Dawn at Helmsted

" This is Hotel to Delta. Oscar's cover has been blown. You are to terminate Oscar before any further damage. I repeat, terminate Oscar before he sings. Over and out."

2:33 AM, somewhere near Checkpoint Charlie on the East German side.

Delta arose from his make-shift bed - an assemblage of heather, bracken and leaves. In a corner of his tent was a flask of water, and he gulped down a few sips. Near the flask was a corpse – that of a man, head twisted, hands and body curled up and arranged into a foetal position for want of space in the tent. He was devoid of his clothing, which lay in a pile behind his back. Delta lifted the pile and donned the clothes even as he mulled over his assignment for the day. He would then have report to headquarters who would, after taking stock of the situation, decide his fate. If he were to succeed, he would be back as a Tunnel Rat in the jungles of Vietnam and amidst the treacherous Viet Kong. Else, Delta guessed, he might as well take his own life. He knew too much to be out there and at large, and he doubted headquarters might excuse anyone with his level of knowledge at classified information to take a break for a leak. Throwing cold water on his face, Delta recollected the invaluable use Oscar had been put to. It was a pity he'd been apprehended. Oscar had to go. And he, Delta, had to do it. He dismantled his gun, split the parts and shoved them underneath his shoes, and crept out of his tent. Come 5:05, and his escort to the Central prison would cross Checkpoint Alpha. The catch-words here were time, and unnoticed interception.

At 42, he was powerfully built, his broad shoulders doing justice to his six-four frame. His face expressionless and legs fleeting as that of a twenty-year old, Delta was a WW2 soldier who along with many had landed at Omaha beach on that fateful day. Later, he had served in Korea for a few years, followed by Vietnam. The CIA saw something in the Second Lieutenant that the US Army didn't, and fished him out for a top-secret mission in Berlin. Six months of training taught him fluent German. He took up the tricks of the spy-trade like a fish to water. For a year and a half, Delta ran a spy who the CIA codenamed Oscar, thanks to whom a load of West Germans who'd been buried away in the prison cells of the East managed to get home to the West. The Stasi had no clue to the disappearance of the inmates from the cells of Brandenburg and Saxony. They struck gold when a suspicious looking man landed up on the surveillance tape covering the Chief Inspector's office in Saxony, and the rat, as they called him, had refused to yield till now. The trouble generated by the rat was such that this piece of news had made the headlines in every German daily.

Dr. Hans Köller drove down from his residence before dawn to reach the Central jail and to take the place of the night-duty medico. At 60, Köller had seen both world wars. He had watched from close quarters as orders were relayed to the German Unterseeboot 20 to torpedo the RMS Lusitania. The whole idea about submarines dishing out missiles to bomb ships fascinated him, and he was very taken with the thought of guns, spies and stealth. He idolized the Red Baron and Mata Hari. Any attempts at emulating such heroism in WW2 failed during the Normandy bombings - he survived a major surgery after a ricocheting scalpel missed his eye by inches. He'd stayed away from the rest of the war, and took charge as a part-time doctor and overseer at the Helmsted Central Prison after he recovered. A majority of his journey every morning spanned a lonely Autobahn (or the German speedroad) stretch and it was here that Köller stopped over for a breath of the fresh air, all in an attempt to ruminate over the ongoing cold war. He was a hard-hearted communist loyalist who despised the West and its ideologies. Half an hour of solitude later he would pick a waiting compounder up from Checkpoint Alpha and head for Helmsted. Today was no different.

“You are?”

“Heinrich Schmidt, County Hospital at Helmsted”

“Papers?”

Köller glanced through the man’s legal status in East Germany. Any East German was good enough for him. Darned West Germans. Darned America. They had to interfere everywhere. That brought his senses to the rat. He’d kill him if he could. But not before he heard the rat's story. The rat was a spy after all. Köller put on his glasses, scrutinized the waiting compounder and pored over his photograph. Wife and two children. Lived in Saxony.

“I hope you know your nerves and syringes. Klaus before you was top notch. Pity he kicked it. You heard about it? They’re still investigating, eh?”

“Yes, Herr Köller. Very unfortunate. His body hasn’t been found yet, I am told.”

“Get on.”

Delta politely placed his compounder’s case in the rear seat, and took his place beside the veteran.

The medico and the compounder had their papers and baggage checked at the prison entrance, and made their way inside.They stood in front of the jailor who did a second check of their legitimacy in the prison.

Delta checked his watch. 5:24. The quicker he was done with Oscar, the better. Evading the Stasi would be easier before the sun went up on the German land. That wouldn’t be for another half hour. Time. He didn’t have much. His homework on the medico would have to be put to work.

“Say, Herr Köller”, he whispered “Isn’t this where I hear they’ve stashed up this West German rat? One hell of a time he gave our men, didn’t he?”

Köller screwed up his eyes. An apprehended spy acting against them. He had to meet this guy.

“I’d like to see the high security vaults first up.”

The jailor nodded, and a guard escorted the medico and the compounder to the high security vaults, cells here protected by a rusted iron double door with a vent for food and water. Peeking through the opening, Köller caught a pair of bloodshot eyes staring back at him and jumped. A mangled body greeted the guard and the visitors. The guard agreed that the inmate was a nasty piece of work. He smiled at the doc and offered to fetch him some water.

Oscar had been subjected to nothing short of near carnage. His face unrecognizable, he’d been beaten, kicked, and pounded. If anything hadn’t been done, it was the Stasi leaving a permanent imprint of their stamp on his face. Delta gripped his toes together. The parts would have to come together now. He slipped off his shoes in a corner and opened his case. Köller approached the inmate.

“So, you’re the spy?”

No answer.

“The rat, as they call you?”

No answer.

“I must admit, I admire you fellas. The audacity to act against the rules, the single-minded will never to be brought down, and when in fact you’re brought down, the nerves to act dumb.”

Still no answer. Oscar’s eyes shot to the other man in the room, who was getting his medical instruments in order.

“You don’t suppose I am here to cajole your wounds, do you? I would like it better to kill you myself, but I am a doctor, you see. My job is to cure, not kill. I save, not – “

Oscar opened his mouth in surprise. A split second later, the medico caught his expression, and turned back to see the compounder holding up a .45 aimed for an Oscar headshot. He had to do it. Now.

Delta lowered his gun, turned it a touch to the left. He fired a dozen silenced shots. The medico collapsed, his face and chest covered in sticky red fluid. It was impossible to tell the doc apart from the inmate. The compounder turned to the prisoner and whispered.

“My name is Delta. You have two minutes to switch clothes and get out of here with me.”

While Oscar switched gear, Delta grabbed a pair of knives from his case, and creamed them in the blood pool. Oscar helped drag the doc to take his place at the corner. Yelling for help, Delta hoisted the inmate over his shoulders and ran past the advancing guard who dropped the tumbler on the floor in confusion. The jailor was aghast, and watched in shock as the six-feet-four compounder thundered past him shouting sacrilegious terms against the West and betrayers of East Germany. Oscar landed on the rear of the doctor’s car with a thud with Delta at the wheel and they sped away.

A day later, the doctor’s cremation took place in the prison’s burial grounds, with none to claim his body and speak of his services to East Germany. While the jailor looked over the gravediggers’ shoulders pondering what caused his immobility when the wretched Westerner rushed past him with the betrayer on his shoulders, elsewhere, Oscar downed a beer alongside his agent and chuckled.

“For a minute, I thought it was all going to get over. That bullet through my head could have ended the misery.”

“Naw. I decided you’d live to see another day. You couldn’t die. Not after all you’ve done for me.”

Oscar’s eyes pierced Delta’s.

“So what do we do now? Headquarters will be after the two of us.”

“We run.”

Credits: Spy Game the movie starring Robert Redford and Brad Pitt.