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him of that
fact.
    No office.
    No aides.
    Just him and the
most powerful man in the Soviet Union.
    Aleksander forced
his thoughts back to the present and the raucous East German club. He
maintained a continuous watch on the crowded discotheque, eyes darting,
searching for potential threats. The notion that the Undersecretary for Domestic
Affairs, the very definition of an anonymous apparatchik, would recognize a
threat even if it stood before him and announced itself, was laughable.
Aleksander knew this, yet he could not stop himself.
    In his obsessive
concern for security, Aleksander almost missed the blocky figure of the barmaid
approaching his table. She asked him a question, which was lost in the din of the
club and the uncertainty of a foreign language, and Aleksander nodded, handing
her his empty glass. He assumed she must have asked if he wanted another drink,
which he most certainly did. What else could it be?
    The barmaid took
his glass and clomped away. Standing directly behind her, completely hidden by
her bulk until she stepped around him, was a smallish, unassuming-looking man,
dressed casually, with a receding head of buzz-cut sandy hair and a pale face
dominated by black horn-rimmed glasses. And a jagged scar running diagonally
down his right cheek. In his hand he clutched a glass of clear liquid,
presumably vodka.
    The man nodded at
Aleksander, then sat across the small table without waiting to be invited. “It
has been a long time, Dolph,” he said with a tight-lipped smile.
    Aleksander stared
at the man, nerves tightening. He was supposed to respond. Call the man by a
code name. What was it? He had been rehearsing it a moment ago and now it was
gone.
    The man’s eyes
narrowed at him and sweat broke out on Aleksander’s forehead. He felt as though
he might suffer a heart attack. Then he remembered. “Henrik!” he burst out. “It
is wonderful to see you, Henrik.”
    The stranger
relaxed and leaned across the table, waiting to speak until Aleksander had
leaned forward as well, then said softly, “Do you have the item?” His Russian
was flawless.
    The barmaid
returned with his drink and Aleksander remained quiet while she dropped the
glass onto the table, vodka slopping over the side. As her hefty form plowed
back through the crowd toward the bar—Aleksander could not help picturing a
gigantic Tupolev airplane steaming down the runway for takeoff—he turned his
attention back to his new friend. The man sat drumming his fingers.
    Aleksander nodded.
“Da. I have it.”
    He reached into
his breast pocket for the envelope before realizing how conspicuous it would
look for him to withdraw the item here in the tavern and pass it across the
table to his contact. Although no one seemed to be paying attention to them,
Aleksander knew someone would remember once the KGB started questioning
people. The KGB could be very persuasive.
    Suddenly
terrified, Aleksander froze, hand on the envelope sticking out of his pocket.
What should he do? How could he avoid becoming the object of everyone’s attention
and still complete the mission Mikhail Gorbachev had entrusted to him? The
Soviet leader was not someone to be trifled with. In his own way he was as
imposing and intimidating as the faceless killers of the KGB. One didn’t rise
to the position of General Secretary of the Communist Party without possessing
an iron will and a ruthless efficiency.
    The contact saved
him. He smiled reassuringly, rising and leaning over the table, clapping
Aleksander on the shoulder with one hand and deftly plucking the envelope from
Aleksander’s pocket with his other. The envelope disappeared in an impressive
sleight of hand, one worthy of a professional pickpocket. “You’re doing fine,”
the man said, again in Russian, as he eased back into his chair. He had clearly
been briefed he would be dealing with a novice.
    Then he continued,
speaking quietly. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’ll share a
drink and