Countdown by David Hagberg Page A

included a summary of his … feats.”
    â€œWho is he?”
    â€œHe’s been called the chameleon, because he can be or do damned near everything. His real name is Arkady Aleksandrovich Kurshin.”
    â€œWhat’s he done now that has you coming here to me?”
    â€œWe tracked him as far as Marseille, and it looked as if he was getting set to come up here.”
    â€œBut?”
    â€œHe killed two of our people and then disappeared. Not a trace.”
    â€œHe’s come out to do something for Baranov?”

    â€œPresumably. Baranov was spotted two weeks ago in East Berlin, at the same time, we believe, this Kurshin was there.”
    â€œOne man …” McGarvey mused.
    â€œOne man,” Trotter said. “He has us worried because he’s … an assassin. The very best in the business. And when a man like him goes on the move, and then disappears, it gets us all worried. Find him, Kirk. Stop him. Find out what he’s up to. And quickly.”

6
    ABOARD THE TRANSPORTER
    ARKADY KURSHIN WAS just a little surprised that they had actually gotten this far, though he was professional enough not to show it.
    â€œTrust in me, Arkasha,” Baranov had told him warmly that night in East Berlin.
    Kurshin could almost trust in the man, though at this moment he knew that he was closer to death than he’d ever been in his life. He had little doubt that they would be able to pull this off, but it was afterward that weighed on his mind. Their escape. It
was typical of Yegorov not to care, not to look beyond the immediacy of the situation, and the East German was such a cold fish that it was impossible ever to tell what he was thinking. But Kurshin worried about the future … his future.
    They were racing down the autobahn, heading north at eighty miles per hour. It had been nearly twenty minutes since the missile bay doors had rumbled open and still no one had come after them, nor had Ramstein Missile Control answered their query.
    Traffic was heavy, but no one passed them, so that the road ahead was clear. The speed limit even on an autobahn, this close to a city, was 120 kilometers per hour, which was about 75 miles per hour. On the opposite side of the median strip, southbound traffic moved at a normal rate. The sight of a missile transporter on the highway was nothing unusual. Germans had seen it often.
    â€œWhiz Bang, this is Flybaby Six-P-Two,” Kurshin radioed again.
    Yegorov motioned toward the skyward radar. “We’ve got company,” he said tersely.
    The radar showed two strong targets incoming from the base, flying low and relatively slow. They were helicopters, Kurshin figured. He was about to key the microphone when the radio blared.
    â€œFlybaby Six-P-Two, this is Whiz Bang. Colonel, what in hell are you doing?”
    â€œWho is this speaking?” Kurshin asked calmly.
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, stand down immediately. Do you realize what you’re toting around out there?”
    â€œI repeat,” Kurshin radioed. “Who am I speaking to?”
    There was a pause. “This is Whiz Bang, goddamnit. Officer of the Day, Captain Gerry Stewart. And I repeat, sir, stand down. Pull over to the side of the road immediately.”
    Kurshin glanced again at the tiny radar screen. The two blips appeared to be directly behind them. He keyed the radio.
    â€œListen closely now, Captain Stewart, because I’m not going to repeat myself again, and there are a lot of lives at stake here, so I don’t want you making any mistakes. Are you ready to copy?”
    Again the radio was silent for a long second or two.
    â€œWe’re coming up on our turn,” Yegorov said beside him.

    â€œSlow it down a little,” Kurshin replied, keeping his eye on the radar screen.
    â€œYou’ve hijacked a missile,” Captain Stewart radioed shakily. “Do you know what that means? And Major McCann. He’s