Chapter Thirteen.

The run down the Berlin-Stettin Autobahn was uneventful. As Charlotte turned onto the Berliner Ring at Schwanebeck, Callaghan leaned forward.

'Are you going to tell Malinovskii anything?'

She glanced at Callaghan in the rear-view mirror as she turned the Mercedes-Benz onto the exit road for Lindenberg and Malchow; slowing the car to below the sixty Km/h speed limit.

'I shall just inform him that Pasuali has been eliminated, and that we found no further evidence pointing to any co-conspirators. If he is still unconvinced; then the KGB can conduct their own internal investigations to sort their side of this mess out.'

Callaghan nodded.

'Good move. What about Murphy at Clayallee?'

She gave a small, disdainful huff.

'Screw Murphy! We're completely autonomous as far as the Berlin Station is concerned.'

She glanced at Garcia.

So; are you going to come out with us?… Or are you staying in Berlin?

He shrugged.

'I'm done here. I figure it's time to head home; and having just retired those two KGB goons and their buddies; I guess I've outstayed my welcome in the backyard of the "Wandlitz Warriors."

Charlotte smiled. Garcia's use of the "Wandlitz Warriors" quip was a reference to the fact that most of the GDR hierarchy lived, far removed from the general population; in an exclusive, and expensive secure housing zone… Die Waldsiedlung; a forest settlement twenty-five kilometres north of Berlin; and close to the town of Wandlitz.

20.15 Hrs, Friday, February 10, 1961.

Weissensee District, Pankow.

East Berlin.

Approaching Klement-Gottwald-Allee; Charlotte eased the Mercedes-Benz's speed down to below the fifty-six Km/h speed limit through the unlit East Berlin streets. The last thing they needed was to attract the attention of some overzealous young Volkspolizist. She and Callaghan had the KGB identity documents; but Garcia had no identification at all... that was standard procedure for Special Ops guys... members of the unit normally did not carry any objects or clothing that would associate them with the United States government. If they were compromised during a mission, they were on their own. The government of the United States would deny all knowledge of their existence.

As they turned into Griefswalder Strasse; an unmarked EMW 340 sedan pulled out of a side road and began to follow them. Above the dim street lamps that were now infrequently spaced along the merging of Griefswalder Strasse and the beginning of Königstrasse which led down to Alexanderplatz; the sky was black, The moon had yet to rise, and there was no movement in the streets; these were the dead, and dying hours in East Berlin. She glanced into the rear-view mirror. The feeble, yellow beams of the following car's six-volt headlamps were unmistakeable. They were probably Volkspolizei… the Stasi tended to use black Mercedes-Benzes.

Callaghan glanced back.

'We're being followed. Who d'you think they are?'

'They're most likely Volkspolizei attracted by the car. I figure they're trying to spook us into breaking the speed limit. They like to get their hands on Western Marks,'

She commented wryly; as she crossed the Prenzlauer Berg/Am Friedrichshain junction with the red just flicking to green. Fifty metres into Neue Königstrasse, she saw a car standing on the far side of Linienstrasse, an old, dark-coloured Mercedes-Benz. She couldn't be sure whether there was anyone sitting in it or not, but it was pretty certain there would be. In the rear-view mirror, the dim yellow headlamps were much closer. This smelled like an intercept.

She accelerated slightly and drove as far as the second intersection at Gerlach Strasse; then turned north to come into Alexanderplatz from the direction of Prenzlauer Strasse; just in case there was a third car waiting there. Half a block later, the old Mercedes Benz was in the mirror. At the next street, the Mercedes and the EMW were both there; taking up positions at a distance and keeping pace. Charlotte swore under her breath. Damn! Now that they were staying on her tail, they wouldn't waste any time. Alexanderplatz was coming up fast and it was going to be very difficult to make a switch in that big, open space.

A switch is a manoeuvre that is easy to describe and usually, almost impossible to pull off. If you were being followed; whether on foot, or as now, in a vehicle; the idea is to suddenly vanish and then reappear on the tail of your pursuer. She'd practised it several times at the MPDC Academy back in Washington; but that had been on wide, American roads… not the backstreets of East Berlin.

Successfully negotiating Alexanderplatz; Charlotte sped down Rathaus Strasse; heading for Max Engels Platz. Two blocks from the Rotes Rathaus, she picked up on two more suspicious cars making calculated loops around the side streets as the original two stayed on her tail. There was no chance of making a successful switch now. They would also have to make their move soon; for once beyond Max Engels Platz, and over the Spree Bridge; the Unter den Linden opened up for the one-and-a-half kilometre, dead straight dash down to the Brandenburger Tor and the safety of the British sector of West Berlin.

The two cars began to close in and make rushes as she slewed the Mercedes-Benz through Marx Engels Platz. First the EMW, and then the old Mercedes bumped the rear end; swinging the rear of the Mercedes-Benz against the kerb, with another of the cars coming from in front with its headlights on full beam; blinding her momentarily and forcing her into a swerve. A truck loomed at out of the Friedrichstrasse junction and the EMW behind struck her rear bumper again; trying to push her forward against the brakes with the wheels locked and the tyres squealing over the surface as the truck grazed across the front end of the Mercedes-Benz smashing out a headlamp. There was a slow-motion impression of the driver yelling and shaking his fist, as she floored the gas pedal, and the Mercedes-Benz surged forward again.

There was no way of knowing if they were trying to wreck her or whether this was just chance that the truck had happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. Charlotte guessed that they were trying to get the car stopped, and that was when they would close in and make the kill if that was their intention. It was pretty damned obvious that they were not Volkspolizei… so who were they? Stasi? KGB? Who were they after? It had to be Garcia; so, was this the rogue Kremlin connection?... or even more sinisterly…the Russian Mafia?

Callaghan had his Makarov out, and threw it to Garcia. He grabbed the Uzi and yanked back the charging lever. Charlotte concentrated on the driving. The wide boulevard of the Unter den Linden had become a stone, and concrete channel cut through the city. The moon was rising; its light shimmered like silk through the naked branches of the young Linden trees lining the boulevard. A line of clouds marched across the moon and the kaleidoscope of the street's perspective was broken into a semblance of order… the dim streetlights, headlamps blazing in the rear-view mirror, and the distant, welcoming glow of West Berlin beyond the shadowy edifice of the Brandenburger Tor.

Charlotte glanced at the speedometer; ninety km/h, and the EMW was still there and gaining on her. Suddenly, it swung away as it drew alongside; then swerved sharply in. The impact pushed the Mercedes-Benz sideways towards the edge of the carriageway. Charlotte hit the brakes and wrenched at the wheel to avoid hitting the kerb and rolling the car over.

She was deafened by the sudden, tearing bark of the Uzi as Callaghan opened up at the car that was swerving away; going very fast towards the central promenade, before braking hard and slamming against one of the Linden trees. Callaghan continued to pump a burst of bullets into the car as it bounced off and overturned; scraping across the carriageway on its roof; throwing out a great shower of sparks. Charlotte swerved around the wreck and glimpsed in the glare of her remaining headlamp, someone tearing at the door as the fuel tank went up in a great, burgeoning burst of orange light.

In the distance, Charlotte could see figures milling around the roadways dragging out barriers under the shadowy bulk of the Brandenburger Tor. She cursed under her breath. Oh, shit! They were Volkspolizei, setting up a roadblock as a result of their hearing the gunfire echoing up Unter den Linden, and seeing the exploding fuel tank of the EMW that had been pursuing and trying to force her to stop. Now what?

She made a spit-second decision; and, barely reducing speed; heaved down on the steering wheel and sent the Mercedes-Benz slewing and lurching to the left, into Wilhelmstrasse. The car skidded across the worn asphalt; fish-tailing viciously; but, with the application of a series of rapid opposite locks, and a little judicious Rally driver-style heel and toeing on the gas and brake pedals, she had the Mercedes-Benz under control within fifty metres.

Glancing into the rear-view mirror, Charlotte noted that no headlights were following the speeding Mercedes-Benz from Unter den Linden. As she sped down Wilhelmstrasse, she noted that it bore little resemblance to what she remembered. The Reichs Chancellery had been completely demolished; and the entire area around what had been Voss Strasse was an empty, shadowy wasteland; except for one surviving building in the entire length of the street.

One the opposite side; there were almost no buildings at all along the Wilhelmstrasse from Unter den Linden to the Leipziger Strasse. The only recognisable building was the huge edifice of Göring's Reich Air Ministry a little farther down on the right; where she intended to turn into Leipziger Strasse, emerge through Leipziger Platz into Potsdamer Platz; and then cut up Bellevue Allee to Kemper Platz. From there; she intended to follow Tiergarten Strasse as far as Stüler Strasse; and Budapester Strasse down to Breitscheidplatz and on, into the Ku'damm.

The first problem would be getting through the sector-sector boundary. The streets that crossed the border were under surveillance by the Volkspolizei; and vehicular traffic was checked. Time to bluff it out. Turning into Leipziger Strasse, Charlotte accelerated towards the huge lattice structure of the illuminated neon sign proclaiming "Die Freie Berliner Presse Meldet"… "The Free Berlin Press Announces"… erected on the western sector of the Potsdamer Platz in front of the Esplanade.

The whole area was an empty wasteland. The only buildings remaining of those that had once lined Leipziger Strasse and Leipziger Platz were the Air Ministry Annex attached to the Preussischen Herrenhaus. Even the huge Wertheim department store which had covered most of the northern side of the street had disappeared. Nothing remained of Leipziger Platz, except for the octagonal roadways flanked by piles of rubble. Directly ahead; in the glare of her one remaining headlamp, she saw the big sign which proclaimed in large letters…

ENDE

DES DEMOKRATISCHEN SEKTORS VON GROSSE-BERLIN

IN 19m ENTFERNUNG.

There were no guards at the end of Leipziger Platz. Crossing the invisible sector border; Charlotte swung the Mercedes-Benz into Potsdamer Platz over the luminous white line painted across the cobblestones at the extreme end of Leipziger Platz which marked the sector boundary. She breathed a sigh of relief. They'd made it.

Only two buildings in the immediate vicinity of Potsdamer Platz still stood. One was complete, and relatively undamaged… the Weinhaus Huth; the other was a half-ruined shell. The Weinhaus Huth's steel skeleton had enabled the building to withstand the shelling and bombing of the war virtually undamaged, and it now stood out starkly amid a vast, totally desolate wasteland. A short distance away in Bellevue Strasse stood the blasted hulk of the former Hotel Esplanade. Where the Weinhaus Rheingold and the Café Josty had once stood were blackened piles of rubble. Even the nine-storey, ultra-modern office building, Columbus Haus had been demolished. Almost all of the buildings around Potsdamer Platz had been turned to rubble by air raids and heavy artillery bombardment during the last years of the war, as a result of being in close proximity to a major target area… Hitler's Reich Chancellery, just one block away in Voss Strasse; and many other Nazi government buildings in the immediate vicinity.

Charlotte remembered the devastation that she had seen of this once-geographical centre of the city, and heart of Berlin's nightlife, during her escape from the city in March, 1945. Then, it had been a nightmarish landscape of skeletal, shattered walls teetering over towering mounds of rubble; strewn with the detritus of war… wrecked vehicles, mangled corpses, and discarded weapons scattered amongst the torn-up tramlines and shell craters. Since then, Potsdamer Platz had been more or less left to rot, as one by one, the ruined buildings were cleared away with neither the Soviets nor the Allies having the will to repair or replace them. Now, in the light cast by the indifferent street lamps, it seemed that there was hardly a building left standing between here and the Tiergarten, almost half-a-kilometre to the north.

Turning left into Bellevue Strasse; other than the fragmentary remains of the Hotel Esplanade and piles of rubble, there was nothing except waist-high weeds and half-tidied wastes of empty bombed space stretching away to what, in Charlotte's previous memories of Berlin, had been called Skagerrak Platz; but was now renamed Kemperplatz. Once, the impressive Rolandbrunnen fountain had stood here on a traffic island; but now, Kemperplatz was nothing more than a road junction. Turning left again, she drove into what had once been Tiergartenstrasse. During the final days of the Battle of Berlin; the swanky urban villas lining the southern side of the road had been almost erased to their foundations and had never had been re-built. Tiergartenstrasse was amongst the most heavily damaged areas in Berlin; due, in no small part to the Red Army's assault which broke through the outer lines of Berlin's defences, and gradually pushed the defending German forces into the core of the city around the Tiergarten and Zoo. There had been so little left that the northern side of Tiergartenstrasse had been eventually integrated into the Tiergarten Park. It was in the ruins of one of the now-vanished villas that Charlotte had first met Max when he had been a young Russian Major commanding a combat group during the fighting; and she had been disguised as a German nurse.

She smiled softly to herself. Max… her Max; Major Maksim Siegel. She remembered that first moment as though it was yesterday. She still missed him, after all these years. He'd died far too soon; but that was the risk they all took when they chose to play the spook game… and, even though they were far too few… they had known the days.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Garcia.

'Captain Mckenna, Ma'am; I have to report in. Can you drop me off at the Kaiser Wilhelm church? I've got a safe room just off Tauentzien Strasse; and the sooner I'm away; the safer you'll be. They'll be looking for me now.'

Charlotte glanced into the rear-view mirror.

'Why don't you come and lay low with us while I arrange an extraction? We'll get a flight out of Tegel within a day or so.'

He shook his head.

'Thanks, but I still have one more assignment to complete; then I'll make my own way out.'

Charlotte nodded, as she turned into Budapester Strasse with the jagged spire of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche towering like a blackened fang into the night sky.

'OK; your choice.'

It was raining hard when Charlotte and Callaghan arrived back at Uhlandstrasse 192. As she locked the car, she noticed that there was an odd smell in the air. For a second she could not place it, then realised that it was a smell that she remembered from the burning city; those last days before it fell to the Russian onslaught. Surely, she must be imagining it. She had heard people say that, when it rained in Berlin; even after all these years, you could still smell traces of the burning… a chilling echo of how it had smelled after the years of countless bombings, and during the final Soviet assault. She had thought that it was just talk… but now, as the cold rain hissed against the wet sidewalk; she smelled it again… faint, and indeterminate; like a ghost of the nightmare that had prowled the fear-stained streets during Berlin's Götterdämmerung… the fiery twilight of Hitler's Drittes Reich. She shivered, and ran across the road to the entrance of their apartment block.

They were met by the concierge, Herr Günsche who welcomed them back. He said that there had been no calls or visitors since they had departed. Charlotte nodded, and, as Callaghan moved towards the slowly revolving Paternoster, she quietly took Herr Günsche to one side.

'Herr Günsche; I need to use the telephone. Is it a secure line?'

He nodded.

'Yes, Frau Streckenbach. The "Firm's" technicians check it every week as a matter of course… considering the business that the residents are engaged in. It was checked yesterday. You just dial zero-two-two before the required number to activate the scrambler.'

She smiled.

'Thank you, Herr Günsche.'

He nodded and went back into his apartment. Callaghan said that he would go on up to the apartment and start making coffee. She nodded, and picked up the telephone handset.

As Callaghan disappeared in the Paternoster, she dialled zero-two-two, and heard a soft double click in the earpiece. She then dialled a Wilmersdorf district number, and asked to be connected with a Major Gilmore. After a slight pause, a voice with a distinctive Boston accent came on the line.

'Gilmore here. How may I help you?'

She spoke quietly.

'Hi, Carey; it's Charlotte. We have a compromised project. We are working "off the books," and Uncle doesn't need to know. We're in the black at the moment, but I can't tell for how long. We need a pick-up from the Uhland Bier Keller and a ride home.'

This spook-talk meant that the operation she had been working on was blown, but, as yet; her identity was unknown to the opposition. She needed to be collected from the Uhlandstrasse address for a flight out of Berlin as soon as possible; and that the Berlin Operating Base was not to be informed of her departure.

Major Carey Gilmore was stationed at the U.S. Army Security Agency, Special Operations Unit based at "Der Teufelsberg"… "The Devils Mountain"… the artificial hill raised to the north of Berlin's Grunewald forest from the bombing rubble remains of the city's buildings destroyed during the war. There was a listening station on the Teufelsberg that could forward a signal back to Washington to arrange for Charlotte and Callaghan's extraction. Gilmore was an old friend from her Washington days; and could be relied upon to make the necessary arrangements. The soft, Boston accent came back down the line…

'OK Charlotte; sit tight. I'll get a car out to you in the morning.'

She breathed a sigh of relief.

'Thank you, Carey. Goodnight.

The faint sound of tyres squealing and car doors closing roused Charlotte from her light sleep. Callaghan was fast asleep and snoring gently; he always did after they had made love. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she glanced at the luminous hands of the little travelling alarm clock on the bedside table… Two-thirty-five. It was probably just a taxi bringing someone home from a night out in the clubs on Ku'damm. Nevertheless, she slipped out of bed and peered through the curtains at the street below. It wasn't a taxi, and they weren't night clubbers.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

A big BMW 502 saloon had stopped outside. The driver had the engine running, the headlamps off; and the windshield wipers sweeping the rain away from his view of the street. Two men were crossing the deserted street and heading towards the entrance door of the apartment block. This looked all wrong; and deadly dangerous to her, particularly as they had turned up between two and four o'clock in the morning… the death hours, as they had been called in Nazi Berlin. Quickly, she roused Callaghan and fetched the Makarov pistols from the main living area. Getting back into bed beside Callaghan, she handed him his pistol and silencer. He gave her a puzzled glance and was about to say something. She pressed a finger to his lips and whispered,

'I think we have visitors. Stay sharp, baby.'

Screwing the silencers into the pistols, they sat up in bed and waited; straining their ears for any sound that might confirm her suspicions. The apartment block was silent, except for the dull, perpetual grumble of the Paternoster. Callaghan slipped out of bed and crept to the door of the apartment. If there were intruders, they would probably use the stairs… and, characteristically, for an old, pre-war Prussian Altbau apartment block; the stairs creaked. Listening carefully at the door, he heard a faint commotion down in the lobby. The stairwell shaft was open, and rose to the upper floors beside the enclosure for the paternoster. It was a natural echo chamber. He heard old Herr Günsche's raised voice… and then, the flat, unmistakeable sound of a silenced pistol being fired… followed by a flat thud… as though someone had dropped a sack of potatoes on to the lobby floor.

Callaghan slipped silently back to the bedroom, and in a low voice told Charlotte to get into the bathroom and lie down in the tub. She nodded, and slipped out of bed; chambering a round in her Makarov as she did so. Callaghan dragged back the bed covers and arranged the pillows and bolster pillow into the shape of two bodies. Tossing the bed covers back over them, he quickly adjusted them so that, in the darkened room, it would give the intruders an impression that there were two people sleeping in the bed. He then chambered a round in his Makarov and crept into the far corner of the room where he was shielded from the bedroom door by the heavy, Bauhaus-style wardrobe.

The stair treads on the flight up from the second floor creaked softly. He could just detect the sound of stealthy footsteps up the stairs that stopped just outside the door of the apartment; and readied himself; raising the Makarov in the stable, two-handed grip. He heard a muffled whisper… so; there were at least two of them. The floor creaked softly as their "visitors" crossed the living room and approached the bedroom door. Again… he heard muffled whispers and sneaking footsteps right outside the door. Callaghan held his breath… the doorknob began to rotate stealthily, and the door began to open. It moved slowly, almost too slowly to be real. One of the hinges keened softly in protest from age and wear. Callaghan could see a shadow looming in the thin crack of light coming in from the landing. The blunt snout of a silenced pistol slid menacingly into his line of sight, and silently tracked across towards the bed and its "sleeping couple." The door continued to open and two figures crept into the bedroom. The second figure raised another silenced pistol, and in unison, the shadowy forms fired two quick shots into the mounds under the bed covers.

Callaghan stepped out and fired; hitting the first man in the chest and throwing him bodily against the second executioner. Even with the restricting effect of the silencer, the ferocious "Molo" slug tore a huge hole in the first man's back; splattering the second man; which gave Callaghan a split-second to fire again. His shot slammed into the other man's forehead, causing his head to explode like a ripe watermelon dropped from a second-floor window onto a concrete sidewalk.

Callaghan reached across and flicked on the lights. He stared at the blood spatter on the once-pristine walls, and then, at the pool of blood seeping into the joints of the polished parquet floor. The two shattered corpses lay where they had fallen. Who the fuck were these guys? As he bent to frisk them for any identification… any clue as to whom they worked for; Charlotte came out from the bathroom. Her eyes widened.

'Holy shit, Callaghan. Who are these two?'

He held up an International driver's licence.

'Ukrainians… most likely, Russian Mafia. Get dressed, baby. Time to get the fuck outta here.'

She nodded and turned towards the bed; pulling back the covers. The bullet holes in the pillows and bolster pillow were in the approximate position of where a sleeping couple's heads would have been.

She turned back to Callaghan.

'All the signs of a professional hit. What about the driver?'

Callaghan stood up more quickly than he had intended.

'Shit! I'd forgotten about him in all the excitement.'

Charlotte moved to the window.

'Turn out the lights, Gil.'

He flicked the switch, and she cautiously moved the curtain a little way from the wall.

'There's no one in the car… he must be coming up to check the place out.'

Callaghan stepped back into the shadow of the wardrobe. The sound of someone coming up the stairs carried along the landing. He motioned to Charlotte.

'Back into the bathroom and lie down in the tub again… just in case the bastard manages to squeeze off a few rounds.'

His tone brooked no argument.

She nodded; and gathering up her clothes, disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.

The floorboards betrayed the drivers approach. He came into the apartment cautiously. Callaghan followed his stealthy footsteps as the man crossed the parquet floor of the living room. He was wearing rubber soles… they squeaked slightly on the polished wood. At the doorway of the darkened bedroom, the footsteps stopped; and an urgent whisper penetrated the darkness…

'Mikhail… vse normal'no?'…'Mikhail… is everything OK?'

Callaghan stepped out of the shadows.

'Net, mudak... eto ne tak!'… 'No, asshole… it's not!'

The man spun around. He had no gun. Callaghan stepped forward and hit him hard across the jaw with the Makarov. The man went down as though he'd been put to bed with a shovel. Quickly, Callaghan went through his pockets, and grabbed the ignition keys to the car in the street. The Mercedes-Benz, with its busted headlamp, was now too easily identifiable. Calling out to Charlotte, he threw on his clothes, and started to gather up anything that could be used to identify who had been staying in the apartment. This safe house was now blown wide open, and the West Berlin Police had no sense of humour at all when it came to bodies… especially bodies with gunshots like these.

Charlotte emerged from the bathroom dressed and ready to go. She glanced at the third body; then at Callaghan.

'Dead?'

He shook his head.

'No, just out for the count. He wasn't armed. You ready? We'll take their car and head straight out to your buddy at "The Devils Mountain." No point in sending a car in the morning now. This place is blown, and we don't know if there are any more of these bastards… or why they're targeting us.'

She nodded.

'OK, let's go.'

Old Herr Günsche, the concierge was sprawled in the lobby with a neat bullet hole in his forehead. Carefully stepping over him, Callaghan cautiously opened the entrance door a little way and scanned the street. It was deserted; and the Russians' BMW was double-parked; effectively blocking the street between the lines of parked-up cars. None of the buildings in the immediate vicinity had any lights showing. Quickly and quietly, Callaghan and Charlotte slipped out of the apartment building and got into the car. Callaghan shoved in the ignition key and started the motor. The Vee-eight rumbled into life; he shoved the column gearshift into first and drove away down Uhlandstrasse towards Kant Strasse. Charlotte glanced at him.

'Will we be all right in this car, Gil?'

'He nodded.

'Yeah; this is an expensive car; the sort that the Berlin high-rollers drive. The cops will just think we're heading home after a night on the town… and those cunning bastards made sure it has West Berlin licence plates. We're heading out to the swanky district… the Grunewald. Any traffic cops we happen on won't give us a second glance. Relax! Just act as though you are the successful West Berlin businessman's beautiful blonde wife… "Frau Streckenbach!"

09.25 Hrs. Monday, March 13, 1961.

Washington Street.

Russian Hill, San Francisco.

California.

USA.

The eyes behind the goggles of the figure in black racing leathers astride the stationary, imported English Norton Dominator 650SS motorcycle were as cold as ice as they stared at the little black Porsche cabriolet parked up outside the Han Mi Korean restaurant in Codman place in the Russian Hill district of downtown San Francisco. The rider was parked-up across from the entrance to the short, dead-end side-street off Washington Street. He had been waiting in the vicinity for almost twenty minutes, having tailed the little black Porsche across from Montgomery Street in Chinatown; and had noted that it was being driven by a pretty, Asian girl. Target confirmed!

When she parked up outside the Han Mi Korean restaurant in the little dead-end side-street; he had waited for ten minutes; and when she didn't reappear; had slipped down the quiet street and attached a little present under the floor pan below the driver's seat of the Porsche. His contract required him to confirm the kill; so he walked back to his Norton; sat astride it, and lit a Chesterfield whilst he settled down to watch the girls go by.

Ten minutes later, he heard the Porsche's door slam and the starter motor whine. The grunt of the flat-four-cylinder motor firing up echoed down the street, followed almost instantaneously by a huge fireball which erupted from inside the Porsche as the bomb detonated; vaporizing half the car and blasting a skin-searing shock-wave of wind reeking with the stinking mixture of gasoline and the sweet sickly odour of incinerated flesh out across the street with the crack-thump of the explosion, which rocked the heavy motorcycle beneath him.

As pandemonium broke out among the passers-by, the rider engaged gear and carefully accelerated away so as not to leave any skid marks. Within half a mile, he was doing sixty; weaving the big, 650cc motorcycle through the traffic as the billowing mushroom of black smoke rose over Codman place, and was caught by the prevailing wind which began to drift it out over San Francisco Bay.

When San Francisco's Finest arrived, the fire department had already brought the fire under control. The damage to the frontage of the Han Mi Korean restaurant was extensive; but there was nothing to identify the driver, except for a few charred body parts. There were red traces on the road, on the sidewalks; against the walls of the surrounding buildings; and there were glittering, dripping red shreds high up in the telegraph wires strung across the street. Everything else had simply vaporized. The occupants of the restaurant had been removed, depending on their injuries; to hospitals across the city. The cops recognised the licence plate, which had been driven into the brickwork of the wall opposite the restaurant, as belonging to the Porsche that was owned by Gabriella Chang; the new boss of the Korean criminal syndicate operating out of Montgomery Street in Chinatown. Reasonably, they assumed that she had been the driver, and gave an early press release to that effect.

As he headed out through Pacific Heights towards the Golden Gate Bridge, the motorcycle rider, Salvatore DeLuca... freelance hit-man contracted by the Reno Mob, was feeling pleased with himself. The Chang hit had gone like clockwork. The bomb explosive that he had used was the old, tried and trusted Composition B... a mixture of RDX and TNT that was used as the main explosive filling in land mines, hand grenades, sticky bombs and various other munitions. Easily available, and capable of being moulded into any shape; it was detonated by a simple blasting cap. The bomb under the black Porsche had only needed the addition of a battery and mercury switch. The whole package had weighed a little over one pound; and the results were exactly as he had planned... complete destruction, and no real collateral damage... save for the restaurant; and that was probably full of the Asian bitch's associates. He prided himself on efficiency... value for bucks; and the Reno boss, Big Frank Catelli had certainly gotten his ten-G's-worth with this one.

Ahead, there was an opening in the traffic as it wound in regimented lines up to the bridge. He kicked up a gear and twisted the throttle grip open. The Norton Dominator leapt forwards with a deep boom from its big, twin exhausts as he weaved his way through the ponderous, chrome-laden town automobiles carrying their fat business cargos up to Santa Rosa and beyond. Damn! These limeys sure as hell knew how to build motorcycles. Leaning the Norton over into the slight curve at the north end of the bridge; he wound the throttle open and, as he sent the machine thundering up the concrete ribbon of the Redwood Highway towards the Waldo Tunnel, the wind pulled his face into a frozen grin; fluttering his cheeks as the speedometer crept up towards the ninety mark.

Twenty minutes after the explosion; the Fire department were still damping down the smouldering debris of what had once been the little black Porsche, and washing the human remains off the walls of the surrounding buildings in Codman place. Two Highways department officials were peering into the ten-inch-deep crater that had been scoured out of the road surface by the force of the explosion; and the cops were crawling all over the scene. No one took any notice of the brand-new Ford Thunderbird parked a little way up Washington Street; or the two tough-looking Asian men leaning against its side. 'Nor did they see the slim Asian girl slip out of the ornamental gate of number 1040 Washington Street and slide into the rear seat.

Unobtrusively, the T-bird pulled away from the kerb and turned into Powell Street; heading north towards Broadway. Salvatore DeLuca would not have been so pleased with himself had he known who was in the rear seat. It had not been Gabriella Chang in the little black Porsche. It had been her close friend, and trusted lieutenant, Jimmy Yoo. Gabriella had been in the back office of the Han Mi Korean restaurant engaged in checking the books; and Jimmy had offered to go out and gas up the Porsche for her. Gabriella sat quietly in the rear of the T-bird as her driver sped up Powell Street. Her demeanour was composed and serene; but her thoughts were ice-cold and deadly. Poor, sweet Jimmy. He hadn't deserved to die like that. Now, the round-eye gangsters would know what real terror was. Now they would learn to fear the shadows in the darkness.

Safely back at Montgomery Street; Gabriella made several telephone calls to West Coast numbers; followed by a long distance, International call to her sister, Chang Su-Dae; the Korean Air hostess. Su-Dae... known to the American side of her family as Suzie; was, if at all possible; even deadlier than Gabriella. She had served in the South Korean Army Special Commando before she became an air hostess.

Gabriella spoke to her sister for almost an hour, explaining the situation surrounding the San Francisco family. Suzie responded that she would catch the next flight out of Seoul. Gabriella replaced the telephone handset, and began to make arrangements for the interment of what was left of Jimmy Yoo; as seven-thousand-miles, and fifteen-hours flight time away; the inevitable destruction of the Reno Mob boss, Big Frank Catelli, and his entire organisation began to gather pace. The Chang sisters; supported by the Korean West Coast syndicates, were now hell-bent on revenge; which would result in the annihilation of the Reno Mob to the last man.

00.10 Hrs. Wednesday, March 15, 1961.

Montgomery Street.

Chinatown, San Francisco.

California.

USA.

Gabriella and Suzie Chang sat around the table in the large kitchen of Montgomery Street, planning how they would proceed with the annihilation of Big Frank Catelli and his Reno crew.

The table was covered with U.S. Geographical Survey maps. The two small notebooks that Gabriella had removed from DeCicco's house were proving to be a gold mine of information for targeting the Reno Mob members. The only problem was weaponry. Handguns and shotguns would just not cut the mustard with the business in hand.

Suzie smiled

'Munitions and ordnance are not a problem, Sis. My contacts back home can get us anything we want.'

Gabriella raised an eyebrow.

'Doubtless; but getting them into the country is going to be a problem. US Customs are tough.'

Suzie smiled.

'You think? Remember; we were shipping heavy stuff into our guys across the North Korean border. It's easy. You just need to have the correct set-up.'

Gabriella studied her sister.

'So what's the set-up?'

Suzie gave her an enigmatic smile.

'Just leave that to me. Now; what d'you think we'll need?'

Gabriella began counting off their requirements on her elegantly manicured, slender fingers.

'Well; we'll need automatic weapons, explosives, ammo...'

Suzie nodded

'OK. I get the picture. None of that will be a problem to my contacts... and the best part is; that it will all be Soviet ordnance... then the Russian mafia will get the blame!'

14.00 Hrs. Wednesday, March 15th, 1961.

Royal Air Force Station Brize Norton,

West Oxfordshire.

South East England.

United Kingdom.

The 1614th Support Squadron Convair T29, twin-engined airplane turned in over the small Oxfordshire village of Bampton as the pilot joined the circuit of the Strategic Air Command Station, Brize Norton... a former Royal Air Force Bomber Station nestling on a wide plateau in the gentle, green heartland of England. The T29 was based at Rhein-Main Air Base, Germany, and had been deployed to collect two U.S. government personnel from Royal Air Force Station Gatow in West Berlin. The flight had been pretty straightforward. There were no incidents in the Berlin corridor, and weather had been good across the North Sea.

The T-29 airplane was developed for the U.S. Air Force as a flying classroom used to train navigators; but this one was used to ferry government officials and intelligence staff… both British and American; between Great Britain and West Germany. The pilot, Major Gregg Dawes; made this flight on average, three times a week, and was very familiar with Brize Norton. His orders said that there would be a Boeing C-137 Stratoliner on station waiting to fly his two special passengers to Andrews AFB. There was no mention as to who or what they were… the attractive blonde woman and her tough-looking companion wore civilian clothes… but, they smelled like spooks.

Gregg Dawes was used to ferrying UK/USA intelligence community officers… the British Government Communications Headquarters was only about twenty-five miles away at Cheltenham; but spooks? He'd only ever had to carry CIA operatives on one occasion. They normally flew out from the Royal Air Force station at Northolt, just outside London. These two must be really important… or have equally important intelligence to get this VIP treatment. He gave a wry grin as he lined up on finals. Probably not a good idea to screw up this landing! As he came in for touchdown, he saw that most of the hardstandings were occupied by B.47 Stratojets belonging to the 3920th Strategic Wing on Reflex Alert duty… the American defence strategy of the Stratojets being kept on full alert status ready for instant takeoff to inflict massive retaliation against Russia if the Soviet Union started a war. The Cold War was certainly chilly here! Across on the northern side of the airbase, he saw the Boeing C-137 Stratoliner; sitting incongruously alone amongst the rakish, streamlined B.47s.

Having safely touched down; Gregg Dawes taxied the T29 across to the adjacent hardstanding and shut down. Before the propellers had windmilled to a standstill, an Air Police sedan had arrived. An airstair was quickly brought up; the passenger door opened; and his passengers were escorted to the waiting sedan. They were then whisked away to the big Boeing. Dawes shrugged. OK… Thanks!… not even so much as a goodbye!

He busied himself with his cockpit checks and then stepped out onto the airstair. The Stratoliner was already tracking down the taxiway to the eastern Runway 26 threshold. She turned, and rolled on to the main runway. As Dawes watched; the turbojets spooled up with a rising scream, and, in a haze of black smoke; she began her take-off run. Halfway down the main runway, her nose lifted, and, trailing four murky black fingers of burnt fuel from her jets; she pitched up to a fifty-degree climb-out; heading out across the English countryside for home; some four-thousand miles to the west.

Dawes grinned. Smelly and noisy!... but, how much longer would piston-engined ships like his T29 be operational? He glanced over his shoulder at her. Stable, forgiving, and a joy to fly; but the future was in those Kerosene-burning, flying blowlamps! So much for progress! He closed the passenger door, turned, and walked down the airstair; heading across the concrete towards the Officers club for a cup of coffee.

Friday, March 17, 1961.

CIA Headquarters.

2430, 23rd E Street NW.

Washington D.C.

USA.

Foggy Bottom was a hive of activity when Charlotte and Callaghan arrived. As they entered the compound, their car was stopped and checked by armed Marine guards on the gate. This, in itself was most unusual. The gates were usually left open and unattended. Inside the large, marble-floored entrance hall, at the reception desk in the Central Administration Building which contained the office of the Director; their identity documents were scrutinised by a tough-looking Marine Master Sergeant before they were escorted up to the Director's office.

Alan Dulles sat behind his desk and glanced up as they entered his office. He smiled, and closed a file marked "Zapata" that he had been studying.

'Welcome back, Charlotte… Agent Callaghan. How was Berlin?'

She studied him for a moment.

'Good and bad, Director. West Berlin is good; but, there are rumours that Ulbricht is pressing Khrushchev to allow him to divide the city permanently, because too many East Berliners are fleeing to the West. The assignment we were sent in on was a fake. We did, however discover that there is a conspiracy against the President; and it appears to be home-grown.'

Dulles sat up.

'Conspiracy against the President? We knew of a Cuban under training over there. It came through the black channels from our opposite number; but there was no mention of the President being involved. You'd better tell me everything you know.'

Charlotte relayed the whole story to him; leaving nothing out… the KGB and Stasi contacts; the Cuban, Pasuali; Tony Garcia; and the attempted hit on them at the Charlottenburg safe house… by unknown killers.

Dulles was silent for a while. Then he fixed her with a steady stare.

'Cuban, you say?

He tapped the folder on his desk.

'OK Charlotte. What I am about to tell you is not to be repeated outside this office. Yesterday, I had a meeting with The President, during which, the Deputy Director for Plans, Richard Bissell, and I presented him with three alternative plans for the Cuban operation which was conceived by Eisenhower during his presidency to prevent Cuba from becoming permanently established as a part of the Communist Bloc. The first option is a modification of the Trinidad Plan, which involves an amphibious/airborne assault to seize a beachhead contiguous to terrain suitable for guerrilla operations; but had been rejected by the President in its original form as too spectacular… too much like a World War II invasion.

The second plan targets an area on the northeast coast of Cuba, and the third, the so-called Zapata Plan…'

He tapped the folder again;

'… Is an invasion at the Bahía de Cochinos…The Bay of Pigs; an inlet of the Gulf of Cazones on the southern coast of Cuba. The President has ordered modifications of the Zapata Plan to make it appear more of an inside, guerrilla-type operation… and then, he'll think about it.

He leaned back in his chair.

'In view of what you have told me concerning Berlin; I have another assignment for both of you. Whilst you were over there, a report came in that the package you wanted to be sent from our Station in Seoul went astray. Both our guys and the FBI were tasked to investigate its disappearance. Investigations by the Criminal Investigation Bureau of the Tokyo Police subsequently proved that a Japanese Customs officer Kenichi Saito had intercepted the package at Haneda Airport. He admitted that he had switched address labels on the instructions of an air hostess on the Korean Air flight that was carrying the package. For whatever reason the package had been sent by a commercial carrier to Japan, rather than in a Diplomatic Pouch.

It was discovered during the investigation that this air hostess… a certain Chang Su-Dae, was related to the San Francisco Korean Chang crime family; and the switched address was in San Francisco... an address known to be associated with the very same Korean Chang criminal family. Since then, we have reports that all hell has broken loose around San Francisco; and also, around Reno, in Nevada. According to the FBI, they figure it's a gang war between the Korean crime family and the Mob. Perhaps this package has something to do with it. You're being booked on a domestic flight from Washington National Airport to San Francisco. Get over there; liaise with the FBI, and see what you come up with. Meantime; I'll have this conspiracy checked out.'

As they left Dulles' office, Charlotte turned to Callaghan She was very pale.

'Oh shit, Gil! I have a horrible feeling that the trouble that the Director mentioned around San Francisco and Reno is down to that fucking "Red Horseman" again. I don't think I'm ever going to be free of it.'

Callaghan put his arm around her and gave her shoulders a hug.

'It's OK, baby. If it is what you think; then we'll face it together… just like we always have.'

She gave him a little smile.

'That's why I love you, Callaghan.'

He grinned.

'I know; and that's why I love you, Mckenna.'