The Julian secret

PROLOGUE: MISCELLANEOUS EVENTS

Rome

Outside the City Wall, South of the Tiber

Month of Julius A.D. 362

Demetrius did not like being among the dead at night. If the purpose of being here was to visit a tomb, perhaps to lower food to the spirit of someone departed, then it should be done in daylight when the gods could see and note the piety with which the ancestors were treated. The same would be true if this were a funeral procession. Night was the time of evil and the underworld, the time of Pluto or whatever name these Romans had for the master of Hades.

But Demetrius was a Greek, a mere slave, who did not get to choose the time and place of his labors.

Even in the poor light of stuttering torches, though, it was obvious that Sextinus, his master, was unhappy even if he was carrying out a command of the Emperor himself. The other slave, a Gaul whose tongue had been cut out for some minor disrespect, was clearly as unhappy as Demetrius. Not only were the streets between the tombs dark, it was said that at night deadly serpents came out from the Tiber's swamps at the foot of the hill below to devour whatever might remain of the recently deceased.

Demetrius was terrified of snakes, particularly those rumored to be large enough to swallow a man whole.

Ahead, a structure larger than the others blotted out the stars. With whispered curses, Sextinus urged them forward, to carry the burden the two slaves shared next to the foundations of the temple.

Or at least, Demetrius thought of it as a temple.

Actually, it was a palace, the residence of the high priest of that religion the Emperor Constantine had embraced nearly four decades ago, a belief that worshiped a god with no name and his son, a Judean who had been crucified and supposedly risen from the dead.

Rising from the dead was a fairly common trick for gods and goddesses, Demetrius thought. The Egyptians' Isis did it every spring with the flooding of the Nile. There was Orpheus, who went to Hades to retrieve his wife, Mythrin, the subject of Mythrinism, a religion ever popular these days, and any number of Persian gods who jumped up out of their graves as though simply waking from a mortal's sleep.

But there was something different about this religion. Christianity, that was its name. Whatever the difference, it had infuriated the Emperor enough to commence purges that had been unknown for years.

That religion, Demetrius was sure, was why he and the other two men were here tonight, to dig into the under pinning of the temple/palace and place two amphorae there and then replace a part of the foundation itself so that anyone attempting to remove the amphorae would risk bringing the whole structure down on his head.

What was in those clay vessels? Not wine or olive oil. They were far too light for that. It made no sense. But then, emperors didn't have to.

The Vatican, April 1939

Eugenio Pacelli, Pope Pius XII for less than two months, hurried along the dimly lit corridors of the grotto, the name only half-humorously given to the lowest parts of St. Peter's Basilica. Ahead of him, Father Emilio Sargenti turned to wait impatiently for the older man to catch up.

"Slower, Emilio," Pius puffed. "Even if what you think is true, it win not go away."

The young priest stopped, making an unsuccessful effort to hide his impatience. "Of course, Your Holiness."

At a slower pace, they threaded their way between effigies of past pontiffs reclining on marble sarcophagi.

Although many might find the company of the dead macabre, Pius often retreated here to pray alone.

To pray and conduct a private, personal exorcism of the demons he was convinced inhabited the soul of Adolph Hitler, demons he had had an opportunity to witness firsthand as the Papal State's envoy to Berlin only a year or so ago. The man was capable of enormous evil. Swallowing sovereign nations, pogroms, and, if Father Sargenti had found what Pius suspected, doing irreparable damage to the Church itself.

The German dictator was temporarily forgotten as the younger man stooped and directed a flashlight beam at a dark corner. "There, just next to the wall!"

Pius tugged at his white cassock and knelt to see better. This was the niche his predecessor, Pius XI, had chosen for his tomb. In preparing space for it, the discovery had been made.

"Can you see it?" Impatience was creeping back into Father Sargenti's voice. "See the bricks, the dome of the vault underneath this floor?"

Pius saw clearly. He sat back on his haunches. "It's hardly surprising, Emilio. Before Constantine built the first papal palace here on the Vatican Hill, the area had been a cemetery for hundreds of years, first the pagan Romans, then the Christians. In fact, the area was a necropolis, streets running between mausoleums honoring the dead. You've hit the top of one of those, that's all."

Of course, that wasn't all, and both men knew it.

Near Werfen, Austria

May 16, 1945

In the Tirol, spring comes slowly and with great caution. It was no surprise to the man riding in the railroad engine's cab that patches of snow lingered along those parts of the track shaded by towering conifers. The breeze whipping through the glassless windows was raw and smelled of the forest rather than cordite, sulfur, and death, odors the man had lived With for so long.

The air was so cold, it burned the lungs.

He smiled. Even though he would not be here for long, it was good to be coming home, to return to his native land, a country he had seen but little in the turbulent last few years. He was delighted to watch the icy streams cascade down verdant hills and through grassy meadows. A doe, pregnant with a fawn to be born soon, stood wide-eyed, watching the train chug along before showing her white flag and disappearing into the shad ows. Overhead, an eagle cut endless circles into the cloudless sky.

Nothing had changed here. The mountains, the trees, the tumbling waters that murmured to themselves as they raced downhill were the same, oblivious to the fact that the entire world was a place far different from when he had last set foot here. In the man's opinion, the changes had not been good.

Ordinarily, a train ride from Budapest to Vienna would take perhaps a half a day or so, perhaps three hundred kilometers. In today's world, the ride wasn't even possible. The tracks, bridges, and tunnels between the two Eastern European capitals had been bombed into so much steel and stone rubble. That was the reason for traveling to a village more than twice the distance from the Hungarian capital, a necessary detour.

At least, that was what he had been told. He didn't believe it.

His disbelief was justified seconds later. Rounding a gentle curve, he saw two American half-tracks across the rails. He recognized the specially mounted fifty-caliber Browning M1 heavy machine guns as the best heavy automatic weapon of the war. The sun twinkled on the brass shells in belts already fed into each breech. On one side was a Sherman tank, the black mouth of its turret cannon turned in the train's direction. On the other was a line of deuce-and-a-halfs, two-and-a-half-ton trucks, canvas covers in place to shield the contents of the beds from curious eyes. About a dozen men in American combat uniforms, some swaddled in great coats, stood around, each carrying a rifle. Even at this distance, he could see the shoulder patches of the 15th Infantry Regiment.

The grade had slowed the train to a near walk. Stopping took little effort.

"Herr Sturmbahnfuhrer…?" The engineer asked.

Without taking his eyes off the Americans, the man replied in German, ''You are not to refer to me so. I am simply Herr Schmidt."

The engine exhaled deeply, geysers of steam venting into the crisp air, as the man swung down from the cab. He was dressed in Tirolian attire: lederhosen, green wool socks, and a felt hat sporting a brush of mountain goat hair. Though his shirt was short-sleeved, he carried his jacket under one arm and kept his hands visible at all times so there would be no mistake made as to whether he was armed. He walked along the short stretch of track deliberately, as though each step had its own significance. He carried himself ramrod straight, like a soldier marching at attention.

From one of the half-tracks, a man also in American uniform climbed down. His short Eisenhower jacket was adorned with campaign ribbons and his shoulder straps bore two stars each, the rank of major general. Instead of advancing to meet the man from the train, he waited calmly where he stood, as if high-ranking Allied officers met German-gauge freight trains in secluded woodlands all the time.

A few paces from the American, the man from the train stopped, touching the brim of his hat in what might have been either a salute or a civilian greeting. "Herr General!"

The American didn't bother to return the gesture, whatever its significance. "You are right on time, Mr. Smith."

The other man smiled, an expression that emphasized the scar running the length of one cheek. "Punctuality is a virtue of my people."

His accent was almost nonexistent other than the "v" sounding slightly more like an "f."

"Only fuckin' one," the general grumbled. ''You have the list?"

The other man produced a sheaf of papers from inside the bib of his short pants and extended them. "Not only a complete inventory, but a car-by-car list."

Without reply, the general motioned to a man with sergeant chevrons on his sleeves. The sergeant gave the man a suspicious look, one that said he wasn't overly certain the surrender of all German forces just eight days earlier applied here. He said something to two other men who followed him as he walked alongside the still wheezing locomotive.

The man from the train watched appreciatively. American soldiers slumped as they walked, like old men. They also cared little about the condition of their uniforms and less about the polish on their boots. Sloppy. Sloppy and deceiving. How could such slovenly men be such fierce fighters? If someone had suggested five years ago that American auto mechanics and shoe salesmen could be trained to beat the finest army the world had ever seen, they would have been considered mad.

"That one." The general was walking behind the three enlisted men.

With a screech of metal on metal, the three American enlisted men pulled the door of the first freight car open. Even the cool air could not disguise the faint sour odor that wafted out.

The general made a face. "I'm afraid to ask what I'm smelling."

Without a trace of apology, the other man replied, "This train has been moving for nearly three months now, collecting art and treasure from both Hungarian and Austrian museums who wished to prevent it from being taken by the Russians. Many of the crew lived in these cars without benefit of modern conveniences such as soap and running water. Also, a number of these cars were used in the resettlement program, moving Hungarian Jews to the camps."

The general gave the other man a glance, the same sort of look he might have reserved for a child molester.

Without seeming to notice, the man from the train added, ''As per our, er, understanding, I took the first cars I could find, Herr General. Since much in these cars comes from those deportees, I had no idea of your, er, sensibilities on the subject."

The general inhaled deeply; whether to mix as much clean air with the smell or because he was without answer was impossible to tell. He looked inside the first car. Rolls of cloth were stacked upon each other. "Rugs?"

"Rugs and tapestries. A few fine tablecloths as well."

And so it went: art, silverware, fine porcelain, antiques' coin collections, even boxes of gold wedding rings that spoke more than other items about what had happened to their prior owners.

At the end of the train, the general dismissed the three enlisted men, indicating he and the other man should take a brief walk along a narrow deer trail.

The general brandished the list. "This inventory, it is complete?" The other man, his hands clasped behind his back, shook his head. "Oh, no, Herr General".

The man in uniform stopped in his tracks so suddenly he might have hit an invisible barrier. "No? What the hell d'ya mean? Our agreement clearly specified all. "

"Of course, Herr General," the other man said amicably. ''You wanted the entire Reich stores of goods confiscated from deported Jews. You were quite clear."

The general's frustration level was clearly growing. He was not someone used to having explicit directions ignored. "Then what the hell…?"

From the direction of the train came a ragged series of gunshots, their echoes bouncing like pinballs from hill to hill. Undismayed, the man in civilian clothes nodded toward the sound. "A little insurance to make sure I don't join our poor friend, the engineer, and his crew."

"Exactly how much…?" The general was too flustered to finish his sentences.

The civilian turned to go back up the path. "Enough. Michelangelo's Virgin, a Van Eyck, some trinkets. No furniture. Too bulky. All in all, probably fifteen to twenty million or so of your dollars."

''You sum'bitch!" the general exploded. "I shudda known better than to parley with some goddamn Kraut!"

The other man was unperturbed. "I might remind you, General, that a number of your superiors would be… shall we say 'interested' in what you're doing? I'm aware you have the power to requisition furnishings for your headquarters, but seventeenth-century boulle desks and Flemish rugs? Not to mention a half-ton or so of wedding rings plus jewels both set and loose."

The general's hand went to the holster on his belt. "I oughta…" He grimaced, fighting for self-control. "For your information, all this property is going to a warehouse in Salzburg until the legitimate owners can be identified."

The man in lederhosen met the other man's eyes with his own blue stare. "Of course, Herr General I'm certain your men shot an unarmed engineer and two crew members trying to escape. All you have to do is live up to the bargain we made and the rest is yours."

"How do I know that?"

The civilian gave him a smile that was as cold as the mountain air. ''You don't. You do know that without me, you'll never see the rest." He glanced up the hill and extended a hand to rest on the other man's shoulder, two old comrades returning from a walk. "Now, shall we go back to your men?"

West Berlin, Germany

Templehof Flughof (Airport)

December 1988

The U.S. Army version of the Beech King Air A300 bucked like a rodeo bull. The pilot, a career major, muttered into his headset while the copilot, a first lieutenant, shifted his gaze between the instruments and the open book of Jepps approach plates on his lap.

"Look at that," the major observed, staring into the snow-filled sky. "Like flyin' in a fuckin' bedsheet. We'll be damned lucky not to cut this one short."

The lieutenant nodded his agreement. With short runways and surrounded by apartment buildings, Templehof was not a place anyone wanted to miss an approach and go around, to reach the minimum published descent altitude, have no sight of the runway or its environs, and have to climb steeply out to regain approach altitude. He returned to the Jepps. "Five hundred, sir."

The major liked to have the altitude read to him, the distance between the plane's height and the missed approach point. That way he could keep an uninterrupted lookout for the first light, the runway "rabbit," or anything else that would visually establish the approach.

"Four hundred, sir." The major kept a steady, sweeping stare in front. ''You check on our passenger?" The lieutenant nodded. "Yes, sir. Just before we were handed off by Center. He was sound asleep." Asleep? In this turbulence? He's either an idiot not to be scared shitless, drunk, or just doesn't give a damn."

''Yessir. Three hundred."

"Berlin Approach, we have runway three six," the major announced gleefully into the headset's microphone.

It took the lieutenant another thirty seconds before he could make out a series of dim white lights delineating the runway. "You have the aircraft, sir?"

"I have it, Lieutenant. Give me full props, rest of the flaps. I have the power."

The lieutenant had been only slightly happier to get his first promotion than he was to see Templehof's massively hideous fascist architecture through the blowing snow. The Allies had built a bigger, modern, joint civilian military field to the west of Berlin, but Templehof was much closer to the center of the city. The lieutenant supposed the older facility still operated, because no one wanted to shut down a living monument to those who had flown those months of 1948-49, landing an aircraft every sixty-three seconds, night or day, fair weather or foul, to bring food and fuel to the besieged city. Although he couldn't see it, he knew that on the edge of the field stood a three-pronged monument to those men, a modern sculpture the ever-irreverent locals dubbed "the Hunger Finger." Templehof would, the lieutenant supposed, remain as long as anyone remembered the Berlin Airlift.

The buildings needed paint, and the tarmac could use paving. The field reminded the lieutenant of one of those movie stars from the 1940's now down on her luck, living on charity and Social Security.

The lighted wands of the line personnel were the only signs of life outside the aircraft as the turboprops spooled down. As the major completed the shutdown checklist, the lieutenant stooped through the cramped division between cockpit and passenger compartment.

The passenger was rubbing his eyes, clearly awakened only by a landing somewhat more rough than the flight crew would have wished. He smiled sleepily at the lieutenant and looked out of the window. Squatting to follow his gaze, the lieutenant was impressed, if not surprised, to see a black limousine pull up beside the airplane and douse its lights.

The passenger stood and stretched as high as the cabin's low ceiling allowed. "That's for me, I think. Thanks for the lift."

"Our pleasure," the lieutenant muttered, edging past. He twisted the latch and the clamshell door's airlock died with a hiss. He stood aside as the passenger went down the stairs. "Enjoy Berlin."

The passenger stopped and turned. "Thanks. But I'm afraid I've made other plans." The lieutenant noted that the young man had wrapped, a scarf around the lower part of his face. To keep warm or avoid the East German spies who frequently photographed arriving passengers? The major came up behind the lieutenant. "Who the hell was that?" The lieutenant shrugged. "Name on the manifest is Langford Reilly, some civilian employee from Frankfurt."

The major stooped to watch the car glide off into the white. "Spook, I'll bet." The lieutenant held up a book. "Mebbe. But he left this, Winnie Iile Pooh." The major squinted. "What's that? It's a foreign language."

"It appears to be Winnie the Pooh in Latin."

Now that he was actually in Berlin, Langford "Lang" Reilly was having trouble appearing composed. He felt the combined urges to vomit, urinate, and open the car door and run. What idiot idea had compelled him to volunteer for this, anyway? When he had been hired by the Agency right out of college, he had envisioned lurking about romantic European cities, Budapest or Prague, perhaps, with a silenced pistol in one hand and a local beauty's arm in the other. As is most often the case, mature reality trumped youthful fantasy. He had taken the standard training at "the Farm," the Agency's facility south of Washington-cryptography, marksmanship, martial arts, psychology, and a number of subjects that, as far as he could see, bore no relationship to the courses' names.

Training complete, he had been assigned to the Third Directorate, Intelligence. He had been disappointed. The Fourth Directorate, Operations, had been his and all his classmates' choice. He had either been too good at the intellectual side of spycraft or insufficient in killing, maiming, and the other activities ascribed to the Fourth Directorate by the fiction industry if not the Agency itself.

Could have been worse, he consoled himself. He could have been First Directorate, Administration, spending his days reviewing budgets, checking expenditures, and generally being the spook equivalent of an accountant. No, he couldn't have been. His math stunk. And he had no engineering background, thereby. disqualifying. him from the Second Directorate, Material, the Agency's own special version of James Bond's Q, the supplier of poison needles in umbrellas, cameras fitted into belt buckles and cigarette lighters that fired bullets.

He sat back in the car, staring into the snowy night. So why the hell had he left his Eastern European newspapers, TV transcripts, and comfortable if unglamorous office with the view of the Bahnhof in Frankfurt? Worse, why the hell had he volunteered?

Well, he told himself, this was. likely to be, one of the very last real ops of the Cold War. The Russkies and their workers' paradise in East Germany were collapsing fast. He had seen the info himself. They were going to be defeated not by superior arms, brighter generals, or better ideology. They were going broke, just plain bust, trying to do the military equivalent of keeping up with the Joneses. Or, in this case, NATO and the United States.

Collapsing or not, he was doing something that could get him killed just for an adventure he could relate to his grandchildren. If he survived to have any.

The car turned onto Friedrichstrasse and slowed to turn into a street the name of which Lang could not see. Stopping in front of a building indistinguishable from its neighbors, the limo waited until a garage door swung open.

Inside was an ancient and battered Opal truck and two men in suits. One stepped forward to open the door next to Lang and extended a hand. "Welcome to Berlin, Lang."

Lang was uncomfortable, because he was unable to exactly place the vaguely familiar face as he climbed out.

Being able to instantly recall the circumstances and surroundings of someone was essential to this sort of work. "Thanks."

"We were afraid the weather might scrub the mission," the other man said.

Lang had never seen him before.

The first man handed Lang a suit on a hanger. "We're still running late. See how quickly you can get these on."

In minutes, Lang was attired in a worn but neatly pressed dark suit and highly starched shirt with frayed cuffs. The black tie was a clip-on.

"These, too." The first man handed over a pair of shoes. Lang noted that they were highly polished but there were holes in the soles.

The next item was a shabby overcoat.

"The only thing that doesn't fit," Lang observed, rolling the sleeves back from over his hands.

"Even in West Berlin," the second man said, "most people can't afford to throw things away, wear hand me-downs. You'd look suspicious if everything looked tailor-made."

"Okay," the first man said, "here's the plan: You go out of here, turn right onto Friedrichstrasse. Go straight to Checkpoint Charlie. You can't miss it…"

The other man snickered, drawing a glare from his companion.

"Once through the checkpoint, take your second left. At the corner, there'll be a man repairing the chain on a bicycle. He'll get the job done as you arrive. Follow him. The guy you're picking up will direct you back out."

Lang was finishing tying the shoes, noting that the laces had been mended by being spliced. "How do I know I've got the right man – some sort of password?"

The first man pulled a photograph out of his coat pocket. "We've progressed a little farther than that. This is your man. Be sure you can recognize him." This was a face Lang was going to be certain he remembered.

The Opal's single wiper only moved the accumulating snow from one side of the windshield to the other. Every few minutes, Lang had to crank down the window and reach outside to maintain a hole of visibility. If the heater had ever worked, it no longer did. Lang was thankful for the overcoat, too large or not.

In two blocks, he saw the reason for the laugh. Checkpoint Charlie's lights would have made an operating room's illumination dim by comparison. A queue of vehicles waited in front of a billboard-size sign announcing, ''You are leaving the American Sector," as though the number of armed East German military and Vopo didn't make the fact clear.

When Lang's turn came, a barrier lifted and a man in uniform motioned him forward. A few feet in front of the truck was another barrier, behind which five or six more soldiers paced up and down, trying to keep warm while holding on to AK-47s.

An officer approached, drawing his hand across his throat, a signal to kill the engine. Lang turned the key and shivered as an icy blast of air rushed through the window as he cranked it down.

"Ihre Papier, bitte."

Lang handed the man the several sheets of papers he had been given, along with a West German passport and the requisite amount of deutschmarks, which would be exchanged for worthless DDR currency. The East Germans forbade trading back the other way.

The man retreated to the warmth of the guard hut, while Lang was left shivering. Two enlisted men circled the truck suspiciously while another used a mirror mounted on a pole to inspect the vehicle's underside. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the guards were intentionally delaying their inspection, a form of harassment inflicted on all visitors from the West.

At last, the papers were returned, the barrier lifted, and Lang was on his way. The Opal's meager headlights were as poorly equipped to deal with the snow as the wiper. Even so, Lang could make out the forms of buildings shattered and abandoned in contrast to the shiny new quality of everything he had seen on his brief drive through West Berlin. The DDR, German Democratic Republic, apparently intended to keep ruins as a reminder of World War II.

Lang almost drove by the man, a mere shadow in the car's pale lights, pushing his bicycle erect and pedaling out into the street. The cyclist never looked back until he turned into an alley. About halfway down, he turned into an open shed and waited for Lang to drive the Opal inside. Then he pedaled away.

The interior was lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Two men in suits even tattier than Lang's waited beside a spade-shaped coffin. One of the men was the one in the photograph.

Gerhardt Fuchs, a ranking member of the East German government. It had been a tribute to Herr Fuchs's durability that he had retained his status even after his daughter, Gurt, had defected to the West. He might not have been so lucky had his comrades been aware she now worked for the Agency. Or perhaps he saw a less-than-prosperous future and that was why he had decided to join her on the other side of the Berlin Wall. He might or might not be of value to the Agency, but it was policy to assist any relative of a defector in departing any Soviet satellite. Policy and good business.

Not being a regular member of the Ops team in Germany, Lang had no idea of Fuchs's value. He did know that Gurt had specifically requested her father be brought out and that no one be involved that could possibly be recognized by the other side. That put the mission up for volunteers, and Gurt had turned the bluest eyes Lang had ever seen on him. He had taken the opportunity more from testosterone than good sense.

The two men lifted the casket onto the bed of the truck wordlessly. Lang understood that the dead were the only ones freely allowed to cross the dividing line between East and West. Even the Communists realized that families geographically separated by politics should be united in death. Transportation of bodies for burial was common.

But this wasn't going to work. What could be more obvious than smuggling someone past the border in a coffin? Surely the Ops guys had more sense than to…

The man who was not Fuchs tapped on the window, motioning Lang to open the door. Fuchs climbed in. "Guten Abend, mein Herr. Lassen uns fahren. "

Let's go? Fuchs was going to ride up front? What about the coffin? Then the cleverness of the plan dawned. The border guards would be unlikely to think someone would openly try to pass. Instead, they would suspect the body in the back, a false bottom to the casket, or a compartment beneath the truck's bodywork.

Lang hacked out into the alley and followed Fuchs's directions.

There was no traffic passing the checkpoint from East to West. Lang handed the same papers to the same bored officer along with those, provided by Fuchs. The man retreated again to the guard shack to study the documents, as though he had not seen most of them less than twenty minutes before. The enlisted men were much more industrious than they had been previously. Clearly, the Communists were more concerned about what left than what came in.

Two of the guards climbed into the truck's bed and, using a crowbar, opened the casket. In the Opal's rearview mirror, Lang watched them recoil in disgust. He guessed Fuchs had managed to find a very ripe corpse. Not bothering to reseal the coffin, they jumped to the ground as the officer emerged from the guard shack, Lang's and Fuchs's papers in his hand.

He extended them toward Lang, then lowered his hand, staring intently at Fuchs. The man was making no effort to disguise the scrutiny he was giving Lang's passenger. Lang's hand crept to the door handle. He could slam it open into the East German and make a dash for the border.

There was a yell from the area of the guard shack, accompanied by orders shouted in German. Lang, Fuchs, and the suspicious officer looked as one. An American officer was struggling with two Vopos, bellowing curses. The man was clearly drunk. Lang guessed he had been one of the military personnel who risked crossing the border to visit the prostitutes that flourished in the Communist sector. Unwilling to admit such a thing existed, the East German government tacitly allowed the trade to exist as one of the few ways to bring hard currency across the wall.

Two white-helmeted US Army MPs were making their way to the barrier, pistol holsters empty and hands held up to show they carried no weapons. From the lack of interest shown by the East Germans, Lang guessed he was witnessing something that wasn't exactly unknown. The Germans were dragging the still-cursing officer to the westernmost barrier, where the MPs waited patiently.

Suddenly, the American jerked an arm free and took a swing at one of his captors. The East German officer stepped back from the Opal, snatching his pistol loose and shouting commands. Lang prayed the Opal's starter worked better than the rest of its equipment, turned the key, and pressed the old-fashioned starter button. The second the engine turned over, the Communist officer started to swing the hand with the gun in it around. Too late. Lang had already smashed through the westernmost barrier and was in West Berlin.

A half an hour later, he was in a small apartment being debriefed over a bottle of scotch by the same two men he had met on arrival.

"That American at Checkpoint Charlie," Lang was saying. "If he hadn't-"

A knock on the door interrupted.

"Any luck at all, that's dinner," one of Lang's inquisitors said. The other opened the door. In the hall stood a tall man in a dirty and torn U.S.

Army uniform. His right eye was swollen shut by what Lang guessed would be a class A shiner by morning, and his lower lip was still bleeding. It was the' guy from Checkpoint Charlie.

He walked into the room as if having drunk military personnel interrupt Agency debriefings were the most normal thing in the world.

"These guys treating you okay?" he asked Lang.

Lang didn't know what else to say. "I guess so."

The American officer eyed the scotch. ''You got another glass, or do I have to drink out of the bottle?"

As one of the men got up to look in the kitchen, the new arrival extended a hand. "My name's Don Huff."