EIGHT

      10:25 P.M. Lützenstrasse: West Berlin

      The men waiting within and without Ilse’s apartment building were not police. They were KGB agents sent to the Lützenstrasse by Colonel Ivan Kosov. Kosov himself waited impatiently in a second BMW parked at the end of the block. Kosov hated stakeouts. Long ago he had foolishly thought that once he attained sufficient rank he would be spared the monotony of these endless vigils. And perhaps one day he would. But tonight was one more in an endless series of proofs to the contrary. Exasperated, he reached for the radio microphone mounted on the auto’s dash.

      “Report, One,” he said.

      “The lobby’s clear,” crackled a metallic voice.

      “Two?”

      “Nothing in the hall. The door’s locked, no sound from inside.”

      “Four?”

      “Three’s with me. No sign of Apfel or the wife.”

      “Stay awake,” Kosov said gruffly. “Out.”

      Shit, he thought, how long will it take? Sitting in this ball-freezing cold, chattering over the short-range radios as if simply alternating frequencies could mask the Russian-accented commands ricocheting through the Berlin audio net like lines from a bad movie. He wished there were another way. But he knew there wasn’t.

      Three floors above Kosov, the door to apartment 43 opened and two garishly made-up redheads stepped into the hallway. One locked the door while her young companion stared invitingly at the man standing at attention outside apartment 40. The young woman nudged her middle-aged companion, who chuckled and led the way over to the silent man.

      “Na, mein Süsser,” Eva flirted in a husky voice. “All alone up here tonight?”

      Taken aback by her directness, the Russian stared back in silence. She’s at least fifty, he thought, much too old for my taste. But you’re something else altogether, he thought, hungrily eyeing the younger woman’s cleavage. With a flash of surprise, he realized that she was the demure blonde he had seen enter apartment 43 twenty minutes earlier. He barely recognized her beneath the heavy makeup and wig. She can’t be more than twenty-five, he guessed, and breasts like a Georgian goddess …

      “Guten Abend, Fräulein,” he said to the younger woman. “I think you looked much better before.”

      Ilse felt her throat tighten.

      “I think he’s set on you, Helga,” Eva said, laughing. She patted the Russian on his rear. “Too bad, dearie, little Helga’s booked for tonight. But you’re in luck. I know a dozen tricks this child’s never even heard of. What do you say?”

      Abashed by the old tart’s boldness, the Russian went temporarily blank.

      “Oh, forget it,” Eva said, pulling Ilse down the hall. “If you don’t know what you want, we don’t have time to wait.”

      Kosov’s young agent watched the middle-aged redhead follow her shapely companion into the elevator cage. Eva yanked the lever that started the slow descent and then, still holding eye contact with the guard, pumped her fist lewdly up and down the iron rod. When the Russian colored in embarrassment, she hiked her bright skirt over a well-preserved thigh and burst into laughter.

      As soon as the cage sank below the line of the floor, Eva cut her voice to a whisper. “Here comes the hard part. We were lucky that time. The odds just went down.”

      Ilse clutched her friend’s arm. “You shouldn’t have come with me!”

      “You’d never have made it by yourself, darling.”

      “But you’re in danger too!”

      Eva plucked a gob of mascara out of her eye. “I’m glad to do it. If I hadn’t had you to talk to for the last three years, I’d have gone mad in that tiny apartment.”

      “But all your men friends—”

      Eva’s heavily rouged face wrinkled in disgust. “Don’t even mention those bums. Don’t act like you don’t know what I do. You and Hans have always known, and you’ve never treated me any different than family. So shut up and take some help. We’re not out of this yet.”

      The elevator screeched to an uncertain stop. Eva yanked open the screen and stormed through the lobby, cursing the elevator and every other mechanical device ever invented. With Ilse struggling along behind on a pair of Eva’s four-inch heels, the old barmaid clacked past the two Russians at the building’s entrance as if they did not exist.

      “Halt!” yelled one of Kosov’s men as Ilse hurried past.

      Ilse’s heart thudded in her chest.

      The Russian caught hold of her elbow. “Hey, Fräulein,” he said, leaning close to her. “Why the hurry?”

      Eva paused impatiently at the curb. She looked up and down the street, then walked back to the door. “Next time, sweetie,” she snapped, stepping protectively in front of Ilse. “We’ve got a party to go to.”

      “It can wait,” said the young man, leering at his companion. “Stay here and keep us warm for a while. It’s cold out.”

      “Colder by the minute, Arschloch,” Eva spat. “If we don’t get out of this wind in thirty seconds our tits will snap off.”

      The Russian shed his smile like a snakeskin. His eyes glazed with a reptilian sheen. He took a step toward Eva.

      “Forget it, Misha,” urged his companion. “They’re just whores.”

      “Fucking filth,” the Russian muttered.

      “Misha,” said his partner anxiously. “Remember Colonel Kosov.”

      Misha took a long look at Eva as if to mark her for future retribution, then snorted and walked into the lobby. When he next looked outside, the two women were already across the street and halfway down the block, moving toward Colonel Kosov’s BMW.

      Kosov had just lifted the microphone from the dash when he spied two prostitutes walking quickly up the Lützenstrasse.

      “Report, One,” he said, half-watching them.

      “Lobby still clear.”

      “Two?”

      “No movement inside the apartment.”

      “Damn. Three and Four?”

      “All clear here. No sign of him.”

      The prostitutes reached the hood of the BMW, passed it.

      “All positions,” said Kosov, “I have two women passing me from your direction. Anyone see where they entered the street?”

      The radio squawked as three signals competed for reproduction. “Four here, sir. They came from the apartment building. Looked like two whores to us.”

      Kosov felt a tic in his cheek. He turned away as the headlights of a passing car shone through the BMW. When he looked again he saw one of the women raise an arm and flag the car to a stop. That’s odd, he thought, a taxi here at this hour. And picking up a couple of streetwalkers …

      “Two here,” crackled the radio. “Those prostitutes came from number forty-three, this floor. Opposite my position. One of them even propositioned me.”

      Kosov