Edge of Tomorrow

by Wolf Wootan

  Edge of Tomorrow

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Edge of Tomorrow

  by

  Wolf Wootan

  © Copyright 2003, Wolf Wootan

  Smashwords Edition

  * * * * *

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  Chapter 1

  East Berlin, Germany

  Sunday, August 12, 1984

  5:30 P.M.

  Bob Hatcher was a big man at six-foot-two and 225 pounds of sinew and muscle. He was deceptively quick for his size, as many an enemy had found out the hard way. In another setting he could be mistaken for a linebacker in the NFL. He was actually one of the most effective field agents the CIA had, and nearly always operated with No Official Cover (NOC). He spoke French, German, and Russian so well that he could pass as a native in those countries, and he was often required to do that. He could understand, and manage to communicate, in several other languages. He considered languages an important survival tool in his trade. He was a product of the cold war, and his beat was the USSR and Europe. His clothes were shabby, all made in Germany, the country he was in at the moment. He was always very careful when taking on a new identity. Small things could give you away. Like wearing underwear made in the USA. His identity papers carried the name Fritz Hürst, factory worker. His face was covered with a scraggly, full beard.

  Bob Hatcher, CIA code name Hatchet Man, was settled on the roof of a three-story building in the seedier part of East Berlin. From his perch he had a good view of the run-down square below. He was scanning the area with his binoculars, but could see no one down there. He flipped a switch, activating the infrared option of his binoculars. He now scanned for heat sources, trying to find hidden people. Nothing. It was still thirty minutes until his scheduled arrival time of 6:00 P.M., but he always liked to arrive early to meetings so he could evaluate the dangers involved. He had avoided more than one trap by being overly cautious. A rope dangled over the side of the building so he could not be trapped on the roof if someone managed to surprise him up there. His car was parked two blocks away. The sun had not yet set, but it was low in the west and the shadows of buildings fell upon the square, creating dark areas.

  If everything went smoothly, this would be his last mission for the CIA. This operation, code name “Blue Moon,” was a simple one when compared to most of his missions. He was to pickup a defecting East German intelligence agent and escort her safely to the USA. He wanted this mission to go right more than any in which he had taken part. That is why he had his modified Sig Sauer semiautomatic with attached silencer clipped to the spring holster in the small of his back. He would not let anyone stop him from recovering this agent. From the CIA’s point of view, she was not highly important. She was a low-level agent who carried out various surveillance assignments on the U.S. Embassy in West Berlin, and at other Embassies throughout Europe. She would be debriefed by the CIA and then would be given political asylum. Their largest gain would be the embarrassment of the East German intelligence community by the defection of yet another of their agents.

  She was much more important to Bob Hatcher. Her name was Katerina Klaus, and he was in love with her. She was also carrying his child. As soon as he had her safe on American soil, he was going to quit the CIA and marry her. He would settle down—house in the suburbs, white picket fence—and take care of his wife and child and live happily ever after. That was his plan, at least. His boss would not like his best NOC agent quitting, but he would have no choice in the matter. Hatcher was thirty-two years old and had served his country for ten years. It was time to have a life of his own. He remembered the day he met Katerina as if it were yesterday, although it had been months ago.

  Chapter 2

  West Berlin, Germany

  Friday, December 2, 1983

  8:30 P.M.

  Supposedly, Bob Hatcher had been assigned to West Berlin to give him some R & R after his last rather tense mission. He knew the CIA had other ulterior motives, however. They had a mole deep inside the East German State Secret Service …Staatssicherheitsdienst, known as Stasi—who had indicated that a top assassin was scheduled to enter West Berlin in the near future. His purpose was not known precisely—it was suspected that his mission might be the assassination of the American Ambassador—but as insurance, the Company wanted Hatcher, their top assassin of enemy assassins, in the area. All Hatcher knew was that during his so-called R & R he was to identify and neutralize as many of the foreign agents hanging around the U.S. Embassy as he could. He knew many of the top foreign agents by sight. Lower level agents, those used mostly for routine surveillance, he would have to ferret out. He did not consider this much of a challenge, but it would give him something to do during his forced respite.

  At times, Hatcher thought the CIA misused his many talents. He knew he could accomplish a lot more if they would let him: he could infiltrate the Soviet infrastructure and steal secrets, steal a MIG, blowup submarine bases. This would increase his exposure and probability of capture, he knew, and so did his boss. The CIA now used him only in special, critical situations. He had begun thinking of himself as a “closer,” using the baseball analogy. He came into the game in the ninth inning and saved the game after the starters got in trouble. He was also the top enforcer. If enemy agents veered from the unwritten rules of the game and did something the Reagan administration did not like, orders usually came down from on high directing him to punish the offenders. He eventually accepted his role and found solace in the fact that he was the best there was in his type of work—an assassin’s assassin.

  For the assignment in West Berlin, he used the name Robert Kelly, with all the appropriate supporting documentation, and got a job playing the piano and singing at the piano bar in a night club that was a favorite hangout for diplomats and spies from both sides. He was an excellent piano player and had a great voice, so it was a good cover for him, and he really enjoyed it. He was determined to enjoy this assignment and play the piano, sing songs, and get laid by as many fräuleins as possible.

  From his vantage point behind the piano, he could watch employees of the U.S. Embassy come and go, watch to whom they talked, who watched them, who followed them, and those who sought their company. Not
all of these would be spies, but he would check them out. Hatcher thought that the spy games played by the CIA, MI-6, KGB, Stasi, MOSSAD, and other international intelligence agencies were quite humorous. It seemed as if they had some sort of Marques of Queensberry rules that they all observed. Hatcher participated in this game very rarely, since, at the level where he worked, gentlemanly rules did not exist. His cover was so deep that none of the “gentlemen spies” knew him, or of him. They all had heard stories about the dangerous phantom “Hatchet Man,” but no one had ever seen a picture of him, and any enemy who had ever seen him did not live to describe him.

  All of the club regulars soon became friendly with Bob Kelly, requesting songs, singing along, or just chatting. None of the CIA agents assigned to the U.S. Embassy knew Bob Hatcher. He did not appear on any CIA payroll records. He did not exist to the run-of-the-mill case officer. So like other patrons, they just enjoyed his music and suspected nothing.

  It did not take Hatcher long to determine that none of the top foreign deep-cover agents, people like him, were in the area; at least, not the ones he knew of. There was always the chance there were some he did not know about. It was unlikely that any of them could spot him, since he was a master of disguises and no one, not even the CIA, had a picture of him as he looked today. There was a KGB colonel in town, but the CIA had picked him up some time ago and had him under their eagle eyes, so Hatcher did not waste time on him. He watched the U.S. Embassy during the afternoons, and the bar crowd at night. In the four months he had been at this, he had discovered several of the surveillance agents.

  Though he thought this assignment was a waste of his considerable talents, he was enjoying it thoroughly. He had regular hours, got to shower as often as he wanted, wore very good clothes, and enjoyed being able to play and sing again. He was even getting his vocal range back, since he used his voice every night. His high tenor notes had stopped squeaking. He had not sung so well since he was in college where he supplemented his income by playing bars on the weekends, and singing in college musical productions.

  As he sang “Stardust,” he surveyed the crowd, as was his habit. He saw one of the East German surveillance agents, Katerina Klaus, come in with one of the Americans who worked at the embassy. They were a contrast in heights, sort of Mutt and Jeff. He was about six feet two inches; she was five feet five inches. He had on a dark wool suit, white shirt, and power tie. She wore a red, silky-looking cocktail dress with thin straps that clung to her slim body and reached mid-thigh. Her breasts were small, her butt rounded just enough for her stature. She had short blond hair and blue eyes. Her face was oval, and her thin lips sported a red lipstick that matched her dress. If she wore any other makeup, it was very subtle. Hatcher thought she was stunning. So did her escort, who, from his lofty height, was looking down the front of her dress. They sat down at a table not far from Bob’s piano.

  Hatcher had identified her as an agent about two months before. She worked for a company housed in a building across the street from the embassy, with windows facing the embassy. Hatcher had decided immediately to check that building and its occupants. The windows were perfect for telephoto cameras to do their thing. He had established, finally, that one company there was a front for the Stasi. Getting everyone’s names was not difficult. Whether they were real names he did not know. At this stage it did not matter. The task was so easily accomplished, he wondered why the CIA had not found them already. Or had they? Were they screwing with him again? Was this just a “keep busy” job?

  Seeing Katerina Klaus with James Connor of the consular staff led Hatcher to believe she was on a fishing expedition. He supposed her bosses recognized, with her looks, that she could pull double duty—take surveillance pictures during the day, get close to embassy employees at night.

  Hatcher watched as Colonel Evgeny Grinkonov, the KGB man, came in with a dark-haired beauty, possibly one of the many high-priced hookers available. Two CIA men he recognized were not too far behind. They took up positions at the bar while the couple was seated at a table.

  What games they play! Here I am watching spies from both sides of the fence. If I know most of them, they probably know each other. Those CIA agents are too obvious. They are probably just harassing the colonel. They play the game of Cold War as if it were Clue. Who is in the parlor with Colonel Mustard? Don’t they understand how deadly this game really is?

  He finished his song and there was a decent amount of applause. The waiter brought him a drink and pointed to a table of four populated by two men and two women. Hatcher raised his glass in salute to the white-haired man with a walrus mustache. The man waved. He was an important West German industrialist who came here often. He liked it when Bob Kelly sang songs in German, which he did occasionally on request. Hatcher was sure the free drink should be considered a request, so he started a lively German song. The white-haired man smiled and began tapping his fingers on his table to the beat. The Germans in the crowd joined him, and then finally most of the other patrons. The song was definitely a hit. As Bob Kelly finished with a flourish, he was rewarded with thunderous applause. He stood and took a bow, to the delight of the crowd.

  He sat down and took a sip of his drink, lighting another cigarette to replace the one that had died in his massive ashtray on the piano. The drink was a real bourbon and water, not tea, but with very little bourbon. He paid attention to such details. He did not want to be caught with a fake drink, but the bartender knew to keep them light. He had to keep playing until two o’clock in the morning. He looked at Klaus’s table and saw that they had drinks in front of them and were chatting animatedly. Of course, she would know English. He wondered how well. She was laughing at something James Connor had said. Hatcher thought she was radiant.

  He tickled the piano keys and started “It Had to Be You,” all the time looking at the blond German woman. She glanced at him and caught him looking at her. He immediately averted his gaze and started surveying the crowd again. He felt slightly embarrassed.

  Thirty minutes later, Hatcher took his break, went to the Men’s Room, and then to the kitchen where he had a snack of shrimp and pumpernickel bread. It was only nine o’clock. He had five hours to go, but he was feeling good. He thought he might try some songs that would test his tenor range.

  When he arrived back at his piano, he found five people sitting on the stools in front of his piano, settling in for some serious drinking and entertainment. This was his favorite part of the evening—when the people got involved. One of them was Katerina Klaus. Her partner was nowhere in sight. She was nursing a glass of white wine and smoking a long, filtered cigarette. Hatcher felt a surge of elation. He sat down on his bench and ran his fingers over the keys.

  “Hello, folks. My name is Bob Kelly. Your wish is my command. Who do we have here tonight?” he asked jovially. He did not ask for names usually, but he wanted Katerina to say her name so he would have a reason for knowing it. The people around the piano gave their names. When it was Katerina Klaus’s turn, she smiled at him, a smile that sent a tingle up his spine.

  “My name is Katerina. Everyone calls me Kat,” she said with a slight German accent. “You were very good earlier, when you sang in German. Do you speak German, or just memorize the songs?”

  “Jawohl, Fräulein,” he answered in German, intending to be ambiguous.

  “Which?” she laughed.

  “A little of each, Kat. Now, does anyone have a request?” he replied, dodging the question.

  • • •

  Two hours later, after much turnover at the piano bar seats, he found himself alone with Kat. He played soft melodies on the piano, without singing. She was getting a little drunk and was talking about herself and her family. He had found out that her escort had been paged and left her alone, after paying for their drinks and dinner. That is how she came to be at his piano bar. She had not wanted to go home yet, and was enjoying the music.

  “My mother and sister live in East Germany,” she was saying. “My fa
ther is dead, so they are alone and have a very tough time there. I am lucky to be working here, so I send them what money I can. There is such a big difference between the East and West economies.”

  That could be part of her cover story, but he did not think so. She was supposed to be a West German, so she was saying things she probably was not supposed to say. She was letting her guard down, a dangerous thing to do for a spy. Or was she? After all, she was an agent paid to sleep with the enemy and pick up pillow talk, wasn’t she? Maybe she knew he was an agent and was testing him.

  Impossible! he thought. Not even the CIA agents here know who I am. But maybe I can turn this to my advantage. I’ll see if I can get her into my bed! She looks like a great piece of ass! It would be my duty to see if I can get pillow talk out of her, wouldn’t it? She might know a lot of secrets!

  “Why are you smiling, Bob Kelly?” she interrupted his thoughts. “I was telling you a sad story!”

  Why does she always use my entire name? That’s not a normal German thing. More Russian, if anything. Russians like to stick your name into nearly every sentence. Maybe it’s just a personal trait of hers. Or is she really Russian? Hmm.

  “I’m sorry, Kat. But I just remembered a German song that might cheer you up,” he lied, looking at her breasts. She wore no bra beneath the thin cocktail dress and her nipples were clearly in evidence. He started a poignant German love song. Tears came to her eyes as she listened.

  This might be easier than I thought. It must be in the rule book that it is fair game to bed a drunken spy.

  As the song ended, she found a tissue in her minuscule handbag and wiped her eyes. Then she stood up abruptly.

  “I must go now. Thank you, Bob Kelly. I will see you again.”

  She left the bar and disappeared toward the coat room. Hatcher felt dejected.