Mystery Writers of America Presents Ice Cold: Tales of Intrigue From the Cold War by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Short Stories & Anthologies, Anthologies, United States, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Anthologies & Literature Collections, Genre Fiction, Collections & Anthologies
ISBN: 9781455520718
Amazon: B00ECEA316
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2014-04-02T05:00:00+00:00

II

Emilie’s Kreutzberg building would have been visible from Conrad’s side of Berlin, if he had known where to look. It turned out she hadn’t made it very far, but west was west and east was east whether you were an inch or a mile from the border.

Her window was open. From the street below he saw stained white curtains billowing on a lackadaisical summer breeze. A couple of books were piled beside a crusty-looking glass half-full with water. The high wail of a baby crying followed a breeze onto the street, landing painfully in Conrad’s ears.

The building’s front door was unsecured so he walked right in. He took the steps in pairs until he reached the third floor, breathless, and knocked three times.

Emilie’s porcelain face, stiff as a doll’s, held its composure when she opened her door and found him. “I saw the papers.” She wore the same crimson lipstick she used to.

“May I come in?”

“What took you so long?”

“I’ve been busy.” He didn’t have to explain why it had taken him nearly a week to find her. Defectors were always held and questioned by the Allies until their motivations were fully understood.

She was dressed for the office, in a skirt and blouse, and was barefoot; the red polish on her toenails was badly chipped. Conrad stood at the entrance of her small living room and listened for a baby. The tepid silence unnerved him. He was sure he’d heard it crying.

“Where is it?”

“What a nice greeting.” She plopped down on a tattered couch, bundling her knees in front of her. There was little furniture in the place other than the couch and a table with a single chair. There was no sign of a child. On a mantel across the room a pair of bricks served as bookends, with a single book lapsed sideways between them. This was the Emilie he remembered: haphazard, improvisational, a reader. Often selfish. “Why are you here, Connie?”

She had once whispered that in his ear at the height of passion. Connie. Teasing him, calling him a woman’s name, just at his moment of release. She had been his first and only lover. He had assumed they would marry, and was devastated when she disappeared across the border without warning.

“Just tell me: Is it true you had our baby?”

Her eyes were black scythes in a white face. A new pageboy haircut made her severe. Finally, she answered, “I gave it up. I had to. I couldn’t make it on my own with a child.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were expecting?”

“I didn’t know until I was already here, and then it didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t going back, and you weren’t coming over. You were always too good a comrade for me.”

“And yet here I am.”

“Why?”

It was an excellent question. “The truth is, I’d rather be home.”

“But you defected.”

“It was an impulse. I wanted to…” Words failed him. It wasn’t as simple as finding her and learning the truth. He’d wanted to get away from Muller, and from the black bicycle.

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