Chapter Twelve.

09.40 Hrs. Friday, February 10, 1961.

Virginia Lake.

Reno. Nevada.

USA.

"Crazy Joe" DeCicco sat in the study of his imposing residence overlooking Virginia Lake in the Reno suburbs, turning the spectacular Garnet gemstone in his fingers and watching the blood red shards of light reflecting the sunlight from its exquisitely cut facets, dancing across the walls. He smiled complacently to himself. This rock could easily be used to bribe his way into having considerable influence in Washington D.C.'s political circles by way of a certain corrupt Senator whom he had in his pocket. This particular Senator had clout in the higher levels of the various law enforcement agencies, and would be a useful asset for deflecting any unwanted attention from DeCicco's ventures centred on the several West-coast city take-overs that La Cosa Nostra was planning.

He nodded, and smiled to himself. The buzz was that the New First Lady had a fondness for expensive jewellery; and this beautiful red gemstone would certainly be appreciated. It also meant that influence might be brought to bear on the new President to persuade him to maybe think again about the appointment of his goddamned brother Bobby as United States Attorney General; who was now laying all kinds of shit down on organised crime.

Playing with the gemstone so that the blood-red flares of reflected light played and flickered across the ceiling; DeCicco picked up the telephone and dialled the code and number for a line in Morningside, Washington D.C. Getting the connection; he leaned back in his big leather chair and spoke amiably into the mouthpiece.

'Buenos días, Therasia; it's Joe DeCicco. Is the Senator there?'

10.15 Hrs. Friday, February 10, 1961.

Chinatown, San Francisco.

California.

U.S.A.

Gabriella Chang sat at her grandfather's desk in the study of the elegant, bay windowed property at the top of Montgomery Street in the Telegraph Hill district of San Francisco and studied the louche Chinese man sitting in front of her. He was in his late-twenties, and wore a Sears suit; the material of which was perhaps, a little too shiny to be in the elegant good taste that he obviously considered that his appearance suggested. This was Dorian Lin; former acolyte of the late Sebastian Lee; and present Master of the Li Ying Tong.

Gabriella had assumed control of the Chang criminal family on the death of her grandfather, Chang Ho-Pyong; executed in company with Sebastian Lee by the Reno torpedoes, two weeks previously; and had initiated a meticulous search for the killers in and around San Francisco. She had also made an approach to the Li Ying Tong; and furnished them with an offer they really couldn't refuse. She had told the new Master, who now sat before her; that she was fully aware that they had no involvement in the killings; but that she was now going to give him two choices…

They would agree to join forces and share any information uncovered regarding the killings, or, they would be deemed as being implicated by their lack of co-operation, and regarded as being without honour, and thus, lose considerable face and bring shame upon their ancestors. The entire Chinese street gang enclave would be driven out of Chinatown and the Bay area and harassed wherever they went, by the several powerful Korean-American mobs in the United States with which the Chang family were affiliated. Gabriella hadn't made any threats; she merely laid out the probable outcome of Dorian Lin making the wrong decision.

Dorian Lin understood perfectly. The Chinese gangs might well be feared; but the Korean gangs were dreaded. When there was any sort of violence involving them; they always showed "The Blank Face"… impassive, unfathomable… deadly. You just couldn't figure out what they were about to do, or when it was coming. Jesus H. Christ!... and they said HIS troops were inscrutable! He studied this beautiful, American born, twenty-two-year-old Korean girl; with her dark, almond-shaped eyes, pretty, retroussé nose; and rose-petal lips; and inadvertently shivered.

Gabriella Chang noticed his ill-concealed discomfort and smiled to herself. These Chinese thought they were tough and intractable. The real truth was that they were babes-in-arms compared with the Korean syndicates. No matter; it was necessary to combine forces. Her ears on the street were getting the same story. Two Mob torpedoes out of Reno, Nevada had made the hit on her grandfather and Sebastian Lee; and now, Gabriella had formulated a plan of revenge. She would need Dorian Lin's muscle... at least; that's what she would tell him. In fact, the Tong muscle would be used as patsies, when and if, the bullets started flying.

The main plank of the plan was that Gabriella would hit the casino's of Reno; posing as a rich, good-time girl. She would attract the attention of the Mob and, work her way up the food chain as necessary, until she reached her target. She would then cut him out of the pack with the promise of oriental delights; and "retire" him when they were alone and undisturbed. She even had her victim's name... "Crazy Joe" DeCicco.

Dorian Lin had little choice but to agree. Gabriella Chang was a dangerous, frightening woman. Her influence was far-reaching; and her power on the streets of Chinatown was now omnipotent. It was however; entirely possible that she would be rubbed out in the same manner as her grandfather if she took on the Mob.

If this occurred; the Chang crime family would probably collapse... there was no one else to take her place. He would send her some foot soldiers that he deemed disposable; and then, when her plan fell apart, the Li Ying Tong could take over the streets of Chinatown without any opposition.

With this in mind, he made a suggestion that he considered would speed up the process. Why didn't Gabriella contact this "Crazy Joe" DeCicco directly? She could lead him to believe that the Koreans had wiped the Chinese gangs off the streets, and that San Francisco was ready for the Mob to take control. Then she could entice him into a little "Coochie-Time" as part of a celebratory evening; and execute him at her leisure. Gabriella Chang considered this for a few minutes whilst Dorian Lin sat quietly and attentively. She nodded her approval. This course of action would certainly save time.

Dorian Lin smiled to himself. Stupid bitch; so preoccupied with revenge that she couldn't anticipate the likely consequences. The Reno Mob would retaliate for the killing of their boss, and all Korean street gang members would be killed on sight. The Mob would turn it into a hunting party all the way down the West Coast; and the Chinese Tongs could quietly take over the various city Chinatowns whilst the Mob were otherwise engaged in running down the Korean gangs.

19.45.Hrs. Saturday, February 11, 1961.

Harolds Club.

236 North Virginia Street,

Reno. Nevada.

USA.

The gleaming black Lincoln Continental Limousine whispered to a standstill outside the entrance of Harolds Club beneath the huge porcelain enamel steel tile mural depicting a wagon train of pioneers crossing the Great Plains, and featuring an illuminated waterfall and flickering campfire. Two young, tough-looking Chinese wearing Tuxedos jumped out and opened the rear door for a beautiful, young oriental girl wearing an exquisitely sexy, tight-fitting silk cheongsam slashed to her hip, to alight delicately from the limousine onto the sidewalk lit by the garish neon of the Casino's frontage. The liveried doorman stepped across the sidewalk to escort her inside with the two Chinese flanking her. As the party entered, one of the Chinese discreetly signalled to a Cadillac Eldorado Brougham that had pulled in a little way behind the Lincoln. Four more of Dorian Lin's troops alighted from the Cadillac and slipped unnoticed into the alleyway next to the casino.

Gabriella Chang entered the main gambling area flanked by her two elegantly attired "companions," and surveyed the scene. There was no way of reaching any other part of the casino without passing between the banks of slot machines and gambling tables. She had arranged to meet DeCicco in the famous "Covered Wagon Room." Whilst negotiating this beguiling snare to the altar of chance; always, somewhere, was the intoxicating silvery cascade of coins or occasionally, the golden cry of "Jackpot!" … at which point, the slot machine addicts would raise their gaze from the whirring tumblers and stare with dead eyes, like so many Pavlov's dogs, in the direction of the perfidious lure that promised all, but invariably brought them nothing.

It was the same at the crap tables; with the unending clatter of the beautifully crafted, duplicitous ivory dice; and the whisper of cards across the green baize of the blackjack tables. She paused momentarily at one of the roulette tables; listening to its seductive whirl and the counterpoint of the whizz of the little ivory ball around the tilted circular track as it embarked on the circular odyssey of its impersonal choice to grant or shatter dreams. She watched as the punters stared mesmerised at the little ball's journey; until it lost momentum and tumbled out of the track with a merry tinkling sound into one of the coloured and numbered pockets on the wheel.

The dealer's voice droned out impassively:

'Eight. Black. Low and Even;'

And slipped a big ivory plaque out of his rack. Hungry eyes watched its progress across the betting area of the table as he slid it in front of the winner. Once again, Gabriella was reminded of Dr Pavlov's dogs. The dealer then swept away all other losing bets with his rake, and the spectacle of greed began again.

The Covered Wagon Room décor was what could only be described as inelegant "Rustic cowboy"… obvious and vulgar; with novelty features such as "The Silver Dollar Bar." This was an elaborate, curved bar with silver dollars embedded in clear plastic forming the bar top. The rail of the bar was a bright orange plastic and the silver dollars were backlit which gave the bar top an idiosyncratic visual depth. In the middle of the bar area was yet one more Roulette wheel and table.

At the back of the bar was a waterfall streaming down rocks and splashing into a pool, all surrounded by rustic scenery; and to the left; was a large wall map of Nevada featuring various historical occurrences painted at locations throughout the depiction of the State. The highways were depicted by tubes of translucent plastic and from time to time, internal lights turned them into a red streak emanating from Reno to each historical point. Further to the left, there were two large photographic slides of Lake Tahoe, measuring at least twelve-feet-wide, and reaching from floor to ceiling. Each panel was backlit to replicate the lighting change for a daily cycle of dusk to dawn. Now; during the evening depiction, moonlight shone on the lake. The carpet was woven with covered wagon designs interspersed with "Harolds Club hiway" advertising. Gabriella smiled. It really was the absolute epitome of garish bad taste.

Sitting at the bar, flanked by two tough-looking, sharp-suited, lynx-eyed mobsters, was "Crazy Joe" DeCicco. As Gabriella entered, he looked up and motioned to his two men. They rose and approached her and her escorts. The two Chinese assumed the attitude of preparing to square up to the approaching threat. Gabriella gestured that they should stay where they were, and brushed past DeCicco's men. He grinned. This broad had guts.

He invited her to sit on the bar chair next to him and eyed her up and down. So this was the new boss of the Chang family… and judging by the expanse of thigh she was showing; she was also a sweet piece of ass. He smiled; a smile that he imagined was suave and irresistible to a beautiful young woman… but only appeared to Gabriella as being slimy and licentious. She smiled back; this was better than her best hopes. DeCicco, in spite of his lofty position in the Mob; was just another dirty old man. He spoke. His voice was soft and silky.

'So very pleased to meet you, Miss Chang. How about a drink before we go up to the suite. After we have conducted our business, we can take a bite in the restaurant and maybe take in a little entertainment in the Fun Room?'

This was the venue where the big-name entertainers performed, up on the seventh floor.

Gabriella nodded.

'Thank you. A bourbon on the rocks please.'

DeCicco grinned to himself. Bourbon… better and better! Not only would he get to buffalo her over the control of organised crime; he could easily slip her a Mickie… the taste of which would be masked by the bourbon… whilst they were upstairs; and then, when it had worked its magic, he would get to fuck her as well.

In the suite on the third floor, DeCicco began plying Gabriella with bourbon as he went through the motions of discussing the arrangements for sharing control of the streets of San Francisco. He smiled smugly to himself; slowly increase the quantity of bourbon and then, when she was well on the way to getting smashed; slip in the Mickie.

Gabriella though; had DeCicco's number as soon as she met him in the Covered Wagon Room. She would play him along until he was certain she was drunk enough not to put up too much resistance to his advances; at which point, he would probably slip her the Mickie. She knew exactly what to expect... years ago; her grandfather had introduced her to the effect of a "Mickie" in the safe, controlled environment of the house on Montgomery Street. He said that she needed to know the symptoms and effect; should anyone try to slip her one out on the streets. She discovered that, in about ten minutes, it would create a drunken-like effect which could last for anything up to eight hours, depending on the mix. It strengthened the effects of alcohol, causing loss of inhibition, sleepiness; relaxation; and, eventually… amnesia. Gabriella didn't need ten minutes... she didn't even need five.

As the negotiations continued, DeCicco was getting aroused. She didn't object when he placed his hand on her knee in a fatherly fashion... then slowly slipped it up along the slit in her cheongsam, stroking her thigh. Gabriella gently removed his hand. He was getting too close to the Walther PPK pistol loaded with soft-nosed, hollow-point slugs, tucked into her stocking top and nestling against the inside of her right thigh. She murmured softly.

'Wait! You'll snag the silk with your signet ring. I'll go and slip out of it and then we can get down to the action.'

She eased herself out of his embrace, and sashayed to the bathroom, swinging her ass provocatively. At the door, she paused and glanced back at DeCicco. The prominent bulge in his pants jutting out below his fat belly betrayed the fact that his guard was dropping fast. She smiled alluringly at him. When they started to think with their dicks, it was game over.

She entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Carefully, she slipped out of her cheongsam, and pulled the Walther from her stocking top; laying it on the marble top of the vanity unit that stretched across the entire length of the room. Now; how far should she go? She smiled. The more she displayed... the less vigilant DeCicco would become. OK; she'd do the whole shebang!

Slipping out of her bra and panties, she stood naked except for her black garter belt, sheer black stockings and strappy black Prada heels. She smiled to herself. More than enough to titillate; more than enough to put DeCicco off his guard. She studied her body in the full length mirror, and nodded. Firm breasts, tight nipples, flat toned stomach, showgirl shave... irresistible!

Gently tweaking her nipples to make them stand out a little more; she dabbed on a touch of Guerlain Shalimar Perfume to her throat and breasts; picked up the Walther; chambered a round; and flicked off the safety. Walking to the door, she held the gun in her right hand behind her back and opened the door; giving DeCicco an eyeful of her side view. She saw him run a pale tongue across his wet, red lips, as she stepped out into the light. DeCicco's eyes greedily devoured her exquisite nakedness; running down from her breasts to her crotch and back again; his hand trembling and almost slopping his drink. Her body was every sweaty fantasy he'd ever had; come to life… right in front of him, and there for the taking.

She began strutting towards him; hips thrust out, with a sensual undulation of her ass. When she was five feet from him, she stopped and stood before him, legs spread and feet apart; with her left hand on her hip.

DeCicco was sweating now, with a huge bulge straining against the crotch of his pants. She picked up the fresh glass of bourbon that she knew was laced with the Mickie, and drained it in one gulp. DeCicco's eyes glinted with satisfaction and he almost drooled in anticipation. She smiled; a gentle, welcoming smile; stretched out a long, slender, black stocking-encased leg and gently teased the growing wet patch in his pants where the head of his rigid dick was straining against the material; with the sole of her strappy black Prada. Her voice was low and inviting.

'Like what you see, baby? You getting a hankering to shoot, huh?... Me too!'

Her right hand came from behind her back; and the little Walther coughed as it jabbed out its blue and yellow tongue. The first shot hit DeCicco low in his bulging belly. He squealed and writhed. She smiled.

'That one was for Sebastian Lee. Damn! I bet that hurts... but obviously not nearly enough, judging by that sad-sack, shitty squeaking noise that you're making.'

The Walther coughed again. The second slug ripped into DeCicco's testicles. Now, he did scream. She smiled again.

'And THAT was for my grandfather, you fat pig.'

She let him writhe and shriek for a few minutes just to let him know what pain was really like.

Glancing at the wall clock, she figured that she had about four minutes before she began to feel the effect of the Mickie. Damn! And he was suffering so nicely! She sighed and moved forward until she was standing over him. She looked down. The oh-so-powerful Consigliere of the Reno Mob writhed and whimpered in front of her. She raised the Walther. The last thing he saw in his world of excruciating pain were her magnificent breasts jutting over him before she put a slug through each of his eyes and blew the back of his head off. She then turned, and picked up the ejected shell casings before walking rather unsteadily towards the bathroom as the Mickie began to wash over her.

She awoke in her own bed with a really yucky mouth and a vague headache; almost as though she had been boozing all night. She peered at the clock on the bedside table. It read 2.15. The sun was streaming into the room. Slowly, her head began to clear. It had to be the afternoon. She could remember little of what had happened the previous night. The last thing she remembered clearly was being in a sumptuous suite with that fat pig DeCicco. How she had gotten back here was a complete blank.

While she was struggling to remember anything, there was a soft knock on the door. Her young lieutenant, Jimmy Yoo entered carrying a tray upon which was set a coffee pot and cup. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the room. He set the tray down on the bedside table and whilst he poured her a cup, he looked at her with genuine concern in his eyes.

'How are you feeling, Miss Chang?'

She sighed.

'A little woozy, Jimmy. What happened last night?... and how did I get back here?'

He smiled gently.

You executed DeCicco in a most satisfactory manner, Miss. Your two Chinese escorts rubbed out his bodyguards and dumped them in the room with their boss; and the back-up escorts went in through the back entrance and brought you out to their automobile. They then drove back here and brought you home; asleep, but unharmed.'

She nodded.

'And was I dressed, when I got back?'

He nodded.

'Yes Miss. The guys said you were only missing your heels when they picked you up.'

Gabriella gave a quiet sigh of relief. So she had managed to get dressed before the Mickie really kicked in, and the Chinese escorts, although she was grateful to them; hadn't managed to get an eyeful... but who had undressed her and put her to bed?

She looked at Jimmy Yoo.

'So who undressed me and put me to bed?'

Jimmy Yoo blushed and dropped his eyes from hers.

'There was no one else here, so I did it, Miss; but don't worry... I won't say anything; and besides which... I'm not hot on girls... I'm a fag.'

He hung his head; overcome with embarrassment and shame for his confession.

She sat up and reached her hand out to him. As she did so, she realised she was naked under the covers. The sheet slipped down exposing her breasts. She ignored it, Jimmy's feelings were so much more important than her modesty. She smiled gently and touched his face.

'There's nothing to be ashamed of, Jimmy. We can't choose the way we are, nor whom we choose to love. Thank you for looking after me last night. I really am happy and relieved it was you, and not one of Dorian Lin's men.'

Jimmy Yoo nodded,

'I am so relieved that you are not angry with me for being so presumptive as to prepare you for bed, last night, Miss. Will there be anything else that I can do for you?'

She shook her head.

'No thank you, Jimmy.'

He bowed slightly and left the bedroom.

As she sipped her coffee, she was pondering Jimmy. He would make the perfect confidant; after all, being a fag meant that he empathised in a way that no straight man ever could. He was faithful and undemanding… and he cared about her. He, and his friends would probably gossip in the same way that women did… and this could be very useful for both gathering and spreading word on the street.

Meanwhile, back in Reno; the Mob Caporegimes had sent out their crews to scour the city for the killers of their Consigliere, "Crazy Joe" DeCicco. The killing had all the marks of a "message job." Being shot through the eyes meant "We're watching you!" What the hell this implied was a mystery to the Boss. Joe DeCicco was his trusted advisor and right-hand man. There were also witnesses who said that two Chinese dudes were seen with DeCicco's muscle in the Silver Dollar bar at Harolds Club. These two soldiers were found with DeCicco. They had both been shot through the mouth…. Another "message job"… but one that indicated that they had been marked as "rats."

The Boss of the Reno Mob... Capo Famiglia Big Frank Catelli hadn't ordered any of these killings. His suspicions centred on the San Francisco Chinese street gangs. This had all the signs of the little yellow sonsofbitches carving out the Bay area as their exclusive territory. Worse than that, they had left Joe DeCicco in such a mess that the family would have to give him a closed-casket funeral. This was the worst insult imaginable. No one would be able to pay their last respects to him in the time-honoured tradition; or have the consolation of a proper sense of closure.

OK, so they wanted to play rough. He'd show them what rough was. He picked up the telephone and dialled a San Francisco number… The Police Department Central Station; and asked to speak to the Chief.

The voice on the telephone was amicable.

Good morning Frank. How may I help you?'

Big Frank Catelli replied:

'Morning Brad. I've gotta problem, and I'm calling in a favour. I need to know when all the Chinks will be in their club on California Street. The bastards whacked Joe DeCicco last night, and there's a price to pay. I don't need any of your guys getting heroic about this. I wanna clean sweep when I give 'em the hard goodbye. Capiche?'

After a pause. The voice answered.

'OK, Frank my patrol officers say the next full meeting is at seven, tomorrow evening. I'll clear the street patrols… just make sure it's surgical; and see that your troops don't whack any innocent passers-by.'

19.00 Hrs. Sunday, February 12, 1961.

California Street. Little Italy.

San Francisco.

USA.

The two Chevrolet Corvair Greenbrier Sportswagons cruised along California Street and stopped outside the closed-up Chan Yang Garden restaurant. Six men climbed out of each van and entered the dingy alleyway alongside the building. They were all carrying pump-action shotguns. As they walked down between the high, grimy brick walls, two of the men pulled out what appeared to be grenades; whilst a third carried a five-gallon gasoline can.

Halfway along the right-hand wall was a solitary, nondescript doorway set slightly back into the brick cliff. The men fanned out in a semi-circle across the alleyway, and two of them opened up with their shotguns which were loaded with rifled twelve-gauge solid slugs; shattering the door to matchwood. The two men with grenades pulled the pins and tossed them inside; followed swiftly by the third man hurling the uncapped gasoline can inside after them. Two muffled explosions were heard; followed immediately by a huge "Whumph" as the gasoline exploded. Yells and screams came from inside, and figures… some with their clothes in flames, burst out of the black smoke belching from the shattered interior of the building. The other nine men armed with shotguns loaded with standard buckshot opened up as the occupants tumbled out into the alleyway. The slaughter lasted no more than five minutes; by which time there were at least thirty bodies sprawled in the alleyway.

As the flames took hold of the building; the men shouldered their weapons and strolled back out into the street, climbed aboard their vehicles, and unhurriedly drove away. There were no police anywhere to be seen; the Boss's orders had been successfully carried out, and the Li Ying Tong… including its new Master, Dorian Lin, had been wiped off the face of Chinatown.

Friday, February 10, 1961.

Nordflügel 2, Seebad Prora.

Rügen Island.

North Germany.

The Cuban, Fernán Pasuali; now using the false identity of Ferdinand Poeschl; Stabsgefreiter in the Nationale Volksarmee; was studying the manual of his brand new, and as yet, experimental Soviet SVD sniper rifle. Both the weapon and its scope were still undergoing extensive field-testing before being introduced as the standard squad support weapon throughout the Soviet Union and Warsaw Pact countries. An impressive weapon; with the scope, its range was thirteen-hundred metres… more than enough for the assignment for which he had been hired. His concentration was disturbed by a sharp knock on the door of his room on the fifth floor of block two of the North wing of the Prora complex. Opening the door, he was confronted by the duty Gefreiter, who handed him a sealed signals envelope.

Closing the door; Pasuali ripped open the envelope and unfolded the thin signals sheet. It was coded and took a while to decipher; but its contents were specific and concise. Berlin KGB had penetrated the veil of secrecy surrounding the conspiracy in which Pasuali was embroiled. At least two Karlshorst investigators were on their way to Prora to detain him. His anonymity had been blown wide open. Somehow, they had managed to put a name to him, and several arrests had already been made in Berlin among his co-conspirators. The plug had now been pulled on the whole operation at Prora, and he should get out of there as fast as he could by whatever means possible. Contact would be made again at a later date. The assignment was, as of now, on hold.

Pasuali swore volubly.

'Fucking Hell!'…

How had they managed to find him up here in this God-forsaken, ex-Nazi shithole; buried away among almost ten-thousand goose-stepping assholes? No matter; the prime importance now was to evade these KGB investigators. There was no way of knowing how close they were…or even if they had yet arrived at Prora. Nonetheless, it was time to high-tail it out of here. Swiftly packing the most basic of requirements, he shouldered the sniper rifle and stepped out into the corridor. It was deserted. Even if the KGB had actually arrived, it would take them a while to reach his room. The corridors alone were almost one-and-a-half kilometres in length; and they would have to negotiate four flights of stairs to reach his level.

Pasuali was thinking on his feet as he hurried down the seemingly endless fifth-floor corridor of North block... Nordflügel 2. He was moving north; towards the main administrative area. The Soviets had started to demolish parts of the Prora northern housing blocks at some point in their occupation; and the remaining structures had been used by the Nationale Volksarmee, the police, fire-fighters and Red Cross; house fighting and civil protection squads; and by the 40th Parachute Battalion as a practice site for urban combat training; and large sections of the buildings had been blown up. The shell of Nordflügel 3 was structurally intact but minus all its windows and outer walls; and Nordflügel 4 was partially demolished.

It was reasonable to assume that the KGB would enter the accommodation block through the administration building on the south corner of Nordflügel 1 and systematically work their way through the ten housing units of Nordflügels 1 and 2... the two habitable blocks; when they discovered he was not in his allocated apartment.

If he used the top floor of Nordflügel 3 and stayed in the centre of the building, it was almost impossible for anyone to observe him unless they too, were on the same floor. The only problem would be whether the stairwells would be intact at either end of the block. Nordflügel 4 would not be a problem. There was so much demolition debris on that site, he could move under cover from one end to the other. The only possible problem there would be just how stable the remaining standing ruins were.

Up here on the northern end of Nordflügel 2... which was pretty much unused due to its proximity to the battered Nordflügel 3; Pasuali realised what a stunningly creepy place this really was. There were sudden shadows to hide in, and long, open stretches that gave an awful feeling of being totally exposed. The dark shadows of its history stalked this place; the ghosts that whispered through abandoned corridors, slammed doors, and moaned through the cracks in the steel-reinforced concrete… the spectres of fanatical Nazi dreamers… the egotistic architects and cynical planners of the Third Reich's sinister, insidious scheme of social engineering; the construction workers, the victims of war; the bombed-out refugees from places like Hamburg, Rostock and Berlin; the displaced, and the homeless refugees who had fled from the east; and the Russian prisoners of war and Eastern European forced labour workers who had been incarcerated in this megalomanic edifice. Quickly, he moved on along the deserted corridor towards the northernmost stairwell. The entire block was silent. Such troops as were quartered there were all out on manoeuvres somewhere in the three-hundred hectares that the "Sperrgebiet"… the prohibited military area, covered.

The north end stairwell was intact; although all the windows had been blown out. Carefully, Pasuali descended to ground level and paused at the exit doorway. The gaunt, brownish-grey, ferro-concrete skeleton of Nordflügel 3 towered before him across forty metres of open, exposed concrete that delineated the foundation of one of the four of the ten planned seaside Community buildings which had actually been started before the project was wound down. The concrete road that ran parallel to the rear of the accommodation blocks was deserted. It was silent at this end of the complex. The whole area was silent. Still as the grave, and twice as sinister… no sound at all save for the wind whispering through the lattice of reinforced concrete and hard-burnt bricks.

Pasuali stood in the doorway of the stairwell, and, ostensibly to anyone who might be observing him; casually adjusted his equipment. In fact, he was carefully scanning the immediate vicinity for any signs of movement. Seemingly satisfied with the positions of his ammunition belts and pack; he emerged from the towering shadow of Nordflügel 2 and walked across the open foundation towards the concrete roadway. The sheltering tree line was twenty metres to his left; and his objective… a spot midway between the permanent on-site staff housing blocks and the original site where the large-scale garage would have been constructed was close to two-hundred-and-sixty metres to the north. At this point, a disused roadway veered off into the wooded area.

He had previously checked this area out as a likely escape route and knew that it was just over half-a-kilometre through the densely pine-wooded area to the roadway and rail track that spanned a fifty-metre wide, open cut through the woods. Beyond that point; it was a straightforward slog of six-hundred metres through the sandy calcareous grassland, salt marshes; and reed beds full of rising damp and mosquitoes, to the wash margin of the Jasmunder Bodden lagoon. As he made his way carefully through the trees, Pasuali was working out the route he would take. The best way would be to follow the lagoon's wash line to the north. The shallow cliff would provide cover as he followed the edge of the lagoon up to the little town of Leitzow where he could cross the causeway onto the main part of the island. Faintly, in the distance to the north; he could hear the popping of small arms fire. They were playing war games out on the training area south of Staphel... he could easily skirt around them.

As he came out of the trees at the site of the old garages, he saw three Russian GAZ 69 four-wheel-drive light trucks parked up on the concrete hardstanding. Pasuali smiled. Hot-wire one of these and he wouldn't have to traipse through five kilometres of stinking, rotten sea kale and God knows what else, around the edge of the lagoon. He paused at the tree line and scanned the area. There was no one around and all was silent except for the thin backdrop of birdsong. Nonchalantly shouldering the sniper rifle; Pasuali strolled across the sparse, scrubby grass strip towards the hardstanding and approached the nearer of the trucks. He laid his hand on the hood. It was warm... the vehicles hadn't been here long; these vehicles were probably the transport of the poor bastards playing soldiers up in the smelly marshes at the northern reaches of the training grounds. He glanced into the cab. The key was in the ignition... but, why shouldn't it be? After all; they were in the middle of a restricted military zone... it wasn't as though anyone was going to just stroll in and steal the damn thing.

A final glance around to make sure there was no one about; and Pasuali climbed into the driving seat; laid the sniper rifle beside him and turned the ignition key. The fuel gauge needle flicked up to three-quarters tank. He pulled the starter knob and the engine clattered roughly into life. Pasuali winced. It sounded as though someone had strapped a bag of nails to the crankshaft... but he knew this was quite normal. These engines were as tough as old boots, in spite of the terrible pre-ignition from the laughably low octane gasoline that was available; and which would have wrecked any normal engine.

Banging the big, floor-mounted gear lever into first; Pasuali booted the accelerator pedal and sent the GAZ bouncing off the hardstanding as he headed for the entrance road of the Prora complex. Approaching the security barrier, Pasuali slowed as one of the guards emerged and watched the GAZ coming down the road. These guys checked everything coming in… but would they check vehicles leaving the complex? Pasuali changed up into second gear and braced himself ready to floor the accelerator. The guard indicated that he should stop. Leaning in through the passenger window, the guard asked where he was heading. Pasuali nodded towards the SVD sniper rifle.

'Just heading down to the old firing range to calibrate the scope on that bad boy.'

The guard nodded.

'Well, be careful. There's a new bunch of recruits pissing about out there, somewhere… and we all know what they're like!'

Pasuali grinned.

'Yeah; I'll be careful. We don't want them shitting their pants at the sound of a few close, high-velocity slugs, do we?'

The guard laughed.

'Too damn right!'

And waving an acknowledgement; he stepped back and raised the red-and-white pole. He gave Pasuali a friendly wave as the GAZ pulled away and accelerated down the long road across the sandy heath that passed through the southern sector of the training area and led down to the junction with the B196 at the little settlement of Kluptow. From here, Pasuali could drive up to Bergen and then, head down the B96 to Stralsund by way of the small town of Samtens. Once across the bridge, he would be home free; the whole of Brandenburg province would be open for him to lose himself and wait to be contacted again.

As he was approaching the tiny village of Lubkow; about two kilometres from the complex; he saw three vehicles approaching from the opposite direction... Two Opel Kapitäns and a Mercedes-Benz. The lead Opel flashed its headlamps, and the passenger put his arm out of the window and flagged Pasuali down. As the Opel slowed, Pasuali saw that all three cars bore Berlin Licence plates. Dammit! They were probably the KGB investigators. He decided that he needed to be very careful as to how he behaved and how he answered any questions.

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A big man got out of the passenger door; walked across to Pasuali's vehicle, and stuck his head into the GAZ interior. He made an unconvincing attempt to appear friendly.

'Is this the road to Prora Barracks?'

Pasuali nodded.

'Yes, comrade it's about two kilometres up to the security gates.'

The man nodded; grunted something that might have been construed as a "thank you," and returned to the leading Opel Kapitän. As they drove on; Pasuali saw that both of the Opels contained two tough looking men and the Mercedes-Benz contained a man and a woman. Pasuali drove the rest of the way down to Kluptow with one eye on the road and the other in the rear-view mirror. No one was following, but he breathed a sigh of relief as he turned onto the B196 and accelerated away in the direction of Bergen.

The road across the heath was long and boringly straight. Callaghan had to keep the Mercedes-Benz at a steady eighty km/h to keep up with Makary Kravchek's grey Opel. His driver Ilya Zykov; was obviously a bit of a hotshot. The lurid electric-blue Opel Kapitän containing the two Spetsnaz GRU ghosts…"Comrade Black," and "Comrade Brown"… stayed close behind. Callaghan was slightly concerned about this. If the convoy had to brake suddenly; the two Spetsnaz Comrades would probably end up in the back seat of the Mercedes-Benz. Suddenly, the grey Opel's brake lights flashed as the convoy reached a large signboard at the side of the road, upon which was painted in capital letters a foot high…

EINTRITT VERBOTEN: MILITÄRZONE.

ENTRY FORBIDDEN: MILITARY ZONE.

A hundre-metres ahead; the red and white pole of the security post barred their way. The grey Opel drew up outside the guard post and a sentry bent down and spoke to the driver. The familiar, red-cloth covered, KGB identity card was waved under the young sentry's nose and a few words were exchanged. The sentry saluted; stepped back, and raised the pole; allowing the convoy to proceed. The road continued into the pine woods for only another kilometre before it narrowed to a mere track, and they managed to get a good first view of the vast, grey-brown stone Behemoth; an immense, Teutonic monolith crouching beyond the trees; six- storeys high, and stretching along the windswept coastline in one spectacularly ugly, unending arc for almost five kilometres. The immense scale of the place made the huge arc of Tempelhofer Airport back in Berlin pale into insignificance… and that building was truly enormous.

This place was a particularly striking example of the Third Reich "Intimidatory" architectural style on a grandiose scale. It simply stretched away as far as the eye could see; the massive, identical accommodation blocks pierced through with thousands of identical windows in uniform ranks marching along each floor. The whole impression of the building was eerie, and disturbingly unavoidable. Charlotte sighed. How the hell they were supposed to find one man in this gargantuan, characterless, concrete labyrinth made the only epithet that came to mind… the proverbial "Needle in a haystack"… seem as straightforward as a walk in the park.

Beyond the trees; the road crossed the concrete roadway that ran the length of the complex. Callaghan followed the lead Opel across to where a wide expanse of empty ground stretched between the north and south blocks. This was the area where the proposed, but never built, Festival hall would have stood. Getting out of the Mercedes-Benz, Charlotte looked around. It was literally impossible to take in the scale of this gigantic structure. The five surviving blocks were both chillingly prescient and terrifyingly huge.

The sheer scale of Prora; the quiet massiveness of the almost endless housing blocks rising like a grey, ghostly phalanx along the misty coastline was overwhelming. The Nazis typically employed architecture of colossal dimensions to overawe, and make the individual feel small and unimportant… and with Prora; even by the ambitious standards of Nazi monumentalism; they had succeeded beyond their wildest aspirations.

This eerie relic of Germany's Nazi past was downright sinister. The way in which this "Sieg Heil and Jackboot-polish" leviathan had been built into the strip of land separating the Jasmunder Bodden from the Baltic Sea and surrounded by forests and dunes, made it impossible to take it all in at once.

Prora had originally consisted of eight identical, rectangular six-storey buildings, three of which were now in ruins, curving around the bay in a neat arc. Each building was sub-divided into four, half-kilometre-long blocks; studded with extensions projecting out from the western aspect of the housing blocks; each of which contained the staircase, the elevator, the staff rooms, showers and toilets, washing chambers, and the sideboards and chutes for garbage and dirty linen.

Flanked by the KGB muscle; Charlotte and Callaghan walked across to the reception building attached to Südflügel 1... the most northerly block of the intact southern complex. On each side of the central square, two large reception areas were planned in grandiose style; but only the southern one had been completed.

The completed Reception building was a three-storey structure with a curved end wall; the only complete Empfangsgebäude... Reception building, that defined the south line of the central square; and was attached to an incomplete colonnaded section that stretched between the main blocks of the north and south complexes and extended to the foundation base of the so called Gemeinschaftshäus… community house which, if built; would have contained the kitchen/restaurant complex and would mirror the Reception building in its design; whilst overlooking the quay. During the time the NVA occupied the complex; the Reception building had been home to the officer's club; and now, was the domain of a corpulent Stabsfeldwebel with a face which bore a remarkable resemblance to that of a pig. He sat arrogantly behind large desk strewn with files and rubber stamps.

Stabsfeldwebel Otto Bächer eyed these "civilian" newcomers up as though they were something he'd just stepped in on the pavement. His little piggy eyes glittered and he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could utter a word, Makary Kravchek shoved the red KGB identity card under his nose. Bächer paled and jumped to his feet; his mind whirling. What the fuck did these KGB hard-asses want? Kravchek answered his unspoken question.

'We are here to carry out an investigation concerning a dissident Cuban we believe to be deployed in this establishment. He is masquerading as an accredited German soldier under an assumed name. We wish to examine all records relating to Cuban Nationals undergoing training here.'

Bächer looked Kravchek up and down; a slim smile slowly spread across his pudgy features. His voice was condescending.

'I regret that I cannot possibly permit you to examine any files without the proper authorisation.

Kravchek nodded.

'And what might the proper authorisation be, Herr Stabsfeldwebel?'

Bächer gave him an oily smile.

'Signed authorisation from Colonel-General Hoffmann at The Ministry of National Defence in Strausberg.'

Kravchek waited for him to finish blustering, and then spoke in perfect German. His voice was quiet... cold, sinister, and foreboding.

'Well; it's just not our day is it?'

He leaned conspiratorially across the desk to Bächer and smiled... the smile of a predator sizing up its victim. Lowering his voice, he spoke; as if to share a confidence with the now-sweating Stabsfeldwebel.

'Of course; you couldn't possibly know that I come from the Ukraine; and it's even less likely that you are aware that I am Jewish.'

Basher paled, and his left eye began to twitch almost uncontrollably. Kravchek continued in a quiet, almost friendly tone.

'I don't suppose that if I checked our records, I might find that you served in the SS during the war, Stabsfeldwebel?... or perhaps, you would prefer me to address you as SS Sturmscharführer? It really does have a superior ring to it; don't you think? I imagine that you might well have been a young, impressionable officer with the swastikas shining in your eyes, in one of the Einsatzgruppen? You were having a little fun in Babi Yar ravine outside Kiev, perhaps? Or Kamenets-Podolsk? Or Volhynia? Or maybe you were enjoying yourself in Auschwitz-Birkenau? You might even have had a hand in turning my family into piles of ashes and pieces of cheap soap.'

Bächer's face was chalky white… almost blue. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. What he'd kept a secret for fifteen long years had been guessed, almost to the letter, by this KGB Untermensch piece of shit. Bächer had indeed, been Einsatzgruppe… operating with an Einsatzkommando unit of Einsatzgruppe "C," to be precise. They had murdered and pillaged their way across the southern Ukraine in '43. Bächer had gained quite a reputation back then, of employing an objective duplicity towards the Kommando's victims. As the victims were rounded up, he would be sent in to assuage their fears with solicitous assertions that they were being resettled. He had once been congratulated by no less than his Einsatzkommando boss... SS-Standartenführer Böhme, for his impressive subterfuge of quelling dissent by permitting one Jewish family to celebrate the Khaddish before taking them away and forcing them to hang themselves in each other's presence. If any of this came out… especially in KGB circles; they would have him away into a Soviet Labour camp in Siberia faster than a monkey picking fleas off its bollocks.

Even if this scruffy KGB asshole didn't shoot his mouth off in the wrong place, the woman's stare was enough to shrivel a man's nuts. That look she was giving him had GDR-Military Prison, Schwedt written all over it. What was she? Stasi? Quickly; Bächer forgot all about "proper authorisation" and grabbed at the deep filing cabinet behind his chair. Riffling through the files, he withdrew a slender folder and opened it. Turning to Kravchek; he forced a pleasant smile and spoke… although his voice was now minus its officious tone…

'We have twenty Cubans at the complex, Comrade. They have all been here for three months.'

Charlotte glanced at Kravchek and imperceptibly shook her head. Their Cuban would have been here for less than a week. Stepping forward, she rested her cold blue gaze upon Bächer.

'How many personnel are undergoing sniper training at the establishment, Stabsfeldwebel?'

Bächer felt his guts tighten up under her gaze. He leapt at the filing cabinet again and frantically dipped back into the files. He shuffled through them with trembling fingers and withdrew an even thinner folder. He didn't even open it; he handed it straight to her. Flipping it open, she scanned the typed page. It contained only three names. Two had been at the complex for more than two months; but one… Ferdinand Poeschl; Stabsgefreiter in the Nationale Volksarmee, had been here for only a week.

Charlotte turned back to Bächer and handed him the folder.

'Where are Stabsgefreiter Poeschl's quarters located?'

Bächer smiled nervously, and consulted what appeared to be an overly complex typed table towards the back of the file.

He ran his pudgy, blunt finger down the close-typed table, and jabbed at an entry

'North wing Two, level five. Section D, room 73.'

Charlotte nodded.

'Thank you, Stabsfeldwebel.'

She turned to her companions.

'OK boys; let's go see this guy.

Outside the reception building; the two Spetsnaz ghosts slipped away to cover this southern stairwell spur of North wing 2, whilst Kravchek and Gulin headed for the stairwell spur at the northern end of the block. The decision was, that Charlotte and Callaghan would enter North wing 1 and use the building as cover whilst they made their way up to North wing 2, in case Poeschl was watching out for them.

Cautiously; Callaghan opened the doors to the North Wing 1 building and stepped into the empty corridor coated with faded oppressive paintwork.... dull grey above a bilious green; peeling like sunburned skin from the damp concrete. A series of dim, cold, locked doors interrupted the vast plane of the right-hand wall; and each door was totally identical but for the cheap, plastic numbers and occasional random nameplates. There were no sounds coming from behind any of them.

In the distance, a separator wall projected into the corridor; marking the joining point in each of the block's five sections. The corridor ran along the landward side of the building, and each section appeared to contain seven rooms. This meant that they needed to traverse the entire length of North wing 1... a distance of well over half-a-kilometre of corridor before they even reached North wing 2. Charlotte looked at Callaghan and gave a sigh. This was going to be neither quick, 'nor easy.

They cautiously picked their way through the wind-blown debris that was strewn along the long, dank corridor as a result of several windows being broken. The whole place appeared to be deserted, with a creepy counterpoint of unexplained echoes and the continuous sound of dripping water. The long corridor was oppressive and boring; with dark shadows where the section dividing walls intruded into the corridor. The ridged stone tiles cladding the floor were cracked and broken.

Along the vastness of the echoing corridor of this long-deserted building where Soviet troops had once walked; inexplicable noises echoed through its empty labyrinth studded with locked doors; occasionally interspersed with the sheer, vertigo-inducing drops of the dank and dripping stairwells smelling of mould. The cheerless, suffocating, and oppressive interior, and regimented row of seemingly endless identical grimy windows with their sills coated in a thick layer of dust and grime to their left, made for a chill, uncanny journey with shadows of hazy echoes of their footsteps resonating eerily from the rough walls.

Charlotte glanced at Callaghan.

'This really is one of the weirdest places I've ever been in, Gil. It's got an atmosphere that is really unsettling… almost as though the very walls have soaked up the fear and brutality; the despair and desperation of the thousands of young recruits that have gone through training in this place. The sooner we're out of here, the better, as far as I'm concerned.'

It really was an unnerving experience walking through the first of the mausoleum-like, silent spaces; the so-called "collective area" central hall… a wide, echoing space; twice the width of the corridor; and supported by large, square, free-standing pillars along its thirty-metre length. The wall opposite the windows was furnished with several double doorways and square apertures that might well have once been designed as serving hatches. Presumably, this area had been constructed to be a communal eating area… or something similar.

Beyond the large exit doors, the corridor continued along the second wing; through another "collective area," and on along another long, dank corridor to the end of the building. To reach the southern end of North wing 2 they had to cross the open, concrete foundation slab of an unbuilt community building a distance of close to one-hundred-an- twenty metres. The two Spetsnaz ghosts were waiting for them outside the stairwell spur. Charlotte looked at them.

'Any movement, comrades?'

The taller of the two men silently shook his head.

'Quiet as the grave, Comrade Colonel. We'll let you get up to the fifth level and then come up to cover your backs.'

Charlotte nodded.

'Spasibo.'

Charlotte and Callaghan entered the south stairwell and began to ascend the stairs to the fifth level. The impression of openness was impressive. The banisters around the staircase weren't enclosed by brickwork, and the stair flights formed a kind of balcony on each successive floor so that the floor below could be seen from above, or below. The entire stairwell was pierced with deep windows that flooded the entire area with light. At the top of the fourth flight of stairs the balcony abruptly ended and became a solid wall once more. Here, they paused and listened… silence! The communal washrooms were to their left. A closed double door to their right led into the corridor of the fifth floor.

Here, the wall colour changed to dove-grey above a pale blue. The first door on the left was numbered 718. With seven rooms per section; this meant that Stabsgefreiter Poeschl's quarters would be located just this side of the third stairwell. This wing appeared to be… or to have recently been occupied. The entire structure was in much better condition than the semi-derelict wing that they had just negotiated. As to whether any of the rooms were actually in use was irrelevant. All the doors were closed and locked; and the ridged stone tiles on the floor were clean and polished; but the same oppressive silence permeated the entire wing.

Passing the entrance doors to the first stairwell spur, it was about forty-five metres to the next one. Beyond here, it looked to be a shorter distance to the third stairwell… perhaps thirty-six metres. This was where they would find Poeschl's room… provided their calculation of ascending room numbers was correct. Callaghan glanced at Charlotte. She nodded, and they drew their weapons from the holsters and aimed them ahead in unison; systematically covering each door as they passed them. Stealthily; so as not to let their footsteps echo on the stone tiles, and staying close to the wall, they moved down the corridor towards the next stairwell spur.

No sounds came from behind any of the doors. The deathly quiet atmosphere and the lack of any signs of life was enough to make anyone edgy; but they didn't have that luxury. This Cuban, according to Viktor Malinovskii; was the quintessential assassin. Charlotte and Callaghan needed to be fully vigilant and resolute for the next few minutes. Inexorably, the room numbers rose as they continued past the second stairwell…726, 727, 728… There! Poeschl's room was the last one before the section-dividing wall. Pausing; they both screwed the silencers into the Makarovs and cocked the weapons. Charlotte slipped past the closed door of room 732 and pressed herself against the corridor wall as Callaghan crept noiselessly up to the door; held his breath and put his ear to the keyhole. Dead silence!

Charlotte took up her position on the opposite side of the door with her Makarov held in the stable, double-hand grip, with the silenced muzzle of the weapon pointed towards the ceiling. Callaghan aimed his Makarov half-way up the door, and, shielded by the corridor wall, reached out and grasped the door handle. Turning it gradually, he inched the door open and then gave it a hard kick; bracing himself into the firing position as he did so. The door swung open to reveal a completely empty room.

From the general disorder, it was evident that the room's occupant had left in a hurry. The bedspread was rumpled as though a valise had been hurriedly packed upon it; there were no personal effects anywhere to be seen. The wardrobe was empty, save for a single, freshly pressed Stabsgefreiter's uniform… with a name-tag still attached… Poeschl. F.

Charlotte turned to Callaghan.

'Damn! We've missed him. How in hell did he know we were coming for him?

She was interrupted by the sound of someone running up the stairs in the adjacent stairwell spur. Swiftly; they both ran into the corridor and stood; weapons aimed at the doorway. Makary Kravchek burst into the corridor and stopped dead as he saw two ominous black eyes of the silencers pointing at him. He threw out his hands in front of him.

'Whoa! They've just telephoned in that a GAZ has been taken from where it was parked up, and the sentry at the security gate says that Poeschl drove out about twenty minutes ago, saying that he was going out to the old range to calibrate the scope on his sniper rifle. The Svoloch has, as you Americans say; "Flown the coop"… and he's armed with one of the new SVD sniper rifles. They're good for a kill at thirteen-hundred metres; so we are going to need to be very careful from here on in.'

Charlotte nodded.

'How did he know that we were coming for him?'

Kravchek gave a snort of contempt.

'That fat Svoloch, Bächer down in reception somehow managed to get a message to him. It seems that there is a group of dissident activists in this complex. Bächer has been arrested, and we're sending in a team of investigators to clean out the others. It would appear that they are knee-deep in this conspiracy that you and Colonel Malinovskii are investigating.'

He gave an apologetic smile.

'This guy is good. He gave us all the slip; so we'd better get moving if we are going to have any chance of intercepting him before he disappears into Berlin again.'

Charlotte nodded again.

'It's no fault of yours, Captain. This man is a trained assassin and has managed to avoid the KGB and the Stasi for months. No matter; we'll get him… we have to. You cannot possibly know what is likely to happen if we fail.'

Kravchek took a deep breath and held her gaze with a solemn stare.

Oh, yes, Comrade Colonel… I know exactly what will happen… Armageddon.'

17.40.Hrs, Friday, February 10, 1961.

Vorpommern-Rügen district,

North Germany.

Forty-year-old Wachtmeister Wendel Trommler sat in his parked-up green-and-white Opel Kapitän Volkspolizei patrol car at the side of the B194 highway just outside the town of Steinhagen, at the Grimmen-Richtenberg junction; ten kilometres south of Stralsund. It had been a good day; the sun was shining; nothing much had happened, and he was making up his notebook before he headed back towards the Frankendamm headquarters in Stralsund. After signing off; he would head down to the local Bierkeller with some of the lads and have a few steins whilst admiring the waitresses. There was one in particular that he fancied… a big, pneumatic blonde named Jutte… and boy! She "jutted" in all the right places. He smiled to himself. That was a good quip! He'd see if he could slip it in later during the drinking session. It would raise a laugh amongst the lads; and Jutte had a great sense of humour. If he could get her laughing, he might just get lucky with her.

His thoughts were interrupted by the tinny crackle of the car's radio. It was an all-patrol broadcast to be on the lookout for a GAZ army four-wheel-drive light truck coming from the direction of Rügen's Prora barracks. The truck had been reported stolen and was thought to be driven by a deserter who was identified as being one Ferdinand Poeschl; with the rank of Stabsgefreiter in the Nationale Volksarmee. Due caution should be applied as it was confirmed that this man was in possession of a firearm.

Wachtmeister Trommler sighed, and tossed his notebook onto the passenger seat. Damn! That was all he needed. The Nationale Volksarmee didn't have any sense of humour at all when it came to deserters. If the suspected fugitive came this way, all that Trommler had to look forward to were several hours of mindless paperwork and a long drive in an asthmatic Volkspolizei Barkas Kleinbus back up to the barracks to return the prisoner, who really wouldn't want to go back there anyway. He pulled out his Sauer pistol from its holster and flicked off the safety; but left the cocking/decocking lever alone. Now, all he needed to do if the fugitive appeared; was to flick this lever down and the weapon was ready. Putting the Sauer down next to his notebook, he wound down the door window; reached into the glove box and pulled out a pack of "Josma" cigarettes; lit one, and settled himself for a long wait.

Fernán Pasuali was planning his escape route as he barrelled the heavy GAZ down the B194 keeping the speed up to its maximum ninety Km/h. Judging by the way this old tub was drinking fuel, he would be lucky to get much further south than Neubrandenburg… and that was at least a hundred-kilometres short of Berlin. He could always slow down; but how much farther would that get him? Probably no more than a few extra kilometres. Well, fuck it! He'd just keep going, and grab another vehicle at the first opportunity.

Wachtmeister Trommler was just beginning to get bored, when he heard the first, faint high-pitched howl of what was unmistakeably an army vehicle coming from the direction of the little village of Seemühl; some two-and-a-half kilometres away to the north-east. He flicked on the blue flashing beacon on the roof of the Opel; opened the driver's door and stepped out into the road. The high-pitched howl was getting louder… Damn! He'd left his pistol on the passenger seat. Quickly he retrieved it as the army vehicle came into view, about five-hundred-metres up the road. It was a GAZ, and it was moving fast.

Trommler stepped out into the road and raised his hand. The howl of the oncoming truck rose in pitch as the driver changed up a gear. Trommler made ready to jump out of the way if the bloody driver accelerated instead of slowing down; but the vehicle slowed, and obediently came to a standstill just in front of where he was standing. Trommler stepped forward towards the driver who was fairly young… in his late twenties; and had dark hair and eyes…a typically Bavarian "Alpine Race" stereotype. Trommler looked closely at him. Something was not quite right, here. The man's hair was too long. Nationale Volksarmee soldiers' hair was clipped close to the head.

With his hand on the butt of his pistol, Trommler spoke authoritatively,

Ferdinand Poeschl; switch off the motor and step out of the vehicle. You are under arrest for…'

He didn't get any further. A silenced pistol appeared from its concealment below the driver's window and thudded twice. Wachtmeister Trommler was hurled backwards against his patrol car as the shots tore into him. His body bounced off the hood and lay sprawled by the roadside. Pasuali climbed out of the GAZ, walked casually across to the motionless body, and spat at it. He grinned.

'Fucking Moron!…'

And coldly fired another shot into the Wachtmeister's head. He then transferred his rifle and valise to the patrol car; climbed in and switched off the flashing blue beacon. Starting the motor; he jammed the column change gear lever into first; and swung out onto the highway, showering Trommler's corpse with dirt and gravel as the rear tyres spun, and then squealed as they gained traction on the asphalt.

Meanwhile; Charlotte and Callaghan, and their KGB "protection officers" were in hot pursuit. The two Opel Kapitäns were equipped with flashing blue beacons magnetically attached to their roofs with cables plugged into power sockets installed in the dashboards. Callaghan had to rely on the Mercedes-Benz's headlamps on full beam. The convoy was just coming off the Rügen Causeway and, with headlamps blazing and blue beacon flashing; Kravchek and Gulin were approaching the built-up area of Stralsund at close to one-hundred-and-forty Km/h. Callaghan saw the grey Opel's stop lights blaze as Gulin braked hard to bring the careening vehicle down to a reasonable speed, and stabbed at the brake pedal.

The big drum brakes hauled the Mercedes-Benz's speed down rapidly as the Opel leaned into the left-hand corner that led out through the industrialised part of the town and on down to the south. The Opel's stop lights flared again as Gulin braked at a crossroads. His right turn indicator winked, and he turned out as a battered IFA truck laden with hay bales, and towing two similarly laden trailers along the adjoining road from the left, grunted to a halt in compliance with the Opel's flashing blue beacon, allowing the three cars to cut out in front of it. Hauling down on the Mercedes-Benz's steering wheel to make the right turn; Callaghan briefly raised his hand in acknowledgement to the startled lorry driver, then straightened the car up and punched the accelerator pedal. The road ran straight for just over one kilometre and ended at a "T" junction with the B194. This time; Gulin drove straight out across the highway and stopped, blocking all traffic in order that the other two cars turn out from the junction without delay.

Callaghan now took the lead and accelerated up to one-hundred-and-forty Km/h. This was below the Opel Kapitän's top speed and would allow Gulin… who had proved himself to be a real hot-shot driver, to catch up without blowing up. The second Opel containing the two Spetsnaz ghosts was following twenty metres behind; and sure enough; within five minutes, a second flashing blue light appeared in Callaghan's rear-view mirror way back down the highway. As they approached the small village of Negast; Gulin overtook them and resumed the lead. Three-and-a-half kilometres ahead down the dead-straight highway they saw a rash of blue lights and began to slow down. Three Volkspolizei cars and an ambulance were parked up; and in the centre of the gaggle of vehicles was a GAZ army truck and what could only have been a body covered by a blanket. A Volkspolizist armed with a mean-looking StG44 assault rifle stood in the middle of the highway and waved them down.

Kravchek alighted from the Opel; flashed his KGB identity card, and said something to the Vopo, who turned and hurried away to a group of Volkspolizei gathered around the GAZ. He returned with an Oberwachtmeister, who was obviously in charge. Charlotte opened the car door and stepped out onto the worn asphalt. Joining the two men, she flashed her identity card and was soon engaged in intense conversation with them.

As Callaghan watched; the Oberwachtmeister saluted her and she turned to return to the car. Getting in, he could see from her expression that this was not a good situation. She turned to him; her tone of voice was solemn.

'It's Poeschl all right. He's killed a Volkspolizei Wachtmeister and stolen his patrol car. We're in a totally-different ball game now. This guy has nothing to lose now. The order has gone out to shoot him on sight…which now makes him lethal… a loose cannon. They think he took the B194 down towards Demmin. It looks as though he's heading back to Berlin… and if he gets there… we've probably lost him for good. The trouble is, that we have no idea what he looks like; and whether Poeschl is an alias…I'm pretty certain that it must be; it doesn't sound very Cuban to me.'

14.30 Hrs. Wednesday, February 15, 1961.

2131. Eastshore Drive,

Virginia Lake.

Reno. Nevada.

USA.

"Crazy Joe" DeCicco's imposing residence overlooking Virginia Lake in the suburbs of Reno had been unoccupied since his assassination; but was frequently checked out by the Reno Mob's soldiers. Today, it was the turn of Nicky Agosto; a smart-ass young triggerman, who imagined himself to be a dead ringer for Tony Curtis; and had a penchant for twenty-dollar haircuts, sharp Italian suits; heavy gold jewellery, and big-breasted blondes. He was sitting out on the sun terrace, drinking a Tom Collins and admiring the spectacular breasts of his "Comare"… a gorgeous, blonde, airhead bimbo wearing a miniscule red bikini, who was frolicking in the huge swimming pool. Her name was Rochelle and she was the sort of babe that every self-respecting wise guy should own. Not only did she fit his "Italian Stallion" image… she was stacked; and she popped Purple Hearts like they were M&M's Chocolate Candies. When she did that… hot-ass didn't even come close; her motor ran like she was lapping the whole goddamned field in the Daytona 500.

He took another slug of his Tom Collins and glanced at his flashy, rose gold Omega Constellation wristwatch… a "payment in kind" from an old Jewish jeweller who hadn't kept up with his protection fees. He slouched back into his sun recliner. Give Rochelle another twenty minutes, then split, get her home, break out the Purple Hearts; and when she was revved up; let her ride the rod a while; and then, fuck the ass off her.

His fantasy was interrupted by the chimes of the front doorbell. Irritably he stood up, and walked back through the house. Glancing out of the window, he saw a black Porsche parked in the driveway. Who the fuck was this? Flipping up the retaining strap of his shoulder holster containing his big, kick-ass Colt 45 automatic, he opened the door to be faced by a pretty, young Asian girl and a slim, effeminate-looking Asian man. He looked them up and down and snapped,

'Yeah? Whaddya want?'

The girl smiled.

'Good afternoon. We have been asked to come and evaluate this property on behalf of the executors of the estate of the late Mr Joseph DeCicco. I am Veronica Lin of Bennett Realty Associates; and this is my assistant surveyor, James Yuang. May we come in?'

Nicky Agosto glowered at her.

Don't know nuthin' 'bout that. Get lost!

The girl smiled sweetly.

'Wrong answer, asshole.'

Her hand came from behind her back, holding a silenced Walther PPK pistol. Before Agosto realised what was happening; there was a dull "Phft!" and he was hurled backwards into the hallway with a neat hole punched between his eyebrows. He was dead before his body hit the highly polished parquet floor. The girl stepped over the body and motioned her colleague towards the rear of the building.

Pretty, dumb Rochelle was still splashing around in the pool when she heard a polite cough. Looking up, she saw a young, Asian man wearing a sharp suit, standing by the edge of the pool. She stood up, and waved, with a bright, sexy smile which froze as he raised a silenced pistol and pointed it at her. Her eyes widened in terror and she opened her mouth to scream for Nicky. She didn't get the chance. The pistol coughed, and the slug smacked home between her spectacularly pneumatic breasts. The impact hurled her backwards into the water where she slowly drifted away towards the far side of the pool, with a thin trill of blood tracing her passage across the azure surface of the water.

It took a little over two hours for Gabriella Chang and Jimmy Yoo; her trusted lieutenant, and bodyguard, to search through DeCicco's large, and ostentatiously furnished residence. Following the assassination of her grandfather and Sebastian Lee; Gabriella Chang had made an inconspicuous visit to the Ristorante Césarina in Vallejo Street, San Francisco; the place where the executions had taken place; and spoken discreetly with the staff.

The waitress who had been working that particular evening told her that the two killers had picked up a small velvet bag from the table where the victims had been sitting. Gabriella had seen her grandfather place such a pouch… which contained the large Garnet that he intended to present to Sebastian Lee, in his coat pocket before he had left for the arranged meeting.

It was reasonable to assume that this gemstone had been taken to the man who had organised the killings… and that man was "Crazy Joe" DeCicco. Gabriella was determined to retrieve this gemstone; which was the reason why she was here. DeCicco's address in Reno had been easy to ascertain; it had also been expected that there would be someone there, even though she had successfully executed DeCicco herself; but, the killing of the girl in the pool was distasteful. She turned to Jimmy Yoo.

'Was it really necessary to kill the girl, Jimmy? After all; she was just that asshole's squeeze.'

Jimmy Yoo nodded solemnly.

'Yes, Miss Chang. It is my duty to protect you from all things at all times; and she would have undoubtedly been able to furnish the cops with incriminating information.'

Gabriella nodded.

'Yes, Jimmy; I suppose you're right; but it doesn't make me feel any better. Now, let's find this damned gemstone and get the hell out of here.'

Jimmy Yoo eventually discovered the pouch containing the gemstone tucked away in an ornate bedside cabinet in one of the guest bedrooms. In the same concealed drawer, he also found several thousand dollars in high-denomination notes, and two thin, black hardcover notebooks with elastic band closure bands, filled with the names and addresses of the Reno, and San Francisco Mobs' contacts and associates. Leaving the money where it was; he removed the pouch and notebooks and brought them to Gabriella. He told her of the money, but said that it was better to leave it where it was; because the Reno cops always went to town on robberies where fatalities had occurred. If they found that no money or valuables… like Agosto's expensive gold watch and jewellery, had been taken; they were just as likely to decide that this was a Mob slaying… perhaps an "Omertá"… code of silence killing.

Gabriella turned to leave, but Jimmy Yoo returned to Agosto's sprawled body and bent down towards it. Gabriella paused.

'What are you doing, Jimmy?'

He looked up.

'I'm just going to move this "Pabajay"… Loser, to a more believable position; maybe a sun lounger, or even in the pool with the girl.'

Gabriella stared at him.

'But what about the blood?

Jimmy Yoo smiled.

The only blood is that which you can see, Miss Chang. I took the liberty of loading a low-power shell into the top of your Walther's clip. The slug stayed in his head… so no splatter… and I have already recovered the ejected shell casings from both our weapons.'

He grabbed Agosto's corpse, and with a strength that belied his effeminate appearance, hauled it outside onto the sun terrace. Heaving it into the sun lounger, he then carefully knocked the Tom Collins glass down from the table, where it shattered on the tiles. It now, to all appearances, looked as though Agosto had been shot where he would be found. Returning to the hallway; he carefully took a tissue from his pocket; cleaned up all traces of blood from the parquet floor, and, walking to the cloakroom, flushed the bloody tissue down the toilet. He then left the house.

Gabriella had already started the Porsche and was waiting for him. He climbed in, and they drove out through the gates into Lakeside Drive; where she stopped the car. Getting out; he opened the trunk and removed a realtor's sale board which he attached to the gates. Returning to the car, he got in, and Gabriella accelerated away towards downtown Reno, where eventually, they would join the slip road onto Interstate 80.

18.35 Hrs, Friday, February 10, 1961.

Mecklenburg-Vorpommern district,

North Germany.

Fernán Pasuali first spotted the distant flashing blue light in his rear view mirror as he came on to the five-kilometre straight that ran down along the edge of the Keetzseen forest; south of Neustrelitz and Lindenberg. He knew exactly what they were... Volkspolizei; or maybe something even worse... and here he was; in a stolen police car that could be seen halfway across Brandenburg Province; and just to make it interesting; he was getting low on gas. He gave a wry grin. OK, let's give the bastards a run for their money. Stamping on the gas pedal, he sent the Opel hurtling down the long straight.

The overheating Opel finally ran out of gas just as Pasuali came out from the forest into open country some four kilometres north of the next town... Alt-Lüdersdorf. As the motor spluttered and faded, he gave the gas pedal one last vicious jab and steered the car to the side of the highway. Now What? He scanned the surrounding area. A line of low trees and a hedgerow lined the eastern edge of the highway. Out to his left were open fields; but, about two-hundred-metres distant, standing in isolation in the middle of the first field were two clumps of trees.

He nodded to himself. A perfect place for a sniping hide. Anyone out on the road would have no idea where shots were coming from; and by the time they'd realised that it was probably from one of the tree clumps across the field; they would all be dead, anyway. Picking up his rifle and valise; he hurried across the highway and walked out into the field; making sure he only stepped on stones or clumps of grass and weeds, in order that he wouldn't leave any tell-tale footprints in the rich, dun-coloured soil.

Settling into a comfortable position under cover of the nearer of the two stands of trees; Pasuali unslung the SVD rifle, and settled into his firing position. The light was still good; even though it was well past sunset. He squinted through the scope and sighted on the abandoned Volkspolizei Opel out on the road. Ratcheting in the adjustment screws to two-hundred-metres, he centred the scope crosshairs on the blue beacon lamp housing. Perfect! Now he was zeroed in for accurate headshots. He made himself comfortable and went over the SVD rifle with minute care.

Ten minutes later, he heard the sound of motors echoing from the forest. The first car appeared… a grey Opel Kapitän with a flashing blue beacon on its roof. Pasuali flicked off the safety and aimed at the slowing vehicle. As he did so, a second car appeared… a black Mercedes-Benz; which was followed by a lurid blue Opel; also with a flashing blue beacon. All three vehicles stopped close to the abandoned Volkspolizei car. The passenger door of the first Opel opened and a man climbed out. Pasuali trained the scope on him and his eyes narrowed as he recognised the distant figure. Kravchek… Captain Makary Kravchek, KGB; of the Third Chief Directorate; Karlshorst. The other guy in the car would be KGB as well.

Pasuali's finger tightened on the trigger. Wait! See who else was out there on the road. Two men were getting out of the blue Opel and walking towards Kravchek… KGB?... no; they were more interested in scanning the surrounding countryside. They were certainly Russian; but their actions suggested they were military. The occupants of the Mercedes-Benz were getting out and moving towards the abandoned car… a man and a girl. They appeared to be civilians… but, with the KGB, you could never tell.

Through the scope, he could see that Kravchek and his buddy were carrying AKM Assault rifles. The other two men were armed with much shorter weapons. These appeared to be compact sub-machine guns… most likely the new Czech Skorpions. If that were true, then these two men were Spetsnaz. The couple from the Mercedes-Benz appeared to be unarmed. Centring the crosshairs on Kravchek's head, he squeezed the trigger. The SVD shuddered against his shoulder and Kravchek fell; a bright plume of blood spurting from his right temple as his buddy spun around and raised his AKM in the general direction from where he imagined the shot had come. Pasuali squeezed the trigger again and the man was thrown backwards across the Volkspolizei car's hood with half of his face blown away.

The couple from the Mercedes-Benz had ducked behind the car; but the other two men were running forward as they opened up with their weapons; roaring and flaming on full automatic fire. Pasuali heard the crash of the bullets among the treetops above him, and fixed the crosshairs on the man to the right. He squeezed the trigger. The man's legs buckled, but his momentum still carried him forward. He crashed into the ditch at the side of the road as his lifeless clenched finger went on firing the gun aimlessly up towards the darkening sky until the magazine finally emptied itself.

The second man dived behind the body of his companion and began firing accurately into the clump of trees where Pasuali had concealed himself. There was no way of knowing if the man had spotted him or whether he had seen the muzzle flashes from the SVD. No matter; he was getting too damned close with his bursts. Bullets were chopping into the trees and spattering Pasuali with slivers of wood. He fired again. The corpse of the first man jerked. Damn! Too low! The second man rose, and ran for cover behind his car; firing as he did so. Pasuali swore volubly. Fuck this!

He flicked the gas regulator; stood up, and squeezed the trigger. The man had almost reached the safety of the blue Opel when Pasuali's final rapid shots caught him; tearing open his chest and spinning him around like a marionette puppet with tangled strings. As he crashed to the ground, Pasuali sighted the scope on the black Mercedes-Benz. Nothing moved. Ejecting the spent magazine and clicking in a fresh one; he emerged from the trees and began walking towards the road.

Crouching behind the cover of the Mercedes-Benz; Charlotte and Callaghan saw the figure emerge from the clump of trees and begin walking purposefully across the field towards them. He was far beyond the range of their Makarovs which had an effective range of no more than fifty metres. The assault rifles of Kravchek and Gulin were out of reach on the road… as were the Skorpions of the two Spetsnaz men. Charlotte glanced at Callaghan.

'You stay there; I'll move to the front of the car. We'll split his aim, and then one of us can get him. Remember, we want him alive.'

Callaghan nodded.

'OK, but for Chrissakes, keep low. This bastard is good.'

She nodded, and keeping low, moved to the relative safety of the left front fender, where she drew her Makarov and chambered one of the vicious "Molo" rounds.

The sniper was now less than one-hundred-metres distant. He was walking unconcernedly across the last few metres of the open field towards a farm track that bordered the adjoining strip of land between the field and the road. Charlotte glanced at Callaghan. He was crouched with his pistol ready. She looked back at the man. Suddenly, he did something totally unexpected. He lifted his rifle and ejected the magazine; then, holding the weapon above his head, walked calmly into the middle of the road and stopped, facing them. Charlotte and Callaghan stood up; aiming their pistols at him. She called out, coldly,

'Put the rifle down, and raise your hands slowly.'

The man obeyed. Callaghan moved out from behind the Mercedes-Benz and kicked the rifle away. The man gave a wry grin, and spoke in perfect English…

'That's no way to treat one of the Soviet's new, experimental rifles.'

Keeping him covered; Charlotte stepped out into the road. Who the hell was this guy?... one of the "off-the-books" contract cowboys who got a hard-on looking at the pictures in American Rifleman Magazine? OK. Stay sharp. One false move; and she'd blow a Goddamned great hole in him. She looked him up and down. Her voice had a hard edge to it.

'Cut the smart-ass remarks, Pasuali. You're under arrest for conspiracy to murder.'

Pasuali shrugged.

'As you wish; Captain Mckenna. Don't look so surprised. I was given access to detailed files on all our operatives and assets in Germany before I came out on this mission.'

Charlotte stared at him.

'Detailed files? Mission? Start talking Pasuali; and can the bullshit.'

Callaghan moved to Pasuali and frisked him. There were no concealed weapons on him. Callaghan nodded.

'OK, wise guy. You can put your hands down. Now start talking.'

Pasuali relaxed slightly. He looked at Callaghan and then, at Charlotte.

'I know that you are fully familiar with Colonel Malinovskii's conspiracy investigation. He was correct about the identity of the Cuban assassin, Fernán Pasuali; and I was sent in to take his place after our people targeted him over six weeks ago in a brothel in Prenzlauer Berg. He was taken to a safe house in Stralau, Kreuzberg where it was made to look as though he had been beaten up by the brothel's enforcers; and he was then dumped off the Straulauer Brücke into the Spree with his throat cut.'

Charlotte studied him intently.

'Ok; so you're another "Ghost"… but who are you working for? Stasi?... BND?.. MAD?'… BfV?'

These last three were the Federal German Intelligence Agencies.

He grinned.

'Not even close! I'm out of the Miami office.'

Charlotte scrutinized him minutely.

'So, you'll be familiar with the Miami Head of Station then?'

He grinned.

'Better than that. I was detached to Miami by Jim Noel, the Station chief in Havana, when Bob Reynolds; who is now Miami Station chief, was still the Caribbean Desk Chief.'

Charlotte paused, and lowered her Makarov. Only another member of "The Firm"… however implausible; could possibly know that Reynolds had been the CIA's Caribbean Desk Chief before he became the Miami Head of Station.

'So who the hell are you?... and how long have you been out here?'

Pasuali glanced up and down the road.

Let's get in the car and get the hell outta here. When we're rolling, I'll fill you in on everything that I am at liberty to tell you. Deal?'

Charlotte nodded.

'Deal.'

She turned to Callaghan, who was watching Pasuali closely for any suspicious movement. When he saw none, he lowered his pistol and opened the rear door of the Mercedes-Benz for Pasuali to get into the back seat. He then got in beside him whilst Charlotte slipped into the driving seat; started the car; switched on the headlamps, and pulled out from behind the grey Opel; steering carefully around the sprawled corpses of Kravchek and Gulin.

She accelerated the car up to eighty Km/h; and then, glancing into the rear-view mirror; spoke.

'OK. So start talking.'

He nodded.

'My name is Tony Garcia and I'm with Special Ops. I've been here for almost two years now. I was flown over from Opa-locka on a clandestine Southern Air Transport C-130 and parachuted in. My mission was to check out the intelligence that the Soviets were leaking to us. Someone high up in their Command was running scared about this conspiracy and what it might lead to.

To cut a long story short; I discovered that there was nothing to trace beyond Pasuali. It was all an elaborate subterfuge originating from back in the good old U.S.of A. Pasuali was a wild goose set up for both us and the Russians to chase. The Cold war paranoia did the rest. As far as I have been able to establish positively; is that there IS a conspiracy to assassinate someone and pass the blame on to the other side. Who it is; I don't know… but the conspiracy is real, and already in place.'

Charlotte nodded.

'That's what Malinovskii told me. The target he mentioned is John F, Kennedy.'

Garcia stared at her reflection in the rear-view mirror; then said, very quietly…

'Jesus H. Christ! So we'll blame the Russians and escalate the Cold War. We've gotta get back and warn them; it's all beginning to make sense. The East German State Council chairman, Ulbricht is already pressuring Khrushchev to divide Berlin and East Germany from the west, permanently; and something like this conspiracy… if it succeeds; could tip us over into a Third World War.'