confuse them, frustrate them or otherwise. If you are being followed, it’s much easier to recognize if it’s the same people doing it every time. And if you do recognize them out on a stroll, it’s much easier to convince them you aren’t up to no good by choosing to do boring things instead of whatever you had planned.”

  “We can always meet some other time,” Matt chimed in. “I’d much rather have a meeting delayed than have a dead agent because that agent really wanted to please us. Even worse is to have other agents exposed as well. So, if you are being followed...just miss the meeting and don’t sweat it. We’ll find out.”

  “I understand,” Lena said, honestly.

  “Besides,” he said smirking, “once we know you are being followed, we can do something about it. We are counter-intelligence, after all.”

  “Ok,” Lena half-smiled.

  “Now, let’s get down to the meat-and-potatoes of what we need you specifically for.” Mr. Collins spoke, “Normally, professional intelligence agencies pick their officers from the Special Forces community. This is because on top of needing folks who can talk to people and make friends easily, they also need a whole litany of skills we simply don’t have time to teach them: using a compass, using a gun, basic survival—that sort of thing. It’s a kinetic world, and sometimes we need the right person right now—not after a two-year school spent teaching them things that the military already could’ve.

  “Luckily, since this means that most of our officers already have these skills, and because we’re civilians that Geneva Conventions don’t apply to, it’s we who are charged with what’s referred to as ‘Covert Action’. There’s many different forms that Covert Action can take, but most falls under one major umbrella: making things happen in the political realm by pulling the strings of the mass populace. This is something that musicians happen to be uniquely suited for, which is where you and Matt come in.”

  “Congratulations!” Matt said, as he sardonically saluted Lena. “We’re all gonna die!”

  “Now,” Mr. Collins laughed, “we aren’t going to teach you how to fast-rope or jump out of helicopters. As I just said, we don’t have the time for that level of training, and Matt is already plenty good at that sort of nonsense. Luckily, we don’t need to teach you anything
like that, because you have something far more important to us than the skills that our agents already possess: intimate first-hand knowledge of the culture we are trying to initiate covert action within. Sure, Matt here speaks German, but he’s British. He doesn’t speak East-German, or East Berliner. He doesn’t know the slang, the cultural references, the favorite beers, or the reason why you root for one sports team over another.”

  “Why would that matter?” Lena asked honestly.

  “Well, let me ask you this...” Mr. Collins started as he waved his hand at her, “What’s up?”

  “The sky?” Lena responded, feeling somewhat silly.

  “Right,” Mr. Collins laughed. “In America, no young person ever says ‘Hello’ as a formal greeting. They say, ‘What’s up?’ as common slang. To a German, that’s an utterly meaningless statement. This is a lesson we learned in WWII when American, British and French agents were found out by the Nazi SS during meals—the Americans held their forks and spoons differently than the Europeans did.”

  “Really?” Lena boggled.

  “Oh yes. Believe it or not, Americans, Germans, and Japanese, all shake hands differently. You would expect a supposed Japanese native in Japan to greet other Japanese the way his fellow countrymen did, with curtesy and sincere respect for the other person’s space. If, instead, this Japanese native grabbed the other’s hand and pumped it in a display of dominance, well, you might very well have a non-native— and probable American—on your hands.

  “Of course, you would then wonder why this individual is posing as a Japanese native if he has very little grasp of their customs. Believe it or not, other cultures eat differently too. This extends not only to local cuisine, but tastes: Germans prefer bitter tasting snacks, whereas Americans eat excessively sweet food. Whole South-east Asian cultures might eat foods considered taboo in Europe, such as eyeballs or placenta, while in Iceland fermented shark is completely normal.

  “In America, we bring our heads down to our food, while in the rest of the world they bring the food up. It’s these little idiosyncrasies that we have to account for. With you working for us in the GDR, however, we already know they are accounted for because it’s something you innately know.

  “Now, originally, we had a different agent planned out for this covert action. He was a very strong asset, and wonderful to work with. Unfortunately, a Soviet GRU counter-intelligence campaign ended up putting him in a position where we now need to rescue him before we can get the work officially started. I believe you already know a young man by the name of Hans Schmidt?”

  Vivika was breathing hard as she stumbled down a dark alleyway. Under normal circumstances, this would be comfortable for her. She was of ‘the filth’—the undercurrent of the under-represented and under-noticed—an untouchable, by polite standards. Alleyways meant no less and no more to her than a roaring fire warming a house inside a fireplace, or burning the house down along with its inhabitants. A life poorly-lived in austerity and brief spurts of performance anxiety enabled her to sleep as well as she could, wherever her head lay that evening.

  These weren’t normal circumstances, however. These days, nothing could be described as ‘normal’ even by her twisted standards. She was used to ducking the Stasi. Even after spending her time in the black cells, she had gotten used to flying under their radar, avoiding any untoward scrutiny. And yet, it appeared that she had finally rung her own bell. She had been warned. And now that she was in a different country, with different rules and different alleyways, well, it appeared that the devil had finally come to take his pound of flesh. She knew he was coming, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Yet, as the heavy boots tromped quickly after her through the foggy slime of the dark locales, she only wanted to stave it off just a little longer. She knew the wearer of those boots, and she knew what he meant to do to her.

  “Vivika!” The whispering voice taunted, harsh in the cold air, “Oh Vivika!”

  She feared him. She had feared him from the moment she had laid eyes on him. Victor was supposedly their lowly, mild-mannered tour manager. But she knew the truth. She always knew the truth that lay behind the eyes of men. He was a liar—a very talented liar, and precisely the opposite of the persona he had assumed. And as he called her name behind her in that annoyed-yet-triumphant tone, she knew there would be no more forestalling the inevitable.

  “Vivika!” he menaced, “It’s been a long night, and I don’t want to play games. Show yourself.”

  She knew it was the right thing to do: to just rip the band-aid off and let the chips fall where they may. There was no sense hiding; he would find her. There was no use fighting; his was the kind that could (and would) beat her to a bloody pulp and leave her for dead without a second thought. Her best chance for survival—now that she had run out of road—was to confront him and give him what he wanted. It would be better this way...even if not much better.

  Shuddering, less from the cold and more from intense personal terror, she stopped and turned. Goosebumps spread like a rash on her skin as every second brought fate closer and closer like a knife’s edge slowly splitting the back of her shirt in two.

  “That’s right,” he spoke from an ever-decreasing distance, recognizing that she had stopped, “no need to be uncivilized about this.”

  “I...I...” she stammered, but no particularly helpful words helped her.

  “Oh, don’t try,” he jested, as he came into view. “Talking isn’t your strong-suit, my dear.”

  There he was: an otherwise handsome young man with otherwise beautiful eyes that flared wide with power. He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly...no, it was sadistic and triumphant. He smelled of victory and reeked of violence. Whatever he had spent the previous hours doing had emboldened him in no small way. He looked the way a wolf would look, paws wet with raw flesh and breath steaming from the kill. His eyes were wide with gore, and his memories were filled with the scent of the dead.

  “Patrick...” she tried to start again. This was a mistake, and he caught onto her immediately.

  “Shut your mouth!” he hissed. “You know the rules! On this side of the wall, we are different people, you and I.”

  “W-we are in an alleyway...V-victor...what could our real names matter?” she whimpered.

  “They matter. So long as you are alive, you will play the game, or else I will have no further use for you. And you know what that means.”

  “Yes,” she answered, stemming the flow of fear that welled up in her throat. “Yes...I’m sorry. You are right...I do.”

  “Good girl,” he said softly. “Now. We have much to discuss.”

  “Wh-where are the others?” she said, attempting to buy herself some time. “I haven’t seen them since the show ended.”

  “Oh, they…finally escaped to the West. You know, made a better life for themselves.”

  “I’m happy for them,” she said. They were the right words to say, of course, but she knew better. She knew they were dead. She had known this would happen since she first laid eyes on their killer. And now it was her turn to suffer, “Did they...escape...painlessly?”

  “Of course. I’m not a monster. I do what I’m told because I have to; not because I want to.”

  “But you still...” she said, “uh...let them escape.”

  “You know I have no choice. We can’t have folks sleeping in our country who sing the songs that they sing. The wrong song to the wrong set of ears, and it could jeopardize me and my organization.”

  “But...you didn’t ki-...I mean, you won’t let me escape.” she caught herself.

  “That’s because I like you,” he taunted. “I already told you. I’m never going to let you escape. You mean too much to me.”

  She knew he was still speaking in code—but he wasn’t. The words burned like fire. Theirs was an arrangement of secrecy. She knew this, and she wanted to be thankful to him for it, but somet
imes it was really, really hard to be. Especially once he moved towards her and started slowly kissing her neck.

  “Victor...” she started slowly.

  “Yes?” he said, as he nibbled on her.

  Oh, how she missed the days when she could pretend she enjoyed this. Those days were now long gone. She couldn’t even convince him she liked it anymore. Yet that didn’t seem to deter him one bit. He may have been some sort of super spymaster, but he was a man all the same and men told themselves what they wanted to hear.

  “...in...i-in an alleyway?” she asked, as tears and a familiar urge to vomit began welling up.

  “We are far from home,” he said between kisses as he lowered the strap on one of her shoulders. “And this is the real world. No one here cares what’s happening to you.”

  Schadenfreude

  The van rolled slowly through Checkpoint Charlie, this time going the other way. Again, the American soldiers yelled crazily, and again the Germans yelled back. The word ‘back’ could perhaps be loosely used, as while the soldiers were indeed yelling at each other, it seemed to be more for appearances and personal entertainment than anything else. Indeed, everyone here seemed to be caught up in yelling about nothing in particular, for no apparent reason, as if this were the daily state of things. No particularly convicting reason could be found for all the pandemonium, and none of the van’s occupants seemed all that interested in watching intently. Although, Lena did catch one loud exchange.

  “Knocking, knocking!” one American shouted in very bad German.

  “What do you want?” a German soldier responded in his native tongue.

  “Nothing, in joke!” the American responded, stuttering as if trying to repeat a phrase another soldier was giving him.