December, 1978 — Würzburg, West Germany

  A woman—bundled up against the cold in a heavy overcoat, hat, and gloves—sat on a wooden bench reading a newspaper. The noon sky was clear and bright, but the temperature recommended that saner tourists explore the Würzburger Residenz from the inside, saving the decorative fountain outside for warmer—greener—months.

  She was of indeterminate age—very little of her visible beneath winter clothes. She’d been sitting alone for fifteen minutes. Alone, but not unobserved. Her contact had arrived before she had, and was making sure that the woman hadn’t been followed. When he was satisfied he strolled slowly from his concealed position, walked the perimeter of the fountain, and took his pce next to her.

  The woman folded her paper and pced it on the bench between her and the man.

  “A cold November, and now a cold start to December,” he said in crisp northern German, even though he was from the east, and—by East German standards—the south.

  “Perhaps we will have a warm January, and an even warmer February,” the woman said.

  It was the code of the day. She had a book containing 365 such codes. The man didn’t need such a device. His aid had given it to him, written on a slip of paper, as he left his office. He’d memorized it quickly, then used his lighter to set the paper alight.

  “What did you learn?” the man—Erich Venske—asked. His official, though fraudulent, diplomatic title was Deputy Director, Commission on Biteral Standards for Trade Packaging and Goods Cssification. His genuine Stasi title was Oberstleutnant.

  “It’s all in the report,” the woman—Sigrun Keller—answered. She was an illegal. Illegale Mitarbeiter. No diplomatic cover for her. No simple expulsion if she were caught. Abteilung IX could, and almost certainly would, do whatever they liked with her. Given her status, she hadn’t rated a cyanide capsule. In any case, she cked the nerve to use one.

  Best not to be captured, she thought.

  The Stasi Lieutenant Colonel smiled. “I’ll read the full report when I get back to my office. But I wanted to hear at least a summary of it from you. I love your voice. I could listen to you read the phone book. We should have found something better than a print shop for you to work in. Maybe radio.”

  They were supposed to be strangers, but she couldn’t help gncing at him. “The print shop suits me just fine. No one notices me. Which is how I like it.”

  She clenched both her hands to keep the blood flowing. They were warmer afterward—but still cold. Most of them, anyway. She couldn’t feel the st two fingers in her left glove. A parting gift from an American CIA operative, his knife cutting nerves and tendons. She’d left the bde buried in his right eye—part of it sticking out the side of his head—but the damage had been done. She’d won the battle, but lost her pce in the war. It was babysitting work now, or some other assignment that didn’t put her life directly in jeopardy. But simply being in the west was a risk for her, and had been since she’d been a young, lithe, girl of eighteen. She’d been as green as they came back then, but she’d learned quickly. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have survived.

  Erich Venske kept his eyes on the dormant fountain. “As you wish. So, what did you learn?”

  “It was a trap. They were waiting for them. And they were well prepared.”

  Without thinking he turned towards her. Barely her eyes were visible. “A trap. How?”

  She shrugged, which he barely noticed under all her clothes. “They must have had a mole. Or someone talked. They don’t know. Neither do I. But the BND was all over the safe house they’d used the days after the attack.”

  Erich knew how closely the secret of those houses was guarded.

  “So it was one of them? One of the five?”

  A barely noticeable shake of her head. “She doesn’t think so. Though one of them—the young one—broke down completely when they were captured. Justizvollzugsanstalt took one look at him and sent him to Krankenhaus Merxhausen. He’s been spewing religious nonsense ever since.”

  “Tortured?” Erich asked. He’d tortured more men and women than he could count, and he couldn’t remember any of them going religious as a result.

  “Not a mark on him. On any of them. But two of the others weren’t quite right, not according to the prosecutor’s notes. They’re scheduled for competency hearings, that is if the Americans or Department IX don’t step in and take them.”

  Erich shook his head. “Five operatives. They trained for this mission for how long?”

  “Over a month.”

  “And three of them—vom Sockel gefallen. Just like that? No indication that they were mentally unstable?”

  She shook her head, but her eyes were cold. “Read the report.”

  He heard it in her voice. Something was wrong.

  “What?”

  She shifted on the bench. It was the first movement she’d made since he arrived. “I don’t know. At first I thought they were just covering for a botched operation. Making up wild fantasies. But their stories match. Down to fine details. There’s no way they could have cooked something up that detailed on short notice. Not in the short time before they were separated.”

  Erich Venske was clearly missing something, and he didn’t want to wait to find out what. “I don’t understand. What did they say happened?”

  She turned and stared at him, holding his gaze.

  “Read. the. report.”

  December, 1978 — Wiesbaden, West Germany

  U.S. Army Intelligence Review Summary – Internal Brief (7th Cavalry Regimental S2—Würzburg, FRG)

  Compiled by: Captain David Kellner, Regiment Assistant S2.

  Reviewed by: Lt. Ellen Rhoads, USAREURINT Liaison—Wiesbaden, FRG.

  Subject: Event at Schweinfurt Ammo Dump – Night of 4–5 December, 1978.

  TOP SECRET / EYES ONLY

  Summary of Event

  At approximately 0140 hours on 5 December 1978, five intruders armed with automatic weapons attacked the site near Schweinfurt, FRG, designated for storage of ammunition for the 3rd ID QRF (3-3-R7). The attack was repelled with no casualties and minimal damage. One female member and four male members of the Red Army Faction were taken into custody by US Army Military Police before being transferred to FRG custody.

  List of Servicemen Present

  PFC Aric Aamut?hti

  PFC Tyron Green

  SP4 Nicos Tiscarro—Detail Leader

  SP4 Danielle Trujillo

  PFC Boone West

  Summary of Servicemen’s Statements:

  All five servicemen confirm attackers opened fire simultaneously from the southwest fence line and from southeast of the camp.

  One serviceman was on duty patrolling the interior of the fence line. The rest were asleep in an FM 20-15 tent. They report being “trapped inside” for the duration of the attack.

  The serviceman on duty (PFC Aamut?hti) reports that he subsequently identified five attackers. He discovered one terrorist cutting through the fence, and took him under fire. While engaged he heard gunfire behind him. PFC Aamut?hti states that he took cover to return fire, and eventually to reload. He exchanged magazines, charged his weapon again, and prepared to return fire, but there was no fire to return. Everything was quiet.

  PFC Aamut?hti: “I turned around and looked toward the tent, and all the other terrorists were down. I thought Nick or someone inside had shot them—but there wasn’t a mark on them.”

  PFC Green suffered a head injury earlier in the afternoon on 4 December, and was either unconscious or disoriented during the attack, and had no memory of what transpired. Cleared for duty pending further evaluation and reinterview.

  SP4 Nichos Tiscarro was senior enlisted man on site, and in charge of the guard detail. He reported hearing gunfire but—seeing no bullet holes appear in the tent walls—assumed that PFC Aamut?hti was the target. He was first to reach the tent exit but reported a solid object impeded his progress.

  PFC’s West and Trujillo both report being woken by SP4 Tiscarro, told to “lock and load”, and that an attack was underway. At the sound of gunfire they dropped and began to combat crawl towards the exit. They reported that the tent began to fill with smoke, and assumed the attackers had blocked both the stove pipe and the exit in order to incapacitate them. They were attempting to find another exit when the firing stopped. A short period of silence followed before PFC Aamut?hti gave the all clear. They were then able to exit the tent unobstructed. Four unconscious terrorists were scattered around the tent. A fifth was discovered on the south west side of the ammo dump during a sweep of the area. Their PRC 77 radio was undamaged during the attack, and they reported the incident once they were convinced the area was secure.

  Site Findings:

  Hundreds of expended 7.62x39mm and 9x19mm Parabellum shell casings recovered from scene.

  No bullet holes or impacts found on in the vicinity of the tent. Considerable damage to two rge crates of ammunition and ordnance within the fence.

  Two grenade pins located. None of the servicemen recall any sound of grenades detonating. No bst damage was discovered.

  All five terrorists found unconscious, minimal injuries. Three deemed mentally unfit for immediate questioning.

  Summary of Captured Terrorist Statements as provided by German Prosecutor’s Office:

  Young Male (early 20s): Transferred from Justizvollzugsanstalt to Krankenhaus Merxhausen psychiatric ward. Refuses food. Repeating christian (possibly Catholic or Lutheran) prayers. Diagnosed with acute dissociation and nonspecific mania.

  Male, (25 - 30), superficial injuries, recovered from fence line: States that he no memories of the entire day.

  Female, (25 - 30) – Believed Leader of assault team: At initial interrogation by USACIC stated:

  “Ihr experimentiert an euren eigenen M?nnern! Ihr seid Ungeheuer! Wenn die Welt herausfindet, was ihr seid, werden eure Supersoldaten nicht ausreichen, um euch zu retten!”

  Transtion: “You experiment on your own men! You’re monsters! When the world finds out what you are, your super soldiers won’t be enough to save you!”

  Declined to crify.

  Other Two males, (20 - 30): Incoherent. Interviews terminated pending psychiatric review.

  Summary statement by PFC Aamut?hti

  “I heard the sound of the wire being cut. The clicking noise the wire cutters make when they break through the chain link. I called out the arm, flipped off my safety, and was moving to identify the source of the noise when I came under fire. I took cover and returned fire. I could see the muzzle fshes, and the shape of a man holding a weapon. I was hunkered down, firing at the man who’d come through the fence and was positioned behind a munitions crate. I stopped to reload, but when I charged my weapon again and prepared to return fire, there was no fire to return. Everything seemed quiet, but I was almost deaf at that point, nothing but ringing in my ears, so I could have missed something. The other guy had stopped firing, but he was too far away, and still behind cover, for me to see clearly whether I’d hit him. I turned around and looked towards the tent, and all the other terrorists were down. I thought Nick, Specialist Tiscarro, or someone from inside had shot them, but when I checked there wasn’t a mark on them. No blood. Specialist Tiscarro ordered us to sweep the area and retrieve the man by the fence. When we found him he was just like the others. Out like a light. He had shrapnel injuries from the container he been hiding behind. I’d peppered it pretty good, trying to get him to move into the open. But he never did. Can’t say I bme him, I didn’t move either. We were both lucky we didn’t set off an explosion. Neither one of us had any idea what was in the crates we were covering behind.”

  Analysis:

  PFC Aamut?hti’s statement is consistent with shell casing dispersal and damage in and around the fence. His description of the fire fight seems genuine and unrehearsed.

  Statements from other servicemen recount hearing automatic fire from multiple close sources, but none directed at the tent. SP4 Tiscarro concluded that all terrorists were firing at PFC Aamut?hti. Evidence does not support this conclusion. PFC Aamut?hti is adamant that he received fire only from the fence line at the rear of the ammunition dump.

  Statements from the terrorist recovered from the fence line were unhelpful. He remembers nothing.

  Statements from the other terrorists were equally unhelpful. Two refused to speak at all. One experienced a psychological breakdown.

  Female terrorist made statements suggesting cssified U.S. human experimentation—suggests an enhanced human asset was involved in ending the attack. Neither Regimental nor Division S2 has any information on any such experimental program or asset. Recommend escation to USAREURINT.

  Further Steps:

  Review service records of service men present—background, health, psychological evaluations, security clearances.

  Increase precautions around all USA ammunition storage sites and facilities.

  Cross-check previous incidents involving RAF.

  Coordinate investigations with BGS/BBP/BND

  Closing Note (handwritten by Kellner):

  Only one service man was directly involved in the attack. What little direct evidence found at the site supports his description of a firefight between him and one armed man. Evidence collected from the vicinity of the tent supports the description of all men who describe automatic fire from multiple individuals, but further analysis shows inconsistencies.

  Hundreds of shell casings, but no accompanying damage. Five unconscious attackers, four with no apparent physical injuries (but most with some form of psychological injury), one with injuries consistent with being struck from wood and metal fragments coming from the storage container he was hiding behind. No obstruction to the tent exit or the stove pipe was identified.

  The statement from the woman who we assume was the leader of the group, while impusible, cannot be discounted out of hand. Too many inconsistencies exist to discount any possibility.

  It is of course possible that the men in the tent chose not to engage the enemy, and used the story of the blocked exit as an excuse. But this does not expin the ck of damage, or the unconscious terrorists. And Specialist Tiscarro’s reputation for bravery and dedication to duty is unquestioned in the Regiment.

  Pending further review, it is my recommendation that we move to a heightened level of security, and have at least two men on duty at all times in settings that are likely to draw attention from the Red Army Faction.

  Lieutenant Colonel Mike Pastori set the written report back on his desk and vowed not to pick it up again. Every time he read it the facts made less sense. As USAREUR assistant S2 he thought he had seen it all. In his twenty-five years of service he’d been handed some pretty strange cases. Most of them had turned out to be just men lying to cover their asses or alcohol fueled psychosis.

  But some had not been.

  Whether they were genuine was a different question. All he knew was that a small set of incidents remained unexpined. The attack that was described in the report sitting idle on his desk, and the circumstances involved, could go either way.

  “Runner!” he yelled out his office door at the young private assigned as his gopher for the day.

  “Sir!” came the quick response, followed almost immediately by the man himself. Man. Boy, really. Eighteen. Not too tall. Painfully thin. He couldn’t remember which unit had sent him, but he was tempted to send him back with a note for the boy’s CO saying, For the love of God, feed this kid.

  “Find me Major Simpson.”

  Maybe I’ll have the Officer’s Club send over a pizza, he thought after the S2 Runner disappeared back out of his office.

  He barely had time to consider the possibility before Major Ed Simpson appeared. Mike nodded to one of the chairs in front of his desk and waited for the freckled redhead to settle.

  “What did you think of this?” he asked as he pushed the report towards his subordinate. Simpson gnced at the top page to ensure that they were talking about what he thought they were talking about and sat back in his chair.

  Simpson’s face adopted a well worn smirk. “I think they’re lying about being trapped inside. Wouldn’t be the first time men froze when things got hot.”

  They had both avoided Korea by a few years. But they had been neck deep in Vietnam. Three tours apiece, and two major battles for each. They’d met during their second tours—in Laos of all pces—when Mike had been assigned to 5th Special Forces Group and Ed acted as liaison between the CIA and something called Project Delta while also guiding Pararescue Jumpers to locations of downed airmen. Mike had left part of one ear there. Ed’s donation was the tip of his left pinky finger. Small reminders of the hell they’d shared—and the deaths they’d somehow sidestepped.

  “And the one outside? The one on duty?”

  Ed nodded. “Him I believe, at least about the fire fight. Everything about that seems consistent. But the other stuff…”

  His voice trailed off as he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why would he tell the truth about the fire fight then lie about the rest?” Mike Pastori asked.

  Ed raised his hands as if to say, Isn’t it obvious? “Covering for his buddies who chickened out? Green wall of silence? We saw plenty of that in the jungle, in case you forgot.”

  “There’s not one part of that experience that I’ve forgotten. But what could he even lie about? That he overpowered four armed intruders single handed? Without a scratch on any of them? He’d take credit for that, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t anyone?”

  “Would you?” Ed asked his superior officer, friend, and poker partner.

  “Bet your ass I would. Especially if the General was watching. Which he is. You know he is. And he hates mysteries as much as you and I do. So what do you think happened there?”

  “I still think they’re lying. But something else might have been happening in tandem. Maybe something with those Baader–Meinhof assholes. Something to do with that bullshit the head bitch was spouting.”

  Mike leaned back in his chair. His tie was strangling him. He hated css A uniform, but he didn’t have the luxury of fatigues. Not in his job. “You mean the super soldier nonsense?”

  Ed gnced at the clock on the wall. Thinking of his time in the jungle always brought on the need for a drink. “Yes, that. What was that, some weird left wing radical psyop?”

  Mike was going to call ft out bullshit on the idea. But then he remembered some of the strange shit the Viet Cong had pulled. Still—

  “Who would cook up a psychological warfare operation about American super soldiers or human experiments?”

  “Someone who wanted it reported far and wide that we Americans are inhuman bastards that will stop at nothing to achieve our pn of world domination? Someone like the Red Army Faction?”

  “So they do what? Fire a bunch of bnks rounds in the air, then take psychedelic mushrooms and all fall down, twitching, jibbering, speaking in tongues and screaming about American monsters afterward?”

  “It expins everything. But—”

  He paused, which gave Mike Pastori a chance to complete the sentence.

  “But why not just kill our men, steal our weapons, and take the win? Why the song and dance?”

  “That’s the thing I don’t understand. Who the fuck would cook something like this up? Some left wing cult of personality idiot on mescaline? Up until now they’ve been pretty vanil. Kill GIs, steal weapons. Release their political statements. Head to the gasthaus for bratwurst and beer. This is out of left field.”

  “So is what the woman implied more or less crazy than what you just suggested? An enhanced asset swooped in, blocked the exit of the tent, subdued the terrorists, then got the hell out of Dodge before anyone was the wiser? More crazy, yes or no?”

  Ed shrugged his shoulders again. “You’d have heard about a program like that, wouldn’t you? You’re assistant S2 for the whole theater of operations.”

  Now it was Mike’s turn to smirk.

  “You know we never get to hear about those programs. Not even the President gets to hear about them. That’s Cosmic cssified serious bck ops stuff. If it even exists. Which I’m not sure it does.”

  Ed raised his hands in defense, if not surrender.

  “I’m entirely agnostic on that point. Maybe they exist, maybe they don’t. If they don’t—good. If they do—I don’t want them within a thousand miles of us. They’d be half crazy and too powerful. They’d be as much a danger to us as to whoever they were aimed at.”

  Mike gnced down at the report again. The BND had been tipped to the location of the safe house the five RAF terrorists had been using. There was nothing there of any use, or so they cimed. He sometimes wondered if anyone truly shared everything they knew with their allies. He sure as shit didn’t share everything with the Germans. They said a woman had called it in the day after the attack. But that was all they said. Not how she knew, or whether she was an agent of theirs. It was just one more detail to this evolving mystery.

  There’d been sightings over the past year. Nothing like this, nothing involving US service men or terrorists. Civilian reports of bright lights at night. Objects in the sky, flying or hovering. Some reports said it was man shaped. Others said it was an angel, or an alien from Mars. He’d never considered Germans to be especially imaginative. Some of those reports had proved him wrong.

  But the other reports. A woman who’d been struck by a car. Critically injured. Until an anonymous man stepped in. Knelt by her for a few seconds. One bystander said it thought it was a priest praying over her. One said he saw the man glow, while another said it was just a headlight shining on him. The next moment he was gone. And the woman sat up, covered in blood but without a mark on her.

  Not a mark on her.

  It was a phrase repeated in other reports.

  Kein einziger Fleck auf ihr.

  Just like the report of the attack.

  Maybe, Mike Pastori thought to himself. Maybe there is something going on here.

  December, 1978 — Berlin-Lichtenberg, East Germany

  Hauptmann Joachim Rauscher read the report again, making notes in the margins with red pencil. His office in the Normannenstra?e Complex was cold. He had no evidence to support his theory that the temperature in all the offices in the rge building went up a few degrees for each increase in rank. He wore a regution sweater over his shirt and tie. And while his feet were concealed beneath his desk he indulged himself by warming his feet in a pair of winter boots.

  The man who sat on the other side of his desk had not taken off his winter coat. Captain Rauscher was certain that Oberleutnant Karl-Heinz Mertzig would keep it on even when he got to his own sparse office which, by Jo Rauscher’s unofficial calcution, would be even colder.

  They’d met in Czechoslovakia in 1968 during Operation Danube, where young Lieutenant Joachim Rauscher was assigned an even younger Lieutenant Karl-Heinz Mertzig as his transtor. They had worked well together, something their superiors had not failed to notice. Jo’s family connections had moved him up the ranks a bit faster, but not so quick that continuing their friendship had been difficult.

  “Colonel Venske really sent that to us for analysis?” First Lieutenant Mertzig asked his superior, nodding at the report. “It’s total bullshit, Jo. She’s lying. The whole team is, even the man who actually did his duty and engaged the enemy. They fucked up, and then covered up.” He was from Frankfurt. Not the Frankfurt, the one that sat on the border with Pond. He’d taken a lot of grief—still did in fact—because of his accent. But he spoke Polish, German, Slovak and Czech. Three more nguages—and if you counted the people who came from Saxony, four—than most officers of his rank.

  The thought had occurred to Jo Rauscher.

  “What about this note from the field agent? They think it was a trap. That the Americans knew when the attack was going to take pce, and where. That they were prepared, and waiting.”

  Karl-Heinz smirked as he tilted his head. “If it had been a trap they’d all be dead, no shots fired—except by the Americans.”

  Joachim cocked his head. “It could expin why none of them were injured. The Americans wanted them alive. Not the how, but at least the why.”

  “If they wanted them alive why not take them at the safe house? The BND knew where it was. They raided it the next day. Why wait? They wanted to catch them in the act?”

  Joachim rubbed his forehead. He felt a migraine coming on, and it was because of this verkackt operation.

  “Someone leaked the location of the safe house. That same someone leaked the details of the attack. The BND and the Americans don’t tip off that they know. They wait until they have something real to charge the five Baader–Meinhof members with. Then what, inject them all with LSD? And then wait a day to move on the safe house? What am I missing?”

  Karl-Heinz didn’t think this boat was going to hold water. “But wouldn’t the Americans come right out and say what actually happened? They set a trap, and it worked?”

  “Not if they wanted to protect their source. The one that tipped them off. I think your first theory more pusible than what Venske’s illegal put forward.”

  Something bothered him about that idea, and he hadn’t been the first one to see it. Venske had seen it almost immediately.

  “But when did they have time to come up with such an impusible—frankly unbelievable—story? And the Americans? They lied about being trapped in the tent? Did they all—Germans and Americans—sit down ab initio, smoking together while they cooked up their story? Hands reached across the border in friendship because they collectively shit their pants at the idea of a real firefight—and the possibility of dying?”

  Karl Mertzig smiled at his friend throwing Latin in his face. “You know, I hadn’t thought of that possibility. I like it. I like the imagery of it.”

  Jo’s face broke into its own smile at the thought. “It has a certain charm, I’ll give you that. But this detail—” He held the report out and pointed to one of his notes.

  Ein glühender Mensch.

  Karl read the note and shrugged. “So? A glowing man. So what? More cock and bull nonsense.”

  Jo shook his head. “They’ve been getting reports of a glowing man in that area for over a year.”

  Karl reached for the report and began to flip pages. “Connected to other Baader-Meinhof operations?”

  Jo shook his head. “No. Random situations. A hotel fire, a train derailment, car accident. Some woman reporting that a glowing angel showed up at her bedroom window and they made love all night.”

  Karl ughed out loud. “So—lunatics.”

  Joachim Rauscher raised his hands in the universal symbol for who knows? “Maybe. But you could almost draw a circle around that ammunition site and encompass them all. I have an idea on how to test a theory of mine.”

  Karl dropped the report back on his friend’s desk. “Do you pn on filling me in on this theory, and this pn, of yours?”

  Jo smiled. “Why do you think I called you?”