away from the crowded Ku'damm. He knew he was duty-bound to hand the papers over to his superiors, and he felt sure that the mix-up with the Russians had been straightened out by now. Yet as he walked, he was aware that his mind was not completely clear about turning in the papers. For some irritating reason, when he thought of doing that, his father's face came into his mind. But there was something else in his brain. Something he soon recognized as Heini Weber's voice saying: "Three point seven million Deutschemarks -- ."
Hans had already done the calculations. At his salary it would take 150
years to earn that much money, and that represented the offer of a single magazine for the "Hitler diaries." That was a powerful temptation, even for an honest man.
As Hans reached the mouth of the side street, a dark shape disengaged itself from the gloom beneath the cinema awning and fell into step behind him. It neither hurried nor tarried, but moved through the streets as effortlessly as a cloud's shadow.
CHAPTER FOUR
5.'50 Pm. American Sector. West Berlin Colonel Godfrey A. "God" Rose reached into the bottom drawer of his mammoth Victorian desk, withdrew a halfempty bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon, and gazed fondly at the label.
For five exhausting hours the U.S. Army's West Berlin chief of intelligence had sifted through the weekly reports of his "snitches"-the highly paid but underzealous army of informers that the U.S. government maintains on its shadow payroll to keep abreast of events in Berlin-and discovered nothing but the usual sordid list of venalities committed by the host of elected officials, bureaucrats, and military officers of the city he had come to regard as the Sodom of Western Europe. The colonel had a single vice-whiskey-and he looked forward to the anesthetic burn of the Kentucky bourbon with sublime anticipation.
Pouring the Turkey into a Lenox shot glass, Rose glanced up and saw his aide, Sergeant Clary, silhouetted against the leaded glass window of his office door. With customary discretion the young NCO paused before knocking, giving his superior time to "straighten his desk." By the time Clary tapped on the glass and stepped smartly into the office, Colonel Rose appeared to be engrossed in an intelligence brief.
Clary cleared his throat. "Colonel?"
Rose looked up slowly. "Yes, Sergeant?"
"Sir, Ambassador Briggs is flying in from Bonn tomorrow morning.
State just informed us by courier."
Rose frowned. "That's not on my calendar, is it?"
"No, sir."
"Well?"
"Apparently the Soviets have filed some sort of complaint against us, sir. Through the embassy."
"Us?"
"The Army, sir. It's something to do with last night's detail at Spandau Prison. That's all I could get out of Smitty-I mean the courier, sir."
"Spandau? What about it? Christ, we've watched the damned coverage all day, haven't we? I've already filed my report."
"State didn't elaborate, sir."
Rose snorted. "They never do, do they."
"No, sir. Care to see the message?"
Rose gazed out of his small window at the Berlin dusk and wondered about the possible implications of the ambassador's visit. The American diplomatic corps stayed in Bonn most of the time-well out of Rose's area of operationsand he liked that just fine.
"The message, Colonel?" Sergeant Clary repeated.
"What? No, Sergeant. Dismissed."
"Sir." Clary beat a hasty retreat from the office, certain that his colonel would want to ponder this unpleasant development over a shot of the good stuff.
"Clary!" Rose's bark rattled the door. "Is Major Richardson still down the hall?"
The sergeant poked his head back into the office. "I'll run check, sir."
"Can't you just buzz him?"
"Uh ... the major doesn't always answer his pages, sir.
After five, that is. Says he can't stand to hear the phone while he's working."
"Who the hell can? Don't people just keep on ringing the
Hans had already done the calculations. At his salary it would take 150
years to earn that much money, and that represented the offer of a single magazine for the "Hitler diaries." That was a powerful temptation, even for an honest man.
As Hans reached the mouth of the side street, a dark shape disengaged itself from the gloom beneath the cinema awning and fell into step behind him. It neither hurried nor tarried, but moved through the streets as effortlessly as a cloud's shadow.
CHAPTER FOUR
5.'50 Pm. American Sector. West Berlin Colonel Godfrey A. "God" Rose reached into the bottom drawer of his mammoth Victorian desk, withdrew a halfempty bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon, and gazed fondly at the label.
For five exhausting hours the U.S. Army's West Berlin chief of intelligence had sifted through the weekly reports of his "snitches"-the highly paid but underzealous army of informers that the U.S. government maintains on its shadow payroll to keep abreast of events in Berlin-and discovered nothing but the usual sordid list of venalities committed by the host of elected officials, bureaucrats, and military officers of the city he had come to regard as the Sodom of Western Europe. The colonel had a single vice-whiskey-and he looked forward to the anesthetic burn of the Kentucky bourbon with sublime anticipation.
Pouring the Turkey into a Lenox shot glass, Rose glanced up and saw his aide, Sergeant Clary, silhouetted against the leaded glass window of his office door. With customary discretion the young NCO paused before knocking, giving his superior time to "straighten his desk." By the time Clary tapped on the glass and stepped smartly into the office, Colonel Rose appeared to be engrossed in an intelligence brief.
Clary cleared his throat. "Colonel?"
Rose looked up slowly. "Yes, Sergeant?"
"Sir, Ambassador Briggs is flying in from Bonn tomorrow morning.
State just informed us by courier."
Rose frowned. "That's not on my calendar, is it?"
"No, sir."
"Well?"
"Apparently the Soviets have filed some sort of complaint against us, sir. Through the embassy."
"Us?"
"The Army, sir. It's something to do with last night's detail at Spandau Prison. That's all I could get out of Smitty-I mean the courier, sir."
"Spandau? What about it? Christ, we've watched the damned coverage all day, haven't we? I've already filed my report."
"State didn't elaborate, sir."
Rose snorted. "They never do, do they."
"No, sir. Care to see the message?"
Rose gazed out of his small window at the Berlin dusk and wondered about the possible implications of the ambassador's visit. The American diplomatic corps stayed in Bonn most of the time-well out of Rose's area of operationsand he liked that just fine.
"The message, Colonel?" Sergeant Clary repeated.
"What? No, Sergeant. Dismissed."
"Sir." Clary beat a hasty retreat from the office, certain that his colonel would want to ponder this unpleasant development over a shot of the good stuff.
"Clary!" Rose's bark rattled the door. "Is Major Richardson still down the hall?"
The sergeant poked his head back into the office. "I'll run check, sir."
"Can't you just buzz him?"
"Uh ... the major doesn't always answer his pages, sir.
After five, that is. Says he can't stand to hear the phone while he's working."
"Who the hell can? Don't people just keep on ringing the
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