Talons of the Falcon (25 page)

The disagreement was punctuated by loud Gallic curses that even Eden had no trouble interpreting. She and Mark waited tensely, feeling the heat from the strong September sunlight raise the temperature inside their traveling compartment. Mark reached for the gun that was never far from his side now. She had no doubt that he was prepared to shoot their way out if necessary.

A few minutes after one set of feet stamped off, the remaining man outside tapped on the side of the crate.

“Your early arrival necessitates a change in plans, monsieur.”

“Yes?”

“Additional funds will be needed. Can you handle it?”

“Yes.” They were in a hell of a position to be negotiating. Yet he knew from experience that gold coins spoke a language all their own.

An hour later they were in another warehouse. As the first nails were drawn out, Mark sheltered Eden in back of him. When light penetrated their darkness, it glinted on the revolver in his hand.

“No need for that, monsieur,” a more cultured French voice assured.

“As long as I have the money.”

“Let us not be crass. But also do not forget that this operation doesn’t run on charity.”

Mark nodded tightly. He had felt a kinship with Ryan but was reluctant to trust these thugs. However, he was also a realist. Right now he and Eden didn’t have any choice.

As it turned out, Eden thought, they got quite a bit of value for their money—two new Canadian passports, airline tickets to Berlin and several Yves St. Laurent outfits for her. These people might be mercenary—and obviously on the wrong side of the law—but they were efficient. She wondered who their usual clientele were. Drug smugglers? Spies? Terrorists? They probably weren’t too picky. Yet she was reassured by a feeling of honor among thieves. Once they took your money, they weren’t going to knife you in the back. That might be bad for repeat business from a patron as generous as the Falcon.

She would be traveling to Berlin as the wife of a rich Canadian industrialist meeting her husband at the German Industry Exhibition held every year in September. Mark was an architect making a pilgrimage to the Bauhaus Museum to study the roots of modern design. They had to pretend to be total strangers. It made Eden nervous that they wouldn’t be seated together. She would be flying first class, and Mark would be half a plane away in the tourist section.

The flight was scheduled to leave from Paris that evening. Once again, preparations were hectic. This time, after Eden had been outfitted in a dark wig and heavy makeup that made her look like the sleek, sophisticated woman in the passport photograph, she hardly recognized herself. She hoped the same would be true of anyone interested in her arrival in Berlin.

Mark still sported his silver hair. But now his scar-covering makeup made him look prematurely gray rather than aged. His clothing was tweedy—almost professorial. There was a well-used pipe in his pocket and a pair of wire-framed glasses on his nose. Even his brown penny loafers were well scuffed.

The idea of clearing customs alone and under an assumed identity was terrifying to Eden. But the instructions she received before they left for Orly were excellent. As far as she could tell, no one gave her a second glance. She crossed her fingers that Mark had fared as well.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of people on the lookout for one Col. Mark Bradley, and they now had agents posted at all European airports with flights into Berlin. Despite all precautions, he was recognized at Orly. One international phone call and agents in Berlin knew he was on his way.

But the Falcon had prepared for such an eventuality. After the plane landed at Tegel and they’d cleared customs, Mark slipped into a busy men’s room, where he was able to exchange part of his clothing, pipe and glasses with a man in the next stall who was a dead ringer for the architect. Luckily, the decoy drew the reception committee. By the time the pursuers realized they were following the wrong man, Mark and Eden had changed cars twice and were in a bakery delivery van on the way to Meinekestrasse.

This time there was only a narrow bench along the wall of the van amid the metal trays of hearty brown bread and
Pflaumenkuchens.
In fact, for authenticity, they made two delivery stops at restaurants in the city.

The bakery itself turned out to be their ultimate destination. It was run by Gustav and Berdine Hofmann, a couple in their forties who had worked with Mark on his last assignment in Berlin. Both had the solid look of the German working class. Gustav was a ruddy, brown-haired man of medium height. Berdine had probably been an attractive blond fräulein. Her face, topped by blond braids in a coronet, was still pretty, but her ample figure attested to years of sampling her own baked goods.

Unlike the French connection of the day before, the couple’s ties to the Falcon involved a good deal of personal loyalty.

Although Gustav’s father had been conscripted into Hitler’s army, he had never supported the dictator. And when a young American Intelligence operative disguised as an S.S. officer had been captured behind German lines, he’d helped the American escape.

The Falcon always paid his debts. After the war he made a point of finding the man who had saved his life. Like so much of the city, the elder Hofmann’s bakery had been destroyed in the Allied bombings, and his family was destitute. With his private income, Amherst Gordon was able to set the man up in business again.

But Hofmann had had his pride, too. He would only accept the help in exchange for services he could render. In a sector surrounded by a communist regime, that turned out to be a valuable exchange. The son had continued the family tradition, and he’d been so effective that Gordon had relied heavily on him for years. Berdine was an equal partner in her husband’s covert business. Her enthusiasm came from a hatred of the East German Communists. She had crossed the border just before the wall went up. Her sister and brother-in-law had not been so lucky. They were shot while trying to swim across a canal to freedom.

Eden was relieved to find that among the couple’s talents was a good command of English, since she didn’t know how to say much more than
guten Morgen
in German. Over coffee and strudel topped with heavy whipped cream, the foursome discussed their strategy in the kitchen of the living quarters behind the Hofmanns’ shop. Under the table, their Doberman, Fritz, rested his chin on his master’s foot.

Berdine gave Mark a welcoming smile. “Oberstleutnant Bradley, for months we thought you were dead, until the Falcon told us what happened after your plane crashed last year.”

Mark shrugged. “One of the risks in this business.”

Eden knew the casual disclaimer didn’t fool their hosts. Mark’s experience was etched on his face. But she could see more. He was holding himself in tightly, as though he was afraid of losing control. After the devastating session under hypnosis in Ireland, she understood why. And she knew that his doubts were not entirely unfounded. Erlich had done his utmost to implant orders in his patient’s mind. He wanted whatever Mark had left in Berlin, and the man sitting across from her had no way of knowing whether he would deliver it or not.

“You will want to know what happened when we inquired about the Ludendorft campaign diary at Schultz and Stein.”

Mark leaned forward. “Herr Gordon told me you called and tried to claim the diary, using my name.”

“That is correct. The first person I talked to only knew it had been scheduled for the 15 September auction. When I informed him it was private property and insisted on talking to the gentleman you left it with, Herr Glück, I was transferred to a manager who gave me the—what do you call it—run about?”

“Runaround,” Mark supplied.

“Yes. They told me Herr Glück was on vacation in the Tyrol.”

“Do you think they were telling the truth?” Eden questioned.

“We had the place of business watched. He didn’t go in or out for several days. So our next tack was to send in a prospective buyer for the diaries. When he asked if he could see them, the clerk explained that they were being carefully inspected for authenticity because of the extreme interest in these particular papers. He said they wouldn’t want to have another scandal like the `Hitler Diaries.’”

Eden sighed. Unfortunately, that was the perfect excuse.

“But our man was able to get the gentleman into a conversation. It seems that there has been a lot of foreign interest in the Ludendorf material. Even the Russians sent in a `collector’ to have a look. The clerk remembers his name was Aleksei Rozonov.”

Mark swore under his breath. “Collector, my ass. The Falcon has a file on him this thick.” He gestured with his hands spread a foot apart. “The man’s a KGB officer—and as smart and deadly as they come. If the Russians have sent him in, they know the real value of those diaries. I’m willing to bet they’ll stop at nothing to keep me from getting them.”

“But how would they know?” Eden asked.

“That’s what I have to find out,” Mark replied. “I need to get in touch with Glück.” He turned to Gustav. “I suppose it’s not a good idea to make a call from here.”

“A public telephone cell—I believe you call it a booth—would be best. Let me take you to one.”

Thirty minutes later, at a safe distance from the bakery, Mark placed the call. Gustav would drive around the block until Mark came out of the phone booth.

For a moment he debated how to handle this confrontation. Giving his name, he knew, would announce his presence. But from his conversation with Gustav, he suspected that the wrong people already knew he was here.

“This is Oberstleutnant Bradley,” he informed the receptionist. “May I please speak to Herr Glück?”

“I am so sorry, Oberstleutnant Bradley. Herr Glück has had an accident.”

“What happened?”

“Let me transfer you.”

The phone clicked and another voice came on the line. “May I verify that I am speaking to Oberstleutnant Bradley.”

“Yes. This is Colonel Bradley.”

“So glad you have arrived in Berlin. Would you be able to come in this afternoon?”

“That won’t be possible. Can you tell me what happened to Herr Glück?”

“So unfortunate. A bad fall on his holiday in the Tyrol. His neck was broken. I believe he was dead on arrival at hospital.”

“Too bad.” Mark reached up and automatically hung up the phone. Glück was honest. He’d probably kept the diary out of the Russians’ clutches all this time. But they’d gotten him in the end.

He stood for a moment, eyes locked on the receiver he’d just replaced. There was a tight feeling in his chest, and his heartbeat had begun to accelerate. There was one more number he had to call. He had no idea who was at the other end, but the digits had popped into his head as he stood there staring at the phone.

Unhesitatingly, he put in additional coins and dialed 002-72-52. The phone rang and was answered, and then he could hear the call being automatically switched, apparently to another location.

He heard the whir of a tape, and then a chillingly familiar voice. “Colonel Bradley, so glad that you have arrived in Berlin. I am sorry I am not able to answer the phone personally at the moment. But you will hang on and wait for me.”

Mark stood gripping the receiver, his knuckles white, his face even whiter. The last person in the world he wanted to talk to was Hans Erlich. But he simply couldn’t hang up.

There was another click. “Ah, Colonel. Good of you to call. Where are you?”

“At a phone booth.”

“And where are you staying?”

“I won’t tell you.”

Erlich sighed elaborately. “You are still protecting your organization, I see. But in the end it won’t do you any good. Let us try another tack. Where is your business in the city?”

Mark tried not to answer. But the effort made the old familiar pressure build up in his head.

“Come, now, Colonel, you know it won’t do you any good to resist. I repeat, where is your business in the city?”

Mark’s hand shook. He tried to move the receiver toward the phone. But trying to fight the compulsion was like trying to buck the G-pressure in a rapidly accelerating fighter plane.

“Colonel Bradley?” The voice was sharp and commanding.

“At Schultz and Stein.”

“The dealers in historical papers?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I will look forward to seeing you there, Colonel.”

Chapter Fifteen

A
leksei Iliyanovich Rozonov put down the dossier on Col. Mark Bradley and looked thoughtfully across at the Dürer reproduction hanging on the wall of his four-star Berlin hotel room. The picture was of a ramrod-straight Prussian officer. The symbolism made him shake his head. The East Germans were a proud people who insisted on having a hand in shaping their own destiny. Perhaps if they had learned to defer to Moscow where appropriate, he wouldn’t be caught in the middle of a mess that was becoming murkier by the minute.

The Russian settled his lean frame more comfortably into the easy chair beside the desk. He was just short of six feet in height, with straight, midnight black hair, heavy brows and an unmistakable gleam of intelligence in his deep blue eyes. Most people found his rather stern countenance and firm jawline intimidating, and that was an impression he chose to foster. He had kept his own counsel for years, and perhaps that had contributed to his rapid rise in the KGB. Although few called him a friend, most officers who knew him gave him their grudging respect. He had a record of getting results where others had failed. Now he had been summoned to Berlin to try to make the best of a bad situation. Not many would have relished the task. But he took a certain grim amusement in having been recommended for the job.

The dossier on Bradley was as complete as Soviet information sources could make it. Yet there were intriguing gaps. Although there had been considerable effort to conceal the facts, the man had almost a regular pattern of disappearing from his assigned duty stations and then turning up, sometimes months later, as though he’d simply stepped out to lunch.

He picked up a pencil and twirled it between his long fingers. Soviet Intelligence hadn’t even been aware of the man’s activities until he was assigned to the Orion project. At that time Bradley had been tagged for heavy surveillance. Though he’d been quite proficient on his job as consulting engineer and properly circumspect in his Intelligence-gathering activities, it had become clear that he was interested in more than he needed to know. In other words, he was working for
somebody
besides the U.S. Air Force.