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.