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Kurshin said. Yegorov smiled thinly. “They’re damned fools if they don’t, considering the alternatives”

“Who the hell is this” another voice blared from the radio. “Your worst nightmare” Kurshin radioed back. “Fifteen seconds. “Pull over now, or I’ll give the order to blow your ass all over the highway”

“Asses” Kurshin corrected. “There are three of us in control of this missile, and we’re about to take the next exit ramp. Ten seconds”

“This is Colonel Robert Collingwood, chief of Ramstein Security. And you listen to me, you bastard, I’m giving you five seconds to pull over or we’ll blow you away”

“Seven seconds” Kurshin spoke calmly into the microphone. Yegorov was downshifting, the big rig slowing, their exit. barely half a kilometer away. “Five seconds” Kurshin said. “Four Three … Two …”

“There” Yegorov shouted in triumph. Kurshin’s eyes flicked to the radar screen in time to see the two targets peeling off left and right and gaining altitude. He breathed his first sigh of relief and glanced over his shoulder at Schey whose expression had not changed, his thumb over the electronic trigger for the explosives. That one, he thought, would just as easily flip the switch he was holding as he would a light switch. But then, what good was a threat unless you meant to carry it out? “Thank you, Colonel Collingwood” Kurshin radioed. “Your transporter has a range of less than one hundred fifty kilometers, so you’re not going to get very far” the security chief radioed. Kurshin figured he was in one of the helicopters that were still behind them, but now a couple of kilometers off. Yegorov downshifted again, the big transport shuddering as he turned off the superhighway and they rolled down the exit ramp which was marked KAISERSLAUTERN, 12 KM. “We’re not going very far, Colonel. Now listen carefully again to me”

“We’re right behind you, I’m listening” Colonel Collingwood said tightly. “We’re going to bring this missile into the city, where we’ll set it up on Hauptbahnhof Strasse, directly in front of Colonel Collingwood sputtered the train station. “Like hell you will.

“I suggest for the safety of the city that you immediately see about evacuating at least the area surrounding the train station. If we should get nervous and blow the missile, there will be many casualties”

They had reached the bottom of the long ramp, and ignoring the traffic, Yegorov hauled the big transporter onto the highway leading into the city, sideswiping a small Volkswagen sedan, shoving it off to the side in a mangled heap. “What do you want? Who are you” Colonel Collingwood shouted. “Clear passage into the city, for the moment. Believe me when I tell you, Colonel, that although we wish to hurt no one in Germany, we are determined and well trained”

“And then what”

“Then we shall see” Kurshin said.

MARSEILLE

McGarvey had taken an air-inter flight from Paris to Marseille on the Ceted’azur, and a cab into town where he set up at a sleazy little hotel. Trotter agreed to remain in Paris at least through the next forty-eight hours to provide backup, especially information from the CIA Paris Station and, through their liaison services, from the SDECE-the French Secret Service. He sacrificed stealth for speed in his search, though it wasn’t likely that Kurshin was still here. And it didn’t matter if he found out that questions were being asked. McGarvey wanted him to know that someone was dogging his heels. Still, it took the better part of three hours and seven waterfront bars before he came up with the name of a man who could be bought for a few francs and a cheap bottle of wine. Every city had such men. Marseille was no exception. “Mon dieu, the Russians mind their own business here just like the rest of us do” the old man said. He and McGarvey were seated across from each other at a small table. The bar was very noisy. Traffic on the nearby Canebiere was intense. “Nothing has happened in the city in the past few days, mon vieux” McGarvey asked, pouring a little more wine. The old man shrugged. “Many things happen in Marseille, monsieur”

He sipped at his wine. McGarvey took out Kurshin’s photograph and slid it across the table. The old man looked at it for a long moment or two, but then shook his head. “Non”

“You say the Russians mind their own business here, like everyone else”

McGarvey said, masking his disappointment. “Is it because of the French Mafia” The old man smiled slightly, his face wrinkling, his lips parting to show his brown, chipped teeth. “There is no such organization, didn’t you know”

“But everyone behaves” Again the old man shrugged. “They sometimes do not” McGarvey waited. “A few days ago, for instance, a very bad man disappeared to no one’s sorrow. It happens, tant pis”

“Who was this man”

“Edmon Railliarde. His loss will not be mourned, let me tell you”

“He simply disappeared”

“Oui” McGarvey sat back, a vague connection beginning at the back of his mind. Trotter had called Kurshin the chameleon. “Do you know what he looked like, this Railliarde? Can you describe him to me”

“Yes, of course” the old man said, glancing again at Kurshin’s photograph. “Much like this one. Of course I cannot tell his bulk from a simple photograph, but Railliarde was a large man. A very bad man”

“And he is missing”

“Yes, but as I say no one will mourn that one” McGarvey laid a fifty-franc note on the table, snatched the photograph, and got up.

“Mercy mon Vieux. You have been of inestimable service” Outside, McGarvey turned away from the waterfront and hurried on foot up the main boulevard finding a public telephone box five minutes later. He placed a call to Trotter at the embassy in Paris on the Avenue Gabriel. “I think I have a line on Kurshin” McGarvey said. “It’s possible he’s assumed the identity of a French Mafia boss from Marseille by the name of Edmon Railliarde” He quickly explained what he had learned. “Are you certain about this, Kirk” Trotter asked. He seemed oddly subdued, almost as if he were disappointed by McGarvey’s news. “Of course not, but it’s a start. What’s up” Again Trotter hesitated… “There is a developing situation at this moment in Germany. Ramstein Air Force Base. We were getting set to follow it up”

“I’m listening” McGarvey said. He had learned the hard way never to underestimate a Baranov plan. The man was as brilliant as he was convoluted and devious. “An Army Pershing H missile has apparently been hijacked from the base”

“By whom”

“Apparently an Air Force colonel by the name of Brad Allworth. He’s got help. But what started us thinking is that Allworth was here on leave in Paris until yesterday”

“What does he look like”

“We’re getting it off the Associated Press wire. Tall, well built, goodlooking, an all-American” The connections were suddenly completed in McGarvey’s head. “It’s him” he shouted. “Kurshin has got that missile”

“I thought you said he took on the persona of this Mafia boss. “Listen to me, John. I’m going to get up to Ramstein as quickly as I can. I want you to meet me there. You’re going to have to open some doors for me.

But in the meantime ask the French if they have turned up a mutilated body somewhere in or around Paris within the past twenty-four hours.

“Mutilated … ” Trotter asked. “Yeah” McGarvey said. “My guess would be that his fingerprints, dental work, and face would have been destroyed. Perhaps in an accident. Sudden understanding dawned in Trotter’s voice. “Railliarde” he said. “He’ll be carrying the man’s identification” McGarvey said. “But my guess is he will be Colonel Allworth. Railliarde’s body will probably never be found”