The Lorrel-E had contacted the Italian coast guard, claiming their right of salvage over the Zenzero, which they were granted, providing there were no survivors aboard. The Lorrel-E claimed there were none. Admiral Delugio stopped and turned back to Captain Reid. “I want you to get a message to the skipper of the Lorrele. Tell him that he is to remain on station with that cruiser until we can get out there to take a look at it. If he refuses, tell him that we will blow his vessel out of the water”
“Aye, aye, Admiral” Reid said. “Sir, what if he does refuse”
“Ken, if that sonofabitch moves so much as ten feet, I want his vessel sunk. And that’s a direct order”
Reid raised his eyes. “There would be hell to pay “
“Don’t I know it.
What’s the ETA for the Pigeon oi station”
“Not for another hour yet, sir” Reid said. “Are you sum about that order, sir”
“Kenny, we’re talking about an attack submarine, nuclear armed, with a crew of one hundred twenty-seven men and officers. You’re damned right I’m sure. JD. surfaced ii response to an SOS from that cruiser, and now he’s disappeared. We’re going to find out what happened. No one o nothing is going to stand in our way. Clear”
“Yes, sir” Reid snapped.
The afternoon was clear and sunny when the Pan Am flight from Athens touched down at Tegel Airport with a sharp bark of its tires and taxied over to the terminal. McGarvey had known someone was following him from the moment he’d left the Lykabettos safehouse, but he had taken no particular precautions. In fact he had become ohvious about his movements, keeping to the open squares on foot, and finally taking a taxi directly out to Hellinikon Airport. He’d expected to see someone on the flight, an out-of-place face, eyes that were quickly averted as he passed. But if they’d been there, they were very good because he’d spotted no one Walking with the rest of the passengers down the jetway, he was passed through customs without event. At this point he was still traveling under his real name. It would have been too risky, they’d decided, for him to use his Kurshin persona anywhere far from the eastern frontier. The secret services in every Western European country had a file on the Russian KGB colonel. It would have unnecessarily complicated things if he had been spotted using the Russian passport.
Berlin was soon enough. Trotter had promised that he would be kept at arm’s length for everyone’s sake. There would be no shadows, nor any contact on either side of the East-West border. The setup team in East Berlin who had arranged for his weapons and equipment, as well as the apartment and automobile, had already been cut out of the operation.
They had no idea what or who was coming. Nor-had they displayed, according to Trotter, any interest in knowing. They were professionals who understood that in this business unnecessary knowledge could often times prove fatal. The fallout was going to be terrific once Baranov went down. Lesser crises had tumbled presidents and entire governments.
So, who knew he was in Athens? Who knew or suspected that he would be traveling east? It was called “covering your own back door.
” Before he went across he wanted to know who was back there.
But no one had been on his flight, which meant that either a message had been sent ahead, or whoever it was who’d been following him would be showing up on the next flight. Walking across the main entry hall, he checked the incoming flight board. The next flight from Athens, via Rome this time, was due to arrive at 2:15, barely a half hour from now. He took the stairs up to the mezzanine where he got a spot at a stand-up table in the bierstube from which he had a clear line of sight to the exit doors from customs. If a message had been sent ahead, they would easily spot him here. If someone was coming on the next flight, he would spot them.
Sipping his beer he watched the comings and goings below in the main arrivals hall. Most of them were ordinary people, nine-to-fivers, some of them here in West Berlin on business, others with their families here on vacation. His life had never been ordinary, certainly not his adult life, and often he found himself pining for something he could never quite reach. For a time when he’d lived in Switzerland, after he had left the Agency, he had tried for such a thing. But the Swiss Federal Police had set their watchdogs on him. Assassins, even retired assassins, were not to be trusted under any circumstances. The Swiss were pragmatic, they’d more or less left him to his own devices, so long as he kept his nose clean. But the moment Trotter had shown up with an assignment for him, his tenure in Switzerland was at an end. Nor could he ever go back, legally. Too, he often thought about Marta Fredricks, the Swiss cop who’d been assigned to live with him so that they could keep closer tabs on his movements. When he finally left Lausanne she’d told him that she had fallen in love with him. They had both known at the time that any life for them together would be impossible.
Nevertheless he had telephoned her last year. They had talked for a few minutes, only that long, but he had been able to hear in her voice that she had gotten over him. She was on a new, exciting assignment. And besides, he told himself, she was Swiss. She would never leave her country. Her family and friends were all there. Her career, her life, was there. And there was absolutely nothing that he could offer her. For instance, he thought, at this moment there would have been nothing for her to do except worry about him. It was a callous attitude, he knew, but he simply did not need that sort of excess baggage.
The Athens-Rome flight was on time, and fifteen minutes later the first of the passengers began streaming out of customs. McGarvey watched them closely, most of them nine-to-fivers, more ordinary people. He had no real idea exactly what or who he was looking for, he just knew that when he spotted the face he would recognize it for what it was; either one of Trotter’s people along to make sure that McGarvey did as he was told, or one of the opposition here with orders to kill the American assassin.
When Lorraine Abbott emerged from customs, he was totally unprepared for her, and he nearly dropped his beer stein. “Oh, Christ” he said to himself. He slammed his stein on the table, grabbed his single overnight bag, and hurried down the stairs, his movements studied and very careful. What he did not need now was to attract unnecessary attention to himself. Lorraine had walked directly across the arrivals hall, her stride purposeful, so that McGarvey didn’t catch up to her until she had reached the taxi ranks outside. He came up behind her, took her arm without a word, and propelled her to the next taxi in line, where he unceremoniously shoved her in the backseat, climbing in after her. “The Hotel Berlin” he told the driver. It was one of the better hotels in the city, on the Ku’damm. It was expensive but he figured she could afford it, and security there was reasonably good. Berlin was still a difficult city during the night.
Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared with fright, and a little indignation. She started to say something, but he held her off with a fierce warning stare, and she sat back, her mouth set, her shoulders stiff. They rode into town in silence. The afternoon was warm and lovely. Children were playing in the Tiergarien, and she smiled when she saw them.