Parallax View Read Online Free PDF

north after leaving the club—not that
he would have gotten far before being intercepted by the KGB. The alley opened
onto a quiet street one block south of the bar. A pedestrian glanced at her
suspiciously but kept walking. If he noticed the blood staining her leather
pants he kept it to himself. Your lucky night, pal, Tracie thought
grimly.
    She turned a
corner and walked a hundred yards. Parked at the curb was a battered
Volkswagen, at least two decades old. Tracie yanked the door open and eased
into the driver’s seat. She sank into the worn fabric and rested her head
against the steering wheel, breathing deeply in and out, adrenaline still coursing
through her body. Then she started the car. She flicked the headlights on and drove
slowly away.
     
     
    7
    Berlin, GDR
    May 29, 1987, 11:25 p.m.
    After his contact had departed,
Aleksander savored the relief he now felt. He took a deep pull on his vodka and
smiled. It wasn’t up to Russian standards, but it was better than he had expected
to find in Germany.
    He wondered how
long he should wait before departing. His contact had said “a few minutes,” and
Aleksander wanted nothing more than to leave this club behind and get on with
his life.
    He tried not to
think about the envelope, but couldn’t help it. General Secretary Gorbachev had
indicated it would eventually be delivered to the Americans , of all
people, which was strange, but Aleksander didn’t claim to know anything about
international diplomacy. Didn’t want to, either. If Comrade Gorbachev wanted
the Americans to have the envelope, and was willing to go to such great lengths
to conceal its contents from the KGB, who was Aleksander to question the
decision?
    He shrugged. It
was no longer his problem to deal with. The damned envelope was out of his
possession. He had done what was asked of him, had performed admirably, he
hoped, in service to his country and the Communist Party, and could finally
relax. He looked at his watch and decided enough time had passed for his
contact to have disappeared into the night.
    Aleksander
finished his vodka—was that his third or fourth glass? Fifth?—and slammed it
down on the tiny table before struggling to his feet, swaying unsteadily. The
German vodka may have been a poor substitute for the real thing, but it still
packed a satisfying wallop. He placed some of that phony-looking GDR money
under his glass and staggered through the crowd, unnoticed and unimpeded, just
another Friday night drinker on his way home to face the wrath of his frau.
    Aleksander pushed through
the door into the cool German night. The stars glittered overhead and a light
breeze caressed his flushed face. He felt light-headed, more than he should
after just a few glasses of vodka, and decided it was due to lack of sleep and
the tremendous strain he had been operating under. But that didn’t matter now.
He had done his duty and was in the clear.
    He turned right
and staggered unsteadily along the dimly lit sidewalk, occasionally
sidestepping an onrushing pedestrian or couple walking arm-in-arm. Tomorrow he
would take a cab to the airport and fly home to Moscow and the reassuring
monotony of his bureaucratic life. Tonight, though, he walked unhurriedly,
enjoying the fantasy he had constructed in his alcohol-addled mind. He was a
superspy, a man counted on by all of Mother Russia, indeed, all of the USSR, to
keep the empire safe. He felled all enemies of the state and was treated like
royalty by the Supreme Soviet. He was James Bond, only on the proper side of
the equation.
    It was an
enjoyable fantasy, and Aleksander was lost in it when two men overtook him from
behind. They were on him before he knew what was happening, and when they
reached him, each one grabbed an elbow in a vice-like grip and propelled him
forward. “Do not say a word,” the man on his right side whispered fiercely into
his ear in Russian, and Aleksander did not say a word.
    He risked a quick
glance to his right and then