James Patterson - Thriller - Stories to Keep You Up All Night

"Prenzlauer Allee, eastern end, newspaper in my left hand."

"Good. Better get going."

She left. Henry finished his tea, then stretched out on the trundle bed and slept.

He awoke at two, left the apartment and started driving south. On the outskirts of the city he made his first mistake, speeding through a stop sign within sight of a Volkspolizei car. He pulled to the curb and waited as the VoPo officer checked his papers, asked his destination and gave him a lecture before sending him on his way.

He spent the remainder of the night touring the German countryside, heading south and east, killing time. Two hours before dawn he reached Magdeburg and spent an hour servicing the dead drops. There was nothing to pick up, only drop off. Next he followed his map to Kleingarten, a park along the banks of Lake Neustadter. He parked, then ducked into a bus hut overlooking the path and waited.

His contact was on schedule. Colonel General Vasily Sergeye-vich Belikov, hero of the Great Patriotic War and Commander of the Third Shock Combined Arms Red Banner Army, was a man of habit. Every morning without fail he walked his borzoi around Lake Neustadter.

Henry waited until Belikov was three hundred yards away then flipped up his collar and stepped onto the path. Hoarfrost coated the grass, and his footsteps kicked up billows of ice crystals that glittered in the sun.

Belikov was accompanied by four guards, paratroopers from the Ninth Corp, two preceding him and two trailing. Henry let his shoulders droop and adopted a shuffling gait-another tired and overworked German. As he drew even with the leading guards, they frisked him, checked his papers, then sent him along. He could feel their eyes on him, guns at the ready should he take a step toward their charge.

As he passed Belikov he let the blue button slip from his fingers. He bent to pick it up and called out, "Entschuldigung Sie, bitte." Excuse me, please.

The general turned around. "Prastite?" in Russian, then in German: "Was?" What?

"You dropped this," Henry said, button extended.

Behind him Belikov's guards were trotting forward, machine guns coming up. Belikov raised a hand, halting them, then said to Henry, "Pardon?"

"There, from your coat belt. It must have fallen off."

Belikov glanced down at the coat. "Oh…yes." He took the button from Henry's hand. "Thank you." He turned and walked on.

He was back in Berlin by late morning. As he crossed the War-shauer Bridge over the Spree, he caught the first whiff of Stasi watchers: two cars, one leading him and a second trailing a hundred yards back. In his rearview mirror he saw the passenger raise a microphone to his mouth.

No question now. They were onto him and probably had been since Magdeburg. As he was still an unknown to them, the leash was loose, but that wouldn't last long.

He spent two hours driving around the city, playing the delicate game of surveillance/countersurveillance. If he knew how big the net was, he might gauge how long he had. Conversely, if they suspected he was dry-cleaning, they might scoop him up. For now, his role had to be that of the oblivious quarry.

He spent the afternoon at the Pieck safe house. At six o' clock he left the city and drove north forty miles to Furstenberg, where he parked on a side street. Night had fallen and the lights along Leibninstrasse shone like yellow beacons. Only an hour from Berlin, Furstenberg had a lighter feel and the people on the streets were animated. He found the pub, the Schwarz Katze, halfway down the block.

The bar was crowded with Russian soldiers, mostly tankers and Spetsnaz, the elite of the Soviet Special Forces. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, and in one corner a radio blared Russian folk music. Henry picked his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a beer. Two minutes later a pair of civilians in black leather coats walked in and took a table near the back.

More obvious now, Henry thought. Tightening the leash.

It took but thirty seconds for him to spot the man he was looking for. General Yuri Pavlovich Kondrash, commander of the Second Tank Guards Army and the Twentieth Guards Spetsnaz Diversionary Brigade, sat alone, hunched over a bottle of vodka. Henry walked over, offered him a cigarette and struck up a conversation: Where was the closest butcher shop? What month was the Marigold Festival held? How often did the train run to Blindow?

Kondrash's answers were curt, but Henry had what he needed.

He was back in Berlin by 10:00 p.m. On the road he'd picked up more watchers, six men in three cars, bringing the total to ten he could see, and probably another dozen he couldn't. They were growing aggressive now, the lead vehicle only ten feet off his rear bumper.

Not long now, he thought, checking his watch. God, let me finish.

Remarkably, the Schiffbauerdamm theater, overlooking the Spree River and within sight of the Brandenburg Gate, had survived the war largely unscathed. Since '48 it had become the de facto center for East Berlin culture, from opera to ballet to theater. Friday night was opera, and according to the playbill given to him by ADEX, tonight's production was Wagner's Tannhauser. Henry preferred a good western to the opera, but not so the man he'd come to see.

General Georgy Ivanovich Preminin, marshal of the Soviet Red Army and commander of the Group of Soviet Forces Germany, was Stalin's iron fist in East Germany. He was also the last piece of the puzzle Henry was hurrying to assemble.

He parked under a copse of linden trees behind a half-demolished church on Oranienburger Strasse and climbed out. The earlier drizzle had turned to freezing rain and the pellets ticked against the brim of his hat. He walked to the rear of the car and shined his penlight under the bumper. The transmitter was there, probably planted while he was in the Schwarz Katze. He ripped it off, crushed it under his heel and tossed the remains away. The move wouldn't save him, he knew, but it might buy him time as the Stasi quartered the area looking for his car.

He pulled the brim of his hat lower and started walking.

With the sleet, a thick fog had risen off the Spree. The Schiff-bauerdamm seemed to float above the ground, mist swirling around its Gothic cornices. Lit from within, the stained-glass windows were rainbow-hued rectangles in the darkness.

From the alley Henry studied the parking lot until he spotted Preminin's car, a black ZIS-110 limousine with a hammer-and-sickle flag on each fender. Preminin's chauffeur/bodyguard stood under an umbrella beside the driver's door, smoking.

Henry heard the squealing of tires. Down the block a black Mercedes pulled around the corner, rolled to a stop and doused its lights. Two figures, cast in silhouette from the streetlight, sat in the front seat. Henry saw the tip of a cigarette glow red, then fade.

He pulled a pint of whiskey from the pocket of his trench coat, dumped half of it onto the ground, then took a gulp and swished it around his mouth. He tossed his hat away, dipped his hand in a puddle and mussed his hair, then stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Playing a drunk was a tricky performance but Henry had used the ruse before. Humming tunelessly, he stumbled off the curb and weaved his way toward Preminin's ZIS. Spotting him, the chauffeur flicked his cigarette away and slipped his hand inside his coat.

"Hey, nice car," Henry called in German. "What is it, eh? A Mercedes?"

"Nyet, nyet," the chauffeur growled. "Go away."

Henry ignored him and shuffled around to the passenger side. The chauffeur followed, hand still inside his jacket. "Nyet, nyet… "

"Big bastard, whatever it is."

The ZIS's rear window was rolled down an inch.

Henry took a swig from the bottle. From the corner of his eye he saw the chauffeur moving toward him. Henry lurched forward and grabbed the upper edge of the window, pressing his face to the glass. "Big interior! Is that leather?"