She speeded up, and so did they. She slowed, and so did they.
Ahead about two miles, the road narrowed to enter a tunnel. Its thick concrete sides gleamed in the glare of the oncoming lights.
Behind her, she could see the lights — she assumed they belonged to the Volvo — picking up speed and coming on fast.
Ursula increased her speed. Suddenly there was no room. The sedan was edging toward her.
She lifted her foot from the accelerator and stomped on the brake pedal.
It was too late.
She had been traveling at eighty-five miles an hour. The brake had only slowed her to sixty when the nose of the little convertible smashed into the concrete side of the tunnel.
Carter watched Erhanee's fingers fly over the keyboard, and the letters and characters blip up and then disappear on the computer screen.
The Indian hadn't said so, but Carter could tell from the glazed look in the man's eyes that he was making progress.
"You've got it"
"Not quite, but I think I'm close. The access codes were simple. I just made them too hard. Get that, will you?"
Carter grabbed the phone. "Ja?"
"Herr Carter?"
By now Carter knew the raspy voice well. "Speaking. Have you got her?"
"I'm afraid not. My people were ready to move, but she left her fiat and drove through the wall."
"To East Berlin?"
"No. She took the Number Fifteen autobahn to West Germany."
Carter was sweating. "That should have made the grab easier."
"It would have," Voigt answered, "if she had not crashed into the side of a tunnel."
"An accident?"
"It will appear so to the authorities. Two of my men were following her. They saw a large Mercedes sedan force the crash."
"She's dead," Carter hissed.
"Very. Her head went through the windshield, and her chest was crushed by the steering wheel."
"Your people didn't get the license number, did they?"
"Yes, but later."
"Later…?"
"Needless to say, they didn't remain at the scene. As they were returning, the Mercedes passed them on the East German autobahn. They saw it pull off an Nauen."
"In East Germany?" Carter gasped.
"Quite."
Voigt didn't need to elaborate. If the people who killed Ursula Rhinemann left the autobahn in East Germany, particularly at night, they were official.
"I assume, Herr Carter, that our agreement is now finished?"
"Ended, Herr Voigt. Danke."
"Bitte."
The connection was broken, and Carter eased the phone back to its cradle.
Too many people dead, the connection with the East too strong.
He was pretty sure he had it now. The killing of Ursula Rhinemann capped it. She was the Last link that could put Stephan Conway in the hot seat.
"I've got it!"
Carter moved to stand behind Erhanee at the console. He already knew what had come up. The KGB had been ahead of him. They had figured the wrong-way kill, and laid it to Conway.
It was ten-to-one the future senator had played ball to save his own skin.
Erhanee confirmed it.
"There it is, the shipment, almost down to the last microchip you got from the Pentagon."
"Whose authorization code?"
"Personal, Stephan Conway."
"Where's it going?"
"Lufthansa out of Dulles. Lands at Frankfurt, five a.m. local time."
"They'll make the switch at the airport right after customs."
"It's scheduled to be shifted to a military transport to West Berlin."
"They'll have phony crates ready," Carter growled.
"That's your department, not mine, "Erhanee said, turning to face Carter.
The Killmaster was already headed out the door.
The radio crackled in the aide's hand. He lifted it to his ear and spoke. When it was still, he turned to his superior.
"Comrade Colonel?"
"Da."
"He is in the forbidden zone now, heading for the Mitte Gate."
"Da, I can see him," Balenkov replied, moving the high-powered glasses along with the hurrying man. "He is following instructions to the letter."
Bile boiled in Balenkov's belly. He himself had given Dieter Klauswitz the instructions that would send him to his death.
"I am afraid, Herr Klauswitz, that we cannot afford to allow you to leave East Berlin aboard Aeroflot. However, you are free to reenter West Berlin. The Mitte Gate will be kept open for your crossing. Once back in the West. I am sure your American papers will still be enough to allow your escape."
Balenkov moved the binoculars to the closed gate and then back to Klauswitz. The man had spotted the deserted gate. The colonel, from his rooftop observation post, could almost see the fear and realization on the killer's face.
Klauswitz whirled, his eyes searching the raked sand of no-man's-land between the two walls. His mind now knew that he had been deceived. But he was still loose. How could he get over the wall and grab a second chance at freedom?
He couldn't.
His only choice was the East German countryside.
He walked away from the wall and began to run.
Then it happened.
A blinding white glare blasted the street and the running figure. Staccato bursts of gunfire broke the night stillness.
Klauswitz fell, rolled, and came to his feet again. He staggered.
There was another short burst, and he fell.
This time he didn't move.
"The casket is ready?"
"Da, Comrade Colonel."
"I will inform the SSD that the assassin has been killed while trying to escape. Also, that we have a signed confession that he attempted to kill Stephan Conway."
"Comrade Colonel Palmitkov is a thorough woman," the aide said, pride in his voice.
"Yes, isn't she," Balenkov replied drily, and added mentally. Aren't we all very efficient killing machines?
Carter smoked and peered through the little waves of rain that trickled down the windshield. Beside him, Bruchner fidgeted in the seat. Marty Jacobs sat quietly in the back.
They were in one of the oldest and grubbiest sections of Frankfurt, staring at an old, grubby warehouse.
Knowing what to look for had made spotting the switch at the warehouse easy. Cartons of everyday radio gear had been switched with the Protec equipment. The four Protec crates had been relabeled and loaded on a truck with the rest of the nonclassified gear.
Four of Bruchner's men were already waiting to pounce on the cargo handlers who had made the switch.
The three of them had followed the truck to this warehouse. Now they waited.
"Someone's coming… it's a van!"
"I see it," Carter said, mashing out his cigarette.
The van pulled up to the wide double doors, and someone stepped from the driver's side. There was movement in front of the van's headlights, and the doors swung open. The figure turned, and for a brief moment was fully illuminated.
"Jesus Christ," Marty Jacobs hissed. "It's Anna Palmitkov herself!"
"It sure as hell is," Carter growled as the van entered the building and the doors closed behind it. "Now a lot of things are clear."
And all bets are off! he thought, sliding from the car.
"Both of you stay here. This one's private!"
Neither man moved.
Carter crossed the wet pavement to the side door of the warehouse away from the main double doors.
He had already jimmied the lock, so he was able to slip in quietly and quickly. He removed his shoes and made his way through piles of boxes stacked on wooden pallets.