The room was pitch black except for a streak of light that shone out from under another door some twenty feet away. This was the storage room for the historical museum that was attached to the gate. Carter crossed to the second door, opened it, then crossed behind the display cases of the museum proper, and started up a wrought-iron staircase that led up through the ceiling.
He had found this stairway earlier and knew that it led up to the roof. He also knew there was an observation post up there manned by a guard with a pair of binoculars who kept constant vigil on the wall. He'd had no trouble slipping past him the first time, but no doubt the man had been forewarned by now that a fugitive was in the area.
Carter ascended the stairs as silently as he could, and when he came to the heavy metal door at the top, opened it slowly. Through the crack he saw a bunker of sandbags with a machine gun in its center mounted on a tripod. A portable radio played strains of popular music, and a book lay propped open to someone's place. All the accouterments of habitation and no inhabitant. Where was the guard?
Carter opened the door a little wider. He was about to stick his head out when a violent jerk wrenched the doorknob from his hand and sent him sprawling headlong onto the roof. He looked up just in time to see a rifle butt rushing for his face. He turned and it smashed against the tiles inches from his ear. The soldier reared back for another try, but Carter drove his left fist into the soft putty of the man's face. His nose broke with a gush and he dropped the rifle. Carter then buckled his legs against the man's chest and sprung, flinging him backward. His head hit the metal door with a dull clang, and he fell forward, dazed but not unconscious.
Carter was on him in a second. He drew out the Luger and clipped him on the base of the skull. Then he spun around to make sure there weren't any more of them.
He dragged the guard's body over against the sandbags and peered down into the street. Two military vehicles were converging on Checkpoint Charlie, which was located directly in front of the Brandenburg Gate. At the checkpoint six or seven soldiers with submachine guns strapped to their backs stood in the dim light of the guard's booth, talking. Overhead the sky was a stolid gray just charged now with the first light of dawn. Carter studied the sky with disquietude. It was now or never.
He pulled out his cylinder from where he'd stashed it under the chariot of the huge statue and brought it to the edge of the roof. On his hands and knees he unzipped die casing and stripped it off. Then he laid out the long sheets of nylon tenting and began to fit in the thin metal rods that he had placed at the cylinder's core. In a few minutes the construction was complete: a single, twelve-foot-long, batlike wing with an aluminum frame underneath to which to secure himself — a hang glider as complete and controllable as any that ever graced the sunny coastline of California, only as portable as an umbrella.
His sole piece of good fortune lay in the fact that the wind was blowing from east to west — over the wall. He carried his contraption to the edge and after some preliminary testing, entrusted himself to the air. The left wing dipped dangerously, and for a moment he thought he would fall, but then the updraft in front of the massive gate caught him and buoyed him skyward.
His heart fluttered with the thrill of flight. The ground below, the military sedans that were now disgorging more troops in front of the checkpoint, the men already there sniffing the air for his scent like hounds, machine guns at the ready, all slipped silently by as he sailed unnoticed into West Berlin.
Six
Once on the ground Carter went straight to Kliest's, retrieved his bag, showered, and on a phone Kliest assured him was clean, placed a call to Hawk. It was after midnight on the East Coast, but Hawk answered on the first ring.
"We got a nasty little missive from Kobelev earlier tonight." Hawk said after he'd answered Carter's initial barrage of questions and confirmed his worst fears about what had happened to Cynthia. "Apparently he's holding the girl aboard the Orient Express. He says he wants his daughter and you turned over to him, or he'll kill her. We've got until the train reaches Istanbul to make our decision."
"Have the railroad authorities been contacted? What about the local police?"
"They're all willing to cooperate fully. We had a little trouble to begin with, but a phone call from the head of State to each of the countries involved soon straightened everything out. A little presidential muscle can work wonders. At any rate, it seems Kobelev's commandeered the train. He's not letting anyone off or on, although he's allowing the train to make its scheduled stops. It's either that or snafu rail traffic over the whole of Europe."
"How do I get aboard?"
"That's something you'll have to work out with Leonard Southby. He's the owner of the train. I've arranged for you to meet with him in the bar of the Sacher Hotel in Vienna this afternoon at two. When I talked to him earlier tonight he was ready to mobilize NATO to get his train back. It took a lot of convincing to get him to let us handle it our way. I'm afraid if he hangs around that bar too long he'll start talking nuclear war again and won't be in any shape to help us."
"Yes, sir."
"By the way, Nick, I'm sorry for this little setback. And that's what it is, a setback. Let's not kid ourselves."
An admission of error was a rare thing from Hawk. It bespoke the gravity of the situation, and Carter treated it with the care it deserved.
"I'm sure this is going to work out."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. In any event our initial goal has been met. Kobelev has come out from behind his curtain of security. He's accessible now and we can still take him."
"Yes, sir."
"The man has to be taken, N3. Has to, no matter what the cost."
"I understand that, sir."
Before Hawk rang off, the two men worked out some of the logistics Carter would need over the next few days. Hawk provided a list of AXE operatives in cities along the train's route and the number Carter could call in Washington should he run into trouble. They agreed that Vienna was a good choice for boarding the train as it was only half an hour by jet from Berlin and would allow Carter a few hours' rest at Kliest's before going on.
Then, when all the business had been conducted and mere was nothing left to say. Hawk lingered a moment on his end of the line. "Take care of yourself," he said finally.
Carter sensed he meant it. "I will. Thank you, sir."
Kliest, who had been sitting on the edge of his armchair listening to Carter's end of the conversation, abruptly stood and went into the kitchen area. When he returned he was carrying a tray piled high with German pancakes, sausages, and a liter stein of rich beer. "My wife made these up before she went to work. They've been in the oven warming. I'll make up the bed while you're eating."
Carter ate, made his travel arrangements, and slept. In a few hours Kliest woke him and drove him to the airport. As he was boarding his plane, Kliest gave his hand a firm shake and told him it had been a pleasure working with him. Between Kliest's sendoff and Hawk's good-bye over the phone, Carter wondered if anyone really expected him to come back from this assignment alive.
In Vienna he deplaned, stored his luggage, and caught a cab for the Sacher Hotel. Leonard Southby was at the bar hunched over a glass of scotch. Sitting next to him was a small man wearing large glasses.
"Mr. Welter," Southby said, introducing him after Carter sat down, "from our public relations department." Carter noticed the glasses achieved a friendly effect by being a shade too small to be considered comical.