Parallax View (3 page)

The contact saved
him. He smiled reassuringly, rising and leaning over the table, clapping
Aleksander on the shoulder with one hand and deftly plucking the envelope from
Aleksander’s pocket with his other. The envelope disappeared in an impressive
sleight of hand, one worthy of a professional pickpocket. “You’re doing fine,”
the man said, again in Russian, as he eased back into his chair. He had clearly
been briefed he would be dealing with a novice.

Then he continued,
speaking quietly. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’ll share a
drink and light conversation, just a couple of old friends catching up. Then I
will get up and leave the club. You will wait a few minutes, then follow.”

The contact leaned
back and began laughing uproariously, as if Aleksander had just said the
funniest thing he had ever heard. Aleksander stared, surprised by the man’s
sudden outburst, before realizing he was supposed to join in. So he did,
feeling silly. The he took a big pull on his vodka, emptying the glass. The
fuzzy reassurance he had been waiting for began to tingle through him and
Aleksander welcomed it with enthusiasm.

He waved the
barmaid over to their table—she hadn’t gotten any better looking, even after
two tall vodkas—and ordered another round for himself and his new friend. After
all, it was what the man had just said he was supposed to do, right? The shroud
of fear and uncertainty that had been hanging over Aleksander since his meeting
with the General Secretary began to lift. For the first time Aleksander began
to believe things might actually turn out all right. He was almost finished
with this frightening business, and then he could return to Moscow and get on
with his life, safe and secure in his bureaucratic anonymity.

His contact made
small talk for a few minutes, and Aleksander returned the conversation with
inanities of his own. They laughed now and then, just two men reconnecting
after time apart. They could be friends, brothers, co-workers. Still no one
appeared to be watching. Aleksander’s concern continued to melt away. He knew
it was probably due to the effects of the alcohol but didn’t care.

At last,
Aleksander’s contact pushed his chair back on the dirty floor and stood.
Aleksander stood too and the man with the scar reached across the small table,
shaking his hand and drawing him close at the same time. “Remember,” he
whispered in Aleksander’s ear. “Go nowhere for the next few minutes. Have another
drink, relax. Allow time for me to slip away. Then you should disappear. Good
luck.” Then he laughed again, smiling and nodding at Aleksander.

He turned on his
heel and melted into the crowd.

5

Klaus Hahn slipped the envelope
into his breast pocket and picked his way through the crowd. American disco
music blasted through tinny speakers in the background, and the temperature had
skyrocketed inside the densely-packed tavern. He was sweating profusely, and
not just from nervousness.

A veteran of more
than a decade of service to the American CIA, Klaus looked forward to a time
when his beloved Germany would be reunited. No more East and West, with the
ugly concrete and barbed-wire barriers splitting the country arbitrarily and
needlessly, in some cases literally tearing families apart, half living on the
side of freedom and opportunity and half on the side of repression and
paranoia. Klaus Hahn’s dream was to one day see the elimination of the fear and
forced servitude on the eastern side of that wall.

Klaus had not
hesitated on that day years ago when co-opted by his CIA handler, a man known
to him only by his alias, “Mr. Wilson.” He had made no secret of his
willingness to work in the name of freedom, and when approached by Mr. Wilson,
had enthusiastically accepted the opportunity to contribute, even in some small
way, toward a unified and free Germany.

The majority of
the tasks Klaus had handled over the years were relatively small and risk-free.
Most often his assignments had involved nothing more than funneling the names
and addresses of hard-line Communist sympathizers to Mr. Wilson, or the names
and contact information of other freedom-seeking individuals like himself.

Tonight was
different, though. Mr. Wilson had approached Klaus with the offer of something
much more substantial. Something big. So big, in fact, that Mr. Wilson had said
this would be the last job Klaus would ever do for the CIA. Klaus would be
toxic after this.

“Toxic.” That was
the exact phrasing Mr. Wilson had used. If the job was completed successfully,
Klaus could expect an uncomfortable night of questioning by local authorities
and, quite likely, the Stasi, the German Democratic Republic’s feared secret
police. If unsuccessful, well, Mr. Wilson had not spelled out any details under
that scenario, but elaboration had not been necessary.

“Stick to your
story when you’re questioned,” Mr. Wilson had told him. “Do not deviate from
it. You stopped off at the club for a few drinks after work. You ran into an
old friend from school, quite by accident. You do not even remember his name.
You shared a drink and discussed sports, women, whatever. Then you left. They
will not believe you, but there will be nothing they can do about it. After
several hours of intense questioning, they will reluctantly release you. But
you will be watched, and we can never meet again. Your work for us will be
finished.”

Klaus had
reluctantly agreed. He was not afraid of a night of questioning, by the police
or
by the Stasi. He was disappointed his work toward the cause of a reunified
homeland was coming to an end, but he had no choice but to accept the
assignment when Mr. Wilson stressed its importance. He wiped his brow with his
sleeve, weaving through the crowded tavern, moving steadily toward the door.

Halfway across the
floor, he turned sideways to allow a pretty young woman to pass by. It was his
contact, and she was dressed provocatively, in skintight black leather pants
and a silk blouse that did little to hide her considerable assets. She caught
his eye and flashed a smile before rubbing her body up against his out of
necessity—the crush of thirsty bar patrons crowded them from all sides.

They squeezed past
each other. Klaus felt a brief tug and then the envelope was gone and so was
the girl. He continued toward the door as he had been instructed by Mr. Wilson.
He had been told not to look back but couldn’t help it—he took a quick peek
behind as he exited the front door. The beautiful young girl was nowhere to be
seen.

Klaus strolled
into the cool Berlin night, glad to be free of the claustrophobia-inducing,
sweat-soaked, sexually charged atmosphere, not to mention the annoyingly loud
music. He turned left and began walking toward his car, moving faster now.
Before he had made it five steps, a hand gripped his elbow. Attached to the
hand was a tall, skeletal man dressed in a dark suit. An unbuttoned overcoat
flapped in the chilly breeze.

The man said,
“Where is it?”

Klaus answered,
“Where is what?”

“Don’t play
stupid. Where is the envelope?”

Klaus wrenched his
arm free and turned, staring directly into the man’s eyes. The street lighting
was dim and shadows running from the man’s hook nose across his face gave him
the appearance of a vulture. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“You’re coming
with me,” the man answered, and Klaus knew his night of questioning had begun.

6

Tracie Tanner lifted the envelope
effortlessly from her East German contact and slid it down the front of her
blouse. The heat generated by all the bodies crammed together inside the tavern
was stifling, and Tracie thought the envelope might have to be peeled away from
her skin with a chisel when she finally made it to safety. She felt naked
without her weapon, a Beretta 92SB, but her skimpy attire left no room for it.

Tracie had nursed
her glass of soda water and loitered on the other side of the room, watching
out of the corner of her eye as her contact received the envelope from an
extremely nervous Russian bureaucrat, all the while rebuffing a succession of
young East German men doing their best to capture her attention.

The moment her
contact—she had never met him, had been told only that he was an East German
citizen committed to reunification of his country—shook his companion’s hand
and turned toward the door, Tracie offered a dazzling smile to the young German
currently chatting her up and gave him a little wave. “Nice meeting you.”

The kid blinked in
surprise, jaw hanging open, his disappointment obvious. Tracie turned and left
him behind, striding across the room to intercept her contact.

The exchange went
off without a hitch, and the moment Tracie had secured the envelope, she turned
on her heel and began working her way through the dense crowd toward the back
of the club. The bass track thumped and the people shimmied as Tracie headed
for the swinging door behind the bar leading to the back exit.

She breezed around
the open end of the bar, where three bartenders struggled to keep up with their
drink orders. As she barged through, the one closest to her raised his
eyebrows. “Hey! You’re not allowed back here.” His voice was gruff and
insistent.

Tracie smiled
brightly and blew him a kiss and continued on. She pushed through the swinging
wooden doors as if she owned the place and moved straight toward the service
entrance in back. To her right, dozens of silver beer kegs gleamed dully in the
washed-out lighting. To her left, far off in the distance at the end of a
narrow corridor, she could see people hard at work in a small kitchen. The
smell of stale beer and spoiled meat hung in the air, heavy and thick.

Aside from those
kitchen workers, Tracie was alone in the storage area, at least for the moment.
She had thought the bartenders would be too busy to follow her and she was
right. She breathed a sigh of relief, wondering how in the hell it had failed
to occur to the KGB to cover this potential escape route. Apparently they
considered the possibility of a switch remote, given that they were dealing
with a frightened Russian bureaucrat.

She kicked it into
high gear now and broke into a trot. As she neared the rear exit, a stern voice
from behind her growled, “Stop right there!”

Tracie cursed
under her breath as she gauged the distance to the door, calculating the odds
of surviving a headlong dash for freedom. It was just a little too far. The
Russian secret police were not used to being ignored, and neither were the
Stasi, and Tracie knew the operative behind her would be expecting full and
immediate compliance, regardless of which organization he represented.

No choice.

She stopped and
turned slowly, holding her arms out at her sides, away from her body, spreading
her fingers to show she was unarmed. She hoped the envelope resting against the
sweat-soaked skin of her belly was hidden by her blouse. If not, she would
probably not survive beyond the next few seconds.

The man who had
stopped her wore the forest-green camouflage summer field uniform of the NVA,
East Germany’s National People’s Army. Tracie took in the uniform and breathed
a sigh of relief. The KGB had indeed thought to cover the back entrance, but
had used a People’s Army lieutenant to do so, rather than a KGB or Stasi
operative.

She might still
get out of this.

“What’s your
hurry?” the man said, his weapon trained on Tracie. She said nothing and he
took a couple of aggressive steps toward her. She willed him to take a couple
more.

A loopy grin
spread across her face and Tracie wobbled unsteadily forward a step, then back.
She allowed her eyes to glaze over. “What’rr you doing in the ladies room?” she
said, intentionally slurring her words. “You shou’nt be in here.” Then she
giggled, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it.

The tension in the
lieutenant’s posture relaxed slightly and the look of suspicion creasing his
face eased a bit. Tracie thought she saw him stifle a grin. The gun, however,
remained pointed at her midsection. If he fired now, the slug would probably
punch a hole right through the envelope. He took another couple of steps
forward, this time moving with more swagger and less aggression, lowering his
gun and sealing his fate. He was almost close enough.

As he took another
step, Tracie stumbled to one knee. He was eighteen inches in front of her. Any
closer and he might conceivably be
too
close. It was time to act.

She shot to her
feet, propelling her body forward, grabbing her captor’s gun with her right
hand. The man took a step back in surprise, and Tracie yanked his hand hard,
jerking his body toward hers as he squeezed the trigger reflexively. The sound
of the gunfire was loud and Tracie hoped the thumping bass beat out in the club
had covered most of it. The people working in the kitchen down the hall would
have heard, but she wasn’t worried about them.

He clubbed her on
the side with his left hand as she used his momentum against him, flicking her
head forward, the movement tight and compact. Her forehead impacted the man’s
nose and she could hear the bones shatter even above the damned disco music and
the ringing in her ears from the gunshot.

He crumpled
immediately, blood streaming over his mouth, which he had opened in a scream of
pain. It gushed out, spilled down his face, and splattered onto the dirty floor.
It looked like Niagara Falls. She grabbed the soldier’s weapon and yanked it
away from him. His finger jammed in the trigger guard and Tracie felt it break.

The man staggered,
splattering blood onto her leather pants and boots. He was practically out on
his feet. She pivoted her hand to the side, like a hitchhiker trolling for a
ride, and then reversed direction and slammed the butt of the pistol against
his temple. His eyes rolled up into his head and he dropped straight down. She
flashed back to her encounter with the security guard in the Ukraine less than
ten days ago.
All my dates end badly
.