The Berlin Target

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It had gone like clockwork so far, but then the beginning of an operation — setting it in motion — was always the easiest part. The biggest hurdles were many and yet to come.

The sky above Sevastopol' was a clear blue, and the sun shining down over "Soviet Florida" — the southern Crimea — was warm. So warm that Nick Carter had removed his well-worn, cracked leather jacket and slung it over his shoulder.

He crossed Nakhimov Square and entered Primorsky Boulevard, the seafront. He passed the museum, the Court's Harbor, home of the Soviet Black Sea fleet, and continued on into the older and dingier section of the city.

Batov Street was little more than an alley leading from the wider boulevard down to the wooden promenade and the sea. It was a street of small cafes, drinking houses, and bistros with cheap sleeping rooms above for one-hour visitors or overnight travelers. Batov Street was a place where workers on vacation or local fishermen could go for cheap vodka, filling food, and inexpensive lodging. If one could afford it, companionship could also be arranged to go with a room.

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