Cauldron

CHAPTER 13 Revelations

Vance could smell the sea as soon as he climbed out of his rented Audi. He was beginning to hate that smell.

Nothing in his privileged childhood in one of Connecticut’s wealthy suburbs, his Ivy League schooling, or his initial CIA training had prepared him for this. Germany was his first operational posting and this was his first assignment. For nearly three weeks now, the young intelligence officer had been working his way west along the Baltic coast, trying to visit two or three tiny villages or larger towns a day. It hadn’t been easy. Poorly maintained and poorly marked roads turned even the shortest drive into a grueling, time-consuming chore.

The abysmal weather made it worse. Stretches of dark, gnarled trees, saltwater lagoons, beaches, and rugged cliffs were blurred by rain and fog until the whole bleak countryside seemed one vast, flat, waterlogged mess. Sandwiched between the winter snows and spring rains, March was supposed to be a relatively dry month, especially in a part of Germany that was usually drier than the rest. But not this year. One storm after another had lashed unpaved roads into muddy quagmires and left paved highways slick and deadly.

If anything, trying to worm useful information out of the locals was even more difficult than finding them in the first place. Decades under communist tyranny gave the region’s inhabitants an ingrained dislike for nosy, prying strangers — especially strangers who had trouble following their slow, slurred local dialect. To them, his fluent High German was either the mark of an arrogant, Berlin-bred twit or, worse, a snooping, sneaking official. With high tariffs and import restrictions on foreign goods, smuggling was making a comeback in northern Germany, and smugglers survived by keeping their mouths shut. Few people were willing to even talk to him, let alone help him find one particular fishing trawler out of the hundreds berthed up and down the coast.

Still, he was learning. In the beginning, he’d tried visiting every waterfront Gasthaus and bar, hoping to pick up some local gossip and make useful contacts. Instead, he’d earned nothing but hard, flat stares, hangovers from drinking too much beer, and an abiding hatred for pickled herring in sour cream. Now he made a sweep through each harbor first, looking for the right boat or one that looked something like it. Then, armed with a specific trawler’s name, he went looking for its owner, ostensibly with an unspecified “business proposition.” He’d also stopped trying to pretend he was German. Ironically the Baltic coast seamen and fisherfolk trusted shady foreigners with ready cash and illegal goods more than they did their own inland countrymen.

Of course, Vance thought sourly, the final results had all been the same.

Nada.

A big fat goose egg. He’d seen big boats and small boats, old tubs that would barely float, and brand-new “fishing” craft packed with high-powered engines and navigational gear. None of them had been the trawler spotted off Gdansk by the KH-11.

He sighed, straightened his aching back, and made sure the Audi was locked. Wismar’s nearly sixty thousand citizens made it a much larger town than most of those he’d been scouting through. And with more people came more crime. He didn’t want to call police attention to himself by filing a theft report. He certainly didn’t want to present the Agency’s notoriously unsympathetic accountants with the bill for a stolen rental car.

With his camera slung over one shoulder, Vance set out along the waterfront. On one side, fishing trawlers and sailboats were moored at rotting piers, rocked gently from side to side by small waves. On the other, old warehouses stood empty. Some still showed bomb scars from Allied raids during the closing weeks of World War II.

He had the area almost all to himself. Apparently, few of Wismar’s seamen had any business pressing enough to make them brave the bone-chilling, late afternoon drizzle. Even the shipyard, the town’s only important business, was deserted, padlocked and abandoned to a few stray cats who roamed over and under unfinished hulls.

Vance stopped a hundred meters or so from his car and stood close to the water’s edge, scanning the anchored small craft. It took real mental effort to make more than a cursory inspection. He’d studied so many boats in the past few days that he was starting to see them at night in his dreams. His eyes fell on one of the trawlers, stopped, moved on, and then came back. Something about her seemed familiar somehow. The boxy shape of the wheelhouse? Or the way old truck tires were strung along her hull as makeshift fenders? Had he seen this boat before in one of the other fishing ports? Or…

The CIA officer held his breath as he stared out at the old, rust-streaked vessel. It couldn’t be! He fumbled inside one of his windbreaker pockets for the drawings he’d been given. Holding the artist’s sketch in front of him, he walked further along the quay, trying to duplicate one of the views it showed.

They matched. Even in the fading light the resemblance was perfect. He squinted through his camera’s zoom lens, looking for a name or number on the trawler’s stern. He found one painted in yellowing white across her black hull.

Hexmadchen.

Witchmaiden. Ugly, he thought. Like the boat itself.

Vance snapped several pictures from different spots up and down the waterfront. Comparing his shots to those taken by the satellite should give the Agency’s photo interpreters enough to make a positive identification. Not that he had the slightest doubt. He’d found the mysterious trawler last seen hovering off Gdansk.

Suddenly scarcely able to contain his excitement, the American turned on his heel and hurried away from the harbor, looking for the first sailor’s haunt he could find. Somebody had to know what the Witchmaiden had been up to lately… and who owned her.

Compared to its decaying and desolate wharf area, the rest of Wismar looked considerably more appealing. One massive, red brick church spire towered off to the east, poking high above gabled rooftops. The bombed-out remnants of two other great brick churches stood south of that, near the town’s large marketplace.

Vance found the pub he was looking for there — inside Wismar’s oldest building. The “Old Swede” had been built nearly six centuries before and its age showed in low ceilings, narrow doors, and soot-blackened wood beams. The sound of clinking steins and rough-edged, booming voices led him straight to the bar itself.

He stopped in the doorway. The Old Swede was packed.

Sailors, trawler captains, and townsmen occupied practically every booth, table, barstool, and square centimeter of open space. A thick haze of cigarette and pipe smoke hid the far corners of the tiny room. Vance’s eyes started watering right away.

Those inside turned to stare at him as he crossed the threshold. In seconds, the whole crowded, noisy place fell silent. Hard expressionless eyes followed him as he came down a pair of stone stairs and made his way to the bar.

“A beer, please.” Vance forced an American accent into his ordinarily flawless German.

The barman glared back at him for several seconds before shoving a full glass under his nose. He knew that look very well. Strangers, especially foreigners, are not welcome, it said. He ignored it and sipped his beer.

“You have some business here, perhaps, mein Herr?”

Vance looked up. The speaker was a stout, red-faced man. Grease stains down the broad front of his brown wool sweater suggested he was a mechanic, a sloppy eater, or both.

“I’m looking for a man who owns a boat.”

“Really.” The fat man’s piggy eyes almost disappeared as he grinned broadly. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place, friend. Hasn’t he, boys?”

The room exploded in laughter.

Vance waited for them to quiet down, smiling faintly. When he had their attention again, he went on. “I meant a particular trawler. The Witchmaiden. I’d like to speak to her captain about a quick… charter… I have in mind.”

The other man had obviously elected himself spokesman for everyone present. He chuckled again. “Old Hummel’s boat? Then you’re too late.”

“I am?”

“Ja. Somebody else already beat you to it. Put cold cash right in that sour fart’s hot palm.” The big man gestured with his own beer. “Naturally old Hummel legged it off that floating wreck before they could think twice. And nobody around here has seen him since!”

“Bastard owed me money, too,” one of the other sailors muttered.

“Half the town, more like. But it would have cost the buyers more than the boat cost to settle all his debts.” The fat man drained the rest of his beer and then glanced at the American. “Maybe they were some of your competitors, eh?” he asked shrewdly.

“Maybe.” Vance said it as casually as he could. He shrugged. “Those damned Swedes are always fast off the mark.”

The fat man shook his head in amusement. “They weren’t Swedes, friend.” He pointed to the bar around them. “We know them very well here.”

The CIA agent nodded his understanding. One of the guidebooks he’d consulted had said Wismar was once a Swedish foothold on German soil — all the way up to the early 1900s, if he remembered right. He’d mentioned Sweden deliberately to turn the conversation toward nationalities.

He wanted to forge ahead faster, to ask outright who had bought the boat, but he pulled back at the last second. Dragging useful data from these clannish fishermen was like making your way through a minefield. You couldn’t move too fast. “You look thirsty. Another?” He raised his own glass.

The German smiled contentedly. “My thanks.”

Vance looked around for the barman and frowned. He wasn’t there. The man had vanished sometime during the conversation, leaving a harried-looking assistant in his place. He’d probably dodged out to avoid being forced to sell another drink to an American. Well, screw him. He tapped his glass on the bar to get the assistant’s attention. “More beers, please. One for me. And the rest for these good gentlemen here.”

That earned him several more smiles.

In the end it took him several drinks and nearly half an hour to bring the conversation back around to the Witchmaiden’s new owners.

“Who, them? They’re French. Not that they want us to know that. Secrets, eh?” The big German tapped his own nose and winked. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took another swig. “Standoffish bunch, aren’t they, boys?”

His companions nodded their agreement.

“You’re sure of that? That they’re French, I mean.”

“Very sure.” The fat man snorted. “Snail-eaters with too much money and too little sense, if you ask me.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Who else would be stupid enough to pay Hummel all that money for a boat and then leave her sitting after just one trip?”

Vance sipped his own beer to buy time and stay calm. This was what he’d been waiting for. “A trip?”

“Ja. Last month.” The German grinned. “I thought that would interest you. Maybe they were on a little jaunt across the water to bring back a few crates of untaxed whiskey? Or some other luxury goods, eh?”

The CIA officer nodded vaguely, listening with only one ear while the sailors batted back and forth their own ideas about the Witchmaiden’s illicit cargo. He was busy trying to evaluate his next move. Should he keep digging or head back to Berlin?

Berlin, he decided. Although all the evidence he’d gathered was only circumstantial, it was strong enough to warrant further investigation by more experienced personnel. He’d narrowed the field down to one trawler in one small German town. That should be good enough. Once America and Great Britain flooded Wismar with trained criminal investigators, there would be too much international publicity for the French to sweep things under the rug.

But first he’d better phone in a preliminary report. Berlin was a long drive away, and his superiors would need time to assemble the right team. He disengaged himself from the small circle still arguing the relative profits to be made from smuggled liquor or other products.

The barman was back, still with the same angry look and sullen disposition.

“Is there a telephone here?” Vance asked.

“Down the hall.” The man jerked a thumb toward the door he’d just come in. “By the bathroom.”

The American nodded. He tossed a wad of newly issued franc-marks on the bar. “Another round for my friends there, please.” With a cheerful wave toward the sailors, he headed toward the phone.

As he’d expected, the chief of station wanted him back in Berlin that same night, if not sooner. His photos of the fishing trawler were about to become a very hot commodity in Washington and London.

It took him longer than he expected to say his good-byes. The Old Swede’s customers were reluctant to let their newfound source of free drinks make a quick escape. He finally broke lose with the promise to come back after conferring with his “business partners.”

Night had come to Wismar by the time Vance stepped outside, shivering in the sudden cold. At least, the rain had stopped falling while he’d been inside the bar. He zipped his windbreaker up, stuck both hands in his pockets, and walked briskly toward his car — awash on a small tide of beer and general contentment. Despite all the obstacles he’d faced, he’d finished his first assignment with flying colors.

He never saw the two men closing in behind him from a darkened alley.

One of the two French agents knelt beside the American, going through his pockets with practiced hands. The other put two fingers to his mouth and whistled softly, signaling an unmarked van waiting around the corner. That done, he looked down. “Is he dead?”

“No. I only gave him a quick tap on the back of the skull.” The kneeling man straightened up. “Here we go.” He held out Vance’s rental car keys.

“Good.”

The van pulled up beside them. Two more men hopped out through its open side door. Working fast, they picked the unconscious CIA agent off the pavement and bundled him inside. The van was moving almost before they’d climbed back aboard and slammed the door shut.

As the vehicle’s taillights disappeared from view, the team leader turned to his subordinate. “Right. You know the drill. Pay the bartender what we promised. Then bring the American’s car to the rendezvous point. We’ll search it there.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be along. First, I’ve got to call the director and tell him about our little problem here.” He frowned, anticipating his likely orders from Paris. The head of the DGSE never liked leaving loose ends lying around.

Richard Strozier, the CIA’s chief of station for Berlin, took a long look before he nodded grimly. “Yes. That’s him. That’s Vance.” He dragged his gaze away from the mangled corpse on the mortuary slab, fighting the urge to vomit.

“You are sure? The features are so badly damaged.”

The American glared at the burly German police captain standing beside him. “Yes, I’m sure, goddamn it.”

“Very well, Herr Strozier. I believe you.” Another German, thinner and in civilian clothes, motioned to white-coated morgue attendants waiting close by. “Cover him.”

“What happened?”

“A car crash near Wismar. Two days ago. The roads were very bad that night. Very wet.” The police captain shrugged, obviously bored by what seemed a routine traffic accident. “And he was intoxicated.”

“Bullshit.”

The second German sighed. “Believe what you wish, Herr Strozier. But the autopsy report was conclusive. Your man Vance had enough alcohol in his bloodstream to knock a young elephant over. And witnesses in the town saw him drinking not long before the accident.” He spread his hands. “What else could have happened?”

Strozier scowled at the BfV liaison officer. He’d known Helmut Ziegler long enough to know when he was being willfully obtuse. Somebody higher up must have told him to play dumb. “What about his personal effects?”

The policeman answered that. “We have them here.” He handed the American a sealed plastic bag. “If you’ll sign for them, you can take them back to the embassy with you.”

Strozier dumped the bag’s contents out onto a nearby table. A wallet. Comb. Passport. Pocketknife. No camera. Naturally. He looked up at Ziegler. “I’ll want to see the crash site.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible.”

“Why?”

Ziegler smiled apologetically. “The Baltic coast is now a restricted travel area, Herr Strozier. We’ve had more trouble up there recently. Riots. Strikes. General unrest. In view of the circumstances, my government has decided to keep all foreign nationals out until we can guarantee their safety.”

Sure. Strozier stood rigid with anger. “My ambassador will protest this, Helmut. Vigorously.”

“Of course.” Ziegler turned to the watching policeman. “I think we’re done here, Captain. Would you please make sure my driver is ready?”

“At once, sir.”

The two men watched him leave. When the doors swung shut, Strozier turned on the BfV officer angrily. “All right, just what the fuck is going on around here? Jesus Christ, Helmut, that kid was murdered and you know it!”

Ziegler nodded sadly. “I know it.” He pointed to Vance’s body. “Believe me, Richard. This was not our work.”

The German lowered his voice. “I don’t know exactly what your people have stumbled into, but I do know that it’s very dangerous. The orders to seal off the Wismar region did not come from my government. They came from somewhere even higher.”

“EurCon?”

A look of distaste crossed Ziegler’s lean face. “The Interior Secretariat.” He shook his head. “Be very careful, Richard. And keep your people away from that town if you want to keep them alive. These French bastards don’t give a damn who gets in their way.”

When Strozier got back to the embassy, he found Major Kasimir Malinowska waiting for him.

The short, thin Polish intelligence officer was acting as his government’s watchdog for the German end of the North Star investigation. “Well? Was it as you feared?”

“Yes. Maybe even worse.” Strozier filled him in on the afternoon’s events.

“I see.” Malinowska frowned. “What will you do next?”

“I don’t know.” The Berlin chief of station shook his head wearily. “I’m not sure where we go from here. We know that the French planted that bomb. We know the name of the fishing trawler they used for the job. Hell, we even know they killed poor Vance to cover it up. But we’ve got no proof.”

“Perhaps the satellite photographs are enough?” Malinowska suggested.

“Unlikely.” Strozier shrugged. “Besides, I doubt that Washington will risk releasing those pictures without other hard evidence. On their own, all they do is show the bad guys just how good our coverage is.”

“Then your superiors may do nothing?” The Pole sounded angry.

“No. Yes. Possibly.” Strozier rubbed his forehead. “Jesus, I really don’t see what they can do. Without Vance’s pictures or access to this Wismar place, we’ve reached a dead end.”

Malinowska’s pale blue eyes turned hard. “Perhaps that is true. And perhaps it is not.” He didn’t bother explaining what he meant by that.

Erin McKenna was making her routine rounds through the Russian bureaucracy when she caught the first whiff of impending trouble.

“Speaking bluntly, Deputy Minister, Honeywell isn’t going to spend the money needed to retool the Tula plant until they’re sure your government isn’t planning to renationalize it.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words. “After all, nobody puts their best silver out when they know a thief is on the way.”

“That is true.” Russia’s deputy minister for trade looked troubled. The martial law regime’s on-again, off-again attitude toward the private sector was wreaking havoc with her efforts to encourage foreign investment and foreign trade. Kaminov and his fellow soldiers didn’t seem to understand that their capricious seizures had very real and very predictable economic effects. Businessmen could not and would not make long-term financial commitments without some assurances that their investments were safe from arbitrary government action.

Erin watched the other woman carefully. Getting a handle on Russia’s intentions toward the Tula electronics factory was important for two reasons. First, an American firm now owned a forty-nine percent stake in the place — a multimillion-dollar investment. And an important part of her cover involved helping U.S. companies navigate their way through the convoluted, peculiarly Russian web of regulation, intrigue, and competing ministerial interests. The second reason was much more important. The personal computer components produced at Tula could be used for either civilian or military purposes. Government plans to seize the factory would be a clear warning that Russia was rearming.

The deputy minister made up her mind. “I can assure you, Miss McKenna, that — ” A sharp knock on the door interrupted whatever she was going to say. “Yes, what is it?”

Her special assistant poked his head into the office. “Galinia Ostrokova, may I see you for a moment? It’s very urgent.”

“All right, Viktor.” The deputy minister rose from behind her desk. Erin noticed again that she was a lot shorter than she looked sitting down. “Will you excuse me, please?”

“Oh, of course.”

The door shut behind the two Russians, leaving Erin alone inside the office. She glanced at the side table where the Trade Ministry official kept her computer. Her fingers practically itched at the chance to go dancing through secret files, but she fought off the impulse. She’d promised Banich that she’d stay out of the operational side of the intelligence game. That was the price he’d exacted for letting even an admittedly talented “amateur” roam through Moscow’s streets and government ministries.

The deputy minister came back in looking strained and very frightened. “Miss McKenna, I must ask you to leave. Immediately. I am afraid this interview is concluded.”

Erin felt cold suddenly. Was another purge under way? Or something much worse? She stood up. “Can I see you tomorrow, then? Or would another time be more convenient?”

“No. I…” The Russian woman visibly hesitated. “I am not sure when it will be possible for me to meet with you again. Please check with my assistant later.”

It had to be a purge. Kaminov must be making another sweep through the ministries, ridding them of reformers and other “undesirables.” Erin had a very strange feeling, though. The deputy minister was scared, all right, but she seemed more frightened of her than of anything else.

Her sense that something was very wrong intensified when she came out of the Trade Ministry building and saw Mike Hennessy standing beside one of the embassy cars. She always rode the Metro whenever possible. Using the subway for her visits to government officials was usually easier, faster, and certainly more discreet.

Hennessy already had the Lincoln’s passenger door open and its motor purring by the time she cleared the ministry’s revolving doors.

“What’s up?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure. I just got a hurry-up call from Alex to pick you up and bring you straight back.”

“And he’s the boss?”

“That’s right. He’s the boss.” Hennessy nodded and put the car in gear.

They made the short drive to the embassy in shared silence.

Alex Banich looked both relieved and surprised to see her back so soon.

“I thought you might give Hennessy more trouble,” he confessed, scrambling out of the only other chair in her office.

“I might have if I hadn’t already had a pretty weird meeting with one of my best contacts.” Erin frowned. “Something’s going on, right?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at her, obviously still concerned.

“Another purge?”

Banich shook his head. “No.” He checked his watch. “Come on. There’s a news story you should see, and it ought to be on again right about now.”

He led her fuming down the hall to a small conference room equipped with its own television set.

CNN’s hourly news roundup came on in midsentence. “… accused the French and German governments of criminal involvement in last month’s devastating natural gas tanker explosion. The Polish government spokesman went on to claim that an American CIA agent had recently been murdered near the tiny German town of Wismar as part of an ongoing Franco-German effort to block the North Star investigation.”

Erin whistled in amazement. This was big news. But how did it connect up with her experience at the Trade Ministry? She turned toward Banich. “What…”

He nodded toward the TV. “There’s more.”

“When pressed for evidence to back up Poland’s charges, Mr. Wiatr responded by revealing that U.S. intelligence reports from Moscow showed a direct link between French economic subsidies and the Russian oil and gas embargo aimed at his country. Highly placed sources inside Poland’s own spy agency confirmed his account…”

Oh, hell. Hell and damn. No wonder Ostrokova and her assistant had looked at her so suspiciously. The Poles had unwittingly blown her cover.

“… Apparently in reaction to the news, angry mobs attacked EurCon consulates in Warsaw, Gdansk, and Krakow. Police armed with tear gas and water cannon turned them back in bitter street fighting that left several dozen people injured — some seriously. In a bid to restore public order, Poland’s Roman Catholic primate and other church authorities have appealed for calm…”

With her mind in turmoil Erin looked away from the violent pictures flashing across the screen. She felt ill. Just when all her work was really starting to pay off, this had to happen. She saw Banich watching her sympathetically. “Now what happens? Will the Russians expel me?”

He shook his head. “I doubt it. Kicking you out would only give us the chance to bring in someone they don’t know about. Why risk that when they can just keep closer tabs on you?”

She nodded. Given the way Russians thought, that made sense. But then another, darker thought struck her. “What about the people I’ve been getting information from? What happens to them?”

As always, Banich gave it to her straight. He reserved deception for his country’s enemies. “They’re in trouble. The Russian government’s goons will be backtracking every move you’ve made since you came to Moscow. Anybody you’ve made contact with is automatically suspect. And if the FIS finds hard evidence that they fed you data?” His mouth turned downward. “Espionage and treason are still capital crimes in this country.”

Erin choked back tears. This was worse than her worst nightmare. She’d put people who had trusted her in mortal danger.

Banich took her face gently between his hands. “This is not your fault, McKenna. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He sighed. “This comes with the territory. Sometimes the information we gather leaks out. Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes because it’s necessary. And sometimes because someone higher up the ladder screwed up. But people always get hurt.”

He brushed away a single tear trickling down her cheek. “Blaming yourself won’t change that.”

Erin breathed out softly. Did he know the effect he was having on her? “Then where do I go from here?”

Banich gave her a small, sad smile. “You keep your head down. Stay inside the embassy compound as much as possible.”

“But…”

He laid a finger across her lips. “You have to. The FIS isn’t yet what the KGB used to be, but some of its agents are still thugs. They could try to set you up or use you to set someone else up — say, a prominent reformer Kaminov wants out of the way.”

“What about my work?”

Banich nodded. “That’s a problem. Hennessy, the others, and I will try our best to cover some of the same ground, but we’re going to be stretched pretty thin. You still have your taps into the state computer system?”

“I think so. At least until they change the passwords and access codes.” Erin felt calmer now, better able to think clearly and plan ahead. “And even then their security people might leave some holes I can burrow in through.”

“Good.” He stepped back, visibly turning more professional and more formal. “All right, McKenna, we’ll take a hit on this, but we’re still in business. Find out how much access you still have and let me know as soon as you can. I’ll have to report to Langley. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Erin watched Alex Banich walk away, again armored in polite indifference. But she’d seen him drop his guard. The workaholic CIA agent had a human side, after all. And she liked it.

The ten-story, prefabricated apartment building had been shabby when Hungary’s old communist government first constructed it. Now, after decades of neglect and overcrowding, it could only be called squalid.

On the seventh floor, Colonel Zoltan Hradetsky squeezed past the bicycles chained to the banister and made his way down a cramped, dimly lit hallway. Cracked, unpainted concrete walls and the sour, unwashed smell of too many people living with too little running water spoke volumes about the miserable existence endured by Budapest’s poorest citizens.

He paused outside Apartment 7-E and checked the hallway to either side. All the doors were shut. Even though he had come wearing civilian clothes, the building’s inhabitants were nowhere in sight. They must have a nose for policemen, he thought wryly. Well, perhaps he would soon need to learn their instincts.

Despite all his bold thoughts after leaving Solicitor Bartha’s office, it had taken Hradetsky a long time to find the right man. Although Vladimir Kusin was well known in the city, no current directory listed his phone number or address. And even a famous man could vanish among the capital’s two million people — especially with help from his many friends and supporters.

So, after spending nearly two weeks beating his head against a brick wall of feigned ignorance and outright evasion, Hradetsky had decided on a riskier, more direct approach. That was why he’d come here, to the apartment occupied by Kusin’s wife. Officially she and her husband were separated and in the midst of a messy divorce. Well, he had a hunch that the separation and the divorce were both a smoke screen — one designed to protect the woman from excessive police scrutiny and harassment. He was here to play that hunch.

He knocked once. “Mrs. Kusin?”

The door opened immediately. “I am Mara Kusin.”

Hradetsky nodded. The photo he’d seen in her police file matched the woman in front of him: a young-looking, thickly built woman with two teenage children.

He saw no point in hiding his identity. “I am Colonel Hradetsky, of the National Police.”

Kusin’s wife blanched, then steeled herself. She nodded quietly, guardedly. She must be used to trouble.

“May I come in?”

For an instant, a surprised look flickered across her face. Policemen were rarely so polite. She stepped back into the dingy apartment and stood waiting, her arms folded across her chest.

Hradetsky stepped across the threshold and shut the door behind him. He didn’t want prying ears to hear what he had to say.

He did not bother asking her where her husband was. Even if she did know, the last person she would tell was a police colonel. “I am not here in an official capacity. But I do have a message and important information for Vladimir Kusin. It is essential that I speak with him.”

“But I don’t know…”

“Of course you don’t.” Hradetsky shook his head. “All I ask is that you get this to him — wherever he is.”

He handed the woman an envelope containing a brief summary of the information he’d been given by Bela Silvanus, along with a schedule of public places where he would wait for contact over the next three days. When she took it, he felt his neck muscles tightening. He’d done it. He was committed now. Going to Solicitor Bartha with his concerns could be passed off as misguided bureaucratic maneuvering. Contacting an active member of Hungary’s banned political opposition could not.

Hradetsky sat on a park bench with his eyes slitted against the welcome spring sunshine, trying hard not to let his nerves get to him. That wasn’t easy. This noontime rendezvous outside the sprawling, neoclassical Museum of Fine Arts was the last of the three options he’d given Mara Kusin. Had the opposition decided to ignore him as a possible agent provocateur?

Or worse, had his message fallen into the wrong hands? The European Confederation’s German liaison, Rehling, and his Hungarian subordinates were strengthening the nation’s internal security apparatus with every passing day. They might have been paying more attention to his activities than he’d imagined.

He studied the office workers crowding the square more closely, wondering if any of them were agents assigned to watch him. Then he shrugged, almost amused at his own developing paranoia. How could he tell? There had to be several thousand people eating lunch in the vast open space dominated by the winged statue of the archangel Gabriel mounted atop a thirty-six-meter-high column. When he’d picked this spot as a possible rendezvous, he’d been thinking too much like a policeman and not enough like a conspirator. Mentally he was still on the other side of the surveillance camera.

He was on the edge of rising to go when a young, powerfully built man with blond hair sat down next to him. Without looking up, he opened a lunch pail and laid something on the bench between them. “I think you dropped this, Colonel.”

Hradetsky glanced down. It was the manila envelope he’d given Kusin’s wife. He picked it up. “Yes, I did.”

“Good.” The young man smiled thinly and offered him an apple. “Then let us begin.”

Hradetsky took a bite and listened intently as his nameless companion started asking a series of difficult questions. What were his attitudes toward the various regimes that had ruled Hungary? What had he done in past assignments? What did his current job entail? And most important of all, why did he want to see Vladimir Kusin?

To anyone passing by, they were just two friends sharing a rare treat of fruit on a delightful spring day. The police colonel knew differently. He was being vetted — checked — by the opposition before they let him get close to Kusin.

Hradetsky had conducted enough interrogations to know what the man was looking for, and why he wanted it. His questioner was intelligent and suspicious. The only way to deal with him was to answer every question as quickly and plainly as possible.

Although interrogators often revealed much about themselves by the kinds of questions they asked, these were so limited, or so straightforward, that Hradetsky learned little about the man or his group. From his build, his haircut, and some of the expressions he used, the colonel suspected the younger man might be an ex-army officer.

Abruptly the man closed his lunch pail, stood up, and said, “That’s enough for now. I must report to my superiors.”

Hradetsky stood also and they strolled casually toward the nearest Metro stop, mingling with the other workers streaming back to their offices. He had questions of his own, but he knew this man would not answer them. Still, he volunteered, “Please tell Kus — ”

The other man gave him a sharp look, and shushed him sharply.

Hradetsky corrected himself. “Please tell your superiors that there is not much time.”

The younger man smiled grimly. “We have been trying to tell you and your kind that for a long time.” Then he seemed to loosen up a little. “If you are what you claim to be, you can be a great help to us, Colonel. Still, a man can say anything and sound sincere. Actions always speak louder than words.”

He handed Hradetsky a piece of paper with a single name written on it. “Obtain the police file on this person and then come to the Central Etterem Cafeteria in two days’ time. At noon again. Is that sufficient?”

Momentarily nonplussed, Hradetsky muttered an affirmative.

“Good.” The man stood still for a moment, watching the crowds pouring down the stairs to the underground subway line. Then he glanced back at Hradetsky. “And be more careful in the future. I followed you all the way from your ministry as easily as a wolf tracking a wounded deer. Next time it might not be someone so friendly.” He showed his teeth at his own small joke.

Hradetsky flushed but nodded. However obnoxious the younger man’s manner, his warning was valid. He would have to learn the caution so necessary to those living outside the law.

Two days later, he sat at a table in the packed Central Etterem Cafeteria sipping a cup of strong black espresso. His elbow rested on the same manila envelope, this time containing the police file his contact had requested.

Hradetsky frowned. Copying the confidential file had proved almost ludicrously easy. An overworked staff and sloppy office procedures saw to that. After all, any ranking police official had routine access to that kind of information. The trick had been to do it without attracting attention or leaving a paper trail.

Now that he had the file, he had the time to wonder why exactly Kusin’s people wanted it. From what he’d seen, the man they were interested in was a democratic activist — a longtime opponent of both the old communist regime and the current military government. Perhaps they needed to know how closely the police were watching the fellow. Or maybe the opposition already had a copy of this particular file and only wanted to see if he brought them the right one.

Whatever else it was, this job was certainly a test of his loyalty and resourcefulness. Until he delivered the information they’d asked him for, Kusin and his allies would view him as little more than a big talker. If he delivered the wrong information, they’d write him off as a police plant. And if he’d been caught while trying to get it, they’d have known he wasn’t cut out for covert work.

Hradetsky stirred restlessly. He felt soiled somehow. He’d spent his life enforcing the law and keeping the peace. Now it seemed almost too easy to break both, even in a good cause.

Then he shook his head. His own feelings were unimportant in this case. And his first loyalty had to be to Hungary — not to any particular ruling clique. Especially not to a group of generals in French and German pay. Freeing the nation from their incompetent grasp was not a task for the fainthearted. It was time to act.

The same blond-haired man he’d first met slid into the empty chair across from him. “Good afternoon, Colonel. Do you have what I asked for?”

Hradetsky shoved the envelope across the table and waited while the man glanced inside it briefly and handed it back. He seemed satisfied.

“Follow me.”

Without saying anything more, the younger man got up and left the cafeteria. With Hradetsky in tow, he took a circuitous route through Budapest’s crowded streets — a route that ended at a small apartment building in one of the more fashionable districts.

They went in through a back entrance, climbed two flights of stairs, and halted in front of an unmarked door. The blond-haired man turned for one last look down the stairs and then knocked three times. When the door opened, he motioned the police colonel through ahead of him.

Two men were waiting for them in a tastefully furnished living room. One of them, markedly older than the other, stood up and said quietly, “I am Vladimir Kusin.”

The man in front of Hradetsky was pale and thin, almost anemic. His clothes were shabby, although this appeared to be more from long use than lack of care. Although he was only in his fifties, his hair was snow-white, and a deeply lined face added ten years to his apparent age. A winter spent in prison had clearly been hard on him.

During Hungary’s brief post-communist flirtation with democratic rule, Kusin had been the elected leader of one of Budapest’s district councils. When the military-dominated Government of National Salvation took power, he’d been jailed for unspecified acts of “agitation.” What that meant, the colonel knew, was that he’d complained too vehemently and too vocally about the new regime’s emergency decrees.

And even though Kusin was articulate enough to have acquired some following in the Western media, that hadn’t protected him from a trumped-up charge and six months in prison. The generals had only released him when they were sure he was a spent force — a weak and ailing reed unable to challenge their hold on power.

They had miscalculated.

Even illness and imprisonment hadn’t stopped him. Kusin’s ability to smuggle out statements on human rights, French and German economic and political influence, and other forbidden topics was one of the reasons Hradetsky had sought him out.

In the month since Hungary had joined the European Confederation, Kusin had become even more vocal. Pamphlets and underground newspaper articles bearing his signature called for an end to military rule and immediate withdrawal from the Confederation. He was the closest thing to a national leader that Hungary’s growing opposition had.

Kusin turned toward Hradetsky’s escort. “Any problems?”

The blond man shook his head. “No, sir. I saw no warning signals, and my boys are still in place.”

Kusin saw Hradetsky’s puzzled look and explained. “This is Oskar Kiraly, Colonel. He and a few of his friends watch over me.”

So that was it. The police colonel studied his escort with greater interest. For all practical purposes, Kiraly was Vladimir Kusin’s chief of security. Maybe these people were better organized than he had thought.

The older man motioned him into an adjacent room — from the look of it a small bedroom temporarily converted into an office and library. Kusin sat down and indicated a second chair for Hradetsky. Kiraly stood behind them, near the door.

“May I see the file you showed Oskar?”

Hradetsky gave him the manila envelope, along with a separate packet containing all the documents he’d been given by Bela Silvanus. He nodded toward the photocopied police file. “Aren’t you worried that may be false?”

Kusin shook his head. “If it is, your future is short, I’m afraid.” His eyes flickered toward Kiraly. Suddenly the colonel’s shoulder blades itched. He forced himself to sit calmly. If they wanted him dead, there wasn’t much he could do about it. The opposition leader scanned the copied file quickly, smiled, and then opened the other envelope.

Kusin’s white, tufted eyebrows rose as he realized what it contained. “This is fascinating, Colonel Hradetsky. You would make a first-class spy.”

He winced inwardly, and some of it must have shown on his face, because the older man quickly added, “That is not why we need you, though.”

Kusin leaned back in his chair. “So, Colonel, what is it that you want? Why did you seek me out?” He flicked the pile of reassignment orders and termination lists in his lap. “Only to show me these? Or for something more?”

Hradetsky sighed, knowing this was a moment of truth — a turning point from would-be reformer to revolutionary. “I started out wanting to stop this man Rehling’s orders, to bring some sanity back to the National Police. Now I don’t think that can happen. Not under this government.”

“It can’t,” Kusin agreed firmly. “Rehling and the others like him are merely symptoms of a greater illness. These French and German satraps infect our country because the generals believe they need this Confederation’s support to maintain their power. What the soldiers do not seem to realize is that their onetime allies are very rapidly becoming their masters. And our masters as well.”

“Yes. I understand that.” Hradetsky stifled his impatience. For all his eloquence, Kusin was still a politician. And politicians liked to talk. “But what can we do to stop this?”

“Beside printing futile complaints, you mean?” The older man laughed softly. “There are a lot of people like you, Colonel, who were willing to accept a Government of National Salvation, but not this supposed European Confederation. We are going to mobilize those newly dissatisfied people. We are going to expand our own organization. Recruiting some of the police officers on this list you gave us will be very useful.”

Kusin’s voice grew harder, even more determined. “And if the French and the Germans push us too far, we will fight.”

There was a fire in his eyes and his voice that Hradetsky felt warming his own blood. He wanted to act, not sit here in this study. “Then what do you want me to do?”

“You are a trained leader, Colonel. An expert in the art of managing men and controlling crowds. We will use that expertise for our own purposes.” Kusin leaned closer to him. “Very soon, we will mass ten thousand people or more for a march on the Parliament building to demand reforms. You are going to help us organize this protest.”

The opposition leader sat back. His eyes were colder now, fixed on some distant horizon beyond Hradetsky’s view. “And then?” He smiled sadly. “Then we shall see just how far these madmen in Paris and Berlin can be pushed.”

The news from Europe was grim.

“Essentially the French and German military buildup along the Polish and Czech borders is continuing, Mr. President. In fact, it may even be accelerating. The whole border area is rapidly becoming a powder keg.” General Reid Galloway, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, stood behind a podium next to a wall-sized video monitor. The fact that America’s top-ranked soldier was delivering this briefing in person emphasized how seriously he viewed the events piling up across the Atlantic. The creases across a normally optimistic, good-humored face were another clear indication.

Ross Huntington shared the general’s pessimistic view. Outraged by the French-funded oil embargo and the attack on North Star, Poland and the Czech and Slovak republics had broken all diplomatic ties with the European Confederation. And with France stonewalling demands for a full investigation, Britain and Norway had recalled their ambassadors from Paris for “consultation.” Public pressure in the United State was building for similar moves. What had begun as a political and economic crisis was rapidly taking on a military aspect as well. He clenched his left fist repeatedly, hoping it would ease the pressure in his chest.

Galloway clicked through several images in rapid succession, using a hand-held controller to circle the parts of each image he considered particularly important. Some of the photos he highlighted showed jet aircraft parked out in the open near hardened shelters. Others featured row after row of tanks and other armored vehicles lined up in cleared fields near small villages and larger towns. “As these satellite photos show, EurCon is in the process of moving substantial air and ground forces to new bases in eastern Germany. Significantly, they aren’t making any real effort to hide this redeployment.”

“Could they?” The President sat forward in his chair.

Galloway nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. My EurCon counterparts know the orbital data for every recon satellite we have. If they wanted to, they could be moving this hardware around when we’re blind — and concealing it under camouflage netting or in shelters when we’re not. We’d still pick up signs of movement, but not anywhere near this fast or this easily.”

“So this is primarily a political maneuver to step up the pressure on the Poles and Czechs — and not a preliminary move toward deliberate military action?”

“Exactly, Mr. President.” The chairman of the Joint Chiefs keyed the monitor off and raised the room lights to full brightness. “But our allies can’t take that chance, so they’re being forced to respond in kind.

“Although they’re still worried about Russia, the Poles are more worried about EurCon. So far they’ve deployed four of their nine active-duty divisions along the German frontier, with another two close behind in reserve. And when I talked to General Staron, their Defense Minister, this morning, he informed me that his President is considering reactivating one of their reserve divisions. The Czechs and Slovaks are taking similar steps.”

Huntington felt the band around his chest tighten even more. This was very bad news. Calling reservists from their civilian jobs back to the colors was always a costly proposition. The fact that the three Eastern European countries were even considering it in a time of great economic hardship indicated just how concerned they were.

Galloway shook his head somberly. “With tens of thousands of troops on full alert and aircraft flying combat air patrols in close proximity to each other, the place is just one hell of an accident waiting to happen.”

“Swell.” The President swiveled his chair toward Harris Thurman. “Any recent diplomatic developments I should know about?”

“No, sir.” The Secretary of State sounded apologetic. “Nobody’s budged so much as an inch.”

“All right, people. I need your input. What exactly are my options here?” The President tapped the table with his pen. “General? John? Any ideas on your end of things?”

The Secretary of Defense looked thoughtful. “The Joint Chiefs and I believe we should boost our military aid to Poland and the others even further, Mr. President. By drawing down some of our reserve forces equipment we could — ”

“Send more tanks?” Thurman looked aghast. “General Galloway is right. The whole region is an armed camp now. How can shipping in more weapons possibly help?”

Lucier kept his attention locked on the President. “Weapons by themselves don’t provoke wars. Perceptions and intentions are far more important.”

Huntington nodded to himself. The short, bookish Secretary of Defense was right there. Too many arms control pundits focused only on the hardware side of the equation. By their bizarre set of rules, both Adolf Hitler’s massive program to rearm for conquest and the belated Allied efforts to thwart the Nazi dictator would have been judged equally destabilizing.

“EurCon evidently views the Poles and the rest as militarily weak, and thus susceptible to military pressure. In turn, they know that much of their equipment is outdated. To make up for that, they’ve had to bring their armed forces to higher and higher states of alert. When you’re outgunned and outnumbered, you must make sure every available tank, plane, and soldier is ready for battle.”

Lucier looked over his thick, horn-rimmed glasses at the Secretary of State. “Perceived weakness is exacerbating this crisis, Harris. Not strength. So we can accomplish two very important aims by increasing our military aid now. First, we put EurCon’s leaders on notice that we’re calling their bluff. And second, we’ll build Polish and Czech confidence. The more certain they are that they can withstand a sudden EurCon attack, the more likely they are to pull their forces back from the border and ratchet down their alert state.”

In the momentary silence that followed, the President sat frowning, evidently still somewhat unsure of which course to follow. He scanned the assembled group. “If I okay this extra military aid, what’s the likely EurCon reaction?”

“Paris and Berlin will be furious.” Thurman sounded unhappy. “They regard all of Eastern Europe as their own backyard, so they’re bound to regard further arms shipments as a deliberate provocation.”

The President nodded slowly, still frowning. “But how far will they go, Harris?” He glanced around the table. “Take the worst case. Would EurCon risk a military confrontation over this issue?”

“Unlikely, sir.” Galloway shook his head. “They’re trying to intimidate the Poles and the rest — not start an open war with us.”

“EurCon won’t roll over, though,” Huntington warned. “The French and Germans want Poland and the others inside their orbit too badly to give up so easily. We can expect heated protests.” He paused. “Probably coupled with additional covert attacks against us or against our allies.”

The President and the rest of the NSC nodded. Though they didn’t have enough proof to go public with their suspicions, everybody in the room knew EurCon agents were responsible for the destruction of the LNG tanker and for the murder of an American intelligence officer. Nobody would be particularly surprised by more EurCon sabotage attempts. He looked down the table at the head of the CIA. “What about it, Walt? Can your antiterrorism people handle the threat?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Quinn said confidently. “I know there’s no such thing as a leakproof defense, but now that we know what we’re up against, we’ve got a much better chance to thwart any covert operations aimed our way.”

Galloway backed Quinn up. “Besides the warships we send as escorts, we can put special teams from Delta Force and SEAL Team Six on every freighter and tanker going into the Baltic.” The general’s eyes flashed fire. “And with those guys in place, I’ll guarantee any son-of-a-bitch who tries to plant another limpet mine a short ride to hell.”

Huntington watched his old friend sit silently, weighing his options. Putting more U.S.-flagged ships, citizens, and soldiers at risk wasn’t an appealing prospect, but the alternatives — accidental war as border tensions rose, or Franco-German control over the whole European continent — seemed far worse.

The President straightened up. “All right, we’ll send the equipment, and back it up if need be.” He glanced around the table. “Any other objections or comments?”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Apparently Thurman wasn’t quite ready to surrender completely. “Before we send more war matériel to Poland, we should at least make sure the other European states understand our intentions. Substantial arms shipments without full notification could provoke a dreadful misunderstanding. Surely that’s a risk we don’t want to run.”

“Agreed. What do you have in mind?”

“Well…” The Secretary of State fiddled with his pipe, obviously at something of a loss. “A public statement would be helpful. Or perhaps you could talk to the French ambassador. He represents EurCon interests here.”

“No.” The President’s eyes narrowed. “I will not meet with any representative of a government that has murdered American citizens and destroyed American property.”

Other NSC members growled their agreement.

“Then perhaps I could call the ambassador in to…”

The President shook his head again. “I don’t want any official, high-level contacts, Harris. Not while these people are essentially waging a covert war against us.”

“Then how are we supposed to communicate with EurCon, Mr. President?”

“Unofficially. Unofficially and through the back door, Mr. Secretary.”

The irritated look on Thurman’s face confirmed what Huntington had half suspected all along. The State Department’s patrician chief often cared more about his own prestige inside the cabinet and the Beltway than he did about effective policy. But if the President didn’t want to use the diplomats to convey his message, that left only one other route and one other messenger.

Huntington sat up straighter as the President turned toward him, hoping he could mask his fatigue.

“How about it, Ross?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded firmly. “I can make another trip.”

Major General Jerzy Novachik stood still facing east, watching the western edge of a small patch of forest near the German border. He shaded his eyes with an open hand, squinting against the rising sun. He resisted the temptation to check his watch again. Predawn maneuvers were always tough to coordinate. Showing his impatience would only make his staff nervous without achieving anything useful.

Startled by a sudden noise from deeper inside the woods, birds exploded into the air in a mass of black, fluttering wings. Now.

Fourteen M1 Abrams tanks howled out of the forest, moving in line abreast at high speed. Mud sprayed out behind them, thrown high by their clattering tracks. Novachik could see helmets silhouetted in open hatches on top of each tank’s low, squat turret.

Good, he thought. The company’s tank commanders were on the ball, risking shell fragments and sniper bullets while they scanned the terrain around them for signs of the enemy. The temptation to sit snug and secure inside a buttoned-up armored vehicle was always strong. It was also almost always dangerous.

With the hatches closed, tank crews were almost blind and deaf — especially when moving through woods. And what they didn’t see could very often kill them.

As the M1s cleared the treeline, Novachik heard one of his staff officers snap out an order. “Activate!”

Five hundred meters north of the charging tanks, several rows of cardboard targets popped up off the ground. Some bore Leopard 2 silhouettes. Others showed Marder APCs. Like other officers in Poland’s army, the general didn’t believe in screwing around with generic labels. He knew his likely enemies.

Almost before the last target flipped up, the M1s were reacting. Turrets whined right, slewing around to bring their 120mm guns to bear. The whole line wheeled north — still moving at close to sixty kilometers an hour.

Crack!

An M1 fired — disappearing for just an instant as it thundered through the smoke from its own gun. As it reappeared, more tanks opened up, pumping shell after shell into the mass of pop-up targets.

They stopped shooting almost before the sounds of the first volley finished echoing across the open field. The M1s changed front again, sliding back into a line headed west.

Novachik raised his binoculars, zeroing in on the target area. Fantastic. The silhouettes were gone — every one knocked back down onto the torn, shell-churned ground.

“Exercise complete, sir.”

He smiled genially at the young officer who had organized this display. “So I see, Henryk. Very impressive.” He meant it. The M1’s ability to fire accurately while on the move put it light-years ahead of the T-72s and T-55s that equipped the rest of his division. Unfortunately the 5th Mechanized still only had enough of the American armored vehicles to outfit one of its five reorganized tank battalions. There were reports that more U.S. equipment was on the way, but the Polish general knew he couldn’t count on getting it. If war came, whether deliberately or accidentally, he would have to fight his battles with a mix of disparate weapons and tactics.

Novachik turned to the short, black-haired American officer standing next to him. “And what did you think, Major?”

After nearly six months in Poland, Major Bill Takei was picking up the language fast. “A solid performance, sir. Your troops are learning how to use their new equipment almost faster than I can teach them.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Novachik studied the Japanese-American closer. He’d worked with Novachik and his men closely, certain that they would have to use this equipment and their training, somewhere, sometime.

The “Hell on Wheels” armored division combat patch on the younger man’s shoulder showed that he had seen action during the Desert Storm campaign. And whenever he smiled, a thin, faint tracery of scar tissue showed on the right side of his face, climbing from his cheek almost all the way up to his eye. It was a strange feeling to command a man who had actually fought in a war while all he’d ever done was practice for one.

Americans like Takei were working throughout the Polish Army and Air Force, trying to blend American equipment and tactics with their Soviet predecessors into something that would meet uniquely Polish needs.

Followed by a gaggle of staff officers and other observers, the two men walked back across the muddy, rutted field toward a parked column of GAZ jeeps and Humvees. As his boots sank into the soft ground, Novachik wondered how Takei’s lightning-swift war of sweeping movement, blinding sandstorms, and burning oil might compare with one fought in this soft, green, confining landscape. It would be bloodier here, he thought grimly. Much bloodier.