Eyssen screamed the orders, a rear right tire blew apart, spewing rubber all over the blacktop. The Mercedes veered sharply to the left, rammed into that side of the bridge, bounced off, and swaying crazily, careened toward the opposite side, its left flank even more exposed to the line of fire.
Mere feet from the bridge’s midpoint, from West Berlin. You’re so damn close, Stepan.
Houston choked as abright green tracer round connected with the Mercedes’ gas tank just as the car smashed into Glienicker Bridge’s unforgiving steel.
Gas-fueled flames engulfed the Mercedes and enveloped the steel bridge supports. The smell of burning rubber was overpowering.
Debris fell on the inert form of Stepan Brodsky. He had been thrown clear.
“ Feuer einstellen! ” Cease fire!
In the din of wailing sirens and the confusion of shouted orders, two men raced for the burning wreck, their footsteps swallowed by the engine of an East German patrol boat hovering beneath Glienicker Bridge.
Paul Houston got there just before Ernst Roeder.
Brodsky was crawling through spilled gasoline and his own blood.
His body was twisted like a piece of charred steel. One outstretched hand slowly reached for a small object that had spilled from his pocket. It was lying between him and the edge of the bridge a few inches away.
Brodsky slid forward on his chest, touched metal.
Before Houston could retrieve Brodsky’s cigarette lighter, a black boot nudged it barely out of Stepan’s reach.
“You sadistic sonofabitch!” Seizing a broken piece of the car’s bumper, Houston swung—just missing von Eyssen’s head.
Clicking his heels in mock deference, a smiling von Eyssen joined the men now swarming over the bridge.
Houston knelt down. He started to reach for Brodsky’s lighter when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Watch my back,” Ernst Roeder muttered as he slipped a smooth silver object from his jacket pocket—a Minox miniature camera no more than a few inches long. Concealing it in one oversized hand, he took three surreptitious photographs in rapid succession before returning the camera to his pocket.
Then, “Good lord, he’s still alive,” Roeder whispered.
Houston made a grab for the lighter. But not in time.
With what seemed like a last burst of energy, Brodsky pushed his cigarette lighter over the edge of the bridge.
Then his hand lay still.
Chapter 13
A t the same time Stepan Brodsky lay dying on Glienicker Bridge, in Manhattan black-booted men in loose white tunics and red sashes performed deep knee bends and gravity-defying leaps as they formed a large loose circle. Inside the circle, young barelegged women whirled, red-and-black peasant skirts whipping above their knees. The exuberant cries of the dancers threatened to drown out the cheerful strains of an accordion. Suddenly the men and women broke into a heel-stamping finale, then bowed and waved at the crowd in traditional Russian fashion.
About twenty-five fashionably-dressed people stood in a walled-in garden half the size of a basketball court. Tall-stemmed sunflowers and stately shade trees ran along the walls all the way to the East River. They stood looking up at Grace Manning, their blonde blue-eyed hostess, as if waiting for permission to applaud the dancers.
Grace stood in front of a brass and teak bar, a fetching picture in a red-and-black peasant blouse and matching skirt identical to the women dancers.“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, tapping a thin brass knife against a red goblet; pausing until she had complete silence. “Thanks are in order to the ambassador of the Soviet U.N. Mission for this combination May Day celebration and sneak preview of tomorrow night’s gala opening at Lincoln Center. But before we treat ourselves to some tantalizing Russian delicacies, every recipe courtesy of the Soviet U. N. Mission”—she gestured toward a sumptuous buffet table—“I should like to propose toast.”
On cue, butlers appeared with trays
Mere feet from the bridge’s midpoint, from West Berlin. You’re so damn close, Stepan.
Houston choked as abright green tracer round connected with the Mercedes’ gas tank just as the car smashed into Glienicker Bridge’s unforgiving steel.
Gas-fueled flames engulfed the Mercedes and enveloped the steel bridge supports. The smell of burning rubber was overpowering.
Debris fell on the inert form of Stepan Brodsky. He had been thrown clear.
“ Feuer einstellen! ” Cease fire!
In the din of wailing sirens and the confusion of shouted orders, two men raced for the burning wreck, their footsteps swallowed by the engine of an East German patrol boat hovering beneath Glienicker Bridge.
Paul Houston got there just before Ernst Roeder.
Brodsky was crawling through spilled gasoline and his own blood.
His body was twisted like a piece of charred steel. One outstretched hand slowly reached for a small object that had spilled from his pocket. It was lying between him and the edge of the bridge a few inches away.
Brodsky slid forward on his chest, touched metal.
Before Houston could retrieve Brodsky’s cigarette lighter, a black boot nudged it barely out of Stepan’s reach.
“You sadistic sonofabitch!” Seizing a broken piece of the car’s bumper, Houston swung—just missing von Eyssen’s head.
Clicking his heels in mock deference, a smiling von Eyssen joined the men now swarming over the bridge.
Houston knelt down. He started to reach for Brodsky’s lighter when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Watch my back,” Ernst Roeder muttered as he slipped a smooth silver object from his jacket pocket—a Minox miniature camera no more than a few inches long. Concealing it in one oversized hand, he took three surreptitious photographs in rapid succession before returning the camera to his pocket.
Then, “Good lord, he’s still alive,” Roeder whispered.
Houston made a grab for the lighter. But not in time.
With what seemed like a last burst of energy, Brodsky pushed his cigarette lighter over the edge of the bridge.
Then his hand lay still.
Chapter 13
A t the same time Stepan Brodsky lay dying on Glienicker Bridge, in Manhattan black-booted men in loose white tunics and red sashes performed deep knee bends and gravity-defying leaps as they formed a large loose circle. Inside the circle, young barelegged women whirled, red-and-black peasant skirts whipping above their knees. The exuberant cries of the dancers threatened to drown out the cheerful strains of an accordion. Suddenly the men and women broke into a heel-stamping finale, then bowed and waved at the crowd in traditional Russian fashion.
About twenty-five fashionably-dressed people stood in a walled-in garden half the size of a basketball court. Tall-stemmed sunflowers and stately shade trees ran along the walls all the way to the East River. They stood looking up at Grace Manning, their blonde blue-eyed hostess, as if waiting for permission to applaud the dancers.
Grace stood in front of a brass and teak bar, a fetching picture in a red-and-black peasant blouse and matching skirt identical to the women dancers.“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, tapping a thin brass knife against a red goblet; pausing until she had complete silence. “Thanks are in order to the ambassador of the Soviet U.N. Mission for this combination May Day celebration and sneak preview of tomorrow night’s gala opening at Lincoln Center. But before we treat ourselves to some tantalizing Russian delicacies, every recipe courtesy of the Soviet U. N. Mission”—she gestured toward a sumptuous buffet table—“I should like to propose toast.”
On cue, butlers appeared with trays
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