Duel of Assassins (33 page)

Despite his private errand, Marcus was not immune to the
contagion in the air, the media-induced euphoria of a headline political event.
Camera crews were unlatching their custom aluminum cases, testing battery
packs, fitting gargantuan tripod-mounted telescopic lenses to little camera
bodies. A dark-suited Japanese network commentator, doing a sober standup
against a tree trunk with the palace over his shoulder, had a horse chestnut
bounce off his head, cracking up his crew and finally himself. Marcus hoped it
was going out live.

Still, he thought, none of them could anticipate the
morning’s real shattering story. Not much more than an hour away now, if all
went well.

It was 8:45, nearing the cutoff time for those journalists
and invited guests with interior passes to present themselves. Marcus joined
another queue, two or three people wide and twenty or thirty meters long,
stretching from a projecting, half-timbered porte cochere to an arched gateway
leading to the palace courtyard. Ahead of him in line he recognized several
European television personalities, chatting animatedly with colleagues. No one
gave him a second glance. If any suspected his gender, perhaps they simply
assumed him to be an accredited member of the transvestite press—and no doubt
there was such an eccentric entity, Marcus thought.

They shuffled steadily forward, under a Tudor archway and
around a courtyard whose centerpiece was a five-pointed red floral star planted
on the grass. The square garden was enclosed by more half-timbered gables,
ivy-draped walls and little mullioned windows. At the opposite end they were
ushered into an antechamber where credentials were again scrutinized and
handbags inspected.

They moved next double file along a hallway beside
photographs and documentary exhibits from the original 1945 conference. Stalin
was pictured in his tailored generalissimo’s tunic with epaulets; the other
leaders—Truman, Churchill and Attlee—wore business suits.
Only one came
dressed for battle
, Marcus thought wryly.

A left turn fetched them into the White Hall, a salon
perhaps thirty meters long, whose only color contrasts were red Oriental
carpets and the giltwork on the Louis something-or-other tables, settees and
armchairs. Here they were cordoned off and packed in like sardines five or six
deep against the French windows, which opened onto a small garden terrace. As a
television camera and lights were brought in and set up across the ropes, a
white-haired spokesman in a gray morning coat walked the length of the hall to
a podium where he huffed into a microphone. He then proceeded to greet them in
four languages, apologize for the crowded conditions and go over the morning’s
agenda.

At about ten o’clock, he said, Presidents Ackerman and
Rybkin and the European heads of state would all be coming through to this very
podium, where brief opening remarks would be made. In the meantime, the
spokesman suggested, they might wish to avail themselves of the coffee and rolls
now available on the terrace. They need only turn and file out in an orderly
fashion through the French doors.

Marcus decided to take advantage of the ensuing stampede to
improve his position. It was essential that he gradually work himself into the front
row along the ropes for the best possible “photo opportunity” when Rybkin
passed. With insistent elbows and lightly murmured apologies, he insinuated
himself through the outbound tide toward the refreshments and quickly gained
the red velvet ropes.

From here he could survey the entire salon. He picked out
several plainclothes security types, but so far Taras Arensky wasn’t among
them. Marcus did note with satisfaction that many invited guests had brought
their own cameras for the occasion. His single click would hardly be noticed.

He was in position, with a half-hour to kill.

Just beyond Niemegk, for some diabolical reason, the two
northbound lanes of the E6 Autobahn slowed, then ground to a complete stop.
Taras, clamping the front calipers to brake the big Yamaha, saw flashing red
and blue lights up ahead. It could be an accident, or maybe traffic was being
temporarily halted for some security reason connected with the conference, or
for the convenience of an official motorcade.

He could squeeze through on the Yamaha—if no doors were
opened in his face. But what would that buy him? Instead, he swerved left off
the highway, plowed through the grassy median, emerged onto the southbound
lanes and charged back to the offramp he’d just passed.

Taras hadn’t ridden a motorcycle in years, and then it had
been only occasionally, on streetbikes. This speed-sculpted Yamaha was
hard-saddled, its footpegs were too high, handlebars too low and too far
forward, giving him the feeling his nose was on the gas tank. But it went like
a bat out of hell, turning him into a projectile fleeing a nightmare and
targeting on vengeance.

Five minutes later he was off the snarled Autobahn and
roaring up alternate Route 2, through a succession of bleak postwar Gothic villages—Treuenbrietzen,
Buchholz, Beelitz—the sort of somniferous places that had been seriously
depopulated during the westward exodus of ’89 and ’90, but which were now
slowly being reconstituted.

Now if only someone would repave the old GDR roadbeds.

The Yamaha’s suspension soaked up some of the minor jolts,
but some stretches—where the asphalting wore thin or vanished altogether over
bare brick or cobblestones—nearly bounced Taras out of the saddle. Still, he
kept pushing as hard as he dared, laying it over on curves, winding it out on
straightaways, accelerating through intersections, occasionally scattering
pedestrians and bicyclists. He dashed over a railroad crossing an instant
before the barrier came down. Approaching Buchholz a tiny Wartburg sedan pulled
out of a farm road, towing a sheep in a two-wheel wood-lathe cart. Taras
swerved, nearly lost the bike in a skid, then straightened it with horsepower.
Near Beelitz he flashed past a roadside sign that wished him a GUTE FAHRT.

After fifteen minutes of tearing a hole in the wind with his
unshielded face, he suddenly realized the green blur streaming by was the
Potsdam Forest. Route 2 had turned into the familiar Michendorfer Chaussee. A
moment later, off to the left, he caught the first sun flashes on the river
Havel. He was damn close. He leaned into another dogleg and came out of it
pointing toward the
Lange Brücke
, with the Hotel Potsdam now shouldering
starkly over the trees.

At the bridge approach, traffic was backed up. It had to be
from the conference, Taras decided, although the Cecilienhof site was clear
across the city. Maybe all of Potsdam was gridlocked. If his rental car hadn’t
been towed, he could have used the mobile cellular phone Strotkamp had provided
to radio ahead. As it was, he couldn’t wait. He swung right and gunned along
the graveled shoulder, then ducked back in to avoid some kids on bicycles. Once
across the bridge and into the old Prussian city he split lanes, tailgated a
streetcar through a jammed intersection, wove in and out of idling cars and
undoubtedly woke up a few patients in the big district hospital as he blasted
past it and turned left onto Neue Garten Strasse.

It was backed up all the way to the royal park. But the
oncoming lane was temporarily empty, and Taras used it at high speed, covering
several blocks to the brick-walled Neue Garten gateway, where a federal
policeman stepped out to greet him with a Heckler & Koch submachine gun.
Taras flashed the honorary GSG-9 credentials Bob Strotkamp had provided, and
the sentry moved back, opening the barrier as Taras shot through.

Inside along the meandering blacktop, police vans and
motorcycles were parked at frequent intervals under the lacy trees. More police
could be seen dotting the vast grassy expanses, carrying rifles and
walkie-talkies. Three-quarters of the way through the long, narrow park,
instead of following the road on to the main vehicle lot, Taras veered into a
narrow, hedged lane, then nailed the front brake as three armed men appeared
from the bushes.

Again his GSG-9 pass provided open sesame. Speaking into
their radios, the policemen beckoned him through. Taras had to maneuver in low
gear between red-and-white-striped iron poles set into the asphalt before
twisting the throttle to full snarl. He had gone only a short way before he
glimpsed ahead, under the graceful canopy of oaks and lindens, the long,
half-timbered facade of the Cecilienhof, perhaps three-hundred meters away.

This gently curving lane, in fact, was aimed ultimately at
the archway into the palace’s main courtyard. That would make a dramatic
entrance, Taras thought. Of course he’d probably be shot off his saddle if he
tried it without benefit of credential check. In fact, as the palace front
loomed closer, he saw a line of limousines already drawn up, with fender flags
and swarming security personnel. The arrival ceremonies must already be under
way. It could all be over in seconds—with Marcus fleeing in his disguise, or
lying dead by another hand.

Emerging out of the lane, Taras skidded the big bike left
beside an iron railing, jumped off and hurried ahead on foot. As desperate as
he was, he didn’t dare sprint flat out for fear of activating the trigger
finger of some overzealous policeman. He also decided to avoid the media and
security-clogged courtyard and headed left instead to the hotel entrance under
the porte cochere, where a half-dozen uniformed and plainclothes cops
immediately converged on him.

*

In the White Salon, prolonged anticipation gave way to
sudden, surging excitement as the first spirited notes of a military brass band
filtered down the corridor from the courtyard. A moment later came the rippling
applause and crowd murmurs generated by an approaching entourage. Marcus found
himself pressed suddenly forward, and actually had to brace himself to keep
from being shoved over the restraining ropes. An angry glance over his shoulder
showed him the futility of protest; the throng behind had nearly doubled,
jamming in from the garden through the open French doors. Marcus faced forward
again, planting his feet as firmly as possible on the polished parquet and
craning his neck along the packed gallery toward the corridor entrance.

According to the agenda printed on the media handout, the
hosting German delegation would enter first, followed by the Soviet and
American leaders side by side, then the other Euro-pean statesmen, also paired
off as diplomatically as possible.

An Adidas-shod, blue-jeaned technician passed by Marcus’
position, mumbling into his headset; an instant later the long white-on-white
salon was bathed by several 10K lights on tall stands and a quartz-halogen lamp
mounted on the TV camera being used for pool coverage. Around Marcus many
people now raised their own cameras. And in the throng behind him, more cameras
were brandished aloft and angled hopefully downward over the sea of heads.

Outside the doorway the tumult crescendoed. The first person
through was another cameraman, backing in and quickly out of the way. Then the
first of several dark-suited bodyguards appeared, and immediately after came
the German chancellor, president and foreign minister, all beaming broadly and
directly into the video camera.

Marcus took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then finally
raised his own customized camera. Rybkin and Ackerman would be next.

*

On the other side of the courtyard from the White Salon, in
the palace wing normally used as the lobby and offices of the Hotel Schloss
Cecilienhof, Taras had lost precious seconds trying to get past three large,
stone-faced members of the
Bundesgrenzschutz
, all infuriatingly unknown
to him despite the many introductions made by Bob Strotkamp in the last few
days. When the plainclothesmen were finally persuaded, however, that this
wild-eyed, out-of-breath and gesticulating man with the Slavic accent was who
he said he was, and that there was a real possibility of a renegade GRU
assassin on hand disguised as a reporter, an assassin whom Taras alone could
recognize on sight, they agreed to escort him posthaste to the conference hall.

And they moved very fast indeed and provided invaluable
interference. Someone thought of a shortcut, and all stormed up the lobby
stairs to the next floor, then raced down a long corridor whose windows
overlooked the red-starred courtyard. At the end of the corridor they halted
before an unmarked door, pounding on it and shouting till it was thrown open.
Rapid-fire German ensued between them and a uniformed policeman inside. Then
they all swarmed into this small sitting room, past the penetrating gaze of Sir
Winston Churchill from an oil portrait, through a connecting door—and found
themselves suddenly in the small gallery overlooking the Cecilienhof’s
conference hall.

More than a dozen red-plush chairs were drawn up around the
large baize table, on which microphones, carafes of mineral water and neatly
typed agendas had been carefully set out. But the large two-storied room was
currently occupied only by five men on folding chairs watching a small video
monitor—two technicians and three uniformed federal policemen. These latter now
sprang from their chairs to point their weapons up at the gallery.

Fortunately there was immediate shouted recognition from
above and below.

Taras led the charge down the carpeted stairs, ignoring the
technicians who tried to hiss everybody to silence. Once down, Taras understood
why they were upset at the clatter. The small color monitor showed the German
delegation just now entering the adjoining White Salon. The ceremonies were
under way, and doubtless being fed live around the world via satellite. Their
view into the salon, however, was massively blocked by a wide-bodied TV
cameraman wedged into the wainscoted doorway, his thick legs straddling a
coiled nest of cables.

The German security men now gave Taras dubious glances,
obviously hesitant to shove this indispensable giant aside and interrupt the
historic proceedings—and quite possibly get themselves shot in the process by
some lightning-reflexed bodyguard—all because of Taras’ farfetched story.

But Taras did not intend to be trapped in here, staring
stupidly at a monitor as Marcus made his kill next door and vanished in the
ensuing melee. He dashed up to the big three-sided bay window facing the
garden. It was really a large latticework of many small rectangular panes—one
of which, on the bottom row, as Taras had seen from across the room, was now
opened out on its hinges. It would be a close fit, but Taras saw no
alternative. He dropped to his knees and began squirming through.

There were shouts behind, but at least nobody was shooting
at him. A few frantic seconds later, with only minor abrasions, he was safely
through and spilling headfirst nearly three meters onto a garden path below.

When he scrambled up, he saw he was one level below the long
stone terrace that ran outside the White Salon. He also found himself
conspicuously the center of vast attention, having landed unceremoniously in a
no-man’s land between a mob of roped-off media onlookers that stretched across
the back lawn, and those more fortunate invitees whose massed backsides could
be seen along the elevated terrace, many now jumping up and down in hopes of a
glimpse inside.

In two steps Taras had vaulted onto the stone-flagged
terrace—then turned around, attracted by the shouts of a stocky man who was
sprinting forward from the cordoned crowd and pulling a gun from his suit
jacket.

“Polizei!”
Taras shouted back, then burrowed his way
into the press of bodies. He continued to batter and shove a passage through
the crush of humanity, ignoring all protests and beating off those outraged few
who physically attempted to stop him.

By the time he had breached the French windows he was able
to see into the room over the massed heads. The German dele-gation was now
positioned against the opposite wall, and all heads swung left as William Ackerman
and Alois Rybkin appeared in the far doorway.

As the two moved forward into a barrage of strobe lights,
Taras picked out several familiar faces around them—Buck Jones, the bulky
Secret Service man, Mike Usher, Volodya Biryukov, Ivo Kuzin, a swarthy Armenian
translator whose name he couldn’t place. And a blond, vulpine countenance, eyes
shifting side to side—Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Starkov, KGB.

Then suddenly, a little way to Taras’ left as the procession
moved closer, Taras found himself focusing on a dark helmet of luxuriant
curls—Charlie’s!—and beneath it a white-sweatered, broad-shouldered man-shape
leaning well out over the ropes to take a picture.

Marcus!

Taras manhandled the next three people ahead of him,
removing one obstinate fellow with a knee in the groin. In the general
commotion, the small disturbance Taras was causing seemed not to have caught
the eyes of the security people. In any case, Taras had his gun out, as Alois
Rybkin moved a little ahead of Ackerman and his own agitated bodyguards,
smiling and waving at the crowd, his squat body an unmissable target.

Taras fixed on the glossy wig and began to push toward it,
intending to yank Marcus around, stick the gun in his cocky face, wait for the
instant of recognition, then smile and blow the bastard away.

But a crowd surge from behind blocked his way, then pushed
him sideways. Meanwhile Rybkin and Ackerman had both halted halfway down the
gallery to chat with someone, and now were walking forward again. Taras
suddenly realized it was too late to force his way through the crowd to Marcus.
There was only one way he could possibly get the bastard—and, he realized, it
would probably cost him his own life.