Page 188 of Cry Havoc

Two bodies stumbled through the door and joyous laughter filled the space. Apparently, they had brought in the New Year at a party or bar and now wanted to really bring it in with a bang.

“A nightcap, dear one?” the man asked. Even though the man spoke German, Tom recognized the voice he had heard on the trawler in Thailand. “We will only usher in 1969 once.”

“I would love that. Champagne?” responded a demure female voice, also in German.

“That can be arranged. Let’s celebrate.”

The door shut, and Tom could tell the man’s hand was fumbling for the light switch. He heard the click of the switch a moment before a buzzindicated electricity was traveling along the wall and across the ceiling to an overhead light fixture that illuminated the room in a harsh yellow glow.

The man’s smile faded when he found they were not alone.

“Major, no sudden moves,” Tom said in flawless German.

He sat in an overstuffed leather chair on the opposite side of the small room, his ASP pistol with suppressor pointed directly at his target.

Kirill Dvornikov raised his gloved hands, snow still on the shoulders of his stiff dark overcoat.

He looked at his companion, a stunning young woman in a tan wool jacket. She had a red ribbon in her light brown hair. Instead of screaming or panicking, she simply walked back to the door and let herself out.

Dvornikov shook his head.

“How long has she been playing me?”

“How long have you known her?”

“I underestimated you.”

“You did. The Red Army killed her parents in the Battle of Berlin,” Tom said. “Executed is more like it. Like so many others, she has not forgotten.”

“She told me they were killed in an Allied bombing raid.”

“I know. She fit your profile for recruitment.”

“Did Penkovsky pass that along?”

“He didn’t need to.”

“We don’t give you Americans enough credit.”

Tom shrugged.

“Nikita Khrushchev called this city a ‘swampland of espionage,’?” the Russian said.

“Did he now?”

Dvornikov moved his hands to unbutton his thick coat.

Tom shook his head.

“Come now, Mr. Reece, though I am sure you have identification under a different name. You must know all about me. Even if I had a gun, I would know better than to go for it. That’s not my style.”

“That’s why you needed your comrade; the man who killed my friend.”

“I’ll have you know, I had nothing to do with that.”

“Doesn’t matter. He was working for you.”

“And then you did the same to my colleague.”