"Good report, Dr Ryan."

Jack stood to take his dismissal. It was so much more civilized now that they'd gotten rid of him.

The markets had sprung up of their own accord, mainly in the eastern sections of Berlin. Soviet soldiers, never the most free of individuals, now found themselves in an undivided Western city that offered each the chance simply to walk away, to disappear. The amazing thing was that so few did it, despite the controls kept on them, and one reason for it was the availability of open-air markets. The individual Soviet soldiers were continuously surprised at the desire of Germans, Americans and so many others to buy memorabilia of the Red Army - belts, shapka fur hats, boots, whole uniforms, all manner of trinkets - and the fools paid cash. Hard-currency cash, dollars, pounds, Deutschmarks, whose value at home in the Soviet Union was multiplied tenfold. Other sales to more discriminating buyers had included such big-ticket items as a T-80 tank, but that had required the connivance of a regimental commander, who'd justified it in his paperwork as the accidental destruction of a vehicle by fire. The colonel had gotten a Mercedes 560SEL from that, with plenty of cash left over for his retirement fund. Western intelligence agencies had gotten all they wished by this point, leaving the markets to amateurs and tourists; they assumed that the Soviets tolerated it for the simple reason that it brought a good deal of hard currency into their economy, and did so at bargain prices. Westerners typically paid more than ten times the actual production cost of what they purchased. The introductory course in capitalism, some Russians thought, would have other payoffs when the troops concluded their conscripted service.

Erwin Keitel approached one such Soviet soldier, a senior sergeant by rank. "Good day," he said in German.

"Nicht spreche," the Russian answered "English?"

"English is okay, yes?"

"Da." The Russian nodded.

"Ten uniforms." Keitel held up both hands to make the number unambiguous.

"Ten?"

"Ten, all large, big like me," Keitel said. He could have spoken in perfect Russian, but that would have caused more trouble than it was worth. "Colonel uniforms, all colonel, okay?"

"Colonel - Polkovnik. Regiment officer, yes? Three stars here?" the man tapped his shoulders.

"Yes." Keitel nodded. Tank uniform, must be for tank."

"Why you want?" the sergeant asked, mainly to be polite. He was a tanker, and getting the right garb was not a problem.

"Make movie - television movie."

"Television?" The man's eyes lit up. "Belts, boots?"

"Yes."

The man checked left and right, then lowered his voice. "Pistol?"

"You can do that?"

The sergeant smiled and nodded emphatically to show that he was a serious broker. "Take money."

"Must be Russian pistol, correct pistol," Keitel said, hoping that this pidgin exchange was clear.

"Yes, I can get."

"How soon?"

"One hour."

"How much?"

"Five thousand mark, no pistol. Ten pistol, five thousand mark more." And that, Keitel thought, was highway robbery.