“We weren’t sure what was going on here, General. But we managed to trace her to West Berlin where she registered at a hotel”
“Did she follow McGarvey”
“Evidently”
“Well, get her the hell out of there”
“She’s gone”
“What do you mean, gone”
Murphy shouted. “Her suitcase and things are still in her room. She’s simply disappeared, I think it’s a real possibility that Baranov’s people snatched her. And you know what that means” Murphy did. It meant simply that Baranov had somehow been tipped off that McGarvey would be coming across to assassinate him. It meant their worst fear-that there was a leak at high levels within the Agency-was true. Mentally he ran down the list of those who knew about the operation. It was depressingly small, and dangerous. “Pull him out of there, John” Murphy said, making his decision. “But don’t tell him about Lorraine Abbott”
“Christ” Trotter swore. “You can say that again” Murphy replied.
Something woke McGarvey from a deep, dreamless sleep.
He-looked at his watch. It was a few minutes before five in the morning.
From where he lay on the couch beneath the partially open window he could hear absolutely no sounds from outside, nor were there any sounds from within the apartment building. He’d returned from the Grosser Miiggelsee around midnight, and had listened as the building gradually quieted down for the evening. Background noise. He’d finally fallen asleep around two. Sitting up, he looked out the window down at the street. A few automobiles and a small truck were parked along the curb as before. Nothing new. No one had come, and yet he felt a presence that was out of place.
Something. Then he heard it again. A noise out in the corridor, as if someone had shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking slightly.
Snatching his gun, he slipped the safety to the off position and padded across the tiny living room to the door. Someone was out there. He was certain of it. For a single crazy moment he had a vision of Lorraine Abbott coming across the border, sorliehow finding this place and coming up here. But that was impossible. Very carefully he switched the gun to his left hand and with his right eased the door lock open. He stepped aside, out of the line of fire in case whoever was out there shot through the door. “Wer ist” he asked softly. At first there was nothing, but then something thumped softly against the door frame. He stood flat-footed, listening, straining to make some sense of what was going on out in the corridor. He thought he might be hearing someone breathing heavily, but again he could not be certain. Switching his gun back to his right hand, he twisted the doorknob and all of a sudden yanked the door open. A very large, barrelchested man dressed in workmen’s clothes reared back from the wall against which he had been leaning. McGarvey got the instant impression that the man was in pain, and that he was terrified, and then he saw the coat, and the small hole blood staining the side of the man’s coat fabric “McGarvey he breathed hoarsely. No one else was in the corridor, and he didn’t think they had made enough noise to rouse the building. Whoever this one was, he certainly wasn’t the opposition. But he was definitely in trouble.
McGarvey stepped out into the corridor and, stuffing the big gun in his belt, helped the wounded man inside, easing him down on the couch. He closed and relocked the door, and then closed the window, drawing the curtains tight before turning on the small table lamp. The man’s complexion was deathly pale. It was obvious he had lost a lot of blood.
His left arm hung useless at his side, and his eyes seemed to focus and unfocus. He was struggling not to lay his head back, but he would not remain conscious for very long.
“Hold on” McGarvey whispered urgently. He hurried into the small bathroom where he grabbed several bath towels, bringing them back and stuffing them inside the man’s coat against the gunshot wound in his side, just below his left armpit. “McGarvey the man whispered hoarsely.
“You must get out of East Berlin. Tonight, before it is too late”
“Who are you”
“Reinhardt Geiger” the big man stammered. “Lighthouse I’m from the network … I was sent He was wracked with a spasm of pain that cut his words off. LIGHTHOUSE was the Agency’s most important network in East Berlin. It had been going on for a lot of years. McGarvey seemed to remember that the KGB’s operation at the Horst Wessel Barracks and in the embassy itself had been infiltrated. The network was mostly workmen, building- maintenance people, along with a few pool typists and secretaries. Their product had never been spectacular, but it had always been steady. “Who sent you” McGarvey asked. “My control officer … one name … he gave me one name. John Trotter” McGarvey sat forward, his gut clenching. “What about Trotter? Is my operation to be called off “
“You must get out of East Berlin immediately. They are waiting for you on the other side. Important … Trotter … very important”
“Who shot you”
“They’re waiting for you … on the other side. They are expecting you … Wedding … the Wedding Crossing”
“Was it KGB” McGarvey asked urgently. Geiger suddenly reared up and grabbed McGarvey’s arm. “They know about me. They know I received a message. They will come here …
McGarvey, you must leave immediately “You’re coming with me McGarvey started to say when the breath went out of Geiger in a big blubbering spray of blood, and he slumped forward into McGarvey’s arms. He was dead. For a moment McGarvey just sat there, his thoughts racing in a dozen different directions, all of them down long, dark alleys. Trotter would have known how risky it was to use someone from LIGHTHOUSE to make contact. The network was important. it meant that whatever reason they wanted him out of East Berlin had to be of overriding importance.
Kurshin. The single name crystallized in his brain. He had gotten the data from Rand in Washington, and he had escaped. He was on the move again, his target still En Gedi. He eased Geiger’s body back on the couch and checked out the window again. Still nothing moved below. He had parked his car on another side street a block away. If he could reach it before the KGB showed up he figured he just might have a chance of getting free. But a bitter feeling rose up inside of him that once again he was going to have to back away from Baranov. Once again the man was safe. It was galling.
The streets of East Berlin were coming alive in the predawn darkness as delivery trucks began making their rounds, and early shift workmen headed to their offices and factories. McGarvey sat in his Fiat on Wisbyer Strasse a block from the bright lights of the Wedding Crossing.
In the five minutes he had been there he’d watched two cars and one panel truck crossing into the west. Nothing had come the other way. He had taken the time to clean out the apartment, wiping it down for his fingerprints, though he could not be one hundred percent sure he’d gotten them all. He had also made certain that Geiger had carried nothing incriminating with him. Whatever happened now, he supposed that LIGHTHOUSE would have to be closed down, its people pulled out. Again he was struck with the desperation that Trotter must have felt in order to take such extraordinary measures. No one else had shown up at the apartment by the time he had left, nor had he run into any trouble on the short drive up here. But if there was to be trouble, it was going to happen at the crossing. The big pistol was stuffed in his belt at the small of his back. It was uncomfortable driving with it like that, but if he needed the gun, he wanted instant access to it. Putting the Fiat in gear, he eased out behind a truck that turned left on Schonhauser Strasse just before the crossing. He went straight ahead, slowing and stopping under the bright lights, as two soldiers came out of their shelter. He passed out his Kurshin identification. Geiger had said nothing about it. But McGarvey understood that it was possible his cover had been blown. “The purpose of your visit to West Berlin this morning, sir” one guard asked. The other was looking at him, his eyes narrowed.
“That is none of your business, Sergeant” McGarvey snapped in German.
The guard stiffened. McGarvey took out his KGB identification booklet and flipped it open. The guard recognized it immediately for what it was, and his attitude changed. So did the other guard’s. “I’m sorry, Comrade Colonel” the young man said, handing McGarvey’s passport back.
“You may pass”
“Of course I may” McGarvey barked sharply. “Now, be quick about it”
The soldiers stepped away, and without a backward glance, McGarvey eased the Fiat across to the West.
