Berlin Deceit J a m e s O. m i l l e r Berlin Deceit A city divided and broken by a Wall A historicAl novel James O. Miller An Ovi eBooks Publication 2024 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book Berlin Deceit Berlin Deceit James O. Miller James O. Miller An Ovi eBooks Publication 2024 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Berlin Deceit T he bitter chill of November wrapped Ber- lin like a funeral shroud. The city, divided and broken by the Wall, felt like two halves of a wounded animal snarling at each other. From the shadowy corners and narrow alleyways of East Berlin, whispers could be heard, murmurs of discon- tent and secrets traded in the cold. In the dim light of fading streetlamps, the streets were nearly desert- ed except for the occasional soldier stationed near barbed-wire fences. The city was a living contradic- tion. A place where every shadow seemed to hide a pair of watchful eyes, and every casual glance carried the weight of suspicion. Daniel Carver pulled up the collar of his coat against the icy wind. He had been stationed in West Berlin for three years now, long enough to learn James O. Miller the rhythms of the city and sense when things were amiss. The checkpoint behind him, with its armed guards and thick concrete walls, felt like a threshold into another world. When Daniel passed through it, he slipped out of the comfort of the Western sector into an East Berlin that had become a foreign, hostile terrain. A tall, broad-shouldered man with hair just begin- ning to grey at the temples, Daniel had the look of someone who had seen too much but wasn’t ready to give up the fight. He was an American operative who had once served as a decorated Army officer, but in Berlin, he was simply another face in the crowd, a nondescript traveller in a city full of wanderers. It was a silent November evening, the air so thick with fog that even the lights from the streets couldn’t cut through it. The smell of coal lingered in the air, mixed with the dampness of decaying leaves and wet asphalt. Daniel glanced over his shoulder as he walked; the shadows seemed to be lengthening, and he felt a familiar unease creeping up his spine. He passed a small group of men huddled outside a cig- arette kiosk, their faces half-hidden by scarves. They looked up as he passed, and for a moment, their eyes met. Daniel forced himself to keep walking, keep- Berlin Deceit ing his steps even, his expression impassive. Eyes in Berlin lingered too long, asked questions they never voiced. There was something in the air tonight, a ten- sion he could feel in the quiet. Daniel had learned to read Berlin like a living thing. The city’s breath- ing changed when danger was near; the signs were always there, in the way people moved, in the wary glances exchanged, in the too-quiet street corners where guards lingered longer than usual. Tonight, the city felt more like a prison than ever before. He tightened his grip on his brown leather brief- case, a relic from a different life, one that held more than just papers and tools of the trade. It was a con- stant weight at his side, a reminder of the risks he carried with him. Inside the case, among the care- fully folded maps and notepads, was a Leica camera, its film already partially used with grainy images of checkpoint positions and building layouts. The brief- case was his shield, his weapon, and his connection to the world he left behind every time he crossed the Wall. Daniel’s mission tonight was clear, but in Berlin, clarity was a luxury that always came with risks. His target was a woman named Greta Fischer, a German James O. Miller schoolteacher who lived on the fringes of East Berlin’s tightly controlled society. Daniel had met her only a handful of times, but each meeting had etched a little more understanding between them. Greta wasn’t an informant by choice; she was a woman pushed into intelligence by forces beyond her control, a pawn in a game where the stakes were survival. Greta’s small apartment was on the second floor of a run-down building near the river Spree. She lived alone, surrounded by memories of a life she once had and the ghost of her younger brother, Lukas. Lukas had been taken two years ago by the Stasi, accused of plotting against the regime. He had vanished into the shadowy corridors of Hohenschönhausen pris- on, a place where questions had no answers and peo- ple often disappeared without a trace. Greta hadn’t heard from him since, but every whispered word she passed to the Americans was an unspoken bargain to keep him alive. Tonight, she would be waiting by the old bridge, the one overlooking the Spree, just like every other time they met. Daniel’s instructions were to take the information she had gathered and determine wheth- er it was reliable. The Americans were convinced there was a high-level mole within the Soviet ranks, Berlin Deceit a potential defector who could shift the balance of power in Berlin. But Greta’s messages were always cryptic, and Daniel couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something she wasn’t telling him. Trust in Berlin was a fragile thing, easily shattered and im- possible to mend. James O. Miller II. The silence in Greta Fischer’s apartment was heavy, only interrupted by the occasional rustling of leaves brushing against the window. She stood by the kitch- en table, her fingers tracing the edge of a faded pho- tograph. It was of her and Lukas, taken years ago in a Berlin that now seemed like a distant memory. Back then, they were just two young dreamers, unaware of the storm that was brewing around them. Lukas’ broad smile and carefree eyes contrasted starkly with Greta’s sombre expression as she looked down at the picture now. Lukas had always been the brave one, the outspoken one. But courage in East Berlin was often a fatal flaw. Greta lived in a modest, worn-out apartment in a building with creaky floors and thin walls. The wall- paper was peeling, and the furniture had seen bet- Berlin Deceit ter days, but Greta kept it tidy, trying to create some semblance of normalcy. The small living room was decorated with remnants of her late mother’s life—a pair of porcelain figurines and an old brass clock that ticked softly in the silence. These were the only pieces of a past life Greta allowed herself to keep, re- minders of a time before the regime took control of everything, even the way they breathed. The pressure of living in East Berlin was suffocat- ing. Everyone was watched, and every conversation felt like it carried a double meaning. Greta knew her neighbours by name, but she didn’t trust them. There was Frau Keller, an old widow who lived downstairs. She was friendly enough, but her eyes always seemed to linger on Greta’s door a little too long. Then there was Herr Müller, the grocer who smiled too much and asked questions that felt like they were rehearsed. Greta was cautious. She walked to work with her head down, avoided eye contact with the guards at the checkpoint, and kept her voice low in public places. She worked as a schoolteacher, teaching his- tory to children who were being moulded into good little comrades. The lessons she was supposed to teach glorified the Party and the East German state, but Greta slipped in small truths where she could, James O. Miller telling the children stories of a united Berlin without contradicting the official narrative. In this world of suspicion and fear, Greta lived a double life. During the day, she was a teacher who kept her head down and followed the rules. But at night, she became a messenger, passing information to a man she barely knew, all in the hope of protect- ing her only family. Lukas was everything to her, and the only thing keeping him alive was her cooperation with the Western operatives. It was a delicate balance, one misstep, and the Stasi would come for her too. The message arrived in the usual way, slipped un- der her door sometime during the night. It was a small piece of paper, folded into a tight square. Greta picked it up with steady hands and unfolded it care- fully. There were only a few words, written in code, a reminder of the meeting scheduled for tonight near the river Spree. Greta took a deep breath and closed her eyes, letting the tension settle into her bones. This was how it always was, waiting for the next message, the next meeting, the next risk. She prepared herself with practiced efficiency, slip- ping the paper into the lining of her coat and tying her hair back in a tight braid. As she dressed, her thoughts drifted to Lukas. The last time she saw him, Berlin Deceit he had been defiant, refusing to believe that the re- gime could break him. But that was two years ago, and Greta knew the Stasi’s methods all too well. They were experts at breaking people, at turning defiance into despair. Greta couldn’t afford to think about what might have happened to Lukas in Hohenschönhausen. The prison was a place shrouded in secrecy, where men and women vanished into tiny cells and were never heard from again. The mere mention of the place was enough to send shivers down her spine, but Greta had learned to push those fears deep down, burying them beneath layers of resolve. She had to survive, for Lukas’ sake. As she left her apartment, Greta took the long way around to the meeting spot, careful to avoid the streets that were too quiet or too crowded. She knew the guards at the checkpoint by name, Sergeant We- ber and Private Hahn, two men who were just doing their jobs, but who still represented the oppressive weight of the regime. Greta greeted them with a po- lite smile, exchanging brief pleasantries before mov- ing on. She had learned early on that it was better to appear friendly than to seem suspicious. Friendly people were forgettable. James O. Miller As she walked, Greta kept her posture relaxed, but her eyes were always moving, scanning the streets for anything out of place. She noticed small details, cars that lingered at intersections, figures in the shadows, faces in the windows. Living under constant surveil- lance had made her hyper-aware of her surround- ings. It was a survival instinct, one that had kept her alive so far. The streets were mostly empty, with only a few passersby hurrying home to escape the cold. The air was thick with the smell of coal and rain, and the fog rolled in from the river, swallowing the city in its embrace. Greta pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and quickened her pace, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on her. Berlin Deceit III. The meeting place was an old bridge overlooking the Spree. It was a place Greta knew well—a forgotten corner of the city where the guards rarely patrolled. The bridge was crumbling at the edges, the iron rails rusted and the stones worn smooth by years of ne- glect. It was the perfect place for a clandestine meet- ing, hidden from prying eyes. When she arrived, Greta paused at the edge of the bridge, taking a moment to steady herself. She could hear the water below, its steady murmur a soothing contrast to the chaos in her mind. This place had be- come her sanctuary in a way, a place where she could let her guard down, if only for a moment. James O. Miller Greta felt a presence behind her and turned to see Daniel Carver approaching. He was a tall man with a serious expression and eyes that seemed to see everything. Greta didn’t know much about him, only that he was an American operative stationed in the West. Their interactions were always brief and tense, characterized by an unspoken mistrust that lingered in the air between them. “You’re on time,” Daniel said in German, his accent betraying his foreignness. Greta nodded, her eyes flickering to the shadows behind him. “Is anyone following you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “No,” Daniel replied, his tone confident. “We’re clear.” Greta wanted to believe him, but in East Berlin, certainty was a dangerous luxury. She reached into her coat and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. She held it out to Daniel, her hand steady despite the tension coiling in her chest. “This is all I could find,” she said, her voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. “They’re becoming more cautious.” Berlin Deceit Daniel took the paper without a word, slipping it into his own coat. He studied Greta for a moment, as if searching for something beneath her calm ex- terior. Greta met his gaze, refusing to look away. She couldn’t afford to show weakness, not here, not now. “You’re doing good work,” Daniel said, his voice low and sincere. “We appreciate it.” Greta almost laughed at that. Appreciation was a meaningless word in this city, where loyalty was a currency and betrayal was always lurking in the shad- ows. She didn’t want their appreciation; she wanted her brother back. “Is that all?” she asked, her voice flat. Daniel hesitated for a moment before nodding. “For now,” he said. “Be careful, Greta.” Greta didn’t respond. She turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing softly on the stone bridge. As she disappeared into the fog, she felt the weight of Daniel’s gaze on her back, a reminder that she was always being watched, even by those who claimed to be on her side. On her way back to her apartment, Greta couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. She kept James O. Miller glancing over her shoulder, her senses heightened by the lingering adrenaline. The fog seemed thicker now, the shadows deeper. She could hear footsteps behind her, but when she turned, there was no one there. Greta quickened her pace, her heart pounding in her chest. By the time she reached her apartment building, Greta was breathless and on edge. She fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking as she unlocked the door. When she stepped inside, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, taking deep, stead- ying breaths. The apartment was cold and dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside the window. Greta pulled the curtains closed and turned on a small lamp, its dim light casting long shadows across the room. She sank into the worn armchair by the window and let her head fall into her hands, exhaus- tion washing over her. Every day felt like a battle, and Greta was tired of fighting. She was tired of the lies, the secrets, the con- stant fear. But she couldn’t stop now. She had to keep going, for Lukas’ sake. He was all she had left. As Greta sat in the silence, she felt a tear slip down Berlin Deceit her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, refusing to let herself cry. Crying was a weakness, and weakness was something she couldn’t afford. Not in this city, not in this life. Greta knew that the next meeting would be even more dangerous, that the noose was tightening around her neck. But she also knew that she couldn’t walk away. Lukas’ fate depended on her, and she would do whatever it took to keep him alive. Daniel made his way back through the winding streets, his thoughts racing. He needed to get the information to his handler, Colonel Foster, a man who had seen more of Berlin’s underbelly than most and survived. Foster was a veteran of the intelligence game, a British operative with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He operated out of a nondescript of- fice in the western sector, a place where secrets were exchanged over glasses of whiskey and half-smoked cigars. When Daniel reached the apartment he used as a safe house, he locked the door behind him and took a deep breath. The room was small and sparsely fur- nished, with a narrow bed pushed against one wall and a wooden desk cluttered with papers. He pulled the folded note from his pocket and unfolded it care- James O. Miller fully. The paper was thin and worn, the ink slightly smudged in places, but the words were clear enough. It was a name, a brief description and a date. As he read, Daniel felt the unease growing. There were too many names on the list, too many un- knowns. And the defector, whoever they were, was a ghost in the margins, their identity hidden behind layers of deception. Daniel had been in the intelli- gence game long enough to recognize a trap when he saw one, but he also knew that sometimes the only way to spring a trap was to walk into it. The phone on the desk rang, breaking the silence. Daniel picked it up on the second ring, his hand steady despite the turmoil in his mind. “Carver,” a familiar voice said on the other end. It was Foster, his tone clipped and businesslike. “We need to talk.” Daniel didn’t ask what about. In Berlin, there were some questions you didn’t need to ask.