The Last Spymaster

The Last Spymaster

ALSO BY
GAYLE LYNDS

Masquerade

Mosaic

Mesmerized

The Coil

With Robert Ludlum

The Hades Factor

The Paris Option

The Altman Code

Gayle Lynds

ST. MARTIN’S PRESS
NEW YORK

THE LAST SPYMASTER
. Copyright © 2006 by Gayle Hallenbeck Lynds. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lynds, Gayle.

The last spymaster / by Gayle Lynds.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-30159-0

ISBN-10: 0-312-30159-6

I. Title.

PS3562. Y442L96 2006

813'.54—dc22

2006042223

First Edition: June 2006

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my stepdaughter, Katie Lynds,
radiant with life, a beacon in the darkest night

I’m deeply indebted to a remarkable crew of experts who shared ideas, anecdotes, and varied experiences in and out of the covert world. Foremost is Robert Kresge, fellow novelist and founding member of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Unit. Others who gave unstinting research help are Julia Stone; Paul Stone, J.D.; Katrina Baum, Ph.D.; Deirdre Lynds; Katie Lynds; Philip Shelton; Theil Shelton; Kathleen Sharp; Lucy Jo Palladino, Ph.D.; Katherine Neville; Melodie Johnson Howe; Bones Howe; Raelynn Hillhouse, Ph.D.; Walter Davies; Julia Cunningham; Liz Bush; Matthias Bogucki; Ray Briare; Vicki Allen; and Joe Allen, J.D.

Toward the end of my finishing
The Last Spymaster
, my husband, novelist Dennis Lynds, died after a lengthy illness. He was my friend, my confidant, my private editor, my collaborator, and my love. His touch is evident on every page. I’m grateful for the years we had.

My respect for St. Martin’s Press only increases. Editor extraordinaire Keith Kahla read, edited, and brainstormed through several drafts with me. I will always be deeply appreciative not only for his publishing savvy and warmth, but for that of Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, Matthew Baldacci, Joan Higgins, John Murphy, Christina Harcar, Ronni Stolzenberg, Brian Heller, John Karle, Harriet Seltzer, and Gregory Gestner. Because of them, I am a very fortunate author.

My domestic literary agent, Henry Morrison, is an anchor in a swirling sea of change. My international literary agent, Danny Baror, speaks many languages, including those of the heart. My personal promotions guru, Deirdre Lynds, is a trailblazer and creative force and beloved stepdaughter. My webmaster, Greg Stephens, blends graphics and technology as only an artist of his sterling caliber can. My personal publicist, Sarie Morrell-Sanchez, is an entrepreneurial genius. My personal assistant, Barbara Toohey, is so adroit and smart that she makes getting organized fun—a true challenge.

In the middle of all of this, I somehow ended up cofounding International Thriller Writers Inc. (ITW) with grandmaster David Morrell. The board of directors and committee heads are a close team. We cover for one another during deadlines, tours, and unexpected interruptions. I’m proud to call them friends. Besides David and me (co-presidents), other ITW board members are David Dun, vice president; Lee Child; Tess Gerritsen; and M. J. Rose. Committee chairs are Steve Berry, Grant Blackwood, Lincoln Child, David Hewson, Raelynn Hillhouse, Gregg Hurwitz, Douglas Preston, James Rollins, and M. Diane Vogt.

Thank you, one and all. You enrich my life.

The Last Spymaster

November 16, 1985
Glienicke Bridge, between West Berlin and East Germany

The darkness seemed colder, more bitter, at Glienicke Bridge when a spy exchange was about to begin. Jay Tice shoved his hands deep into his topcoat pockets in a futile attempt to warm them as he scanned the forested hills and the steel-and-iron bridge, black and forbidding in the first rays of dawn.

Dusted with snow, two stone centaurs flanked the long expanse, towering over Tice’s armored sedan and the two battered U.S. Army trucks. On high alert, a dozen soldiers carrying M-16s and wearing pistols over their belted overcoats moved like shadows across the road and among the skeletal trees. The night’s snowfall had been light; still, it muffled the sounds of distant traffic.

Tice missed nothing, not the tension in his people’s faces, certainly not the Kalashnikov-toting East German soldiers on the far side of the bridge, who patrolled slowly, menacingly, in the gray light. They guarded Pavel Abendroth, the renowned dissident and Jewish refusenik, and his warden—Stasi officer Raina Manhardt.

Tice moved his gaze away. He was a rumpled man of thirty-four, just shy of six feet tall. His nose was straight, his hair brown and of average length, his mouth wide and implacable. Depending on the light, his eyes were blue or brown. His one distinctive feature was the deep cleft that notched his chin, which was dramatic. Still, Tice had perfected the art of appearing almost bloodless, clearly boring. Seldom did anyone remember him or his cleft chin—unless he wanted them to.

“Issa’a kaem?”
the voice beside him demanded.

With a sharp movement of his head, Tice peered at his half of the predawn swap—Faisal al-Hadi, a twenty-year-old Muslim militant caught in an arms deal Tice had busted. Standing motionless and straight as a knife, he was Tice’s height but narrow, with a high-bridged nose and bony features,
dressed in American jeans and a duffel coat. According to his dossier, he spoke English, but no one in the command had heard him use it. Oddly, al-Hadi had yet to look at the bridge. Those waiting to be traded tended to stare across it with raw hunger.

Tice checked his wristwatch.
“Issa’a 5:12. Da’ayi’ hidashar.”
The trade must begin in just eleven minutes so it would be finished by 5:42
A.M.
—sunrise.

This was Glienicker Brücke, “Bridge of Spies,” witness to many of the Cold War’s most crucial exchanges. It was a bridge leading nowhere, unused except for the infrequent official vehicle on a military mission between the Free West and the Communist East and the occasional vital spy swap. Some exchanges were notorious and covered by the press; others were secret, as was this one.

Before al-Hadi could respond, a car’s motor pierced the silence. Tice spun. Rifles lashed around. The engine was a deep purr—large and expensive, its timing impeccable. A Mercedes. As soon as Tice read the license plate, he waved an arm backward in a wide swing that those on both sides of the bridge could see, signaling everyone to stand down.

Wearing a camel-hair overcoat, Palmer Westwood stepped from the luxury car. His hair was thick and pepper gray, his features angular and grave. Fifty-two years old, Westwood was the CIA’s new Associate Deputy Director of Operations, the ADDO, just in from Langley. He was late.

As Westwood hurried toward them, he pulled out his pocket watch. The fob was a small gold triangle—flat, with two jagged edges. He checked the time then glanced at the terrorist. “Any trouble?”

“Quiet so far,” Tice told him. “We should go.”

Westwood nodded, and Tice signaled. The soldiers closed in. They advanced as a group, passing the sign that warned ominously in four languages:
YOU ARE LEAVING THE AMERICAN SECTOR
. The old steel bridge was radiant, ablaze in arc lights, stretching ahead more than four hundred feet.

For the first time, al-Hadi looked across. Then he stared as if he could not tear his gaze away, his black eyes burning with fury he could no longer hide. As Tice followed his line of sight, he began to understand the terrorist’s silence and apparent lack of interest.

“Come over here,” Tice ordered as they stopped at the edge. “Stay on my left.” The terrorist was right-handed.

Tice turned away so al-Hadi could not see as he unbuttoned his coat, pulled his pistol from the holster, and slid it into his waistband. He put another item into his left pocket. When he turned back, al-Hadi was in place. On either side, the dark forest was hushed, still, almost predatory.

Tice checked his watch again and gazed across just as Raina Manhardt peered up from hers. They nodded and stepped forward alone, two enemy intelligence officers doing their duty. Al-Hadi caught up with Tice, while Raina Manhardt slowed for Abendroth to join her. Jailed nine years in the gulag, the Jewish doctor had lost a third of his body weight from starvation rations and illness. Dressed in baggy clothes, he pressed his earmuffs close and smiled as he matched Manhardt’s steps.

The walk had begun. As an icy wind gusted off the river, Tice moved close to al-Hadi and spoke in English: “You’re damn lucky. If Dr. Abendroth weren’t a cause célèbre, you wouldn’t be going home.”

Al-Hadi’s eyes snapped. His molten gaze was locked on the small man in the distance. He said nothing.

“That’s it, isn’t it,” Tice said softly. “A Jew is saving your life. Worse, a human-rights Jewish activist the West reveres.”

“Mabahibish khanzeereen.”
Al-Hadi sneered. His right hand twitched.

Immediately, Tice used both hands to slap a handcuff on the wrist and squeeze it tight enough to inhibit circulation. “Keep walking. Now I’ve got a gun pointed at you under my coat, too. Dammit, don’t pull away. You don’t want anyone to see this.
Ala tool. Ala ikobri.
”

“
Kufr
. Infidels! The Jews are the enemies of Islam. Jews are the source of all conflicts! They are liars.
Murderers.
If I am defending my home, no one can call
me
a terrorist. All infidels must die!”

“If you hadn’t behaved yourself in lockup, I never would’ve been able to talk Langley into letting you go—even for someone of Abendroth’s stature. Up to now, you’ve been smart. But you’ll never make it home alive if you don’t drop whatever you’re carrying in your right hand.”

Al-Hadi’s head jerked around. “What? How did you know?” His pinched face showed the pain caused by the handcuff.

For the past month, ever since his capture in the shoot-out in West Berlin, al-Hadi had tried to hide his intelligence behind a mask of indifference. But Tice had noted his watchful gaze, the small advantages he created for himself, and his ability to perceive routine in an apparently randomized interrogation schedule. His intelligence would argue against self-destruction.