Richard Strozier, the CIA’s chief of station for Berlin, took a long look before he nodded grimly. “Yes. That’s him. That’s Vance.” He dragged his gaze away from the mangled corpse on the mortuary slab, fighting the urge to vomit.
“You are sure? The features are so badly damaged.”
The American glared at the burly German police captain standing beside him. “Yes, I’m sure, goddamn it.”
“Very well, Herr Strozier. I believe you.” Another German, thinner and in civilian clothes, motioned to white-coated morgue attendants waiting close by. “Cover him.”
“What happened?”
“A car crash near Wismar. Two days ago. The roads were very bad that night. Very wet.” The police captain shrugged, obviously bored by what seemed a routine traffic accident. “And he was intoxicated.”
“Bullshit.”
The second German sighed. “Believe what you wish, Herr Strozier. But the autopsy report was conclusive. Your man Vance had enough alcohol in his bloodstream to knock a young elephant over. And witnesses in the town saw him drinking not long before the accident.” He spread his hands. “What else could have happened?”
Strozier scowled at the BfV liaison officer. He’d known Helmut Ziegler long enough to know when he was being willfully obtuse. Somebody higher up must have told him to play dumb. “What about his personal effects?”
The policeman answered that. “We have them here.” He handed the American a sealed plastic bag. “If you’ll sign for them, you can take them back to the embassy with you.”
Strozier dumped the bag’s contents out onto a nearby table. A wallet. Comb. Passport. Pocketknife. No camera. Naturally. He looked up at Ziegler. “I’ll want to see the crash site.”
“I’m afraid that is impossible.”
“Why?”
Ziegler smiled apologetically. “The Baltic coast is now a restricted travel area, Herr Strozier. We’ve had more trouble up there recently. Riots. Strikes. General unrest. In view of the circumstances, my government has decided to keep all foreign nationals out until we can guarantee their safety.”
Sure. Strozier stood rigid with anger. “My ambassador will protest this, Helmut. Vigorously.”
“Of course.” Ziegler turned to the watching policeman. “I think we’re done here, Captain. Would you please make sure my driver is ready?”
“At once, sir.”
The two men watched him leave. When the doors swung shut, Strozier turned on the BfV officer angrily. “All right, just what the fuck is going on around here? Jesus Christ, Helmut, that kid was murdered and you know it!”
Ziegler nodded sadly. “I know it.” He pointed to Vance’s body. “Believe me, Richard. This was not our work.”
The German lowered his voice. “I don’t know exactly what your people have stumbled into, but I do know that it’s very dangerous. The orders to seal off the Wismar region did not come from my government. They came from somewhere even higher.”
“EurCon?”
A look of distaste crossed Ziegler’s lean face. “The Interior Secretariat.” He shook his head. “Be very careful, Richard. And keep your people away from that town if you want to keep them alive. These French bastards don’t give a damn who gets in their way.”
When Strozier got back to the embassy, he found Major Kasimir Malinowska waiting for him.
The short, thin Polish intelligence officer was acting as his government’s watchdog for the German end of the North Star investigation. “Well? Was it as you feared?”
“Yes. Maybe even worse.” Strozier filled him in on the afternoon’s events.
“I see.” Malinowska frowned. “What will you do next?”
“I don’t know.” The Berlin chief of station shook his head wearily. “I’m not sure where we go from here. We know that the French planted that bomb. We know the name of the fishing trawler they used for the job. Hell, we even know they killed poor Vance to cover it up. But we’ve got no proof.”
“Perhaps the satellite photographs are enough?” Malinowska suggested.
“Unlikely.” Strozier shrugged. “Besides, I doubt that Washington will risk releasing those pictures without other hard evidence. On their own, all they do is show the bad guys just how good our coverage is.”
“Then your superiors may do nothing?” The Pole sounded angry.
“No. Yes. Possibly.” Strozier rubbed his forehead. “Jesus, I really don’t see what they can do. Without Vance’s pictures or access to this Wismar place, we’ve reached a dead end.”
Malinowska’s pale blue eyes turned hard. “Perhaps that is true. And perhaps it is not.” He didn’t bother explaining what he meant by that.
Erin McKenna was making her routine rounds through the Russian bureaucracy when she caught the first whiff of impending trouble.
“Speaking bluntly, Deputy Minister, Honeywell isn’t going to spend the money needed to retool the Tula plant until they’re sure your government isn’t planning to renationalize it.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words. “After all, nobody puts their best silver out when they know a thief is on the way.”
“That is true.” Russia’s deputy minister for trade looked troubled. The martial law regime’s on-again, off-again attitude toward the private sector was wreaking havoc with her efforts to encourage foreign investment and foreign trade. Kaminov and his fellow soldiers didn’t seem to understand that their capricious seizures had very real and very predictable economic effects. Businessmen could not and would not make long-term financial commitments without some assurances that their investments were safe from arbitrary government action.
Erin watched the other woman carefully. Getting a handle on Russia’s intentions toward the Tula electronics factory was important for two reasons. First, an American firm now owned a forty-nine percent stake in the place — a multimillion-dollar investment. And an important part of her cover involved helping U.S. companies navigate their way through the convoluted, peculiarly Russian web of regulation, intrigue, and competing ministerial interests. The second reason was much more important. The personal computer components produced at Tula could be used for either civilian or military purposes. Government plans to seize the factory would be a clear warning that Russia was rearming.
The deputy minister made up her mind. “I can assure you, Miss McKenna, that — ” A sharp knock on the door interrupted whatever she was going to say. “Yes, what is it?”
Her special assistant poked his head into the office. “Galinia Ostrokova, may I see you for a moment? It’s very urgent.”
“All right, Viktor.” The deputy minister rose from behind her desk. Erin noticed again that she was a lot shorter than she looked sitting down. “Will you excuse me, please?”
“Oh, of course.”
The door shut behind the two Russians, leaving Erin alone inside the office. She glanced at the side table where the Trade Ministry official kept her computer. Her fingers practically itched at the chance to go dancing through secret files, but she fought off the impulse. She’d promised Banich that she’d stay out of the operational side of the intelligence game. That was the price he’d exacted for letting even an admittedly talented “amateur” roam through Moscow’s streets and government ministries.
The deputy minister came back in looking strained and very frightened. “Miss McKenna, I must ask you to leave. Immediately. I am afraid this interview is concluded.”
Erin felt cold suddenly. Was another purge under way? Or something much worse? She stood up. “Can I see you tomorrow, then? Or would another time be more convenient?”
“No. I…” The Russian woman visibly hesitated. “I am not sure when it will be possible for me to meet with you again. Please check with my assistant later.”