Or — was it?
From the other scout an airman called out: “Captain!.. Sir!”
Paul looked toward him. The man was listening on his radio earphones.
“They've spotted them!” he called. “From a chopper. They're headed out on the black desert!”
Paul's spirit soared. They had ’em! It was only a matter of time, now. Time and patience. And a little luck. He glanced at his watch. There would be time enough. It was just past noon…
Half way across the globe on this, the sixth day of Operation Marcus, darkness had already fallen over East Berlin…
2
Time was running out.
He could hear their heavy, hobnailed boots pounding down the cobblestones in pursuit. There must be at least six of them, he thought.
He heard a gruff voice shout, “Halt!”
He stopped his bicycle, put one foot on the ground and waited. His heart beat wildly. It was a few minutes before 2300—the hour Scharff had instructed him to arrive at Checkpoint Charlie.
The papers given him suddenly felt heavy in his inside coat pocket. What was the name again? For an instant he was blank. Kramer! He must remember. His name was not Krebbs. Kramer. Wilhelm Kramer. Scharff had explained that a cover name was best if it was close to the real one. Less chance of making a mistake. And a mistake easier to explain away. Involuntarily he touched his jacket. Any second the effectiveness of his false papers would be proved.
Or disproved…
The border guards caught up with him. A roving patrol. He was surprised to see there were only three of them. They scowled at him from under their toadstool helmets.
“What are you doing here?” one of the soldiers asked him. “At this hour?”
Krebbs swallowed. He knew he looked and acted nervous. He also knew it would be normal to do so.
“I–I am on my way to the international transit point at Friedrich-Zimmerstrasse,” he said. “I wish to cross before midnight.”
“Your passport!”
A chill shot through him. It would be now…
He pulled the passport from his pocket. Folded in it was his visitor's permit.
The soldier took the document. In the light of a flashlight he examined it.
“Swiss?” he asked unnecessarily.
Krebbs nodded. “Yes.” He was about to add that he'd been visiting friends, their names, their addresses — all the facts Scharff had provided him with. He caught himself. He also remembered the admonition: Volunteer no information. Answer only questions asked.
The soldier unfolded the visitor's permit. He checked it. Carefully he refolded it and replaced it.
“Schon gut, Herr Kramer,” he said. He gave back the passport.
Without another word the soldiers turned away and left.
Krebbs looked after them. He was suddenly aware that he was trembling. He pushed off and started to pedal down the street.
There were seven blocks to the checkpoint.
And it was almost 2300 hours.
He was pedaling down Friedrichstrasse between the rows of six- and seven-story buildings lining the street. He knew that some of the ones closest to the wall had observation posts on the upper floors, constantly manned by armed troops of the Volksarmee—the People's Army. Ahead of him he could see the checkpoint buildings and watchtower clearly. The street and the checkpoint area were brightly lit by the double rows of tall, slender, swan-neck lampposts gracefully bending out over the roadway. Traffic was moderate, both vehicular and pedestrian. He was not the only one wishing to cross over before the curfew, but neither was the checkpoint crowded.
It was a pleasant, cool evening with a gentle breeze drifting down the street — yet he could feel the sweat collect in his armpits and trickle stickily down his sides as he approached the checkpoint.
He glanced at his watch. Two minutes. He was exactly on time.
He arrived at the first checkpoint building. He dismounted and pushed his bicycle to the rack placed outside. He locked it. He started to remove a package wrapped in brown paper and tied to the bicycle luggage-carrier — but thought better of it. He left it on the bicycle and entered the building…
From the guard tower Colonel Gerhardt Scharff watched his man arrive. He felt smugly gratified. The Herr Doktor Krebbs had followed instructions implicitly. Everything would work out exactly as planned. He checked his automatic rifle. Ready…
He could almost hear the scenario played out. That man! he'd shout, pointing to Krebbs as he was starting to cross. I know him He's not an Ausländer. He's German! An important scientist. Defecting! He'd whip the guards to a full alert. Create as much of an uproar as he could. Pin Krebbs in the beam of the searchlight. The poor Tropf—the poor fool — was bound to be startled out of his wits. Whatever he did would be wrong. And — he'd shoot him. Make certain he was dead. Another would-be defector — a traitor — shot in his attempt to betray his country. His falsified papers and the abortive attempt to defect under an assumed nationality and name would prove his guilt. There could be no doubt. And he, Gerhardt Scharff, would be credited with the vigilance and decisive action that stopped him. It would be perfect. He savored the anticipated moment.
He hoped, of course, that even now in the eleventh hour the Death Valley operation would be as successful. At last report the elusive pilot was still being hunted. His men might still beat the American Air Force to it…
He resumed his watch of the door to the checkpoint building. It would be several minutes before Krebbs would emerge. Then — the customs check in another building, and the man would begin to cross, pushing his bicycle along the pedestrian lane running next to the barricaded street. He rubbed his hands. He found himself growing impatient with anticipation…
Krebbs joined a short line waiting for the first passport-and-permit check. Ahead of him stood a young man. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Turkish worker, he thought, returning from a visit to his East German girl friend. The young man looked relaxed. It would be a routine procedure for him. Krebbs shifted uneasily. He felt clammy with anxiety. Did he stand out from the others?
His eyes were drawn to a large clock on the wall. The seconds were ticking away.
Next to it a poster proclaiming OUR REPUBLIC — HONORED, RESPECTED, RECOGNIZED shared space on the wall with a large color reproduction of Gerassimov's Lenin at the Rostrum, printed in the U.S.S.R.
Again his eyes sought the big clock. He had been standing in the line almost a full minute.
And the seconds ticked on…
Suddenly there was an explosion outside. He had known it would come, but he started violently.
He was committed.
He resisted the urge to rush outside.
Wait!
Ten seconds. Count. One thousand — two thousand — three thousand… He tried to shut out the shouts of alarm ringing out all around him, the sudden sirens and horns.
Ten thousand. He sprang for the door and rushed outside.
The entire area was covered with a dense white smoke which still billowed from the shattered package on his bicycle. His formula had been correct. His timing device exact. Sixty seconds.
The solid white phosphorus had exploded from its airtight container, catapulted into the air by the explosive charge; broken into a myriad tiny, powdery fragments that instantly, spontaneously ignited as they were exposed to the air, turning into thick smoke that obscured everything.
Phosphorus pentoxide, he thought automatically. The densest smoke known to science. Larger fragments scattered through the street burned furiously, adding more heavy white smoke to the already impenetrable screen.