out the window to cover it.
“I’m glad it happened,” Weiss said softly.
“Why?” asked one of the recruits.
“Showed those Russians what for, that’s why. Showed them West Berlin’s not a doormat for their filthy boots. They’ll have quite a little mess on their hands now, won’t they, Hans?”
“We all will, Erhard.”
“Hauer ought to be prefect,” suggested an old hand of twenty-one. “He’s twice the man Funk is.”
“He can’t,” Hans said, in spite of himself.
“Why not?”
“Because of Munich.”
“Munich?”
Hans sighed and left the question unanswered. How could they understand? Every man in the van but him and Weiss had been toddlers at the time of the Olympic massacre. Turning onto the Friedrichstrasse, he swung the van into a space in front of the colossal police station and switched off the engine. He sensed them all—Weiss especially—watching him for a clue as to what to do next. Without a word he handed Weiss the keys, climbed out of the van, and started for his Volkswagen.
“Where are you going?” Weiss called.
“Exactly where Hauer told me to go, my friend! Home!”
“But shouldn’t we report this?”
“Do what you must!” Hans called, still walking. He could feel the papers in his boot, already damp with nervous sweat. The sooner he was inside his own apartment, the better he would feel. Again he prayed silently that Ilse would be home when he got there. After three unsuccessful attempts, he coaxed his old VW to life, and with the careful movements of a policeman who has seen too many traffic fatalities, he eased the car into the morning rush of West Berlin.
The car that fell in behind him—a rental Ford—was just like a thousand others in the city. The man at the wheel wasnot. Jonas Stern rubbed his tired eyes and pushed his leather bag a little farther toward the passenger door. It simply would not do for a traffic policeman to see what lay on the seat beneath the bag. Not a gun, but a night-vision scope—a third-generation Pilkington, far superior to the one the American sergeant had been toying with. Definitely not standard tourist equipment.
But worth its weight in gold
, Stern decided, following Hans’s battered VW around a turn.
In gold.
CHAPTER TWO
5:55 A.M. Soviet Sector: East Berlin, DDR
The KGB’s RYAD computer logged the Spandau call at 05:55:32 hours Central European Time. Such exactitude seemed to matter a great deal to the new breed of agent that passed through East Berlin on their training runs these days. They had cut their too-handsome teeth on microchips, and for them a case that could not be reduced to microbits of data to feed their precious machines was no case at all. But to Ivan Kosov—the colonel to whom such calls were still routed—high-tech accuracy without human judgment to exploit it meant nothing. Snorting once to clear his chronically obstructed sinuses, he picked up the receiver of the black phone on his desk.
“Kosov,” he growled.
The words that followed were delivered with such hysterical force that Kosov jerked the receiver away from his ear. The man on the other end of the phone was the “sergeant” from the Spandau guard detail. His actual rank was captain in the KGB, Third Chief Directorate—the KGB division responsible for spying on the Soviet Army. Kosov glanced at his watch. He’d expected his man back by now. Whatever the flustered captain was screaming about must explain the delay.
“Sergei,” he said finally. “Start again and tell it like a professional. Can you do that?”
Two minutes later, Kosov’s hooded eyes opened a bit and his breathing grew labored. He began firing questions at his subordinate, trying to determine if the events at Spandau had been accidental, or if some human will had guided them.
“What did the Polizei on the scene say? Yes, I do see. Listento me, Sergei, this is what you will do. Let this policeman do just what he wants. Insist on accompanying him to the station.
“I’m glad it happened,” Weiss said softly.
“Why?” asked one of the recruits.
“Showed those Russians what for, that’s why. Showed them West Berlin’s not a doormat for their filthy boots. They’ll have quite a little mess on their hands now, won’t they, Hans?”
“We all will, Erhard.”
“Hauer ought to be prefect,” suggested an old hand of twenty-one. “He’s twice the man Funk is.”
“He can’t,” Hans said, in spite of himself.
“Why not?”
“Because of Munich.”
“Munich?”
Hans sighed and left the question unanswered. How could they understand? Every man in the van but him and Weiss had been toddlers at the time of the Olympic massacre. Turning onto the Friedrichstrasse, he swung the van into a space in front of the colossal police station and switched off the engine. He sensed them all—Weiss especially—watching him for a clue as to what to do next. Without a word he handed Weiss the keys, climbed out of the van, and started for his Volkswagen.
“Where are you going?” Weiss called.
“Exactly where Hauer told me to go, my friend! Home!”
“But shouldn’t we report this?”
“Do what you must!” Hans called, still walking. He could feel the papers in his boot, already damp with nervous sweat. The sooner he was inside his own apartment, the better he would feel. Again he prayed silently that Ilse would be home when he got there. After three unsuccessful attempts, he coaxed his old VW to life, and with the careful movements of a policeman who has seen too many traffic fatalities, he eased the car into the morning rush of West Berlin.
The car that fell in behind him—a rental Ford—was just like a thousand others in the city. The man at the wheel wasnot. Jonas Stern rubbed his tired eyes and pushed his leather bag a little farther toward the passenger door. It simply would not do for a traffic policeman to see what lay on the seat beneath the bag. Not a gun, but a night-vision scope—a third-generation Pilkington, far superior to the one the American sergeant had been toying with. Definitely not standard tourist equipment.
But worth its weight in gold
, Stern decided, following Hans’s battered VW around a turn.
In gold.
CHAPTER TWO
5:55 A.M. Soviet Sector: East Berlin, DDR
The KGB’s RYAD computer logged the Spandau call at 05:55:32 hours Central European Time. Such exactitude seemed to matter a great deal to the new breed of agent that passed through East Berlin on their training runs these days. They had cut their too-handsome teeth on microchips, and for them a case that could not be reduced to microbits of data to feed their precious machines was no case at all. But to Ivan Kosov—the colonel to whom such calls were still routed—high-tech accuracy without human judgment to exploit it meant nothing. Snorting once to clear his chronically obstructed sinuses, he picked up the receiver of the black phone on his desk.
“Kosov,” he growled.
The words that followed were delivered with such hysterical force that Kosov jerked the receiver away from his ear. The man on the other end of the phone was the “sergeant” from the Spandau guard detail. His actual rank was captain in the KGB, Third Chief Directorate—the KGB division responsible for spying on the Soviet Army. Kosov glanced at his watch. He’d expected his man back by now. Whatever the flustered captain was screaming about must explain the delay.
“Sergei,” he said finally. “Start again and tell it like a professional. Can you do that?”
Two minutes later, Kosov’s hooded eyes opened a bit and his breathing grew labored. He began firing questions at his subordinate, trying to determine if the events at Spandau had been accidental, or if some human will had guided them.
“What did the Polizei on the scene say? Yes, I do see. Listento me, Sergei, this is what you will do. Let this policeman do just what he wants. Insist on accompanying him to the station.
Similar Books
