kill. Then—pointing to official separation—the Department of State would disclaim any responsibility, no doubt insisting that the dead man refused safeguards.
The bastards
never
changed, but they knew so little. An execution for its own sake was pointless, the fallout often too hazardous. One killed for a purpose; to learn something by removing a vital link in a chain, or to stop something from happening. Or to teach a specific lesson. But always for a reason.
Except in instances like Prague, and even that could be considered a lesson.
A brother for a wife.
But it was over. There were no strategies to create, no decisions to make that resulted in a defection or a turnback, of someone living or not living. It was
over.
Perhaps now even the hotel rooms would come to an end. And the stinking beds in rundown rooming houses in the worst sections of a hundred cities. He was so sick of them; he despised them all. With the exception of a single brief period—too brief, too
terribly
brief—he had not lived in a place he could call his own for twenty-two years.
But that pitifully brief period, twenty-seven months in a lifetime, was enough to see him through the agonies of a thousand nightmares. The memories never left him; they would sustain him until the day he died.
It had been only a small flat in West Berlin, but it was the home of dreams and love and laughter he had never thought he’d be capable of knowing. His beautiful Karine, his adorable Karine. She of the wide, curious eyes and the laughter that came from deep inside her, and moments ofquiet when she touched him. He was hers and she was his and.…
Death in the Unter den Linden.
Oh,
God!
A telephone call and a password. Her husband needed her.
Desperately.
See a guard, cross the checkpoint.
Hurry!
And a KGB pig had no doubt laughed. Until Prague. There was no laughter in that man after Prague.
Scofield could feel the sting in his eyes. The few sudden tears had made contact with the night wind. He brushed them aside with his glove and crossed the street.
On the other side was the lighted front of a travel agency, the posters in the window displaying idealized, unreal bodies soaking up the sun. The Washington amateur, Congdon. had a point; the Caribbean was a good idea. No self-respecting intelligence service sent agents to the islands in the Caribbean—for fear of winning. Down in the islands, the Soviets would
know
he was out-of-strategy. He had wanted to spend some time in the Grenadines; why not now? In the morning he would.…
The figure was reflected in the glass—tiny, obscure, in the background across the wide avenue, barely noticeable. In fact Bray would
not
have noticed had the man not walked around the spill of a streetlamp. Whoever it was wanted the protection of the shadows in the street; whoever it was was following him. And he was good. There were no abrupt movements, no sudden jumping away from the light. The walk was casual, unobtrusive. He wondered if it was anyone he had trained.
Scofield appreciated professionalism; he would commend the man and wish him a lesser subject for surveillance next time. The State Department was not wasting a moment. Congdon wanted the reports to begin at once. Bray smiled: he would give the undersecretary his initial report. Not the one he wanted, but one he should have.
The amusement began, a short-lived pavane between professionals. Scofield walked away from the storefront window, gathering speed until he reached the corner, where the circles of light from the four opposing street-lamps overlapped each other. He turned abruptly left, as if to head back to the other side of the street, then halfway through the intersection stopped. He paused in the middle of the traffic lane and looked up at the street sign—a manconfused, not sure of where he was. Then he turned and walked rapidly back to the corner, his pace quickening until he was practically running when he reached the curb. He continued down the
The bastards
never
changed, but they knew so little. An execution for its own sake was pointless, the fallout often too hazardous. One killed for a purpose; to learn something by removing a vital link in a chain, or to stop something from happening. Or to teach a specific lesson. But always for a reason.
Except in instances like Prague, and even that could be considered a lesson.
A brother for a wife.
But it was over. There were no strategies to create, no decisions to make that resulted in a defection or a turnback, of someone living or not living. It was
over.
Perhaps now even the hotel rooms would come to an end. And the stinking beds in rundown rooming houses in the worst sections of a hundred cities. He was so sick of them; he despised them all. With the exception of a single brief period—too brief, too
terribly
brief—he had not lived in a place he could call his own for twenty-two years.
But that pitifully brief period, twenty-seven months in a lifetime, was enough to see him through the agonies of a thousand nightmares. The memories never left him; they would sustain him until the day he died.
It had been only a small flat in West Berlin, but it was the home of dreams and love and laughter he had never thought he’d be capable of knowing. His beautiful Karine, his adorable Karine. She of the wide, curious eyes and the laughter that came from deep inside her, and moments ofquiet when she touched him. He was hers and she was his and.…
Death in the Unter den Linden.
Oh,
God!
A telephone call and a password. Her husband needed her.
Desperately.
See a guard, cross the checkpoint.
Hurry!
And a KGB pig had no doubt laughed. Until Prague. There was no laughter in that man after Prague.
Scofield could feel the sting in his eyes. The few sudden tears had made contact with the night wind. He brushed them aside with his glove and crossed the street.
On the other side was the lighted front of a travel agency, the posters in the window displaying idealized, unreal bodies soaking up the sun. The Washington amateur, Congdon. had a point; the Caribbean was a good idea. No self-respecting intelligence service sent agents to the islands in the Caribbean—for fear of winning. Down in the islands, the Soviets would
know
he was out-of-strategy. He had wanted to spend some time in the Grenadines; why not now? In the morning he would.…
The figure was reflected in the glass—tiny, obscure, in the background across the wide avenue, barely noticeable. In fact Bray would
not
have noticed had the man not walked around the spill of a streetlamp. Whoever it was wanted the protection of the shadows in the street; whoever it was was following him. And he was good. There were no abrupt movements, no sudden jumping away from the light. The walk was casual, unobtrusive. He wondered if it was anyone he had trained.
Scofield appreciated professionalism; he would commend the man and wish him a lesser subject for surveillance next time. The State Department was not wasting a moment. Congdon wanted the reports to begin at once. Bray smiled: he would give the undersecretary his initial report. Not the one he wanted, but one he should have.
The amusement began, a short-lived pavane between professionals. Scofield walked away from the storefront window, gathering speed until he reached the corner, where the circles of light from the four opposing street-lamps overlapped each other. He turned abruptly left, as if to head back to the other side of the street, then halfway through the intersection stopped. He paused in the middle of the traffic lane and looked up at the street sign—a manconfused, not sure of where he was. Then he turned and walked rapidly back to the corner, his pace quickening until he was practically running when he reached the curb. He continued down the
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