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Klaus could expect an uncomfortable night of questioning by local authorities
and, quite likely, the Stasi, the German Democratic Republic’s feared secret
police. If unsuccessful, well, Mr. Wilson had not spelled out any details under
that scenario, but elaboration had not been necessary.
    “Stick to your
story when you’re questioned,” Mr. Wilson had told him. “Do not deviate from
it. You stopped off at the club for a few drinks after work. You ran into an
old friend from school, quite by accident. You do not even remember his name.
You shared a drink and discussed sports, women, whatever. Then you left. They
will not believe you, but there will be nothing they can do about it. After
several hours of intense questioning, they will reluctantly release you. But
you will be watched, and we can never meet again. Your work for us will be
finished.”
    Klaus had
reluctantly agreed. He was not afraid of a night of questioning, by the police or by the Stasi. He was disappointed his work toward the cause of a reunified
homeland was coming to an end, but he had no choice but to accept the
assignment when Mr. Wilson stressed its importance. He wiped his brow with his
sleeve, weaving through the crowded tavern, moving steadily toward the door.
    Halfway across the
floor, he turned sideways to allow a pretty young woman to pass by. It was his
contact, and she was dressed provocatively, in skintight black leather pants
and a silk blouse that did little to hide her considerable assets. She caught
his eye and flashed a smile before rubbing her body up against his out of
necessity—the crush of thirsty bar patrons crowded them from all sides.
    They squeezed past
each other. Klaus felt a brief tug and then the envelope was gone and so was
the girl. He continued toward the door as he had been instructed by Mr. Wilson.
He had been told not to look back but couldn’t help it—he took a quick peek
behind as he exited the front door. The beautiful young girl was nowhere to be
seen.
    Klaus strolled
into the cool Berlin night, glad to be free of the claustrophobia-inducing,
sweat-soaked, sexually charged atmosphere, not to mention the annoyingly loud
music. He turned left and began walking toward his car, moving faster now.
Before he had made it five steps, a hand gripped his elbow. Attached to the
hand was a tall, skeletal man dressed in a dark suit. An unbuttoned overcoat
flapped in the chilly breeze.
    The man said,
“Where is it?”
    Klaus answered,
“Where is what?”
    “Don’t play
stupid. Where is the envelope?”
    Klaus wrenched his
arm free and turned, staring directly into the man’s eyes. The street lighting
was dim and shadows running from the man’s hook nose across his face gave him
the appearance of a vulture. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
    “You’re coming
with me,” the man answered, and Klaus knew his night of questioning had begun.
     
     
    6
    Tracie Tanner lifted the envelope
effortlessly from her East German contact and slid it down the front of her
blouse. The heat generated by all the bodies crammed together inside the tavern
was stifling, and Tracie thought the envelope might have to be peeled away from
her skin with a chisel when she finally made it to safety. She felt naked
without her weapon, a Beretta 92SB, but her skimpy attire left no room for it.
    Tracie had nursed
her glass of soda water and loitered on the other side of the room, watching
out of the corner of her eye as her contact received the envelope from an
extremely nervous Russian bureaucrat, all the while rebuffing a succession of
young East German men doing their best to capture her attention.
    The moment her
contact—she had never met him, had been told only that he was an East German
citizen committed to reunification of his country—shook his companion’s hand
and turned toward the door, Tracie offered a dazzling smile to the young German
currently chatting her up and gave him a