The Last Spymaster

by Gayle Lynds

  He continued in English in his low, hypnotic basso: “What? No comment? No expression of excitement? Now, now, you must be of good cheer, because I may be able to help. If you’d like to hear what I know, come walk with me.” Without a glance at her, he resumed his stroll through the creeping mist, swinging his umbrella. “Oh, and do me a favor, will you?” His voice trailed back. “Put that damn gun away. I never embark on a friendly conversation when a weapon’s pointed at me.”

  She looked around warily. She did not understand how he—how anyone—could have found her. Had he come alone? She saw no sign of CIA backup or, God forbid, Volker or anyone else from the BND. If the BND spotted Alec and her together and interpreted their relationship correctly, they would arrest her as a traitor, although she had never spied against the new Germany. Worse, she would be unable to find out who had killed her son.

  He had baited his hook with the one lure that would attract her—information. And he was right—she wanted whatever he knew. At the same time, he was threatening her with exposure or worse. Just as she had done countless times, she must take the risk. As she decided that, she loosened her belt and slipped her Walther inside at the small of her back then stashed the candy box that contained the videotapes under her belt in front. She buttoned the bottom two buttons of her red plaid overshirt over them and distributed her car keys, passport, and other items into her pockets. Jay Tice had taught her long ago to prepare when there was a chance she would have to move quickly.

  Carrying her valise, she strode out after Alec. When she caught up, he glanced down.

  He gave her a smile. “Ah, how nice.”

  Effortlessly, she returned an equally fake smile. But although he had changed to English, she spoke in German, a reminder that he did not own the entire playing field.

  “You have my attention,” she told him.

  Alec continued agreeably in German: “Indulge me. You began working for Tice in 1983, his secret mole. Are you surprised I know?”

  She was silent, the past sweeping like a cold wind over her.

  “You refused to be paid,” he went on. “What I’m curious about is why.” He offered a cigarette.

  She shook her head. “The short answer is disillusionment. The year before, I was sent on my first assignment into the West—to Hanover.” Markus Wolf had identified her as an officer he could promote: She spoke both American- and Oxbridge-accented English as well as Russian, and she had a gift for analytical observation and investigation. “I expected to find gangs and crime and drugs and terrible poverty. Instead, it was lovely. Tranquil. People had plenty to eat. They wore warm clothes and owned houses or lived in solid apartment buildings. Most could even afford cars.”

  “You were surprised?”

  “Shocked. It was the opposite of what I—what everyone who grew up in East Germany—was told.”

  “Did you reveal your discovery to Wolf?”

  “I was young but not stupid. And I certainly didn’t have a death wish. I connected with some underground sources and started reading Western papers and books and listening to your political debates and watching demonstrations on TV. Free speech. Free movement. You had rights. That changed me. Then Jay spotted me in Lübeck, buying a forbidden magazine. He followed me, but I made him. One thing led to another, and he offered me work for something I could believe in—democracy. That’s why I never wanted to be paid.”

  “A Company mole. Code name Glinda. From The Wizard of Oz?”

  “Yes.” Jay had chosen it for her, the Good Witch of the North.

  “Was it your idea to also sign up with the BND?”

  She frowned. “That’s enough. You said you had information for me.”

  “I’m getting to it. Indulge me this one last time.”

  As they continued to climb, she told him, “It was two years later. Jay suggested I volunteer. Walk in.” She remembered the worry in his voice: Can you do it? It’ll be a tightrope. By feeding intel to both me and a BND handler, you’ll double the risk the Stasi will spot you. Hisconcern hadbeenjustasbig a lie as the Stasi’s description of the Free West. Still, the warning was accurate: In the brutish spy wars, national alliances did not always translate down to the shifting sands of the street. Her life could vaporize at the incensed twitch of not only a Stasi trigger finger but a BND one, too.

  “So if the BND found out you were also spying for Langley,” Alec said, driving home the point, “it wouldn’t have mattered much to them we were allies.”

  “It was my chance to work directly for a free Germany, for democracy. For the future. Now tell me what you know about Kristoph’s death.” Ahead, traffic flowed through an intersection. She watched it alertly. Her car was within a block.

  He ignored the demand, continuing to smoke languidly. “Let’s back up a bit. From what you’ve just told me, you’re a woman of conviction. You risked your life for what America and West Germany stood for. Now the Company needs your help again. We’re concerned Kristoph might’ve been involved in something sinister. What have you learned?”

  She stared up at him. “You don’t know anything.”

  “Your history tells me you’re not the type to remain in Geneva for some superficial reason. You cross-examined the forensics man. You went to Milieu Software. Was Kristoph involved in something illegal? A software company could easily be a terrorist front. Or maybe they were washing money. What can I do to help you clear your boy’s name?”

  Her lips thinned, but she said neutrally, “Are you suggesting Kristoph himself was doing something criminal?”

  He shrugged. “We have an expression in America—the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  A flush of outrage heated her cheeks. She knew exactly what he meant: She was a sleeper, burrowed into the BND’s highest echelons, apparently ready to spy against Germany. Therefore, according to Alec’s logic, Kristoph would hardly be reluctant to break laws himself. But Kristoph knew nothing about Langley, and he was not that way.

  “You bastard. What do you really want?” she demanded.

  “Did Kristoph suspect something about Milieu Software?”

  Their breaths were white streams in the chill. Ahead, a gray dawn disturbed the sky, illuminating the cloudy remains of the night’s thunderstorm. She glanced around and started to move away, but he gripped her arm. She glared down at his hand and then up at him. He released her and cleared his throat.

  She walked onto the sidewalk, continuing toward the intersection. Toward her car and escape. “Tell me what you know about Milieu.”

  “We had intel they were developing a huge software program. Did Kristoph describe it?”

  No working spy gave information without an ulterior motive. She frowned and lied, “Kristoph said nothing about his job. It was as if he were sworn to secrecy.”

  “Then who else did you talk to about it?”

  “Stop interrogating me, Alec. You’re looking for filth in a clean handkerchief. I’m still in Geneva because I’m mourning my son. I was restless tonight, so I decided to take a walk around Old Town. If you’ve never been sleepless, you’re not human. Something has attracted Langley’s interest in me—a great deal of interest, or you wouldn’t be here. That something appears to be Milieu. You must know they moved out before Kristoph died. There was no way I was able to investigate. Your ruse of offering help has only irritated me and wasted both of our time.”

  His eyes grew dull, almost lifeless. He flicked his cigarette into the wet gutter. “Why would you be interested in my help if your boy’s death were an accident? You know more than you’re saying. And your lurking in that doorway back there with a gun shows you came out tonight prepared for trouble.” Casually he slid his right hand inside a pocket. “Remember, Glinda—you’re activated. I order you to reveal what you know about Milieu Software, whom you’ve been talking with, and what was said.”

  She saw the fingers flex as if squeezing something. A signal perhaps? She increased her pace. “I’ve told you everything.”

&
nbsp; Immediately he was in front of her, blocking her, looming over her. “Where’s the box of candy?”

  Raina stiffened as if someone had just jerked on her spine. “What are you talking about?” There was no way she was going to give him her videotapes.

  “You went to the place du Bourg-de-Four with the box under your arm. When you arrived, you still had it. You ran down a dark stairwell for no apparent reason. You were there a full two minutes. Then you took off up the rue. It’s illogical to think you’d be carrying it for a social call at this hour. Therefore, I must conclude you did a switch or you put something else inside it. In any case, it doesn’t hold chocolates. I want that box.”

  Heart pounding, Raina stared and thought quickly. Making her hands tremble, she unzipped her valise and shot a cowering smile up at Alec. “Did you mean this?” She pulled the metal opening of the valise wide and lifted the valise so he could see the real Avelines assortis lying next to her umbrella.

  At the same time, motor revving, a large Citroën sedan sped around the corner and screeched to an abrupt stop in the center of the lane. The stink of burned rubber rose in the air. The headlights died.

  With an exhalation of pleasure, Alec reached inside the valise. He had not even glanced at the car; his lack of curiosity told her he had summoned it. Everything happened within seconds. She slammed the jaws of the valise shut on his hand—hard. He grunted, and she crashed her shoulder up into his chest. It was like hitting a mountain, but her two quick assaults had surprised him.

  His balance quaked. He grabbed for the building. She rammed the point of her elbow deep into his side in a yoko hiji-ate strike, worsening his balance. He grunted again and swung an arm. She ducked. He reeled. The bigger they are, she thought bitterly.

  As he stumbled, the sedan’s doors swung open, and two men jumped out, weapons in hand. She spun on her heel and bolted downhill through the shadows. A silenced bullet shattered a cobblestone at her flying feet. Shards exploded.

  “No shooting!” she heard Alec yell out behind her. “We want her alive!”

  Thank God. She accelerated down the slope and into the low fog and around the bend and past the doorway where she had hidden. Her hammering footsteps echoed hollowly against the sheer walls of the old buildings as she sped toward the curve where she had first seen Alec. She rounded that and, sweating, pressed onward, muscles straining. She hurtled past stone doorsteps and hanging streetlamps. She ran as if the dark hounds of hell chased.

  When she finally shot around a turn from which she could see a slice of the place du Bourg-de-Four, she gulped air and risked a look over her shoulder. They were not in sight yet. Had she hurt Alec more than she thought? She slowed to listen but heard no sound of pursuit, just the traffic behind her, growing fainter.

  Counting her blessings, she resumed her hellbent pace, passing the Demi-Lune Café. As the fountain and plaza came into wider view, the rich aroma of hot coffee drifted from a boulangerie. Breathing hard, she passed Soda’s bar and dashed into the plaza, scanning. The nightclubs were closed, their patrons gone. She turned right, heading for another rue that would take her back uphill toward—

  “Stopp, Raina.” The steely command in German was like a dagger in her back.

  Startled, chest heaving, she skidded and turned, already reaching under her shirt for her gun.

  The voice continued in German, “That would not be advisable.” The dull gray barrel of his Walther leading, Volker Rehwaldt stepped out of the shadows of the building at the corner. His rough face looked dry, as if something inside him had withered and died. His umbrella was gone, but he still wore his tweed jacket and dark slacks. And there was his pistol, pointed at her.

  Her eyes narrowed. Puzzled, she let her hand drift to her side. “No more hugs, Volker? What’s this about?” She glanced at his weapon then quickly around again. In the windows above, a few lights glowed.

  “You must go with them,” Volker ordered.

  “Them? What are you talking about!” There was a clatter of feet in the lane at last—hurrying but not running.

  He lifted his head, listening, too, and leveled his gaze at her. “Leave with them quietly. It is best.”

  She frowned, trying to understand. “Have you told Erich what you’re doing?”

  “Me? This isn’t about what I’m doing.” His upper lip rose in disgust. “Erich sent me to help them, Raina—Glinda!”

  She stared, speechless. He knew, and Erich knew—but only part of the story. Outrage swept through her, hot and angry. Then fear. “You’re wrong, Volker. You don’t understand. I’d never work against—!”

  She stopped, realizing why Alec and his men were not rushing to catch her—they knew Volker was waiting. And Alec had found her through Volker’s uncharacteristic hug. It was impossible but true—the CIA and BND were collaborating against her.

  “How could you spy on us? Against us!” he accused.

  “That’s a lie! You and I’ve been together years. Listen to me. Hear me out!” Still talking, she stepped closer, her hands in front, palms up in a gesture pleading for understanding. But she also needed to be within striking distance. “You know me better than to believe their fiction. I had to buy time to raise Kristoph. If Langley had come to me before this, I would’ve told them no and taken the consequences. I told them no tonight!”

  He stiffened, unsure. Conflict raged on his pitted face, but it was unlikely he would side with her against Erich.

  “At least give me the chance to explain how the Company—,” she tried anyway.

  “Nein!”

  Before he could finish giving his head an angry shake, she balanced back on her left foot and drove her right foot straight into his solar plexus in a brutal kekomi kick. With his expertise, she would get no second chances. His face stretched in surprise, and he doubled over, his lungs emptying. She followed with a powerful mawashi-geri roundhouse kick to the point of his jaw.

  His head snapped, his Walther fell, and he sprawled. His skull hit the cobbles with a hollow thwack. His eyelids dropped, did not even twitch.

  She scooped up his Walther and bolted. The noise of approaching feet was louder. She pushed away the shock of what all of this meant and, using both hands, ripped open her plaid overshirt as she dodged between two metal fence barriers. Her hip hit one, and it crashed over.

  The pain hardly registered as she yanked off the shirt and leaped onto the sidewalk and slowed under the lamplight. She held up the shirt to examine the back where Volker had patted her during his commiserating hug.

  Silently cursing, she found it—a clear piece of adhesive tape. In the center, between the tape and the shirt, was what appeared to be a small steel button. She recognized it immediately—a miniature tracker.

  She snapped off the tape. As she picked off the tracker, she shot off again, hurdling a concrete planter, heading toward the center of the square. Using her momentum to power her arm, she lobbed the tiny device toward the distant shops. She must send Alec and the others someplace where she would not be, and this was her best hope.

  Before it could land, she turned abruptly and raced away, barely avoiding a Vespa left outside a galleria. She turned up the narrow rue des Chaudronniers, tying the sleeves of her shirt around her waist to hide the box that contained her videotapes. The passageway roughly paralleled the rue Etienne-Dumont. Listening worriedly as the noise of angry male voices rose from the plaza behind her, she settled into an exhausting uphill run, praying she could vanish. She rounded the first bend still climbing, now slipping on the damp cobblestones in her haste. She passed more stone doorsteps, more hanging lamplights. When she arrived at last at the intersection with promenade de Saint-Antoine, she allowed herself one quick look back.

  The lane was deserted. She felt a brief moment of triumph, but she did not slow. Covered with sweat, weary to the bone, she dashed across the street and into the city parking garage and downstairs into shadowy light. The underground lot stank of diesel and wet concrete. She had never seen a lovel
ier sight.

  Gulping air, legs trembling, she took out her car keys and headed for her rented Opel. Locked inside the trunk was her small suitcase—priceless now. As soon as she had suspected Kristoph had been murdered, she pulled together tradecraft artifacts from her past. Fortunately, four of the passports in her home safe were current. By calling in old favors, she swiftly assembled disguises and pocket litter to support the passports. Everything was compacted into that suitcase.

  Footsteps echoing in the emptiness, she stopped at the car and gazed cautiously around one more time. Slowly she smiled. It was not a kind smile, but an angry, knowing one. She was here; they were not. She banished her sore muscles and throbbing pulse and opened the door. With a quick gesture, she tossed her overshirt across the front seat and climbed in. The engine started immediately.

  She drove up the exit ramp and paused to check the sidewalks and street. But as she steered the Opel into traffic, a sense of dread swept through her. It was an old feeling, something straight from her days as a dual mole, a warning. She concentrated, thinking, until tonight’s events at last fit together with frightening perfection: The CIA had needed to find her before she uncovered whatever they were investigating—or hiding. That was where Erich Eisner became important. It would have been a small matter to blackmail him—a phone call from Langley, followed by a secret e-mail with encoded attachments documenting her years of Cold War espionage for the CIA and that she was now a sleeper. She was the legend Erich had created and with which he had not only saved the BND but made his career. If the truth were publicized, the BND’s image would be tarnished, and he would be a laughingstock—if not worse. To buy the CIA’s silence, he would send Volker Rehwaldt to locate her.

  Afterward she would be not only worthless as a CIA sleeper but a ticking bomb for Erich. The two agencies would have to cooperate in cleaning up after themselves. But shooting her dead would cause questions, an official investigation.