Chapter Text
Wednesday, September 13, 1961
After twenty-two years in East Germany, the mechanic claims to have seen it all. Or at least, she would shrug, everything that’s left.
It is not arrogance, but rather, a scathing pragmatism that makes her so sure. Gaby’s universe is rapidly shrinking before her eyes and she is dangerously helpless to stop it. Her stomach curdles with every bitter reminder.
She sweeps her gaze over the scores of abandoned apartments and the rows and rows of bricked and boarded windows. The buildings here bear their wounds gracelessly—scarred, but still standing. They are survivors. Just like their inhabitants.
Despite war and occupation, her city is unbroken.
Or at least it used to be.
Gaby grits her teeth in frustration. The Iron Curtain looms beside her like a second shadow. It dogs her tirelessly, always just over her shoulder, just out of reach. A constant threat, a taunting promise. It is now as much a part of her as her balletic grace and the faint scent of motor oil on her skin.
She chokes down the roiling surge of anger and keeps on driving.
It has been exactly one month since that fateful “Barbed Wire Sunday”. One month since the people of Berlin had awoken to a closed border, a sundered city, a treacherous expanse of concrete and wire.
One month since Gaby Schmidt found herself on the wrong side of a wall.
Gaby wills herself to look away from the Iron Curtain. She can feel the hysteria rising, cold and choking, the fear bleeding into the corners of her mind. Now is not the time, she gasps, as her fingers clench, white-knuckled, against the steering wheel.
Too late. The damage is already done.
The hurricane of headlines and rumors tear unbidden through her mind as she spirals further and further out of control:
A planned ‘death strip’...
Buried mines and trip-wire machine guns…
A tragic, three-story leap of faith…
Orders to shoot on sight...
A body floating in the canal…
Something primal snaps within her. Her pupils are blown, her breathing shallow and rapid-fire. Her hands are numb, heavy and bloodless, stinging with thousands of fiery pin-pricks.
Gaby is lost.
She is drunk on adrenaline and something far more menacing than panic. It is not desperation. It is a challenge, a goading nihilism that spurs her onwards.
It is the only thing she can focus on: a siren song thrumming in her ears. Her head swims with the temptation. Maybe freedom lies over the Wall… or maybe just on the other side of the road. Her car veers to the side as the Sirens’ purr their approval. She lets her mind go blank and waits for the—
“Survival is a long game, Gabriella!”
Her father’s words jolt the mechanic from her trance. She swerves back into her lane and the oncoming traffic roars by, a seemingly endless parade of blaring horns and shouted curses. Gaby doesn’t hear any of it.
All she can think about is her father. Why him? Why now? He was just a memory. A dusty collection of photographs. A ghost that hasn’t haunted her in years.
The long game.
He had insisted that his work was a necessary evil, that what was keeping them alive now would be what saved them later . At a time when today seemed tenuous at best, it seemed a fool’s errand to chase after tomorrow. But her father continued to stake their future, their fortune, their very lives on “Someday”.
Sixteen years later and she’s still waiting.
She doesn’t know where her father is or whether he’s even alive. Dreamers die a thousand deaths, she’d learned, and stamped out the flickering hope before it could burn her. It was protective. It was practical.
It wasn’t enough.
Gaby will never admit it, but deep down, there’s still a starry-eyed, six-year-old girl believing her father will find his way back to her.
She releases a deep, shuddering breath and returns her focus to the road. She wipes her sweaty palms on her coveralls and relaxes her grip on the wheel. The shock of her near-miss is wearing off, but she is still a live wire of nervous energy. Now is not the time, she repeats.
She never used to be like this.
Gaby is an exercise in contradiction, a case study in measured recklessness. Clever. Capable. The consummate survivor. A woman who learned long ago to hide in plain sight and adapt, no matter what the situation called for.
Gaby has been on her own the last four years and it’s a miracle that she has stayed on the razor’s edge this long. She can’t afford any more missteps.
But, with each passing, powerless day behind the Iron Curtain, the destructive impulses are getting harder and harder to ignore.
Gaby parks and lets the relief wash over her. The garage beckons to her like an old friend, promising a blessed respite from the world. There’s something healing about the physicality of her work: a certain satisfaction that comes from a hard day’s labor (even if it’s not entirely an honest one’s).
It soothes her battered soul in the same ways that ballet does. Gaby likes to think of the garage as just another stage, another company to train with. There’s an innate hierarchy, a rhythm, an appreciation for the moving parts.
The purest form of surrender.
The garage is her safe haven, her salvation, her home. The only place where she still has any sense of control. And, after the morning she’s had, Gaby can’t wait to reclaim it.
She’ll have to keep waiting.
Maybe Gaby hasn’t seen everything after all.
A man, a tank, and a Trabant await her like the setup of some cosmic joke. They’re in various states of disrepair: the man is impeccably-dressed, dishevelled in a rakish sort of way. He holds a bag of ice against his head and smiles ruefully before extending his hand.
“Miss Schmidt, the name’s Waverly. I was rather hoping you’d be in today.”
British, she notes with a start. Westerners are few and far between, even fewer since the Wall went up. It puts her on alert.
“And why’s that?”
“I heard you’re the best mechanic this side of the Wall.” He smiles, gestures to the peculiar tableau around him. “I wouldn’t dream of entrusting anyone less.”
Gaby is unmoved by flattery. “I’m sure there’s a story behind all this.”
“Not a very good one, I’m afraid.” He shrugs in apology. “I got careless. Took one look at the tank and the rest is a bit of a blur.”
Waverly winces at the mangled remains of the Trabant and sighs. Were he wearing a cap, Gaby is convinced he’d remove it. “Poor, young Trabi never stood a chance.”
She bites back a smile. The man has a disarming way about him, but Gaby isn’t ready to let her guard down. “You seem to have come out all right.”
“Ah, well, I never said I was driving the Trabant.”
His face is the picture of innocence save for the droll spark in his eyes. Understanding dawns on her and Gaby does smile at that. A shocked laugh escapes her.
“You stole a tank?”
“I prefer the term ‘commandeered’, but yes, you could say that.” Waverly pats the side of the vehicle fondly. “Not quite a Centurion, I admit, but the T-34 does have its merits.”
Gaby hums in response. She’s grudgingly impressed. So, the Englishman knew his tanks and could drive them too. She is about to ask him about it when she comes to her senses. The question dies on her lips.
“This can’t be here. You need to leave.”
She’s already scanning around her for any sign of the polizei, the Stasi , civilians who might inform if they saw her. Gaby’s eyes dart to her car. She couldn’t be here when they came. She has to—
“There’s no need to worry, Miss Schmidt. You’re safe.”
Waverly cuts off her protests with a wave of his hand. “Like I said, commandeered. Anyone looking for trouble will have to answer to me.”
“And who are you exactly?”
“The enemy of your enemy.” He smiles. Infuriatingly enigmatic. “I won’t call myself your friend just yet, but I think we’ll get there eventually.”
Gaby scoffs and motions to the tank. “Care to explain what this is really about then?”
“I hope you’ll forgive all the theatrics, but you can’t blame me for wanting to make an impression.” He smiles archly at her. Gaby eyes him warily and starts edging towards her car. She keeps a wrench under the driver’s seat. It might buy her some time if she needs to make a run for it.
“And, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve been terribly anxious to make your acquaintance… Miss Teller.”
“This is about my father?” She’s not sure how she manages to get the words out when her heart is so firmly lodged in her throat.
“It’s about the both of you.” Waverly appraises her critically. Before the mechanic decides to bolt, he continues on. “But first things first: have you ever been to London?”
He knows she hasn’t, and, judging by the glare he receives in return, she’s fully aware of the fact. “Would you like to?”
Gaby’s breath catches in her throat. It takes every ounce of self-restraint she has to keep her face neutral, but she can’t mask the waver in her voice. “You think you can get me over the Wall?”
“Oh, I can do much more than that. I can offer you amnesty, a home anywhere in the West, a new identity, if that’s what you’re after.” He lowers his voice and Gaby has to lean in to catch his next words. “And while you’re still in Berlin, I can extend my not inconsiderable influence to protect you.”
He keeps his eyes trained on the mechanic’s and scrutinizes every warring expression on her face. Shock, hope, defiance, and more than a little bit of fear. Waverly keeps his voice soft, smooth and reassuring. Enticing. “No more ‘inquiries’ into your particular line of work. No unexpected visitors in your flat. How would that sound to you?”
His words hang heavy in the air: a dizzying enchantment that Gaby doesn’t dare break. Under Waverly’s spell, she can envision a new life for herself, one she had forbidden herself to dream about before. Her stolen glimpse of freedom sings through her veins, roars in her ears.
It is intoxicating.
It is an illusion.
This could all be a cruel joke. A test. A trap. And yet… if this were true, what was she willing to do for it? Her stomach lurches sickeningly. What wouldn’t she do?
“And what is it you want from me?”
“All I ask is for your cooperation,” he answers, and then, almost as an afterthought, “and your patience. But you can start by answering some questions for me. When was the last time you were in contact with your father?”
“Not since the war ended.”
“I had feared as much.” He sighs, troubled. “And were you aware of Udo’s… contributions during that time?”
Gaby had been much too young to understand or be entrusted with the particulars. She shrugs. “He was a scientist.”
“A rocket scientist. Perhaps the best in the world.” He pauses to gauge her reaction. “It’s no wonder the US took such a vested interest in him.”
“The Americans?” She pins sixteen years of dread and longing on those two words.
“From what I gather, he’s been leading their nuclear research program. With considerable success too, I might add.” He starts polishing his glasses. “It’s all the more troubling, then, that he’s gone missing.”
“You don’t think he left on his own.” It’s not a question. If he had, he would have reached out to her by now. He would have…
Wouldn’t he?
A childish insecurity rages within her. In a moment, she is six-years-old again, wondering what she could have done to make him leave.
“Unfortunately, no. While he may try to contact you yet, the natural conclusion is that someone has gotten to him first. And that, my dear, makes you particularly valuable.”
“Or vulnerable.”
For the mechanic’s sake, he wishes he could dismiss it as semantics. But he can’t. It pains him. “That would appear to be the case.”
“So, I’m either bait to find him or leverage to use against him.” Her eyes burn into the Brit’s, daring him to contradict her. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
Waverly nods. He’s becoming more and more impressed with Gaby by the minute. Bright, talented, a little rough around the edges, maybe, but with enough training, he knows she could be—ah. He’s getting ahead of himself. One step at a time.
“I’m here to offer you a third option. More of an invitation, really.”
“To do what?”
“Choose your side before it’s chosen for you.”
Gaby scoffs. She gestures casually, almost cruelly at the Wall. “I think that’s already been taken care of.”
She hesitates, softening a bit. “But… if I could choose,” Gaby shakes her head and starts over. Settles for something safer.“What side are you on?”
“Broadly speaking, Miss Teller, I’m on the side of the greater good. The side that doesn’t want another atom bomb. But, if we’re being specific, then MI6.”
Ta-da, his smile seems to say. She doesn’t return it. “You want to use me as a double agent.”
“Our ace in the hole. Exactly.”
Gaby hums, noncommittally. The prospect both terrifies and thrills her. Think this through, she cautions.
“And what would you have me do in the meantime?”
“Nothing more than what you’re already doing. Although,” he adds, and is pleased to see the sudden fire in her eyes, “if you’d be so inclined, I’m sure we could put your skill set to good use.”
Gaby’s curt nod is all he needs for now. He doesn’t want to get too invested in her just yet, but Lord knows he could use someone like the mechanic. Any ally behind the Iron Curtain, even a temporary one, would be invaluable. One as gifted as Gaby would be a godsend.
Waverly indicates the now long-forgotten Trabant. “I’ll be back in a week to check on our patient’s recovery. That should give you plenty of time to think this over.”
“And the tank?”
“Gone within the hour,” he promises and can see how visibly she relaxes. “It’d be a shame to leave any loose ends, especially when I already pulled so many strings to secure it.”
Waverly has one more surprise in store for the mechanic. “You might want to have a look at the glove compartment,” he says, as he hands over the keys to the Trabant. “You never know what you may find.”
Gaby warily navigates the car’s crunched interior. She pulls out a nondescript box and frowns at the unexpected weight. She peeks inside. A pistol gleams up at her, alongside all the necessary accoutrement. Judging by the size, it looked like it would fit comfortably in her hand. More importantly, it looked easy to conceal.
“Walther PPK,” the Brit supplies. “It may be small, but it packs quite the punch. Much like you, I imagine.” He grins. “And just a touch more elegant than that wrench you’ve got in your car.”
Despite everything, Gaby finds herself returning his smile. She chuckles softly when he suddenly speaks in perfect, unaccented German. Should have guessed, she thinks, with a shake of her head.
“One week. I expect you’ll have an answer for me by then.” Gaby nods and turns to leave. Waverly stops her.
“One more thing, Miss Teller.”
“Yes?”
“Happy Birthday.”
And with a wink, he is gone.
Another man—no doubt a plain-clothes associate of Waverly’s—materializes soon after to retrieve the tank. Gaby watches as the hulking vehicle is steered away and replays the surreal encounter in her mind.
He’s a defector. The thought makes her smile, but there’s an edge to it: a shade of resentment, perhaps, or jealousy. But he is alive and that is all that matters right now.
And if her father is in trouble, she will help him.
Gaby clutches the box a little tighter to her chest. It is a touchstone, a promise. A ticket out of East Germany. Now is not the time, she thinks for the third time that day. But soon.
The thought gives her an unexpected sense of peace.
She feels calm. In control. Powerful.
For the first time in a month, there’s no temptation to look for trouble. No siren song to pull her from her path. The razor’s edge finally feels steady beneath her feet.
Gaby mulls over her father’s words as she heads into the garage.
If he could play the long game, then so could she.