West Berlin, 1965

The Dutch ambassador was dead and the entire diplomatic mission was at risk of collapsing in West Germany. Ironic, seeing as Max Rockwell had only just arrived that morning to speak with him about a... private matter. Which made Max's job in the walled city that much more difficult.

He sat in the lobby of the Hotel Gebaude smoking a cigarette and brooding over a glass tumbler of scotch while a piano played softly in a far corner. Max had a secret few in the city knew, he was an American spy. Fewer still even knew he was in Berlin. Officially Max had boarded a plane for Oahu and a little vacation. He sort of wished he HAD gone to Oahu...

Could it just be a coincidence? he thought. No, someone knew he was here to discuss blocking the Soviets in Africa and had killed the ambassador to send a message. But who? He pulled out three pictures from his pocket and looked them over once more. Three different women he had known previously. Three women who he believed to be in Berlin. Three women who could be working for the Ruskies....

English Red

The first was a dame. Red hair, fair skin, green doe eyes and British intelligence. We had worked together last year to locate a group of saboteurs attempting to cross the channel. She was smart as a whip when it came to people, but completely naive when it came to men. She had been a willing student and I was more than glad to teach her. His sources told him she'd been in Berlin for about a week working some art smuggling job.

French Bombshell

The next photo was of a woman with short blonde hair smoking a cigarette and all but scowling at the camera. Max remembered the French woman as being calm under pressure, but a mad woman in the sheets. She was a trained assassin, so killing a diplomat would be a little thing, but poison wasn't her style. Plus, the Blonde Bombshell hated the Reds as much as she despised German wine.

German Honey

The last picture was of a busty brunette in a dirndl holding a stein of beer bigger than her head. To this day Max still thought back on that hangover with fear. She was the wildcard, a facilitator and a fixer that could move through Checkpoint Charlie easier than a bird through the air. She had feminine wiles in spades and she knew it but murder was bad for business and a war would probably start in her country.

None of it made sense. Could one of these three really be responsible or was there a fourth player Max had yet to discover. He put out his cigarette in the bronze ash tray and downed what was left of his drink. He may not know who killed the ambassador, but he knew sitting here drinking wasn't going to help. He would just have to stop the Russians by himself, and get out of West Berlin before he became the next target.

Max stood, pocketing his photos and doning his hat. He turned towards the door, ready to leave, when he saw her walk in...