Chapter IV

Bonn, Germany

CHARLES PRITCHETT ADJUSTED his eye patch and rubbed his forehead as he studied a report from the Berlin office. As if launching a few super assassins into the wild to track down CIA agents wasn’t enough, Pritchett also had to deal with a burgeoning problem from the Berlin embassy where an agent discovered a KGB listening device embedded in the ambassador’s desk. No one knew exactly how long it had been there or who had been compromised as a result, but Washington was up in arms over how such a thing could happen.

Pritchett sighed as he read the painful report regarding how the KGB likely planted the device. With each passing paragraph, he wondered if this incident might absolve The Thing as the KGB’s greatest triumph over the U.S. in the intelligence war. Regardless of where the incident fell among the CIA’s greatest blunders, someone had to deal with the fallout—and as dicey of a situation as it was, it still paled in comparison to the looming threat from the KGB’s latest weapon of super assassins.

When Pritchett first heard that term, he scoffed.

“Who gets to decide who is super and who’s not?” he asked in a meeting. His question was met with a terse response and a folder slid down the table toward him. The report inside documented several key U.S. allies in the business sector who had been vocal in their opposition to Russia. Within the past week, three men were dead—all under suspicious circumstances.

“This sounds like some drummed up conspiracy, like all those nuts who think JFK was killed by some shooter on the grassy knoll or that the CIA was orchestrating the entire thing. It’s just absurd.”

“Aren’t you the one who says there are no coincidences?” one of the agents at the table asked. “If you truly believe that, you can’t dismiss what’s happening out there. These assassins might be the best we’ve ever encountered.”

Pritchett glared at the agent, unappreciative of getting called out in such a public manner. But the man was right—Pritchett didn’t believe in coincidences. If he was honest with himself, he simply didn’t like the fact that the KGB had a leg up on the CIA, not to mention that he was being targeted.

He scratched his chin with his hook and scanned the room. “In that case, you work up several responses we can make to mitigate these assassins, both foreign and domestically, and I’ll pass them along.”

After the meeting, Pritchett retreated to his office, where he seethed in silence. He wasn’t alone for more than a minute before Maddux rapped on the door.

“Yeah,” Pritchett grumbled.

“Got a minute, boss?” Ed Maddux asked, poking his head inside the room.

“So you made it back,” Pritchett said.

“Barely. Someone started shooting at me and Kensington while we were out on the water.”

“One of those assassins made you?”

“Apparently. We both got out of there as quickly as we could. If it hadn’t been for the choppy waves that night, I might be shark chum right now.”

“Have a seat,” Pritchett said, gesturing toward the chair across from his desk.

Maddux closed the door and sat down across from Pritchett.

“Tell me what you learned,” Pritchett said.

“We’ve got our work cut out or us, that’s for sure. But I think I know who the super assassin is who is supposedly coming after you.”

“How the hell did you figure that out?”

Maddux reached into his pocket and produced the picture Kensington had given him. “Do you recognize this fellow?”

Pritchett picked it up and squinted with his good eye at the image. After several seconds, he shook his head.

“Who is that?”

“Gunnar Andersson of Grand Prix fame.”

Pritchett grunted. “I’m not a fan of racing. It’s a silly sport, if you can even call it that.”

“Be that as it may, the picture Kensington found from the training ground contained a photo of this guy doing plenty of amazing stunts. He’s a real athlete, not just some guy who can mash a pedal to the floorboard and steer a car.”

“Kensington is sure this is the guy?”

Maddux nodded. “Not a hundred percent, but close enough. He placed it at ninety-five percent.”

“Those are good odds.”

“Even better than that is the fact that Andersson is in the area for the next few days testing his car at Nordschleife.”

Pritchett took a deep breath. “In that case, I have an idea. While you were gone, I started to wonder about the mole. I know it’s not you, but I can’t be sure about anyone else—anyone. So, let’s take an opportunity to flush out Medved and the mole at the same time.”

“What do you propose?”

“We tell the entire team of my whereabouts tonight for a dinner engagement. I’ll be there as a guest of the U.S. ambassador as we discuss more investment opportunities here in Germany with the mayor of Bonn in a private room at a local biergarten. You’ll be the only one there, working undercover to see if Medved shows up.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll know the mole isn’t in this office. But if he does make an appearance, you’ll have to apprehend him. We’ll figure out the rest from there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

LATER THAT EVENING, Maddux took up a position in a vacant apartment across the street from the restaurant where Pritchett was dining with the ambassador, Richard Billups, and the mayor of Bonn, Dr. Wilhelm Daniels. Pritchett’s official cover was that he was a business consultant for the U.S. embassy in Bonn and worked closely with Billups to develop opportunities for American investment. Pritchett’s resume was a complete fabrication, though verifiable to outsiders due to the CIA’s extensive counterintelligence division. Daniels had been a close ally with President Kennedy and even hosted the popular leader on one occasion.

While the conversation appeared jovial from Maddux’s vantage point, he marveled at how Pritchett was putting on quite a show.

Pritchett looks like he’s really enjoying himself.

But Maddux knew better. The old man’s stomach was undoubtedly wadded up in knots as he awaited the infamous Medved to strike, possibly killing him. Yet, no one appeared even close to Andersson’s stature. Even out on the street, the restaurant was devoid of any suspicious activities.

Maddux checked his watch periodically, until the trio arose from the table and headed for the door. Rushing downstairs to keep an eye on them when they hit the street, Maddux emerged from the apartment building just moments before Pritchett and company.

Still no sign of Andersson—or anyone resembling him.

Maddux kept his distance from Pritchett for several blocks until the station chief was all alone. Maddux hustled to catch up.

Pritchett spun around just before Maddux arrived.

“Well, did you see him?”

Maddux shook his head and kept walking, trying to keep pace with Pritchett. “I think you’re free and clear.”

“Maybe, or maybe they were just waiting for another opportunity.”

“If Andersson is Medved and we have a mole in our office, there would’ve never been a better time to strike than at that meeting. He could’ve killed three high-profile officials, all adversarial toward Russia, in one fell swoop.”

Pritchett shook his head. “I don’t think that’s how these assassins work. An attack like that would engender sympathy for us, backfiring on the KGB.

“If he’s going to kill you, it needs to be done discreetly.”

“So, what are you doing here talking with me?”

Maddux slowed his pace as Pritchett did. “I’m here a part of your security detail. We wanted to use you as bait, not throw you to the wolves.”

“Bear,” Pritchett corrected. “You’re throwing me to the Russian Bear.”

“You know what I mean.”

Pritchett nodded. “This was all an experiment anyway to find out if we had a mole.”

“And draw out Medved.”

“Well, the two are inextricably linked.”

“Not necessarily. Medved could come after you later. Maybe he just had you under surveillance tonight.”

Pritchett stopped. “Look, we can conjecture all night long. The bottom line is nothing happened, even when Medved supposedly had a great opportunity to score a big win for the KGB.”

Pritchett resumed walking, increasing his pace. Maddux hustled to keep up.

“I think we need to know for sure if Gunnar Andersson is Medved before we draw any conclusions about what happened tonight.”

“What do you suggest then?”

“The Monte Carlo Grand Prix is coming up. It’d be a good excuse for me to go to Monaco and speak with some of the drivers on behalf of Opel. We may need some new drivers for an upcoming advertising campaign we’re about to embark upon.”

“Why not go visit Andersson at Nordschleife?”

“That’d be too conspicuous. I can’t even pretend to have a legitimate excuse if I go out there tomorrow.”

“You’ve convinced me,” Pritchett said. “Go make it happen.”

* * *

PRITCHETT AMBLED HOME with Maddux a few meters behind. Once Pritchett hit the door to his apartment building, he entered and didn’t even turn around to see were Maddux was. That snub was by design since they didn’t want anyone else to think they were acquaintances.

Pritchett trudged up the steps, dropping his guard as he considered all the different possibilities surrounding Medved’s true identity and the uncertainty felt by leading a CIA station that may or may not contain a mole. But Pritchett snapped back to the present when he heard the clicking of heels against the cement steps behind him.

Footsteps in the hallway were normal for this time in the evening as weary workers straggled home. But Pritchett could identify almost every man living in the building by the sound they made while walking up the stairs. With his vision dulled after the loss of sight in one eye, he experienced a heightened ability when it came to his hearing. And whoever was behind him, he knew it wasn’t one of the regular tenants.

Pritchett reached the landing that led to his floor, but he continued upward. Losing a tail was a skill he excelled at. If he had exited the stairwell on the same level as his apartment, he would’ve made it easier for the mystery stalker. Instead, Pritchett went to the top floor before dashing down the hallway toward the other stairwell on the opposite end of the building and descending to his floor.

The plan worked as Pritchett had hoped. He unlocked the door to his apartment and hustled inside. Collapsing on the couch, his heart was still thumping from the escape.

Was he being tailed by Medved? Pritchett couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that whoever was behind him was a newcomer.

He took a deep breath and waited for the phone to ring.

Five minutes later, he jumped when Maddux called.

“Did you see him?” Maddux asked.

“I couldn’t make him out,” Pritchett said. “It was too dark, but the man didn’t look as tall as Gunnar Andersson. It’s not much, but that’s what I gleaned from the situation.”

“He gave you the slip?”

“Big time. I’m not sure he suspected he was being watched until he reached the top flight of stairs. He stopped abruptly, breaking the cadence I was using to match my footsteps with his.”

“Did you see him leave the building?”

“I watched him vanish along the sidewalk. I tried to follow, but he blended into a handful of workers going home for the day. Sorry, chief. I did everything I could.”

“No worries. I might have to mix up my routine even more for the next few days until we catch him.”

Pritchett hung up, resisting the temptation to venture over to the window and watch the people of Bonn scurry home like he did every night. A creature of habit, Pritchett would have to stay on his toes at least until they knew Andersson was out of the area and back on the racing circuit hundreds of miles away somewhere.

Based off Maddux’s comment, Pritchett wasn’t convinced Andersson was Medved. But maybe Andersson was the assassin assigned to target Pritchett.

While the plan Pritchett executed was designed to answer some nagging questions, he ended up only raising more.