“Report, One,” he said.
“The lobby’s clear,” crackled a metallic voice.
“Two?”
“Nothing in the hall. The door’s locked, no sound from inside.”
“Four?”
“Three’s with me. No sign of Apfel or the wife.”
“Stay awake,” Kosov said gruffly. “Out.”
Shit, he thought, how long will it take? Sitting in this ball-freezing cold, chattering over the short-range radios as if simply alternating frequencies could mask the Russian-accented commands ricocheting through the Berlin audio net like lines from a bad movie. He wished there were another way. But he knew there wasn’t.
Three floors above Kosov, the door to apartment 43 opened and two garishly made-up redheads stepped into the hallway. One locked the door while her young companion stared invitingly at the man standing at attention outside apartment 40. The young woman nudged her middle-aged companion, who chuckled and led the way over to the silent man. “Mein Susser,” Eva flirted in a husky voice. “All alone up here tonight?”
Taken aback by her directness, the Russian stared back in silence. She’s at least fifty, he thought, much too old for my taste. But you’re something else altogether he thought, hungrily eyeing the younger woman’s cleavage. With a flash of surprise, he realized that she was the demure blonde he had seen enter apartment 43 twenty minutes earlier. He barely recognized her beneath the heavy makeup and wig, She can’t be more than twenty-five, he guessed, and breasts like a Georgian goddess. “Guten Abend, Fraulein,” he said to the younger woman. I think you looked much better before.”
Ilse felt her throat tighten.
“I think he’s set on you, Helga,” Eva said, laughing. She patted the Russian on his rear. “Too bad, dearie, little Helga’s booked for tonight. But you’re in luck. I know a dozen tricks this child’s never even heard of. What do you say?” .
Abashed by the old tart’s boldness, the Russian went temporarily blank.
“Oh, forget it,” Eva said, pulling Ilse down the hall. “If you don’t know what you want, we don’t have time to wait.”
Kosov’s young agent watched the middle-aged redhead follow her shapely companion into the elevator cage. Eva yanked the lever that started the slow descent and then, still holding eye contact with the guard, pumped her fist lewdly up and down the iron rod. When the Russian coloured in embarrassment, she hiked her bright skirt over a well-preserved thigh and burst into laughter.
As soon as the cage sank below the line of the floor, Eva cut her voice to a whisper. “Here comes the hard part. We were lucky that time. The odds just went down.”
Ilse clutched her friend’s arm. “You shouldn’t have come with me!”
“You’d never have made it by yourself, darling.”
“But you’re in danger too!”
Eva plucked a gob of mascara out of her eye. “I’m glad to do it. If I hadn’t had you to talk to for the last three years, I’d have gone mad in that tiny apartment.”
“But all your men friends—”
Eva looked at Ilse in disgust. “Don’t even mention those bums. Don’t act like you don’t know what I do. You and Hans have always known, and you’ve never treated me any different than family. So shut up and take some help. We’re not out of this yet.”
The elevator screeched to an uncertain stop. Eva yanked open the screen and stormed through the lobby, cursing the elevator and every other mechanical device ever invented. With Ilse struggling along behind on a pair of Eva’s four-inch heels, the old barmaid clacked past the two Russians at the building’s entrance as if they did not exist.
“Halt!” yelled one of Kosov’s men as Ilse hurried past.
Ilse’s heart thudded in her chest.
The Russian caught hold of her elbow. “Hey, Fraulein,” he said, leaning close to her. “Why the hurry?”
Eva paused impatiently at the curb. She looked up and down the street, then walked back to the door. “Next time, sweetie,” she snapped, stepping protectively in front of Ilse. “We’ve got a party to go to.”
“It can wait,” said the young man, leering at his companion. “Stay here and keep us warm for a while. It’s cold out.”
“Colder by the minute, Arschloch,” Eva spat. “If we don’t get out of this wind in thirty seconds our tits will snap off.”
The Russian shed his smile like a snakeskin. His eyes glazed with a reptilian sheen. He took a step toward Eva.
“Forget it, Misha,” urged his companion. “They’re just whores.”
“Fucking filth,” the Russian muttered.
“Misha, ” said his partner anxiously. “Remember Colonel Kosov.”
Misha took a long look at Eva as if to mark her for future retribution, then snorted and walked into the lobby. When he next looked outside, the two women were already across the street and halfway down the block, moving toward Colonel Kosov’s BMW.
Kosov had just lifted the microphone from the dash when he spied two prostitutes walking quickly up the Lützenstrasse .
“Report, One,” he said, half-watching them.
“Lobby still clear.”
“Two?”
“No movement inside the apartment.”
“Damn. Three and Four?”
“All clear here. No sign of him.”
The prostitutes reached the hood of the BMW, passed it.
“All positions,” said Kosov, “I have two women passing me from your direction. Anyone see where they entered the street?”
The radio squawked as three signals competed for reproduction. “Four here, sir. They came from the apartment building. Looked like two whores to us.”
Kosov felt a tic in his cheek. He turned away as the headlights of a passing car shone through the BMW. When he looked again he saw one of the women raise an arm and flag the car to a stop. That’s odd, he thought, a taxi here at this hour. And picking up a couple of streetwalkers …
“Two here,” crackled the radio. “Those prostitutes came from number forty-three, this floor. Opposite my position. One of them even propositioned me.”
Kosov struck the dash with his fist. “One of them is the wife! Misha, to the car! Two, enter number forty and proceed!” Kosov looked frantically for an alley in which to turn the BMW around. With cars parked both sides of the street he had no room to make a U-turn.
Inside the taxi, Eva spoke rapidly. “Perfect timing, Ernst darling. Now zoom around the corner and stop as fast as you can.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Ilse, when he stops, you jump right out and get into the alley there. If they keep after me, you’ve made it. If they don’t—”
“Who were those men, Eva? Police?”
“Stinking Russians, sweetie. Didn’t you catch the name Misha?”
The taxi jounced onto the curb. “Eva, how can I thank you!”
“Go!” Eva cried, squeezing Ilse’s hand. “Jump! Go!”
The screech of tires drowned Ilse’s reply as the taxi sped down the Gervinusstrasse. Ilse ducked into the alley just as Kosov’s BMW careened around the corner and surged after Eva and her cabbie friend. She collapsed against the cold concrete wall of an office building, her heart beating wildly. Ten seconds later a second BMW raced after the first. Turning her back to the icy wind, Ilse doffed the sluttish clothes Eva had given her and tossed the wig into an overflowing garbage bin. Now she wore the conservative casuals she’d had on when she first spotted the BMW. Habit made her hang on to one costume accessory Eva had thrust into her hand—a large plastic purse. As she debated whether to keep Eva’s flashy coat, Ilse heard the rumble of a heavy automobile engine. Seconds later a pair of headlights nosed into the far end of the alley.
Ilse snatched up the discarded clothes and climbed into the only hiding place she could see—the garbage bin. The smell was terrible, cloyingly sweet. She held her nose with one hand and covered her eyes with the other. The powerful purr of the BMW edged closer, a tiger trying to spook its prey. Ilse knotted herself into a tig
ht ball and prayed. It took little imagination to guess how ruthless the men in the black autos must be. The young man who had propositioned her at the front door—the one called Misha—his eyes had glazed almost to sightlessness when Eva insulted him. Like fish eyes, Ilse thought. She shuddered.
The BMW picked up speed as it approached the garbage bin, weaving occasionally to probe every inch of the alley with its halogen eyes. The walls of the trash bin vibrated from the noise. Ilse shivered from terror and bitter cold. She had no doubt that if the car engine were shut off, the Russians would find her by the chattering of her teeth.
Suddenly, with a scream of protesting rubber, the big black sedan roared out of the alley. Ilse scrambled up out of the garbage and dug into Eva’s purse for her shoes. Her hand closed over something soft and familiar. She peered into the bag. Folded into a thick wad at its bottom were three hundred Deutschemarks in small bills. Scrawled across the top banknote in red lipstick were the words: ILSE, USE THIS! Stuffing the bills back into the purse, Ilse climbed out of the bin and edged a little way down the alley. Damn all of this, she thought angrily. If Eva can get me this far, I can do the rest. In less than fifteen seconds she had analysed her options and made a decision. She kicked off the stiletto heels Eva had loaned her, pulled on her own flats, and started running toward the hazy glow at the opposite end of the alley.
10:30 P.m. Tiergarten District. West Berlin
The moment Harry Richardson raised his hand to knock on Klaus Seeckt’s door, the door jerked open to the length of the chain latch. “Go away, Major!” said a voice from the dark crack. The door slammed shut. Harry moved to the side of the door, out of the light. “Open the door, Klaus.”
“Please go away, Harry!”
More puzzled than angry, Harry flattened himself against the wall. Normally he telephoned Klaus before coming over, but tonight he hadn’t wanted to give the East German a chance to postpone the meeting. Feeling exposed on the lighted stoop, he pounded his fist against the heavy oak.
“I’m not in uniform, for God’s sake! Open up! Now!”
The bolt shot back with a bang. Klaus pulled the door open but remained out of sight in the dark foyer.
“Take it easy,” Harry said. “We’ll play it as an official visit. However you want.”
Klaus’s voice dropped in volume but doubled in urgency. “Harry, get out of here! They’re watching us!”
As Harry’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognized the stubby barrel of a Makarov pistol in Klaus’s hand. The East German wore only his bathrobe, but his ashen face and the quivering pistol gave him a frighteningly lethal aspect.
Harry glanced back at the street to try to spot watchers. He saw none, but he knew that didn’t mean anything.
“I tried to keep you out,” Klaus said resignedly. “Remember that.”
Writing off Klaus’s pistol to paranoia, Harry slipped past the East German and started toward the living room. With a hopeless sigh Klaus shut the door and locked it behind them. When Harry reached the living room, he saw that Klaus was indeed being watched—but from inside the house, not out. Five men wearing dark business suits sat leisurely on sofas and chairs arranged around a glass-topped coffee table.
Harry looked back over his shoulder at Klaus. The German hovered ghostlike in the shadows of the foyer, the Makarov slack against his leg. Harry considered bolting, but Klaus hadn’t tried it, so perhaps things weren’t so bad. Or perhaps, Harry thought uneasily, Klaus didn’t run because he knows the front door is covered from the outside.
Harry turned back to the living room. None of the men around the table looked older than thirty, and no one had said anything yet. Was that good or bad? Suddenly the oldest-looking of the group stood. “Good evening, Major,” he said in heavily accented English. “What can we do for you?”
The young man’s accent was unmistakably Russian. There would be no attempt to pass these men off as other than what they were, Harry realized. A very bad sign. He cleared his throat. “And by what rank do I address you, Comrade?” he asked in flawless Russian.
The Russian smiled, seeming to relish the idea of a cat-and-mouse game. “You speak excellent Russian, Major. And I am but a lowly captain, to answer your question. Captain Dmitri Rykov.”
“What are you doing so far from home, Captain?”
“Am I so far from home?” Rykov asked gamely. “A debatable point. But I’m protecting the interests of my country, of course.”
The young man’s candour was an unveiled threat. “I see,” Harry said warily. “I also note that we have a mutual friend,” he observed, trying to shift the focus away from himself. In the foyer Klaus turned deathly pale.
“Yes,” Rykov agreed, giving Klaus a predatory I glance. “This is proving to be an enlightening evening. Take his gun, Andrei. No foolish heroics please, Klaus. It’s not your style.”
The East German slumped against the foyer wall, his pistol hanging slack. He looked broken, already resigned to the grisly fate that undoubtedly awaited him in Moscow. Corporal Andrei Ivanov moved to disarm him.
“As you can see, Major,” Rykov continued, “you’ve stumbled upon us at a most inopportune time. I’ll certainly speak to my superiors about it, but I suspect that your unfortunate timing may cost you your life—”
Before Andrei could reach the unfortunate Klaus, the East German raised the Makarov to his own temple and fired. The sheer madness of the act stunned everyone, causing a moment of confusion. In desperation Harry bolted for the door. He had his fingers on the brass door handle when someone peppered the wall beside him with a burst from a silenced machine pistol.
“Don’t move, Major!” Captain Rykov ordered, his voice strained but even.
Harry let his fingers fall from the handle. He turned around slowly. In the time it had taken him to reach the door, the Russians behind him had been transformed from a quiet group of social acquaintances into a squad of paramilitary soldiers moving in concert to control the unexpected emergency. Two men knelt over Klaus’s body, checking for signs of life; two others covered the front and rear windows of the house.
Rykov issued orders. “Yuri, get the car. Major, move back into the room. Now!”
Rykov tapped the shoulder of a young man leaning over Klaus’s corpse. “Leave him, Andrei. Touch nothing. Klaus was a traitor; he deserved a coward’s death. Leave the gun in his hand. We couldn’t have set this up better ourselves.”
“Shouldn’t we take him along?” Andrei asked. “The Kriminalpolizei aren’t stupid.”
Rykov’s eyes gleamed. “Ideally, I suppose. But we won’t have room for him.”
“What about the weapons compartment?”
“The major will be in there.” Rykov turned to Harry. “You don’t want to spend the next hour hugging a corpse, do you, Major?”
Harry’s mind raced. If this Russian intended to kidnap an American army officer from the heart of tightly controlled West Berlin, something very big indeed was going on. And to Harry’s mind, that something could only be the events at Spandau Prison. “Kosov won’t like this,” he said, remembering seeing the Russian colonel at Abschnitt 53 this morning. “You better take some time to think, Captain.”
Rykov smiled. “You’re very clever, Major.”
The sound of an engine rumbled through the front door. “That’s Yuri,” said Rykov. “All right, Major, let’s go.”
Harry didn’t move.
“Conscious or unconscious, I don’t care. But I must tell you, it’s never quite as clean as the movies when you bash someone in the back of the head with a pistol.”
Harry moved. He couldn’t warn Colonel Rose if he was dead. It was only a few steps from the front door to the car, a black Mercedes 190. The Russians crowded close around him all the way.
There’s got to be a way out, thought Harry. Got to be. I’ve got to warn—
Dmitri Rykov slammed the butt of his Skorpion machine pistol into the base of Harry’s skull. He heard a dull thud but no crunch. “Americans
are so gullible,” he said, laughing. “Lucky for this one he has a wooden head.”
Corporal Ivanov looked distressed. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just kill him here?” he said anxiously. “Make it look like some illegal business, perhaps a homosexual tryst?”
“I’m in command here,” Rykov snapped, losing a bit of his earlier control. “I’ll do the thinking.”
“Yes, sir. I was only thinking of Colonel Kosov. If he doesn’t approve—”
“I know what Kosov wants, Corporal. Did he not choose me for command? We may need this American later as a bargaining chip.” Rykov’s voice softened. “Andrei, the other team is running down Sergeant Apfel’s wife as we speak. Kosov is with them. Do you want us to return to East Berlin empty-handed?”
Ivanov did not look entirely convinced, but he said no more.
Lying half-conscious at their feet, Harry slipped a hand into his inside coat pocket, fished out a white business card, and let it fall. There was no name on it—only a telephone number. As the Russians lifted him into the Mercedes, he glanced down. He saw his own blood, but the white card had already vanished against the snow.
10.31 Pm. Lietzensee Park, British Sector
“Once again,” Ivan Kosov said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Where did the girl get out?”
Pressed into the corner of the taxi’s rear seat, Eva Beers scowled and said nothing. Her hands were tied behind her head with her own stockings. The young Russian called Misha had twice smashed her right cheek with his gloved fist, but so far Eva had refused to speak.
“Misha,” Kosov growled.
The interior of the taxi echoed with the force of the third blow. A large purplish bruise was already visible beneath the thick patina of makeup Eva wore. In ‘the front seat beside Kosov, Ernst the cabbie slumped unconscious over the wheel of his old Mercedes.
“I have no time for your stupid loyalty, woman,” Kosov said. “If you don’t answer this time, this zealous young man will have to slit the throat of your sleepy old hero. You don’t want that, do you?”