Another sound disrupted his thoughts, but this was a familiar one. He shot a quick glance in the direction of the vast, windswept space of Alexanderplatz and the clock tower of Rotes Rathaus (Red Town Hall), so named because of the red brick and the current municipal headquarters of East Berlin. Ten o'clock! That one stupid delay, when he stopped to check his surroundings, had thrown off his timing by nearly two minutes. He swore under his breath, “Damn! I'm late.” Up to that point he'd passed each landmark along his route at the precise time, just as instructed.
East German and Russian soldiers always made it a point to keep a wary eye on his movements but otherwise left him to his jogging. This evening was no exception. He reasoned that he'd become something of an oddity to them over the past few weeks, especially after he changed his jogging routine. His original orders stated that he was to be at this location an earlier time, but then those orders were changed, bringing him here at this later hour. The time may have changed, but not his routine. He was to always go just beyond the bridge, almost as far as Friedrich Strasse, then turn around and head back to the security of his flat. But in the back of his mind stood the irrefutable fact of why he was watched and followed. Did the guards have any clue as to who he really was? Whether or not they knew, they also had their orders — stay close to the subject and report anything unusual. They were told that he, like the others, was too valuable a commodity to lose. With their AK47s slung over their shoulders, two Russians on the bridge peered over the side, observing the jogger moments before he disappeared beneath them.
On the north side of the intersection an electric tram slowed to pick up a passenger, its clanging bell sounding like a small hammer rhythmically striking an anvil. Distracted for just an instant as he approached the darkest section of the underpass, he glanced over his shoulder. His original instinct to make a beeline up to street level had been correct — but it was too late. Before he had time to react, a powerful arm was around his neck. Water trickled down the inside of his sweatshirt. Pressure against a key nerve caused partial paralysis of his throat, preventing him from crying out. His knees started to buckle. He tried struggling against his unknown attacker but was rendered powerless as he was dragged the short distance down the sloping embankment. He was totally off balance when they hit the water. In what seemed like milliseconds, he was completely underwater, feeling the unmistakable power of his assailant. As if being caught in a violent whirlpool, he was being pulled deeper into the depths of the cold Spree River.
CIA operative Rick Lampson, alias Erik Brennar and code named "Badger" had no doubt he was going to die.
Chapter Two
The Russian guards leaned over the opposite side of the bridge waiting impatiently for Erik Brennar to appear. "Where is he?" First Officer Sokov shouted, as he turned and raced across the road to the other side of the bridge.
"I still don't see him!" First Officer Brosovich yelled, a hint of panic rising in the young officer's voice. Without hesitation, he raced along the sidewalk, jumping down onto the sloping ground, his boots splashing in pools of rainwater and mud holes as he half ran, half slid down the bank. Once at the bottom, he pointed his flashlight toward the tunnel, its beam splitting the night's blackness. "Nothing!" the young Russian yelled. He spun around and let the beam settle on the swirling current. "Look! Here!" he blurted out as he slid further down the muddy incline, stopping himself just before tumbling into the water. His heels sunk into the muck as he counterbalanced his weight and stretched out his AK47 toward the dark object sinking beneath the water. He slid the front sight of the rifle under it, snatching the object from the water. He held up the dripping wool cap for Sokov to see, and then hastily started making a search under the bridge. Something reflected off the flashlight's beam and he ran toward it. "There’s no sign of him, only this!" he shouted. The young first officer felt his heart sink deeper into his 5'8" frame. His brown eyes almost began to tear, as he realized he had failed his assignment.
Sukov rushed up to him, his once spit-shined black boots now splattered with mud. He reached for the steel-rimmed glasses Brosovich was holding. One lens had shattered and resembled a spider's web.
Beads of sweat started forming across Sukov's brow. He knew the consequences for letting anyone escape. His shoulders slouched. "This will surely mean a posting to Siberia," he muttered. He glanced over at Brosovich who was nodding in the affirmative while he stared in disbelief at the wool cap.
Almost in unison, the two guards turned their heads toward the Spree. Both of them were stunned by the swiftness of what had happened. Sukov suddenly realized he was wasting time. He immediately sounded the alarm, blowing short bursts into his police whistle. Its high-pitched tone shrieked like a wild banshee.
A puff of white smoke escaped from the stern of the patrol boat as the coxswain gunned the engine. A shower of water erupted from the river as the craft abruptly turned to port and headed back downstream toward the sound of whistles. Its searchlight furiously sliced through the darkness, sweeping back and forth at every noise close to the water. Two soldiers took their positions on port and starboard sides, with their rifles pointed toward the surface of the river. Cold water rushed against the bow, spraying their heavy winter uniforms. They released the safeties on their automatic weapons, seeing the dark tunnel only fifty meters ahead.
Guards began streaming from their posts in various buildings. Others jumped from the back of a passing military truck and lined up along the riverbank. The routine was all too familiar for soldiers assigned to East Berlin. Nearly forty-five East Berliners had already been killed trying to flee the city by one means or other. The Spree River was the second most likely choice for escapees and it continued to be guarded closely.
"Move! Move!" Sukov shouted, frantically motioning soldiers down to the water, some disappearing into the tunnel, as others formed a line on each side along the bank.
The shock from the cold water made Lampson feel as if he’d been hit by a hammer. Suddenly, a jolt sent tremors up his legs as his heels struck the river bottom. His lungs burned for oxygen. His mind began to slip into unconsciousness. Flailing his arms around him, he frantically tried to grab onto his assailant. A mental picture flashed before his eyes, picturing himself clamped in the steel-like jaws of an alligator that was taking its prey to the muddy bottom, waiting for him to drown.
With a swift motion, his attacker reached around him and shoved something against his mouth. Lampson jerked his head to the side, fearing an attempt to force gas or poison into him. What the hell was the difference? Poison, gas, or drowning — none of the choices seemed to be an acceptable means of dying. But survival finally took hold and he again thrashed about, trying to grab any part of the menacing force, but he was unsuccessful and his body started growing weaker. Without warning he was spun around and the object was rudely shoved against his mouth again. Tasting the rank river water nearly made him gag, but then his brain began to register. Instinctively, he sucked in air from a scuba mouthpiece. Air! Compressed air!
Suddenly, a face mask was pushed against his face and Lampson finally opened his eyes and blinked through the water-filled mask, trying to reorient himself. He immediately leaned his head back and pressed the top of the face plate with his palm, blowing air through his nose, clearing his mask. At least he managed to remember that much from his training. Within seconds his vision cleared and he found himself looking through hazy visibility into the face of a total stranger.