nothing but the glow of distant street lamps. Then a soldier would
materialize, a black mirage against the falling snow. Some challenged
him, most did not. When they did, Hans simply said, 'Versailles'-the
code word printed at the bottom of his sector map-and they let him pass.
He couldn't shake a vague feeling of anxiety that had settled on his
shoulders. As he passed the soldiers, he tried to focus on the weapon
each carried. In the darkness all the uniforms looked alike, but the
guns identified everyone.
Each Russian stood statue-still, his sharklike Kalashnikov resting
butt-first on the ground like an extension of his arrnThe French also
stood, though not at attention. They cradled their FAMAS rifles in
crooked elbows and tried vainly to smoke in the frigid wind. The
British carried no rifles, each having been issued a sidearm in the
interest of discretion.
it was the Americans who disturbed Hans. Some leaned casually against
broken slabs of concrete, their weapons nowhere in evidence.
Others squatted on piles of brick, hunched over their M-16
Arinalites as if they could barely stay awake. None of the U.S.
soldiers had even bothered to challenge Hans's passage. At first he
felt angry that NATO soldiers would take such a casual approach to their
duties.
But after a while he began to wonder. Their indifference could simply
be a ruse, couldn't it? Certainly for an assignment such as this a
high-caliber team would have been chosen?
After three hours' patrol, Hans's suspicions were proved correct, when
he nearly stumbled over the black American sergeant surveying the prison
grounds through a bulbous scope fitted to his M-16. Not wishing to
startle him, Hans whispered, 'Versailles, Sergeant.' When the American
didn't respond, he tried again. 'What can you see?'
'Everything from the command trailer on the east to that Ivan pissing on
a brick pile on the west,' the sergeant replied in German, never taking
his eyes from the scope.
'I can't see any of that!'
'Image-intensifier,' the American murmured. 'Well, well ... I didn't
know the Red Army let its sentries take a piss-break on guard du-What-'
The noncom wrenched the rifle away from his face.
'What is it?' Hans asked, alarmed.
'Nothing ... damn. This thing works by light magnification, not
infrared. That smartass flashed a spotlight toward me and whited out my
scope. What an asshole.'
Hans grunted in mutual distaste for the Russians. 'Nice scope,' he
said, hoping to get a look through it himself.
'Your outfit doesn't have 'em?'
'Some units do. The drug units, mostly. I used one in training, but
they aren't issued for street duty.'
'Too bad.' The American scanned the ruins. 'This is one weird place,
isn't it?'
Hans shrugged and tried to look nonchalant.
'Like a graveyard, man. A hundred and fifty cells in this place, and
only one occupied-by Hess. Dude must-ve known some serious shit to keep
him locked down that tight.' The sergeant cocked his head and squinted
at Hans.
'Man, you know you look familiar. Yeah ... you look like that guy, that
tennis player-'
'Becker,' Hans finished, looking at the ground.
'Becker, yeah. Boris Becker. I guess everybody tells you that, huh?'
Hans looked up. 'Once a day, at least.'
'I'll bet it doesn't hurt you with the Frduleins.'
'I'd rather have his income,' Hans said, smiling. It was his stock
answer, but the American laughed. 'Besides,' he added, 'I'm married.'
'Yeah?' The sergeant grinned back. 'Me too. Six years and two kids.
You?'
Hans shook his head. 'We've been trying, but we haven't had any luck.'
'That's a bitch,' said the American, shaking his head. 'I got some
buddies with that problem. Man, they gotta check the calendar and their
old lady's temperature and every other damn thing before they can even
get it on. No thanks.'
When the sergeant saw Hans's expression, he said, 'Hey, sorry 'bout
that, man. Guess you know more about it than you ever wanted to.' He
raised his rifle again, sighting in on yet another invisible target.
'Bang, ' he said, and lowered the weapon. 'We'd better keep moving,
Boris.' He disappeared into the shadows, taking the scope with him.
For the next six hours, Hans moved through the darkness without speaking
to anyone, except to answer the challenges of the Russians.
They seemed to be taking the operation much more seriously than anyone
else, he noticed. Almost personally.
About four A.M. he decided to have a second look at his map. He
approached the command trailer obliquely, walking backward to read by
the glow of the single floodlamp. Suddenly he heard voices. Peering
around the trailer, he saw the French and British sergeants sitting
together on the makeshift steps. The Frenchman was very young, like
most of the twenty-seven hundred conscripts who comprised the French
garrison in Berlin. The Brit was older, a veteran of England's
professional army. He did most of the talking; the Frenchman smoked and
listened in silence. Now and then the wind carried distinct words to
Hans. 'Hess' was one'lefenant' and 'bloody Russians' were others.
Suddenly the Frenchman stood, flicked his cigarette butt into the
darkness, and strode out of the white pool of light. The Englishman
followed close on his heels.
Hans turned to go, then froze. One meter behind him stood the imposing
silhouette of Captain Dieter Hauer. The fiery eye of a cigar blazed
orange in the darkness.
'Hello, Hans,' said the deep, burnished voice.
Hans said nothing.
'Damned cold for this time of year, eh?'
'Why am I here?' Hans asked. 'You broke our agreement.'
'No, I didn't. This was bound to happen sooner or later, even with a
twenty-thousand-man police force.'
Hans considered this. 'I suppose you're right,' he said at length. 'It
