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 ACROSS THE WALL (A book inspired by crash landing on you)

A Cold War thriller of love, espionage, and survival in divided Berlin.

CHAPTER ONE

A STORM OVER BERLIN 

The sky above Berlin hung heavy with clouds, an iron curtain of its own that threatened to break at any moment. Hana Weissmann pressed her palm against the tinted window of the black Mercedes, watching raindrops collect and streak across the glass. She had always hated gray skies; they dulled colors, and colors were her livelihood.

“Not the best light for fashion photography,” she muttered, leaning back into the leather seat.

Her driver, a young man hired from Munich, gave a polite shrug. “The forecast indicates that it would clear up soon and we’re getting close to the checkpoint. You’ll still be back in time for your dinner meeting.”

Dinner. Investors. Schedules. Hana exhaled through her nose. This trip to Berlin had been her idea—an ambitious attempt to stage a cross-border-inspired shoot near the Wall, a collection that blended East’s austerity with West’s flamboyance. “Gray walls dressed in gold,” she had called it. To her, fashion was not just fabric; it was provocation, a way to remind people that beauty still existed even when divided by concrete and barbed wire.

The Mercedes slowed as the road narrowed. The storm worsened, thunder rolling like distant artillery. A flash of lightning revealed the Berlin Wall in the distance, tall and grim. Hana felt a shiver trace her spine. It was one thing to sketch the Wall in her notebook back in Munich, quite another to see it looming in real life, separating a country into two different worlds.

“Perhaps the weather forecast was wrong,” the driver said, gripping the wheel tighter as rain hammered the windshield.

“Regardless,” Hana said sharply, her voice steadier than she felt. “We will proceed with the plan. A little storm won’t stop us.”

But apparently the storm had other plans.

They were less than two kilometers from their designated checkpoint when the road flooded. Water pooled in uneven patches, turning asphalt into a mirror that reflected the lightning overhead. The driver cursed under his breath and slowed, but the car’s tires slid.

“Hold on!” he shouted.

The Mercedes swerved, fishtailed, and then spun off the road. Hana’s scream was swallowed by the crash of thunder as the vehicle slammed into a ditch, with mud and water spraying across the windows. The engine choked, then died.

For a moment, there was silence—only the rain hammering the roof. Hana’s heart beat rose and fell rapidly. Her shoulder throbbed where the seatbelt had caught her. She turned to the driver, who groaned and clutched his forehead, dazed but alive. Relief flooded her, but only for a second.

Because when she looked outside, past the curtain of rain, she realized something terrible. The ditch they had landed in wasn’t just any ditch—it was beyond the line. Beyond the boundary.

They were no longer in West Berlin.

Panic surged. Hana shoved the car door open, stumbling into ankle-deep mud. The storm plastered her dark hair against her cheeks as she spun in circles, trying to get her bearings. The Wall loomed behind them, its guard towers invisible in the downpour, but the realization was undeniable. She was on the wrong side.

“Stay in the car!” the driver shouted, but his voice was faint, muffled by the storm.

Hana ignored him. She staggered forward, her designer boots sinking into the mud, her coat soaking through. Somewhere in the distance, dogs barked. Somewhere else, a siren wailed faintly. She wasn’t supposed to be here—West German citizens who crossed unapproved were branded as spies. If she was caught, prison would be the least of her worries.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating a row of abandoned factories ahead. Their windows were shattered, their roofs sagging, but they offered the only shelter in sight. Hana ran toward them, clutching her bag against her chest. Each step felt heavier than the last, her heart slamming against her ribs like a drumbeat of fear.

Inside the factory, shadows swallowed her. Broken machines loomed like skeletons. The smell of rust and mildew choked the air. Hana collapsed against a wall, gasping, water dripping from her clothes onto the cracked concrete floor.

She pressed her forehead into her palms. How did this happen? She was supposed to be in Munich a few hour from now, sipping champagne with potential investors, not hiding in enemy territory like a fugitive.

Her thoughts raced: If the Stasi found her, they would never believe she had wandered here by accident. A wealthy West German fashion entrepreneur with a political background? Too convenient. They would call her a spy, interrogate her, maybe worse, make an example out of her.

The barking of dogs grew louder. Hana clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to silence her breathing. Every sound seemed magnified: the dripping rain, the groan of the storm against broken glass, her own heartbeat.

And then—footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate, approaching.

Hana froze. She wasn’t alone.

The footsteps drew closer, boots striking against broken concrete with the confidence of someone who knew this terrain. Hana’s breath caught in her throat. She crouched lower, her soaked coat clinging to her body, as she tried to make herself invisible.

A shadow stretched across the wall as lightning flashed again. Whoever it was had broad shoulders, a steady gait—not a patrolman, not the rigid march she had glimpsed in soldiers at the checkpoints. This was different. Predatory.

Then a voice, low and edged with suspicion, cut through the storm.

“Who’s there?”

Hana bit her lip, paralyzed. Her instinct screamed at her to stay silent, but the scrape of her boot against debris betrayed her. The man turned instantly, a pistol gleaming in his hand.

“Step out,” he barked.

Her legs shook as she rose slowly from behind the machine she’d crouched beside. Rainwater dripped from her hair, her makeup smudged, her once-elegant coat reduced to a soggy burden. Yet even in her disheveled state, she carried herself with an unmistakable defiance.

The man’s eyes narrowed. He was tall, his jaw sharp beneath a shadow of stubble, his coat dark and heavy. A scar cut across his temple, half-hidden beneath damp strands of hair. He looked like a soldier, but not one bound by uniform or discipline.

“Name,” he demanded.

Hana swallowed hard. “Hana… Weissmann.”

His brow furrowed. The surname alone betrayed her. Weissmann was a name whispered in glossy magazines, attached to designs that had made waves in Paris and Milan. "The poster child of West Germany fashion world" This woman had no business in the gridlocks of East Berlin.

“You’re West,” he said flatly. The words were not a question.

Hana’s throat tightened. “I—I didn’t mean to cross. My car… it slid off the road. I swear it was an accident.”

The man tilted his head, studying her. She could see the calculation in his eyes—the possibilities: turning her in for an handsome reward, or ending this complication right here and now.

“Then you’re dead; it just add to be now, with tensions between the West and East at an unprecedented level, he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Panic surged in Hana’s chest. “Please,” she whispered, taking a trembling step forward. “You don’t have to—”

“Stop.” His pistol lifted a fraction higher. “Another step and I decide you’re lying.”

She froze, her pulse thundering in her ears.

The man exhaled sharply, lowering the weapon slightly. He glanced toward the shattered windows, where faint beams of light cut through the rain. Dogs barked again, closer this time. Patrols. If they reached the factory, they would find her within minutes.

The man cursed under his breath. When his gaze returned to Hana, it carried the weight of reluctant resolve.

“You’re either the unluckiest woman in Berlin or the stupidest,” he said, slipping the pistol back into its holster. “Either way, if they catch you, we would never know.”

Hana blinked. Was he… helping her?

He extended a gloved hand. “Come with me.”

She hesitated. Every instinct told her not to trust him. He was dangerous, his presence alone radiating the kind of life lived in shadows. Yet the alternative—being dragged away by armed patrols—was worse.

Slowly, she placed her trembling hand in his.

The man moved with speed and precision, guiding her through narrow corridors and broken stairwells. His grip was firm, steady, as though he’d done this a hundred times before. Outside, the storm had begun to ease, but the threat had not. Flashlights swept through the distance; the bark of orders carried across the partial darkness of dusk.

“Where are we going?” Hana whispered.

“A place they don’t look,” he replied curtly. “And keep quiet.”

They slipped through a rusted door that opened into a back alley. Joonas—she still didn’t know his name—navigated the maze of buildings that lay before them, as if the city’s underbelly was etched into his bones. Hana struggled to keep up, her designer boots dragging in the mud, her lungs burning.

At last they ducked into a house, farther from the wall, with boarded-up windows and heavy locks. Once inside, he bolted the door and finally let go of her hand.

Hana collapsed onto a wooden chair, shivering violently. The man lit a single lantern, the glow casting long shadows across the walls. For the first time, she could truly see him: weary eyes, sharp features, a presence that was both menacing and strangely protective.

“Why… why are you helping me?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he poured water from a metal canister into a cup and set it before her. Only then did he speak.

“Because if they catch you, they’ll make you disappear. And I don’t like the Stasi deciding who lives or dies.”

Hana wrapped her fingers around the cup, though her hands still trembled. “And you? Who are you?”

His gaze met hers, unflinching.

“Joonas Keller,” he said at last.

The name was foreign, heavy with both German roots and something else she couldn’t place. But it was the tone that stayed with her.

Hana swallowed hard. She knew nothing about him—except one thing. For tonight, her survival depended on him.

The house smelled of dust, gun oil, and damp wood. Hana thought as she sat hunched in the corner, her soaked coat hanging heavily around her shoulders. She kept her eyes fixed on the man pacing across the room. Joonas moved with deliberate slowness, like a predator circling a cage—except she was the one trapped.

He checked the bolts on the windows, then tested the lock on the door again. Only when he seemed satisfied did he remove his gloves, toss them onto a table cluttered with maps, and glance back at her.

“Drink,” he ordered, nodding at the tin cup he had set out earlier.

Hana lifted it with trembling fingers, sipping the cold water. It tasted metallic, but she forced herself to swallow. Every movement felt awkward under his watchful gaze.

“You’re West German,” Joonas said finally. His tone was flat, but it wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Hana admitted again, her chin lifting a fraction in defiance. “I’m from Munich. I wasn’t trying to cross—I told you, my car crashed.”

Joonas studied her for a long moment. His eyes were a shade between storm and steel, unreadable yet piercing. “You expect me to believe that a woman like you—a well known Western figure—just happened to end up on the wrong side of Berlin?”

Hana bristled. “It’s the truth. Why would I lie?”

“Because lies are the only currency that matters here.” He leaned against the table, arms crossed. “If I turn you in, the Stasi will make me rich. They won’t care if you’re a spy or an unlucky lady. They’ll lock you away and throw the key into the Spree to make a statement.”

Hana’s blood ran cold. She had imagined prison, interrogation—but hearing it spoken aloud, in his calm and casual tone, made the danger suffocatingly real.

“Then… why haven’t you?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

Joonas tilted his head. “That’s what I’m deciding.

The words hung between them like a knife. Hana’s heart pounded. She forced herself to meet his eyes, though every instinct told her to shrink back. If she was going to die, she refused to do it cowering.

“You saved me from the patrols,” she said, her voice steadier now. “That was your choice. If you wanted to sell me out, you would have done it already.”

Joonas’s lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. “You’re clever. I’ll give you that.” He pushed away from the table and walked toward her, his boots striking the wooden floor. Hana fought the urge to flinch as he stopped barely a foot away.

Up close, he smelled faintly of smoke and leather, a sharp contrast to the perfumed investors and photographers she was used to. His presence filled the space, heavy and suffocating.

“But clever doesn’t mean safe,” he continued. “You don’t understand this side of the Wall. People vanish here. Whole families can disappear instantly. And me? I’ve already got enough blood on my hands to last a lifetime. Hiding you will only add to the list.”

Hana swallowed hard. She could see the conflict in his face—the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked away for a moment before returning to hers. He wasn’t a man without conscience. He was a man who had tried, and failed, to bury it.

“Then why did you leave me alive?” she asked softly.

Joonas stiffened, as though the question had struck too close. For a moment he said nothing. The storm outside had quieted to a drizzle, and the silence inside pressed down heavier than the rain ever had.

Finally, he muttered, “Maybe I was curious.”

“Curious?”

“About why a woman from the West would risk everything to come here. About what kind of story you’d tell when you begged for mercy.”

Hana’s cheeks flushed, not with shame but with anger. “I didn’t beg.”

That almost-smile tugged at his mouth again. “No. You didn’t. That’s what makes me wonder.”

He turned away, rummaging through a wooden chest. When he emerged, he tossed a coarse wool blanket at her. “Dry off. You’ll catch pneumonia otherwise.”

Hana pulled the blanket around her shoulders, shivering less from the cold now and more from the realization of where she was. She was alive only because Joonas Keller had decided so—for now. Her fate rested in the hands of a mercenary with eyes like steel and a past she couldn’t begin to guess.

Her instinct told her not to trust him. And yet, something about him—his choice to hide her instead of handing her over—hinted at a sliver of humanity beneath the armor.

Still, she knew one thing with certainty: if she was going to survive East Berlin, she needed Joonas Keller.

Joonas lowered himself onto a wooden stool, a faint groan escaping his throat. For the first time, Hana noticed the blood on his sleeve. It wasn’t hers.

“You’re hurt,” she said before she could stop herself.

“It’s nothing.” He tugged at the fabric, but the gesture betrayed pain.

“Nothing? You’re bleeding.” Hana pushed the blanket aside and moved toward him. He stiffened as she reached for his arm. “I’ve seen wounds before. I used to travel with my father when he opened factories in Asia—some of the conditions were brutal. I learned to dress cuts and burns.”

Joonas eyed her warily, but he didn’t pull away when she pressed the cloth of her skirt against the gash. He hissed through his teeth.

“You talk too much,” he muttered.

“And you pretend you don’t need help,” she countered. “But here you are, sitting still.”

For a fleeting second, something flickered in his expression—something dangerously close to amusement. Then it was gone, replaced by the hard mask he wore so easily.

“You should save your kindness,” Joonas said. “It won’t help your situation.”

“Maybe not. But neither will you bleeding out.”

He let her work in silence, wrapping the fabric tightly around his arm. It was crude, but effective. When she tied the knot, she looked up at him, startled by how close they had become. His face, scarred at the temple, was only inches from hers.

A storm of unspoken words churned in the air. Hana’s pulse quickened. For the first time since she had crashed on the wrong side of the Wall, she felt something unexpected: not fear, but possibility.

A knock shattered the moment. Both froze.

Joonas moved with lethal swiftness, snatching a pistol from the table and motioning Hana into the shadows. She obeyed, heart racing.

The knock came again, harder this time. Then a voice—low, accented with the clipped sharpness of East Berlin.

“Keller. It’s Brandt. Open the door.”

Hana’s stomach dropped. She had never heard the name, but the way Joonas’s body tensed told her everything. This was no friend.

He cracked the door open just enough to reveal the captain of the secret police, a tall man in a long gray coat, his blond hair slicked back, his eyes pale and cold.

“Brandt,” Joonas greeted flatly.

“Patrols are restless tonight,” Viktor Brandt said, his gaze sweeping the interior of the house. “A West German vehicle was spotted abandoned near Treptower Park. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Joonas’s jaw tightened. “Cars break down all the time.”

Viktor’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Perhaps. But this car belonged to Hana Weissmann. Ring any bells? Fashion magnate, darling of the West. She would be quite the prize for the Ministry, don’t you think?”

From her hiding place, Hana’s blood ran cold. He knew her name.

“I wouldn’t waste my time chasing perfume-scented capitalists,” Joonas said evenly.

Viktor’s eyes narrowed, scanning the room once more. For a moment, Hana thought he might step inside, peel back the shadows, and drag her out by the wrist. But then he straightened his coat.

“If you hear anything, you’ll tell me,” he said. “The Stasi rewards loyalty. And punishes the opposite.”

Joonas gave a curt nod. “I’ll keep my ears open.”

When the door closed, Hana exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Joonas slid the bolt back into place and leaned against the wall. He looked older in that moment, wearier, as if the weight of his choices pressed heavier than his own wounds.

“You heard him,” Hana whispered. “He knows.”

“Yes,” Joonas said. His voice was grim. “Which means you’re running out of time.”

“Then help me,” Hana urged. “You’ve already risked yourself by keeping me here. Why stop now?”

He stared at her, silent. The mercenary, the man who lived by coin and blood, weighing her life like it was just another contract.

Finally, he holstered his pistol and shook his head. “You’re a storm I shouldn’t have walked into.”

“But you did.”

Their eyes met. For the first time, Joonas didn’t look away.

“Fine,” he muttered. “You can stay. One night. After that, we find a way to move you—or you’re on your own.”

Relief flooded Hana, though she knew his words were no promise of safety. Only a reprieve.

Still, it was enough. For tonight, she wasn’t alone.

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ACROSS THE WALL

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