“Yes,” the colonel said, mystified. “I think that’s his name. Why?”
“Then please leave the message with the barman at your club,” Ulanov said scathingly. “I’d like to receive it.” He exchanged good-byes and switched off the set, turning to his husky driver. “Sergeant, when we get to Eberswalde—”
“I know, sir,” Sergeant Wolper said. “I heard.”
“I know you heard,” Ulanov said gently. He crushed out his cigarette. “What you didn’t hear is what I’m about to tell you now...”
For some miles, now, James Newkirk had been aware of the heavy car behind him. For some time, now, he had been wondering if Ulanov had somehow been clever enough to have a second car available in case the major felt he might be followed. But, in general, Newkirk thought this doubtful. The case really wasn’t that important. Still, there was that car behind him which, although he could not recall it leaving the airport after him, still had been with him for some time, now. It would get closer, and then drop back, although the road, while narrow, was still in good enough condition to permit fairly steady driving. Possibly the man was drunk, Newkirk thought, and then thought that possibly the man was not. He considered slowing down to see what reaction he would get from the car behind, but knew this could mean losing sight of Ulanov’s car ahead. But his dilemma was resolved for him, because suddenly the car behind, its driver apparently deciding he had been dawdling unnecessarily, picked up speed and swept past him. He could see it racing down the road, then passing Ulanov’s car, and finally disappearing in the distance. Newkirk shook his head in disgust with himself. I’m getting nerves, he informed himself with a touch of irritation, and settled back to concentrate on the Zis ahead.
He slowed down as they approached Eberswalde, and then frowned as the car ahead of him swung to the left into Route 168. Newkirk had studied the area map in great detail at the Schönefeld parking lot, and he knew that Route 168 going west in a mile or so would either take them back on E-74, or, if they crossed it, would have made their entire trip on Route 2 meaningless. Was it possible that Ulanov knew, or at least suspected, that he might be being followed, and was merely taking normal diversionary action before heading for his actual goal? But, how could that be? If Ulanov was trailing Kovpak and the girl, how could he go anywhere except wherever they went? Could it be that they suspected that they were being followed? It was very possible, Newkirk thought. He shrugged and settled down to the business of following the battered Zis.
He saw the car ahead pause at the entrance to E-74 and then enter the autobahn, heading south. He frowned. Was the car Ulanov was obviously trailing, lost? Although it would seem strange if they were since both Kovpak and the girl must have known exactly where they were going when they left London. Besides, who traveled these days without a road map? He shrugged and followed Ulanov’s car into the E-74, settling back, allowing a car or two to separate him from his quarry, quite sure of his ability to follow another car without getting caught at it.
They passed the Route 2 turnoff they had taken a short time before, passed the exit to the autobahn that skirted Berlin to connect with the Rostock road, and turned at last into Frankfurter Allee, Route 5, heading west into the heart of Berlin. They had made three-quarters of a giant circle, and Newkirk gave up speculating as to the reasons for the strange maneuver, concentrating instead on keeping the other car in sight, congratulating himself on not permitting the car ahead to lose him. The city of Berlin grew about them as they plunged deeper and deeper into the sprawling metropolis. New apartment houses, like drab siblings, duplicated themselves in monotonous similarity along both sides of the wide road, their lower floors dedicated, Newkirk was sure, to equally drab stores exhibiting dusty samples of inferior goods. At least, he thought, he was spared the sight of the long queues; he knew all stores were closed in Berlin on Sundays. Sunday also saw the cessation of truck traffic, which was welcome on a trailing job, although the number of automobiles increased as they approached the center of the city. Newkirk drew his car closer to that of his quarry, aware that it would be quite easy for Ulanov to evade him in the warren of streets they were passing, but the fact was that the car ahead gave no indication that it was being followed, but continued on a steady pace along the avenue.
The Frankfurter Allee became the Karl Marx Allee, leading toward the Alexander Platz and the huge television tower that dominated the skyline of Berlin on both sides of the wall. It was beginning to grow dark, and car lights were being lit on automobiles. Newkirk leaned forward and put on his parking lights, aware that while darkness would make it more difficult for him to trail Ulanov, at the same time it would make it even more difficult for Ulanov to discover he was being trailed. Under the pale glow of the street lights set very high above the wide avenue, the traffic continued to move, with Newkirk now allowing only a single car to separate him from the large Zis, and the intervening car was so small that he could almost see over it, or, on occasion, around it. Looming over them as they traveled in their tandem fashion were large office and official buildings, grim in their colorlessness and forbidding in their silence.
The Zis swung past the huge Stadt Berlin Hotel and turned into the Karl Liebknecht Strasse, continuing its even pace as it entered the Unter den Linden. Newkirk shrugged as he easily kept up. Wherever they were heading had to be fairly close since there was only a mile or so left before they would be at the Brandenburg Tor at the edge of the East Berlin zone. He leaned back, relaxed as he drove, now more sure than ever that he had not been spotted; on an avenue as broad as the Unter den Linden the car ahead might well have attempted to lose itself in the heavier traffic had it been aware of its tail. On the other hand, Newkirk had to remind himself again, Ulanov’s actions were dictated by the car the KGB major was following, and by no other consideration.
The Zis suddenly turned left into the maze of side streets with their half-demolished buildings that led past the Leipziger Strasse in the direction of Checkpoint Charlie, the double-guarded gateway between East and West Berlin. Newkirk sat a bit more erect, frowning. Was it possible that Kovpak and McVeigh were heading for West Berlin with Ulanov behind them? But in that case, why hadn’t the two archaeologists flown to West Berlin directly? Could it be because Kovpak had no visa for entering West Berlin? But then how could he go through the checkpoint, which was undoubtedly as exigent as the airport in the matter of visas and controls? And did Ulanov have the necessary permissions to also cross into the western zone? For Ruth McVeigh, of course, there would be no problem, any more than there would be for him; after all, they were Americans and the western checkpoint was in the American zone of the divided city. It was odd, Newkirk thought as he followed the car ahead, how most people thought there were no longer war zones in Berlin with the war so many years in the past. But there were, and at Checkpoint Charlie just that morning he had dealt — easily, with his American passport and press credentials — with an American army corporal. A sudden rather disturbing thought came: He could get back into the American zone, into West Berlin, with no trouble — but who would be there for him to trail once he got there? The delay at Checkpoint Charlie was well-known; the Germans, Newkirk thought, delayed things through sheer obstinacy, the Americans through a proper sense of security, but the result was the same. By the time he got through the checkpoint both Ulanov and the two archaeologists would have long since disappeared. It was really quite frustrating! That is, if they were really, actually, going to the checkpoint and into the western zone...