Free Shadow of the Condor by James Grady

learned of anything being done. So it's up to us to try to patch the whole mess together."
    "To us, sir?"
    "Well, we handle part of it. Day after tomorrow we're sending over another operative. The first one couldn’t complete the mission. Since we don't think the Americans know what is going on, Moscow decided to risk one more man. I don't know what could be worth that, but that is probably just as well. In any event, we're shipping the man out through the Berlin run on Tuesday."
    "Underground?"
    "No, he's taking the morning flight through to London , then Canada . From then on ifs someone elses worry. We just have to make sure he boards that plane."
    "We can do that, sir," Illyia said confidently, very carefully keeping triumph out of his voice. Tuesday. He had plenty of time.
    "I hope so, Myia," replied the commander slowly, "I hope so. I'm very tired. Could you fix me some more tea, please? Then perhaps we should get back to work." ,
    "With pleasure, Comrade Captain, with pleasure." Illyia hummed softly while he prepared the tea. He had already done a fine night's work.
    A fairly stable clientele frequents the small bar just off West Berlin 's major business district. Soldiers from the four Allied nations rarely come, partly because few young, single frauleins patronize the establishment. The bar isn’t ritzy enough to attract numbers of successful businessmen or tacky enough to attract some of Berlin 's less desirable people. The crowd is mostly middle class, clerical workers, traveling salesmen and commuters who seek a place to rest before catching a shuttle flight or a bus to one of the neighborhoods on the city's tightly patrolled fringe. In London the bar would be the neighborhood pub acclaimed in Sunday journals. In America it would be a roadside tavern in suburbia. In Berlin it is just another Stube. Berlin probably has more spies per square mile than any other city in the world, but neither American nor West German security services list this particular bar as a favorite hangout for espionage agents. While Malcolm flew to Montana and Myia pumped his superior -on the other side of the Berlin Wall, two spies met in that small Berlin bar.
    The first spy was Kevin Powell. He had arrived in Berlin the day before, after spending two fruitldss days in London searching for a clue to Parkins' death. He found none. Parkins' case officer in London contacted an Air Force Intelligence operative stationed in Berlin who had once worked a great deal with the dead man. Parkins' former partner was the other spy in the Berlin bar, and he was the sole reason Kevin had come to Berlin .
    "Shame about old Parky," said the other man -softly, a rotten shame. How did he die?"
    Kevin looked at the small man seated opposite him. Kevin hadn't liked the man's choice for a meeting place, but he wanted to keep the operative as relaxed as possible so anything he knew would be easier to discover. Kevin swore softly to himself. The man was another one of the general's, blundering heroes.
    "You don't want to know," Kevin said firmly, "and, as you probably already know, security would keep me from telling you even if I know."
    The man understood the rebuke. He stiffened noticeably. It wasn't every day a senior officer in AFI flew all the way to Germany to question him about a dead co-worker. "Sorry, just curious. You can't blame me. I mean, after all, I did work with the guy for six months one year and off and on since we've been in the European section."
    Kevin smiled, deliberately emitting warmth. "I understand, I'm banking on you knowing a lot about him. I want you to tell me about him, everything and anything you can think of. Start with when you first met him, cover the missions you went on together, tell me about his homelife, what he did in his off-hours, his opinions---"pecially about work-what you know about the way he operated, everything. I especially need any information about things he was on in the last six months. His reports to his