"CIA caseworker in Central America. Instrumental in keeping Castro's influence to a minimum down there."
"He's going over tomorrow."
"Defecting, sir?"
"No. He's going freelance. Selling whatever to the highest bidder. He has the complete file on Tatiana, present physical condition, prognosis, whereabouts, what we plan to do with her, the works. We'll give Kobelev three days to process the information. Then, depending on how things go in Berlin, we'll be ready for him."
"I guess so, sir."
"Doubt in your mind, Carter?"
"Well, sir, it's just that there'll be a couple of days when I won't be around in case something happens to Cynthia."
"I understand your concern. But it's important to give our target the information on Dijon as soon as possible. If he is thinking of showing up in Berlin, he'll know we've moved her closer to his border, and he'll think we 're coming in good faith."
"Yes, sir."
"You're on the early flight out of National. Your tickets are at the desk. Your contact in Berlin is Ronald Kliest, our station head in the area and an expert at getting people back and forth over that wall. He may prove useful."
Hawk rang off without waiting for a reply, and for a moment Carter sat on the edge of the bed, thinking. Then he quickly put the decoding device away and dressed in wool trousers and a wool sports coat. A bag, always packed, lay under the bed. He brought it out, checked its contents, and added his weapons. When he was ready, he called a cab.
At the Air France desk at National he traded his ticket for a one-way to New York. At Kennedy he would buy another ticket for a direct flight into Tegel Airport, which is the secondary field across Berlin from the main terminal at Tempelhof. In this way no one, not even Kliest, would know when or where he was coming into town.
In New York he watched each passenger as the plane loaded for some sign he or she wasn't all he or she pretended to be, but everything seemed innocent and aboveboard. No one made the connection between the Washington flight and the flight to Berlin. And yet still he was wary. He had no wish to go through a repeat of what had happened in Phoenix.
It was late and a light rain was falling when he arrived at Tegel. The customs officials didn't bother opening his bag, choosing instead those of a wealthy, nervous-looking German woman who was standing next to him. If they had bothered, they would have no doubt found the Luger, but it would have been of no great consequence. Carter carried identification as a gun collector, and while a Smith & Wesson or Colt might have stirred suspicion, in Germany there was no reason to explain possession of a Luger.
He collected his bag and carried it out to the line of waiting taxis. He selected the third in line, got in, and gave the driver Kliest's address.
Kliest had no doubt met the flight at Tempelhof that had arrived earlier, not found Carter, and returned home. Consequently, he should be there waiting when Carter pulled up.
After having surveyed the house from the cab, Carter got out a block further down, paid the driver, and went into a small biergarten across the street. He ordered a stein, paid for it, and sat down by the rain-streaked window to watch the house a while longer.
For more than an hour no one came or went, the only sign of life being a light in the living room window. At ten o'clock this winked out. Carter snuffed out his cigarette, finished the last of his second beer, hoisted his bag, and crossed the street.
A light rap brought Kliest to the door immediately. "Wer ist da?" he asked suspiciously.
"Carter."
"Ach!" he exclaimed, throwing the bolt back and opening the door. "I've been expecting you. I thought there'd been a change of plan."
"I'm sorry I wasn't at the airport. I had to make sure I wasn't followed," Carter said, stepping inside.
"Of course. Of course. Let me take that," said Kliest, grabbing the suitcase and standing it by the wall.
It was a modest home. A hall off the living room apparently led to the bedrooms. To the left behind a counter was the kitchen. A wooden train set on the floor indicated small children, and Carter remembered an entry in Kliest's dossier, something about a son he doted on.
"How was the flight?"
"Quiet."
"Sit down. Sit down." Kliest indicated a leather armchair, and Carter eased himself into it. "I'm sorry my wife isn't up. She very much wanted to meet you."
"Maybe it's just as well. I've a lot of work ahead of me tonight. Hawk tells me you're pretty good at getting people back and forth across the border."
Kliest shrugged in a self-deprecating way. His glasses and balding head made him look like a slightly-less-than-successful businessman, and the gesture suited him. "We've had our triumphs. Our setbacks, too."
"Can you get me across tonight?"
"Tonight? Ach, no — impossible. The ports of entry are all closed by eight."
Carter took out a cigarette, then picked up a lighter from the end table and lit it. "That's very disappointing. I was told you could arrange such things."
"Mein Herr, there is no difficulty getting you into the Eastern Sector. The problem lies in getting you out. As a foreigner, you may enter at either of the two checkpoints with no more man your passport. But your name will be kept on record, and if you do not check in within a specified time, a warrant is issued for your arrest. But this needn't concern us. Everything has been arranged. Here." He reached behind his chair, pulled out a long metal object and handed it to Carter. "What does that look like to you?"
"A tripod, most likely for a camera, judging from the screw connection at the top."
"Wrong, my friend. Let me show you." He twisted one of the legs off the stand and pulled it into two pieces along a seam that had been so cleverly made as to be almost invisible. He laid these parts on the floor and began undoing another leg. In less than a minute he had the entire device in pieces on the floor and was reassembling it.
"I have a workshop downstairs," he explained. "I made this up when I heard you were coming. Fabricating 'tools of the trade' is something of a hobby of mine."
As the reconstructed object began to take shape, Carter smiled. "It's a rifle," he said.
Kliest fitted the last of the tripod parts along the stock and handed it to Carter. Carter swung it up quickly and aimed down the tripod leg barrel at the wall. "It even has a certain balance," he said softly.
"There's more," said Kliest. He fetched a camera from a desk drawer across the room, took the rifle from Carter, and fitted the camera's telephoto lens along a slot that had been discreetly machined in the barrel's top. "Now try it."
"It's perfect," marveled Carter, sighting a table lamp a few feet away.
"I have had papers made up identifying you as Wilhelm Schmidt, professional photographer. You can enter the Eastern Sector tomorrow, make your appointment and leave. No one will be the wiser."
Carter shook his head. "You forget I'm as much the hunted in this as I am the hunter. And the time and the place have been arranged. I have to get over there tonight to take advantage of what little element of surprise I have left."
"And how will you get out? You'll have to go over the wall."
"You said you've had some success with that."
"Some," said Kliest, taking the rifle from Carter and, with an air of disappointment, beginning to dismantle it. "But we had time to prepare, to wait for the right conditions. Sometimes months. I doubt it can be done on such short notice."
"We'll just have to try. Tell me more about these checkpoints. How many guards are there and how well armed?"