Chapter Eleven.

Thursday, January 26, 1961.

Kampfgruppen der Arbeiterklasse Training Camp.

Schmerwitz Forest, Brandenburg.

East Germany.

Fernán Pasuali squinted with his left eye and stared down the scope of the East German DDR bolt-action sniper rifle with his right; as he pulled the bolt back on the rifle chambering another round into the breech. He drew the stock of the gun firmly against his shoulder and aimed. The target sat square, and dead-centre in the cross hairs, almost three-hundred-metres down-range.

He breathed in, and squeezed the trigger as he exhaled; feeling the recoil kick hard against his shoulder, rocking him backwards slightly. Absorbing the rifle's recoil all morning had left his shoulder sore and badly bruised. His instructor lowered the spotting scope and grinned.

'OK, Pasuali; that's another in the black. We'll make a sniper of you yet. That's enough for today; collect up your spent casings and report to Oberfeldwebel Traugott for the tradecraft and infiltration session.'

Fernán Pasuali; a twenty-three-year-old post-graduate in Economics at The University of Havana had been studying at the Faculty when the Cuban Dictator Batista had ordered the university to be closed after the University students' federation attempted to kill him in an armed assault on the Cuban Presidential Palace on March 13th, 1957. Batista had managed to escape, although many students had been killed during the action. In the months that followed, the police executed many of the students who had led the failed coup' but had completely missed Pasuali. Castro's regime re-opened the university in 1959, and banned student demonstrations and political affiliations. As a member of Castro's 26th July Movement; Pasuali had been approached by a Ministry of the Interior official and recruited for a "special assignment" that he was led to believe would enable him to become a champion of anti-imperialism, humanitarianism, socialism and environmentalism for the greater good of his homeland. Three months later; here he was, in a forest wilderness some seventy kilometres to the south-west of Berlin, being taught to become a covert assassin in a God-forsaken training camp of the Kampfgruppen der Arbeiterklasse… the Combat Groups of The Working Class; sick to his back teeth with the cold, German winter and grey skies, and longing for the warm climate and blue seas of his Caribbean home.

After the day's training and the evening meal; Pasuali was sitting on his bunk in the barracks, cleaning his sniper rifle and minding his own business when the door banged open and the barracks block bully, Truppführer Breuer; and two of his cronies swaggered in. Looming over Pasuali's bunk; Breuer sneered and nudged his pals.

'Fuck Me! That's all he ever does; creeping up the arses of his instructors.'

Shoving the sniper rifle out of Pasuali's hands; he stuck his gorilla-paw of a hand into Pasuali's chest and shoved him back on the bunk.

'I dunno what the fuck you think you're doing here with decent Germans; so why don't you just piss off back to coconut land, you Spic shit?'

Pasuali looked up at Breuer with a thin, dangerous smile on his face.

'You trying the old "Uber Alles" crap on me again, Breuer? It hasn't worked twice this century for you goose-stepping assholes; so what makes you think it will work with me now? You might be a born-bully, recruit-chasing prick; but I really don't give a shit about you, or your arse-creeping harem.'

Breuer's face grew slowly scarlet with rage. His fists clenched at his sides, and his eyes glittered. Pasuali looked at him through narrowed eyes.

'Bully boys like you,'

He said, contemptuously,

'Always end up as losers. You know that? They always do. I’ve known a shit-load of your type. When I was with Che Guevara, fighting in the Escambray Mountains back home, there were several of 'em. Great loud-mouthed cunts who never knew when to stop.'

His thin smile faded.

'They're all pushing up daisies now… "Requetemuerto"… where they belong. They asked for it, and they got it... and so will you, in the end.'

Breuer snarled and lunged forward; his huge fist balled tightly, and raised to smash into Pasuali's face. Almost quicker than the eye could follow, Pasuali's right hand shot out with the knuckles locked straight, in the infamous Bear-claw martial arts punch. His rigid front knuckles struck Breuer directly in the throat below his Adam's apple with such force that Breuer's hyoid bone broke with an audible crack. The big man's eyes rolled, and pinkish foam suddenly specked his lips. He lurched back clutching his throat and making a terrible, choking, gurgling noise. His glazed eyes were those of a man already dead, as he toppled backwards and hit the floor with a sickening crash. His heels drummed on the concrete for a few moments, and then he lay still.

Grün and Fritsch; Breuer's two sidekicks gaped at the motionless body. Pasuali eyed them steadily.

'You want some too, ladies? If not; then just piss off and let me get on with cleaning my weapon.'

They looked at him… then at each other; and ran out of the barracks without uttering a word.

Ten minutes later; two big Military police Stabsgefreiters came rumbling into the barracks; hands on their Makarov holsters. They saw Pasuali still cleaning his rifle and paused. Pasuali looked up, and then continued to clean the weapon. The larger of the Stabsgefreiters bent down to the lifeless Breuer and felt the man's neck for a pulse. He didn't find one. He stood, and walked over to Pasuali. Splay-legged, and with his hands upon his hips, he spoke.

'So what happened to this piece of shit, Pasuali?... as if I didn't fucking well know.'

Fernán Pasuali eyed the big Stabgefreiter up and down.

'He slipped on the floor and fell down… smacking his head on the edge of the bunk. It serves him fucking well right. That's what comes of galloping around in an unregimental manner.'

The big Stabgefreiter nodded.

'Oh Yeah? That's not quite what his pals reported. Put down the rifle and stand up.'

Snapping the handcuffs on to Pasuali, he shrugged.

Well, Pasuali; you're really up shit creek this time. You've killed the bastard… and a senior NCO at that. It's the glasshouse for you, my lad; and the Tribunal in the morning. If they're in a good mood, they'll just shoot you. If you try to be a smart-ass with them, it'll be a one-way trip to be shaved by the big razor at the Stasi prison in Berlin-Hohenschönhausen. Think yourself lucky. In the old days, it would have been a drumhead court-martial and an immediate fucking firing squad.'

The cell they put Pasuali in wasn't particularly uncomfortable. At least, the bed had a mattress even though it was stuffed with straw. He spent the rest of the day wondering just what they had in mind for him. Tribunal? He wasn't in the military… but in this Stalinist puppet régime did that make any difference at all? He knew that someone was investing a considerable amount of time, money, and effort into his training. Would they now come and get him off the hook to protect their investment? He shrugged to himself. He would just have to wait and see. With this in mind; he settled into a more comfortable position on the lumpy mattress and watched the light fade through the iron bars of the cell window as dusk fell.

He awoke to voices echoing from the walls of the barracks and penetrating the cell. Heavy boots approached down the corridor. No military boot in the world has the ominous sound of the German jackboot. It was designed and built to imprint fear and horror into those who heard it. The Prussians had invented it; the Nazis had managed to evolve it to its pitiless perfection; and now, the Communist State used it to their intimidatory advantage.

The footsteps came to a halt just outside the cell. Heavy keys jingled as the cell door key was pushed home in the lock. It turned twice, and the heavy door flew open. The red enamelling of the Hammer and Compass cap badge gleamed warningly from the door opening. A tough face peered into the cell from under the shiny black peak of the stone-grey vizor cap.

'Fernán Pasuali? On your feet, and come with me.'

Pasuali stood up and put his arms out in front of himself.

The big Oberfeldwebel looked at him.

'What the fuck are you waiting for?'

Pasuali gave him a puzzled look.

'What about the manacles or handcuffs? Don't I get them before I'm hauled before the Tribunal?'

The Oberfeldwebel shook his head.

'No Tribunal today, pal. You're off to see the Kommandant.'

Pasuali looked even more puzzled.

'The Kommandant? What time is it?'

The Oberfeldwebel grabbed Pasuali by the shoulder and shoved him out into the corridor.

'Time to get your arse moving. Now come on.'

He glanced at his watch.

'It's 08.05. Think yourself lucky you're not being hauled off to Tegel to be sat on a stool that's been polished to a high gloss by hundreds of trembling arseholes in one of their interrogation rooms.'

The Kommandant sat behind his ostentatious desk and gave Pasuali a bilious glare as he was marched into the office. He slowly opened a buff folder and studied the contents. At length, he spoke.

'Pasuali; the only reason that you are now still in the business of drawing breath is because you appear to have some very influential friends. If it was my decision, you would be staring down the wrong end of a firing squad right now. However…'

He gave Pasuali another choleric glare;

… 'I have an order here from no less than the Kremlin that you are to be removed from this facility and transferred elsewhere. I have therefore decided to send you to the Prora barracks on the Baltic Island of Rügen. If nothing else, you will be out of the way up there where I can drop you out of sight in the old Kraft durch Freude resort which is now an army training barracks. You have twenty minutes to pack your kit and get your murderous arse off my camp. Dismissed!'

He closed the folder and tossed it aside with a contemptuous flourish that wouldn't have come amiss during the days of the Gestapo.

The Prora barracks on the Baltic Island of Rügen was some two-hundred-and-seventy kilometres to the north-east of the Schmerwitz Forest training camp and took Pasuali and his escort almost six hours to arrive there by train. As usual, the train journey was overcrowded and slow, owing in part to the poor condition of most railway lines in the GDR; and the fact that the steam locomotive was somewhat asthmatic, and needed to stop every hour to replenish its water tanks.

Prora was exactly what Pasuali had imagined it to be… a concrete monster. Built as a colossal, Nazi-planned tourist structure resort… "Das KdF-Seebad Rügen"; it had been converted into a sprawling military training barracks for use by the GDR. The design of the Prora resort… the largest architectural project of the Third Reich, was to consist of two immense structures… the North complex…"Der Nordflügel"; and one to the South… "Der Südflügel". Each complex consisted of four, six-storey, residential blocks; each five-hundred-and-fifty-metres -ong; sub-divided into ten housing units; each with its own staircase building; and providing accommodation for twenty-thousand Nazi holidaymakers in eleven-thousand apartments; each of which, had a view of the sea. It was planned that the stay at the new resort would cost only Two Reichsmarks per day, and it would include all associated costs, such as taxes, beach chair; and swimsuit, towel, etc.

Between the two complexes would have been administration buildings and a massive, open festival square with an assembly hall at one end. The housing sections were joined by community buildings and swimming halls. The complex included plans for several restaurants, cinemas, sport halls, and other entertainment sites; as well as housing for the permanent on-site staff; a rail station, and other necessary infrastructure... water works, an electrical substation, post office, etc. When completed, the complex would have stretched along the beach for almost five-kilometres. A large quay was built on the sea side in the centre of the complex, with moorings for the KdF cruise ships "Robert Ley" and "Wilhelm Gustloff."

A total of five of these resorts had been planned for the Nazis to provide the ordinary working-class German people with affordable holidays in beautiful surroundings, allowing them to return to their everyday lives and the workplace refreshed and with renewed vigour... or at least; that was the utopian dream that would have been sold to them In reality; Prora was an intrinsic part of the Nazi propaganda programme, offering its people a sweetener for its less palatable policies. Ultimately, it would give its people the "strength" to deal with the impending war.

The entertainment would be pure propaganda, and daylight hours would have been taken up with a diet of Nazi-approved exercises, courses, and talks. This system would precisely adjust each holidaymaker’s sleep, diet, entertainment, and beach time schedule down to a scientifically designed formula. With typically ruthless Nazi efficiency, the goal was to pack a three, to four-week holiday into just seven days. The intent was to extend the typical worker's limit of peak efficiency from the age of forty... as it was calculated in the 1930s... to the age of seventy... and beyond.

Each guest room was designed to be identical... small and narrow; five-metres long by two-an- a half-metres wide; and equipped with standard furniture… two beds, a built-in wardrobe, and a small seating area next to a washbasin with hot and cold water. The concept was to oblige guests to join the collective areas located in every block. Individuality was not to be tolerated. Even the toilets and showers were communal, and located in the landside spurs adjoining the stairwells.

However; before the first tourists arrived, Hitler invaded Poland. Need for construction materials for the war effort halted the project. Work was scaled down at Prora and eventually abandoned; and the resort never actually functioned as such, although refugees from the bombing of Hamburg and other cities lived in the most-complete buildings during 1944-45. As the war progressed, the complex was also used as a training site for police and female signals auxiliaries, and as a military hospital.

Since 1956, the buildings had become a restricted military area housing several East German Army units; as well as soldiers from "socialist countries" such as Cuba, North Korea, Angola, and Mozambique. It was a perfect place for Pasuali to become just one more anonymous trainee.

Wednesday, February 8, 1961.

Charlottenburg. Berlin.

West Berlin.

The situation concerning the tracking down of the supposed Cuban dissident was getting considerably more difficult for Charlotte and Callaghan. Up to this point in time, Aquila's intelligences had been consistent... if somewhat futile. With all of Wolf's informants at his disposal, nothing had been forthcoming with regard to the Cuban. It seemed that, if he actually existed; he had simply vanished.

Wolf had more to worry about than some ephemeral conspirator. During the early days of 1961, the GDR government was actively seeking a means of halting the emigration of its population to the West. The East German President, Walter Ulbricht was attempting to persuade the Soviets that an immediate solution was necessary, and that the only way to stop the exodus was to use force, and resolve the status of Berlin.

Khrushchev was not impressed. The four-power status of Berlin specified free travel between zones and specifically forbade the presence of German troops in Berlin. Ulbricht was taking a risk on the assumption that he would continue to be successful or in favour, but, just in case; was already stockpiling building materials for the erection of a permanent barrier that would cut Berlin in two, and permanently seal off East Germany in the event that Khrushchev wouldn't play ball with his aspirations.

Wolf was also in possession of information to the effect that U.S. President John F. Kennedy did not see eye-to-eye with the West German Chancellor, Konrad Adenauer on the West Berlin issue and German settlement. It appeared that Adenauer doubted Kennedy's resoluteness to hold firm on the German and Berlin questions. The Soviets were now trying to exploit this uncertainty to drive the wedge deeper between the Chancellor and new Kennedy administration.

Having spent the morning shopping in the KaDeWe department store on Tauentzienstrasse and generally relaxing; Charlotte, and Callaghan strolled back up to Breitscheidplatz, passing under the shadow of the ruined spire of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche and, crossing Joachimstaler Strasse, turned into Kurfürstendamm. Callaghan glanced at his wristwatch and motioned with his hand towards the Café Kranzler across the street.

'It's almost four o'clock..."Kaffee und Kuchen Zeit." How about over there?

He grinned.

'I think that's how it's pronounced!

Charlotte nodded.

'Very good, Callaghan! Coffee and cake time. What a wonderful idea!

Entering the Café Kranzler, they chose to take a table on the pavement under the red-and-white striped awning, and ordered coffee and Schwarzwälder Kirschtörtchens... Black Forest Cherry tart. Café Kranzler was a great place to people watch, and let Berlin go rushing past. The weather was fine, the skies were blue, and the coffee was good. They were enjoying a second cup of coffee as they watched the world pass by, when a shadow fell across their table. Charlotte glanced up into the eyes of Viktor Malinovskii; who stood there gazing down at them with a preoccupied expression on his face. He touched the brim of his fedora to them.

'Good afternoon, my friends. Please forgive the intrusion; but our colleague in Lichtenberg has unearthed some interesting information concerning our "missing friend." Could you pay me a visit at the office this evening, when we can finalise the transaction?'

By this, he meant that he needed them to get to Karlshorst where this information could be passed on to them in completely safe surroundings, without any chance of the Stasi intercepting any details. Malinovskii didn't trust the Stasi, or anyone with the slightest connection to them. Aquila was tolerated because of his information-gathering usefulness; but Malinovskii didn't trust him any farther than he might have been able to throw him.

Charlotte nodded.

'That is very interesting, Viktor. We'll be there tonight.'

Malinovskii nodded and turned to leave. He touched the brim of his fedora again, and said,

'See you later. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.'

He stepped out onto the pavement; blending with the passers-by; and was soon lost in the bustle of Ku'damm.

The trip into East Berlin was not quite as easy as it had been on their last visit. The Brandenburg Tor was alive with Volkspolizei, and once through the inner border; the military presence along Unter den Linden right up to Max Engels Platz was considerably larger than usual. Charlotte and Callaghan were also followed by two Stasi cars through Alexanderplatz and along Frankfurter Allee and Alt Friedrichsfelde as far as the junction with Am Tierpark. As soon as Callaghan turned right, the two Stasi cars peeled off and turned north. They knew that they were about to enter the Soviet restricted-zone around the Berlin-Karlshorst Rezidentura.

The first restricted-zone checkpoint was where Am Tierpark became Treskowallee. The checkpoint guard waved the Mercedes-Benz down and motioned to Callaghan for his pass. Callaghan wound down the window and flashed the Soviet pass that Viktor Malinovskii had provided. Charlotte merely waved her pass between two fingers. The young private stepped back smartly and raised the red-and-white-striped pole, snapping smartly to attention as he did so. Callaghan accelerated away. So far... so good!

The next checkpoint was located on the corner of Kopenicker Allee and Rheinsteinstrasse, which led into Zwieseler Strasse; where the main entrance of the Rezidentura was located. Again; the passes seemed to intimidate the guards and the Mercedes was waved though with only a cursory glance and an immediate snapping to attention.

Callaghan cruised up Zwieseler Strasse and slowed to turn into the Rezidentura compound. As the Mercedes approached, an armed guard stepped out from the guardhouse on the left hand side of the tall steel gates and held his hand out. Callaghan wound down the window and flashed his pass. He spoke tersely to the guard using the Russian sentence that Charlotte had made him repeatedly practise all the way down Am Tierpark and Treskowallee until she was satisfied with his pronunciation…

"Polkovnik Tolenkanovna dlya polkovnika Malinovskogo. Nas zhdut"… 'Colonel Tolenkanovna for Colonel Malinovskii. We are expected.'

The guard snapped to attention and waved them through into the compound.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Callaghan ostentatiously parked up the black Mercedes-Benz directly in front of the main entrance; got out, and opened the passenger door for Charlotte. As she emerged from the car; a young mladshij serzhant… a junior sergeant; came running out of the building to meet them. Saluting smartly, he guided them up to the first floor and along a corridor painted in the usual unpleasant shade of mustard, topped by a dull, neutral grey, which appeared to be the standard paint scheme for the entire building. He paused at an anonymous door about halfway along the corridor and knocked. An authoritative voice replied from behind the door…

"Vojdite!"… 'Enter!'

The young junior sergeant opened the door and ushered Charlotte and Callaghan inside. Viktor Malinovskii; resplendent in his Colonel's uniform with broad red collar tabs and double red-striped shoulder boards bearing three gold stars, stood up from behind the large desk and came towards them hand outstretched in welcome. He smiled.

'Charlotte; Callaghan… welcome to my lair! Come! Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. There is much to discuss, and little time left to act upon it.'

Opening a folder embossed with the Stasi seal of the "Schild und Schwert der Partei"… the "Shield and Sword of the Party," resting on his desk; he began to read from the close-typed document.

'The Stasi have received a disciplinary report from the Kommandant of the KdA training camp located at Schmerwitz, concerning a Cuban national who was undergoing training there as a sniper. This individual was involved in a barrack-room altercation which resulted in the death of his assailant. The automatic penalty for this state of affairs is Court-martial, and handing over to the civil police to be charged with murder.

It would, however, appear that someone in The Kremlin has intervened; and as a consequence, the culpable individual has not been charged. This state of affairs is so unusual that alarm bells began sounding as soon as the report crossed the desk of the receiving officer at Normannenstrasse. Aquila passed the dossier to me.

The man is named as being one Fernán Pasuali; an activist with Castro's 26th July Movement; who may well have fought with Che Guevara during the guerrilla campaign that deposed the Batista regime during the Cuban Revolution. Preliminary investigations that we have carried out reveal nothing beyond what I have just told you; but, I think we have him, Charlotte. I think this man is our "Ghost."

Thursday, February 9, 1961.

KdA Training Camp.

Schmerwitz Forest, Brandenburg.

East Germany.

Oberst der Volkspolizei, Gerhardt Schreiner; Kommandant of the Schmerwitz training camp sat behind his desk and quietly swore to himself. The camp had been like an ant's nest with a big boot shoved into it since the killing of the bullying Truppführer Breuer at the hands of the Cuban. The Stasi had been crawling all over the camp for more than a week now; interrogating and coercing "witnesses"... anyone that they might use to keep their records tidy. Now; on top of all this disruption, the SED hierarchy in East Berlin had tersely informed Schreiner that two investigators were travelling down from Karlshorst. That was all he needed; two KGB hard-asses sniffing around and digging up fuck knows what. Up to this point, running the Kommandature of Schmerwitz had been a really easy deployment… "Palmige Tage… Palmy Days" as they called it… when you considered what the alternatives were; but now, it looked as though it was all about to turn to shit in front of his eyes... and all because of some Spic asshole who wasn't even in his Command.

His contemplation was disturbed by a knock on the door of his office. Schreiner looked up and snapped

"Kommen!"... 'Come!'

The door opened, and one of his Volkspolizei Instructor Feldwebels ushered a strikingly attractive woman and a tough-looking man into his office. He rose to greet them; but the woman produced a military pass and placed it on his desk. As he looked down to study it, she spoke.

'Comrade Kommandant Schreiner; we have no time for niceties. I am Colonel Nadia Tolenkanovna and this is Major Sevastian Levkova; both of the Second Chief Directorate; attached to the Rezidentura, Karlshorst. We are here to establish the true identity and objectives of the accused offender, Fernán Pasuali who is under training at this facility.'

Schreiner studied the two "investigators"; wondering which way he should proceed. The woman was very attractive; but her blue eyes were cold… as cold as ice. The man was big… at least two-metres-tall; with shoulders like a Hamburg docker. They both gave the impression of being typically intractable and dangerous, KGB Karlshorst hard nuts. She was doing the talking; her companion stood silent; his blue-grey eyes… as cold, and unfathomable as the Baltic Sea in winter; never left Schreiner's face.

Gerhardt Schreiner's mouth was suddenly very dry. Get this wrong… give the impression that he hadn't followed procedure to the letter; and he might well find himself incarcerated in the notorious Ministry of State Security secret labour camp "X", next to the Lichtenburg-Hohenschönhausen remand prison. Attempting an indiscernible swallow; he found his voice, and addressed Charlotte…

'Comrade Colonel; I am afraid you are too late. I had Pasuali transferred to Prora barracks on the Baltic Island of Rügen, as a result of his proposed indictment to Court Martial being commuted on the instructions of none less than The Kremlin itself. He was transferred out on the 28th January. Had it been my decision; albeit Section 112 of the Criminal code specifies no less than ten years' imprisonment or life imprisonment for his offence; I would have advocated that he be shot on the spot.'

He leaned back in his chair; hoping that his insinuated tough attitude would placate the two investigators.

The woman glanced at her companion; who nodded imperceptibly. She studied Schreiner for a moment; then spoke. Her tone of voice gave him an involuntary shiver.

'Very well, Comrade Kommandant Schreiner. It appears that you have acted in accordance with your procedures. However…'

Schreiner's gut tightened as she paused; holding his eyes with her icy stare;

… 'Should any sort of similar situation ever arise again; you would be well advised to inform Karlshorst prior to reporting to Normannenstrasse.'

Schreiner nodded avidly.

'Yes, Comrade Colonel. I will see that this requirement is added to Standing Orders.'

She nodded.

'Then our business is concluded, Comrade Kommandant. I bid you good day.'

As they left the building, Charlotte turned to Callaghan.

'Well, what do you think, Gil? Is this Pasuali the one we are looking for?'

Callaghan shrugged.

'This guy seems to be our best bet… in fact; he's our only bet so far. He sounds like a dangerous bastard… the kind of guy who could snap at any moment, but you'd never be able to predict when or why. Just the sort of crazy fanatic they'd get for this sort of job. I think we ought to drive up to this Prora place and see what we can dig up.'

Charlotte nodded.

'Yes; you're right. We'll go up there tomorrow. D'you want to drive?... or shall we catch a train?'

Callaghan grinned.

'Why be uncomfortable? We'll use the Merc'.

Next morning, they set out early. Strasse des 17. Juni was virtually deserted. The Brandenburger Tor was unguarded and Unter den Linden was silent, and empty. Crossing a deserted Max Engels Platz, they crossed into Rathaus Strasse and drove up to Alexanderplatz. Callaghan continued along Königstrasse to Griefswalder Strasse, which led into what had been Berliner Allee but was now renamed Klement-Gottwald-Allee; and the suburb of Weissensee. Beyond Weissensee, the route led out through Malchow and Lindenberg onto the Berliner Ring at Schwanebeck. As Callaghan turned onto the long ribbon of concrete, Charlotte glanced at him, and folded her map away.

'We can go straight up the Berlin-Stettin autobahn and turn off towards Prenzlau; which will take us up through Pasewalk and Greifswald to Stralsund. Then it's across the Rügen Causeway to the island.'

Turning onto the access road north, Callaghan accelerated to eighty Km/h. The autobahn ran relatively flat and straight through farmland for the first five kilometres, and to the right, was a pleasant view of the old town of Bernau. Three-and-a-half kilometres farther on, was the autobahn exit to the old town. Two kilometres further on, the forests began to close in on either side of the carriageway. The autobahn was deserted except for the odd truck hauling one, or sometimes two trailers. Callaghan increased the speed of the car; staying in the outer lane at one-hundred-and-ten Km/h through the beautiful, undulating countryside dotted with lakes in the rich forests of northern Brandenburg.

Passing the exit to Wandlitz, the route curved to the north-east surrounded by beech forests stark against the winter morning sun. The next landmark was the small bridge over the upper end of the Obersee; a little to the west of Lanke. Just beyond, was the exit to the village. The autobahn straightened again for a lengthy run through the forest which was now becoming densely wooded with pine trees. Callaghan glanced at Charlotte. She was quiet... thoughtful. She had travelled this same route with Max all those years ago; when they were travelling out to the remains of Goring's Karinhalle as they searched for clues as to the whereabouts of that damned "Red Horseman." Choosing not to intrude on her thoughts; Callaghan smiled to himself and continued driving.

The autobahn was curving gently to the left. The forest seemed to be thinning slightly as they crossed the wide, Eberswälde valley. Out to the right was an airfield, occupied by aircraft emblazoned with the Soviet Red Star. This was Eberswalde-Finow; originally a Luftwaffe Base, and now taken over by a Soviet Bomber Regiment. Parked up along the hardstandings were a mixture of straight-wing, twin-jet Il-28s and swept-wing, twin-jet Jak-28s. There were also a couple of MiG-17 fighters across on the far side of the base.

Beyond Eberswälde, the autobahn rose slightly to cross the Finowkanal, and one-and-a-half kilometres further on to the north; the Hohenzollernkanal. Out to the left, the edge of The Schorfheide, a vast wilderness that stretched from the old Polish frontier in the east almost to the shores of the Baltic in the north, marched away towards the horizon. They drove on through an open stretch of farmland and small woods which continued to flank the dead straight concrete ribbon for some twelve kilometres, until they came to the Kleiner Buckowsee on their left, and the Grosser Buckowsee on their right. Both lakes were partially obscured by stands of trees, and a little farther on were the entry and exit roads to Werbellinsee.

The Joachimsthal exit off the autobahn soon came into view. Charlotte glanced at the map. The large expanse of the Grimnitzsee appeared on the left and then, the forest closed in again. The autobahn now ran arrow-straight through the encroaching woodland for almost eleven kilometres. Callaghan pushed up the speed and the Mercedes-Benz settled down to a deep purr from its six-cylinder motor with the tyres hissing on the smooth concrete as it raced through the dark tunnel of the forest.

Ahead; the edge of the dense woodland began to appear. Suddenly, they were in bright morning sunlight as the autobahn crossed the open fields surrounding the little village of Steinhofen before it plunged back into the dense woodlands of Metzower forest, five kilometres farther on. This extended for almost twelve kilometres; until. Suddenly, the autobahn came back into open countryside at Heidehof. Charlotte consulted her map again and glanced at Callaghan.

'OK. Gil; the turn-off on to the B198 is coming up on the left in nine kilometres. That'll take us up to Prenzlau; then we take the B109 through to Pasewalk and stay on it through Anklam and Greifswald to Stralsund. It's about twelve kilometres to Prenzlau, and then, another twenty-two kilometres to Pasewalk. Perhaps, we could stop and have a coffee there.'

Pasewalk was a pretty little town nestling in the rolling landscape of the northern Uckermark region of Brandenburg; and retaining considerable remains of its original medieval ramparts, gates, and towers. Charlotte and Callaghan found a little coffee shop on the outskirts of the town. Callaghan parked up the Mercedes-Benz outside the coffee shop; and he and Charlotte went inside and took a table overlooking the street. As the waitress brought their coffee, they noticed an innocuous grey Opel Kapitän sedan cruise down the street and slow as it approached the parked Mercedes-Benz. Charlotte glanced at Callaghan and arched an eyebrow... plain-clothes Volkspolizei?... or Stasi?... or something else? As they watched; the grey Opel slowly moved on along the street and disappeared from view.

Callaghan looked at Charlotte. She gave a slight smile. This was no more than had been expected. They were probably the local Stasi. The clincher would be if the sedan returned within a few minutes. They continued to sip their coffee unconcernedly. Ten minutes passed; and then, a movement across the street attracted Charlotte's attention. There! The hood of the grey Opel sneaking into view from a side alley a little way down on the opposite side of the street. Slowly, it inched forward until the two occupants had a clear view of the coffee shop and the parked-up Mercedes-Benz. Unfortunately, for them; if they could see the Mercedes-Benz... she could see them. Two thick-set men sat in the front seats. They both looked to be in their mid-twenties. The driver wore a drooping, Mexican-bandit-style moustache. His companion was clean-shaven. Both men wore their hair much longer than even plain-clothes Volkspolizei were permitted. The problem was; that they didn't behave like Stasi... real Stasi would never have exposed themselves to their target in the way these two were doing; so... who, or what were they?

Charlotte and Callaghan waited for another five minutes. The grey Opel didn't move. Dropping a few Ostmarks on the table; they rose and left the coffee house. As they stepped outside; they heard the thin, metallic grate of the Opel's starter motor echo across the street. Without looking round; they reached the Mercedes-Benz as the Opel began to creep forward towards the corner of the junction. Callaghan unlocked the doors and they both slipped into the front seats. Callaghan turned in his seat and reached back to unlock the secret compartment under the rear seat, from which he pulled out an Uzi Submachine gun. He glanced at Charlotte as he pulled back the charging handle on the top of the weapon; but left the selector lever in the "safe" position. Now, if the need arose; all he had to do was flick the selector lever through its "semi" position to "automatic." In this position, all Callaghan needed to do was aim, hold the trigger back; and the weapon would fire until the magazine was empty. The magazine loaded in this particular Uzi held fifty, nine-millimetre rounds. He gave a cold grin.

'Just in case we need some real firepower.'

Charlotte started the motor; slipped the column gearshift into first, and pulled away from the kerb. Glancing into the rear-view mirror, she saw the grey Opel turn out from the alleyway and begin to follow them. She pulled out her Makarov nine-millimetre pistol and handed it to Callaghan. He chambered a round; flicked up the safety, and placed it in her lap. The railroad crossing on Bahnhofstrasse was open.

The grey Opel followed them out to the B109; hanging back as Charlotte paused at the junction. As she turned right, she glanced back. Yes; the Opel's right turn indicator was flashing. She accelerated the Mercedes-Benz away up the northern carriageway, watching the rear-view mirror as the grey Opel turned out from the junction and began following; about three-hundred metres to the rear. Charlotte increased the Mercedes-Benz's speed on the long, straight Anklammer Chaussee that led north.

Callaghan was keeping watch in the passenger's vanity mirror in the sun visor. He glanced at her.

'Any ideas as to who they might be?'

She shook her head.

'Nope. We'll just keep ahead of them. This road is pretty open until we get to Jatznick… that's about seven kilometres ahead. Then there's a seven-kilometre run through a forest. That's the place they'll pick to try something. After that; its all open countryside again right up to Anklam.'

He raised his eyebrow.

'How d'you know that?'

She smiled.

'I was reading the map in the coffee house whilst you were watching them from the window!'

The road surface was average; but the advanced, fully independent suspension of the Mercedes soaked up the ruts and undulations. The pursuing Opel however, was wallowing and bouncing alarmingly as the driver tried to keep pace. Callaghan grinned.

'That Opel's handling like my old Ford Fairlane... and that was like driving a barge in jello! He's all over the highway. If we can get him to drive any faster, he's sure to wreck.

Charlotte grinned.

'OK, Hot-shot, let's do it!'

And shifted gear; then hit the gas pedal.

The low grumble of the straight-six motor rose to a deep boom; and the Mercedes-Benz leapt forward as the speedometer needle began winding up past the ninety Km/h mark and continued climbing. Ahead, the highway stretched dead-straight for three kilometres towards the small village of Belling. Callaghan glanced into the rear-view mirror. The Opel Kapitän was dropping back rapidly as Charlotte barrelled the powerful Mercedes-Benz over the uneven surface of the highway at over one-hundred-and-thirty Km/h.

Approaching Belling; she eased off the gas and dropped her speed down to the legal fifty km/h. Halfway through the village she passed a parked-up Volkspolizei Wartburg, and glanced in the rear-view mirror. The Opel was gaining distance quickly. With luck, he would be exceeding the speed limit when he passed the Volkspolizei, and would get pulled over.

As they left the village, she glanced back again, and saw the Volkspolizei Wartburg pull out; blue roof beacon flashing; behind the speeding Opel. Ahead, beyond the approaching curve at the end of the village, the highway became arrow-straight right up to the next place...Wilhemsthal. Here, the highway forked. With luck, the Opel would now be far enough back for their pursuers not to know which fork they would have taken. Smiling grimly, she floored the gas pedal again. The Mercedes surged forward, taking the curve with a long, rising whine.

There was no sign of the pursuing Opel as they passed through Wilhemsthal and the next little town... Jatznick. Beyond here; was dense woodland bordering the road as far as the next village... marked on the map as Heinrichsruh. Charlotte checked the Mercedes-Benz's dashboard instruments. Temperature and oil pressure were reading normal. The gas gauge was showing just over half-a-tank. As the woodland enveloped the highway, she glanced into the rear-view mirror… nothing but an empty, unfurling vista of highway between lines of trees that stretched away behind them like a green, narrow corridor.

Slowing to negotiate an ancient tractor trundling along towards the village, Charlotte checked the mirror again. The highway behind was deserted. It looked as though they had lost their pursuers. There was one more open section of the B109 as it crossed the flat expanse of fields that stretched up to the next large village of Ferdinandshof.

North of Heinrichsruh; the highway skirted around the eastern edge of Ferdinandshof and veered north-west on to a long, dead-straight stretch across open countryside; passing through a couple of tiny villages before it reached the little town of Ducherow. Out here it was wide open.... perfect tank country; which is why the Russians had sent a spearhead of armour through here in 1945. It also afforded Charlotte and Callaghan a perfect view of the highway to the rear for several kilometres... and so far; there was no sign of the pursuing Opel Kapitän. Beyond Ducherow; keeping the Mercedes-Benz at a steady ninety; and without taking her eyes from the highway; Charlotte spoke.

'Well, Gil? Any thoughts on whom these guys might be?... For I sure as hell don't know.

Callaghan shook his head.

'Not a clue... but it seems we've lost them… at least, for now. Where the hell did you learn to drive like this?'

She smiled.

'Firstly; in wartime Berlin; and later; a quick refresher in Washington at the MPDC Academy on pursuit, evasive, and tactical driving.'

Callaghan whistled softly between his teeth.

'Just as well. Take a look in the mirror.'

She saw a tiny black speck in the far distance. It must have been at least five-kilometres back. She glanced at Callaghan, and her lips tightened.

He saw this, and shrugged.

'It's probably nothing. So there's another driver on the highway. It could be almost anyone. It doesn't mean that it's our friends... and besides which; they'd have to be real hotshots to make up time like that... especially with a choice of roads to take back there where the road forked.'

Charlotte increased speed. The tiny black dot did not increase in size as she negotiated the dog-leg bend in the B109 as it skirted the tiny village of Neu Kosenow. A sign flashed past. They were now only six kilometres out from Anklam; and this was where they could be in trouble. According to the map; they would have to cross the Peene River... and there was only one road bridge; which meant that they would have to drive through the centre of the town. They would lose valuable time and distance with the low speed limit in the town... and this could easily prove to be a dangerous problem later on, if that black speck was their pursuers; when they were out in open country again.

Anklam was a country market town with narrow streets and a considerable amount of agricultural traffic. Threading their way through the slow-moving tractors, trailers and various farm implements took time... time for the suspicious grey Opel... if, indeed, it was following them... to gain a significant advantage in distance.

Once across the bridge; the road numbering changed to the B110 for two kilometres, before a left turn signposted Ziethen directed them back onto the B109... again signposted as Dorfstrasse. Charlotte accelerated the Mercedes-Benz back up to ninety. The highway ran north for almost six kilometres before it cut into another substantial woodland area. She glanced into the mirror for perhaps, the tenth time since they had crossed the river... and there; behind them, the black speck had now become a dot... too far away to identify… but definitely gaining on them.

She swore quietly, and floored the gas pedal. If it was their pursuers, how the hell did they know the route that she and Callaghan were taking? It might be good guesswork; but that was so unlikely that this situation now had to change from being suspicious to sinister. Had there been a leak back in Berlin? It would not have been Malinovskii, or anyone at Karlshorst... the stakes were far too high for that. It could only be the bloody Stasi at Normannenstrasse. Was Markus Wolf playing some sort of double-cross? The Mercedes-Benz surged forwards again... ninety-five... one-hundred... one-hundred-and-ten Km/h. The black dot began to recede gradually until it was, once again, merely a dark speck in the rear-view mirror.

Half-a-kilometre beyond Ziethen; the highway emerged from the trees into open countryside once more and curved into an almost dead straight line towards a wooded area some seven, or so kilometres north. Charlotte checked the mirrors. There was now no sign of anyone following. She eased off the gas and the Mercedes-Benz settled down to a smooth cruise at seventy-five Km/h.

As she passed a crossroads signposted Ramitzow-Salchow; ahead, in the distance she saw a blue, flashing light... some sort of emergency vehicle. She sighed. Just don't let it be an accident. Another hold-up could be dangerous if the grey Opel was still chasing them. As she approached whatever incident it was; there were four more cars stopped in line on the carriageway. Slowing, she pulled in behind them. The flashing blue light belonged to another green and white Volkspolizei Wartburg patrol car parked at the side of the highway. Parked up next to it was a lurid electric-blue Opel Kapitän with two men leaning against its side, nonchalantly smoking. This whole scenario smelt like an intercept.

Callaghan had the Uzi ready across his lap. She shook her head.

'No, Gil; put the bloody thing out of sight. The last thing we need is the Merc' to be damaged in a shoot-out.'

He nodded, and slipped the weapon under the passenger seat. Looking up, he glanced into the rear-view mirror. The grey Opel was coming up fast behind them. Glancing at Callaghan, she picked up her Makarov and flicked off the safety. The Opel pulled up alongside the Mercedes-Benz and the passenger… the man with the drooping Mexican moustache, held up a familiar, red-cloth covered, KGB identity card for her to see. It appeared to be genuine.

She rolled down her window; keeping her hand on the Makarov. The Mexican moustache gave a wry grin and spoke.

'Comrade Colonel Nadia Tolenkanovna? We had one hell of a job trying to catch you. You must have been trained at the Kiev Academy.'

Charlotte studied him. The ID appeared to be genuine, but then; there were good forgeries about. There was, however, one infallible check… Malinovskii's signature word that would always be used in circumstances requiring total verification of a person. This word had been agreed between Malinovskii and Charlotte during their briefing session at Karlshorst, and would be issued to his bona fide agents in the field that she would expect to deal with. She watched Mexican moustache for a few moments, and then spoke.

'What is the signature word, Comrade?'

He nodded thoughtfully.

'Very good, Comrade Colonel. The word is… "Louise."

Charlotte nodded. He was indeed out of Karlshorst… and had been briefed by Viktor Malinovskii. The signature word was, in fact, her middle name… a fact known only to her, and Malinovskii.

He passed the identification card across to her. Flipping open the gold-embossed cover, she studied the photograph and details. The card identified Mexican moustache as being Captain Makary Kravchek of the Third Chief Directorate; Karlshorst. The Third Chief Directorate handled military counter-intelligence and armed forces political surveillance. What the hell was going on? She handed the KGB identification document back to Kravchek, and gave him a wry smile.

'It's just as well you didn't catch us, Comrade Kravchek. You and your driver could easily have ended up getting shot. Now; what is this all about?'

Kravchek pointed to an industrial site a little way further on the right.

Let's pull in over there, and I'll explain what is happening.'

He rolled up his window, and the grey Opel pulled away. As Charlotte followed, she noticed that the other two men returned to the electric-blue Opel Kapitän; and pulled out behind her. The three cars turned into the wide parking area in front of the industrial buildings and everyone got out. Callaghan followed Charlotte with the Uzi held casually in his right hand; muzzle towards the ground. Kravchek grinned.

"Vsyo nishtyak!"… 'Everything is OK! You won't be needing that; Comrade Major Levkova.

Charlotte studied Kravchek. She was very aware that the other two men and Kravchek's driver were standing behind them. Facing Kravchek, she spoke. Her voice was cold and authoritative.

'Very well, Comrade Captain; why did you need to stop us?'

Kravchek's voice became serious.

'We were instructed by Colonel Malinovskii to intercept you before you reached Prora; Comrade Colonel. A major conspiracy has been uncovered back in Berlin. Schreiner; Kommandant of the KdA Training Camp at Schmerwitz has been implicated in a wide-reaching plot to prevent you from apprehending the Cuban dissident, Pasuali. The traitor, Schreiner finally admitted under interrogation at Hohenschönhausen remand prison that he had received a substantial amount in Russian Gold Roubles; which had been deposited in a Swiss account as payment for causing Pasuali to disappear. He also implicated several Stasi officers based at Normannenstrasse. The Third Chief Directorate has established that this payment was initiated at Kremlin level, but then, the trail went cold.

Karlshorst is satisfied that there is a cell of ideological subversives active within the Prora framework that is concealing Pasuali from our investigation of the facility. It is entirely possible that you and Major Levkova would have walked into a trap.'

He motioned to the other three men.

'My driving companion is Captain Anton Gulin; also of Third Chief Directorate; Karlshorst. My associates…'

He motioned to the two men who had driven the electric-blue Opel Kapitän;

… 'Are Spetsnaz GRU ghosts. We shall call them Comrade Black, and Comrade Brown… for obvious reasons. Colonel Malinovskii has deployed us as your protection officers.'

He turned to Gulin and pointed to the grey Opel.

'Anton; go and get the special magazines for the Colonel and the Major.'

Gulin nodded and walked to the trunk of the grey Opel. Opening it; he rummaged around for a few moments, then returned with six Makarov magazines. He handed them to Kravchek; who passed them to Charlotte and Callaghan.

Charlotte glanced at the top of one of the magazine. It was loaded with very strange-looking rounds. She looked at Kravchek and raised an eyebrow.

He grinned.

'You won't have seen those before, Comrade Colonel. They're something special from the Moscow research centre that supplies us with equipments for covert assassinations. Some idiot research technician nicknamed the rounds "Molotok Tora"… "Thor's Hammer". These became known as "Molos"… and the name stuck. They are basically, hollow points, but with a radically reduced outer wall. They really are ferocious rounds. At close range, they'll blow a hole the size of a dinner plate in someone; and at distance, the effect is like being hit by a truck. Nobody ever gets up again after being hit by one of these.'

He glanced at his watch.

'We'd better get moving, Comrade Colonel. You'd better reload your side arms with the "Molo" magazines before we start out. We really don't know what we might be running into at Prora.'