His body was failing him. Since they'd started on him, he'd lost so much weight his ribs and collarbone poked from his skin. His nose and right hand were broken and his testicles.well, he hadn't been able to bring himself to look at them. The soles of his feet were bruised and swollen, his toes turning black. Going to lose the nails on all of them, he thought, chuckling. Never be able to wear sandals again.

He'd also developed a deep, racking cough. Pneumonia, perhaps. Perhaps something else.

The latch was thrown back. He let his shoulders slump and his face go slack. The door swung open. Standing there in full-dress uniforms were the two guards he'd dubbed Boris One and Boris Two. "You will come now," Boris One said.

Henry hobbled forward and fell in between them. He'd long suspected he was the only occupant of this block and now he saw he was right. Each door stood yawning, dark inside. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling and trailed down the corridor to a gate. When they reached it, Boris One called out in Russian, "Open. Prisoner one-zero-nine-two."

The gate rattled back. They walked through and turned left. Henry felt his hands begin to shake. He clenched them. You're okay…you've done some good. They reached a stairwell and started down. With each step, the light from above faded until, at the bottom, he found himself in darkness. Ahead was a lighted doorway. He stopped, his feet frozen. Behind him, Boris Two placed an almost gentle, coaxing hand on the small of his back. It was the first kind touch he'd felt in forty days. He felt tears well in his eyes. Come on, Henry.

He shuffled forward. At the door Boris One stepped aside, heels clicking together as he snapped to attention. Henry gulped a lungful of air and stepped up to the threshold. Two months, he thought. God, was that all? He'd come a long way since this had begun…

Knowing the Brahmins at MI6 wouldn't sign off on his plan, Henry took the first available plane out of London for Washington, D.C., where he took a taxi to the E Street offices of the recently christened CIA. He still thought of it as the OSS and probably always would. He had friends there, many of whom he'd jumped with behind enemy lines during the war as part of the Jedburgh commandos.

At the security shack he asked for Lucille Russo. The guard made the call, gave him a badge and directed him to Lucille's Quonset hut. She was waiting for him. "Henry, as I live and breathe! I thought you hated planes."

"I do-still do." Planes, parachutes and gunfire were affiliated memories. "I've got something in the works, Lucille. I need your help. Perhaps I could have a private word with you and Joe?"

Joe Pults was another Jedburgh friend, now in the CIA's Office of Special Operations. They found him reclined in his chair, feet propped on the desk. Seeing Henry, he bolted up and strode over. "Henry? Henry Caulder? God, it's good to see you!"

"And you, Joe."

Lucille said, "Henry's got an op he wants to talk about, Joe." Pults shut his door and gestured for them to sit. "Shoot." It took but five minutes for Henry to make his pitch. "It's dicey, but if we pulled it off-"

"Jesus, Henry, I don't know what to say. What's your time line?"

"It should happen within the next couple of months-plenty of time if we move quickly." "And your people?"

"I'm on a leave of absence."

Pults thought for a moment, then nodded. "Dulles is traveling. Let's talk to Beetle."

Walter Bedell "Beetle" Smith, former chief of staff to Eisenhower at SHAEF, had been appointed CIA director by Truman. Smith was a soldier at heart and Henry hoped that attitude would work in his favor. Smith listened to his plan, then said, "God, man, do you have a death wish?"

Standing against the wall, Lucille and Joe shuffled nervously. Henry simply smiled.

"Apologies," Smith said. "Okay, how many contacts?"

"Three." Henry gave him the names. "I doubt I'll have time to reach any more than that."

"You'd have to lay the groundwork just right."

"Yes."

"I know you speak German. How about Russian?"

"Ya ischu devushku, kotoraya khochet lyubit i bit lyubimoy." I am looking for a girl who wants to love and be loved.

"Aren't we all," Smith replied. "You'd go naked?"

"Naked" meant without diplomatic cover. If captured, he'd be executed. "It's the only way," Henry said.

"Timeline?"

"Two weeks of prep here and three days on the ground." "Tight schedule."

"I doubt they'll leave me alone any longer than that."

"Probably right." Smith gazed out the window for a moment. "You're sure about this?"

"General, we know they're coming sooner or later," Henry replied. "This is a golden opportunity."

"You have family?"

"My wife and I divorced in forty-two. My son, Owen, is twelve. His stepfather's a decent sort." And I wasn't, Henry thought. Not much of a husband and not much of a father. Since '39 he'd been gone more than home.

"Still," Smith said, "they-"

"They won't miss me, General. Let me do this. Please. It could make a difference."

"I'll have to run it by Ike." Eisenhower, who had been elected a week earlier, was in transition, preparing for his January inauguration. "In the meantime, Joe, you and Lucille get to work. Anything Henry needs, give it to him."

Ten days later Henry's cover, backstop documents, communication protocols and route were in place. The cornerstone of the plan, an executive secretary at the GSFG, or Group of Soviet Forces Germany, headquartered in Zossen-Wunsdorf, was being prepped by her CIA handler.

Two weeks after arriving in Washington, Henry landed at Tempelhof Airport and took a taxi to the CIA station on Baer-wald Strasse, where he spent an hour with the chief of station. By dusk he was pulling up to the East German checkpoint at Chausseestrasse in the French-controlled sector.

He coasted to a stop before the barrier. On either side concertina razor wire stretched into the twilight, winking in the arc lights. A guard appeared beside the window and asked for his papers while two more circled his car.

"You are French?" the guard said in stilted English, the default language used at checkpoints.

"Oui-yes."

"Your purpose here?"

"It's in the letter. I'm a consultant with COMECON," Henry replied, referring to the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance. This alone would pique the immediate attention of the Stasi-the East German secret police-and the MgB-the current version of the Soviet's Ministry of State Security-but it couldn't be helped.

The guard handed his papers back. "Proceed."

The barrier swung upward and Henry drove into the Soviet Occupation Zone.

Having worked in Berlin since the end of the war, he knew its nooks and crannies. Even in the dark, the bleakness of the Soviet sector was palpable: buildings gray, streets gray, streetlights muted in the cold drizzle. It was as if the occupation had leached all the color from the landscape. In every vacant lot stood mountains of rubble from the bombing raids seven years earlier, and most structures still showed signs of war: bullet holes, gaping wounds from artillery, facades crumbling onto sidewalks. Here and there people walked in threadbare coats, heads down as they hurried home or nowhere. How many? he wondered. At last estimate, the Stasi had 50,000 agents and 125,000 informants throughout East Germany. One in six people on the street were Stasi.

The question was, could he do the job before they moved on him?

Henry had no trouble finding the safe house, an apartment off Wilhelm Pieck Strasse. He parked down the block and circled on foot to ensure he hadn't picked up any watchers, then climbed the alley stairs to the door and knocked. A female voice said, "Ja?" The language was German, the accent Russian. "Herr Thomas?"