Any name other than "Thomas" would have been the wave-off: run and don't come back.

Henry gave the correct response and the door swung open.

The agent known as ADEX was tall, blond and full figured. Henry had no idea what had motivated her to turn-likely one of the MICE: money, ideology, compromise or coercion-and he didn't care. Lucille and Joe had vouched for the handler, and the handler had vouched for ADEX. For the last four years she'd served in Logistics and Travel at GSFG.

"Welcome," she said. "My name is-"

"I don't want to know your name."

"Oh. Yes, of course. Come in."

Henry was in a hurry, but she wanted to chat. Most of them did. Isolation and fear were common among agents, especially here.

After twenty minutes, she gave him the dossier. He asked her to make some tea, then scanned the file and put the details to memory. He walked to the woodstove and tossed the file inside.

"How did you come across this information?" he asked.

"Gossip, expense reports, that sort of thing. They come for meetings several times a week. What can I say? They like to talk." She smiled coyly and sipped her tea.

And more, perhaps, Henry thought. Sexpionage at its best. "And the other thing?"

Using her index and middle fingers, she mimed scissors. "Snip, snip. Done. Took it from his belt."

They chatted for a few more minutes, then Henry slid a folded newspaper across the table. Inside was an envelope. "Papers. You're leaving tonight. You'll be met on-"

"What? Tonight? Why?"

"If you stay, you'll be arrested. From here you'll walk to the eastern end of Prenzlauer Allee and stop. You'll hold the newspaper in your left hand. You'll be met." In fact, ADEX would be watched from the moment she stepped outside. If she deviated, she'd be snatched off the street. "Repeat that," he said.

"Prenzlauer Allee, eastern end, newspaper in my left hand."

"Good. Better get going."

She left. Henry finished his tea, then stretched out on the trundle bed and slept.

He awoke at two, left the apartment and started driving south. On the outskirts of the city he made his first mistake, speeding through a stop sign within sight of a Volkspolizei car. He pulled to the curb and waited as the VoPo officer checked his papers, asked his destination and gave him a lecture before sending him on his way.

He spent the remainder of the night touring the German countryside, heading south and east, killing time. Two hours before dawn he reached Magdeburg and spent an hour servicing the dead drops. There was nothing to pick up, only drop off. Next he followed his map to Kleingarten, a park along the banks of Lake Neustadter. He parked, then ducked into a bus hut overlooking the path and waited.

His contact was on schedule. Colonel General Vasily Sergeye-vich Belikov, hero of the Great Patriotic War and Commander of the Third Shock Combined Arms Red Banner Army, was a man of habit. Every morning without fail he walked his borzoi around Lake Neustadter.

Henry waited until Belikov was three hundred yards away then flipped up his collar and stepped onto the path. Hoarfrost coated the grass, and his footsteps kicked up billows of ice crystals that glittered in the sun.

Belikov was accompanied by four guards, paratroopers from the Ninth Corp, two preceding him and two trailing. Henry let his shoulders droop and adopted a shuffling gait-another tired and overworked German. As he drew even with the leading guards, they frisked him, checked his papers, then sent him along. He could feel their eyes on him, guns at the ready should he take a step toward their charge.

As he passed Belikov he let the blue button slip from his fingers. He bent to pick it up and called out, "Entschuldigung Sie, bitte." Excuse me, please.

The general turned around. "Prastite?" in Russian, then in German: "Was?" What?

"You dropped this," Henry said, button extended.

Behind him Belikov's guards were trotting forward, machine guns coming up. Belikov raised a hand, halting them, then said to Henry, "Pardon?"

"There, from your coat belt. It must have fallen off."

Belikov glanced down at the coat. "Oh…yes." He took the button from Henry's hand. "Thank you." He turned and walked on.

He was back in Berlin by late morning. As he crossed the War-shauer Bridge over the Spree, he caught the first whiff of Stasi watchers: two cars, one leading him and a second trailing a hundred yards back. In his rearview mirror he saw the passenger raise a microphone to his mouth.

No question now. They were onto him and probably had been since Magdeburg. As he was still an unknown to them, the leash was loose, but that wouldn't last long.

He spent two hours driving around the city, playing the delicate game of surveillance/countersurveillance. If he knew how big the net was, he might gauge how long he had. Conversely, if they suspected he was dry-cleaning, they might scoop him up. For now, his role had to be that of the oblivious quarry.

He spent the afternoon at the Pieck safe house. At six o' clock he left the city and drove north forty miles to Furstenberg, where he parked on a side street. Night had fallen and the lights along Leibninstrasse shone like yellow beacons. Only an hour from Berlin, Furstenberg had a lighter feel and the people on the streets were animated. He found the pub, the Schwarz Katze, halfway down the block.

The bar was crowded with Russian soldiers, mostly tankers and Spetsnaz, the elite of the Soviet Special Forces. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, and in one corner a radio blared Russian folk music. Henry picked his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a beer. Two minutes later a pair of civilians in black leather coats walked in and took a table near the back.

More obvious now, Henry thought. Tightening the leash.

It took but thirty seconds for him to spot the man he was looking for. General Yuri Pavlovich Kondrash, commander of the Second Tank Guards Army and the Twentieth Guards Spetsnaz Diversionary Brigade, sat alone, hunched over a bottle of vodka. Henry walked over, offered him a cigarette and struck up a conversation: Where was the closest butcher shop? What month was the Marigold Festival held? How often did the train run to Blindow?

Kondrash's answers were curt, but Henry had what he needed.

He was back in Berlin by 10:00 p.m. On the road he'd picked up more watchers, six men in three cars, bringing the total to ten he could see, and probably another dozen he couldn't. They were growing aggressive now, the lead vehicle only ten feet off his rear bumper.

Not long now, he thought, checking his watch. God, let me finish.

Remarkably, the Schiffbauerdamm theater, overlooking the Spree River and within sight of the Brandenburg Gate, had survived the war largely unscathed. Since '48 it had become the de facto center for East Berlin culture, from opera to ballet to theater. Friday night was opera, and according to the playbill given to him by ADEX, tonight's production was Wagner's Tannhauser. Henry preferred a good western to the opera, but not so the man he'd come to see.

General Georgy Ivanovich Preminin, marshal of the Soviet Red Army and commander of the Group of Soviet Forces Germany, was Stalin's iron fist in East Germany. He was also the last piece of the puzzle Henry was hurrying to assemble.

He parked under a copse of linden trees behind a half-demolished church on Oranienburger Strasse and climbed out. The earlier drizzle had turned to freezing rain and the pellets ticked against the brim of his hat. He walked to the rear of the car and shined his penlight under the bumper. The transmitter was there, probably planted while he was in the Schwarz Katze. He ripped it off, crushed it under his heel and tossed the remains away. The move wouldn't save him, he knew, but it might buy him time as the Stasi quartered the area looking for his car.