Shadow Flight

The unadorned KGB car followed Voronoteev's Moskvich 412 at a distance of 150 meters. A second vehicle, 50 meters behind the deputy chief of investigations, stayed in contact using a Western-made walkie-talkie. Akhlomov knew that he had to catch Voronoteev in the actual act of passing state secrets. The general was shrewd and had powerful friends in the Kremlin. If the KGB bungled the collar, Akhlomov knew he would be spending a protracted period of time in his own Lefortovo prison.

"Comrade deputy," the gravel-voiced driver said with a hint of sullenness. "They are turning into the park."

"I can see that," Akhlomov replied with a look of disdain. "Slow down."

Both KGB automobiles turned left off Cherkizovskaya Boulevard and followed Voronoteev's car toward the Sokolniki Exhibition. Akhlomov placed the walkie-talkie to his lips. "He is stopping at the corner food vendor. Park by the knoll and mingle with the people."

"Da, comrade deputy," the agent responded, slowing to a smooth stop under a grove of birch trees.

Akhlomov and his driver remained in their car while his fellow officers got out and blended into the crowd around the portable luncheonette. The four KGB men watched while Voronoteev's driver grabbed a snack, wolfed it down, then hurried back to the car. The general remained in the Moskvich, staring at the paintings propped against the rustling trees. The park was filled with people attending the weekly art fair.

Akhlomov, anticipating some form of information drop, watched Voronoteev closely. He was surprised when the general's car pulled away from the curb and rejoined traffic. "Let's go," Akhlomov ordered, then swore. "The treasonous bastard is up to something. He isn't just joyriding for the sake of it." Akhlomov glanced at the two agents who were scrambling into their car. "Stay close."

Voronoteev remained silent during the short drive to the international post office. He could not shake an apprehension concerning the B-2 bomber. With so many problems confronting the Soviet Union, why had the KGB undertaken such a politically dangerous operation?

Voronoteev focused his eyes as the post office came into view. He forced his mind back to the present and steeled himself for his task. He flexed his fingers nervously as the Moskvich slowed to a stop.

"I'll be a few minutes," Voronoteev said, opening his own door and stepping out.

"Da, comrade general."

Voronoteev walked up the steps, returned a crisp salute from a captain (second rank) of Naval Forces, and entered the deteriorating building. The faded walls and darkened ceiling reflected the state of decline prevalent throughout the sprawling city.

The general of Troops of Air Defense looked around casually before proceeding to a row of antiquated telephone booths. Voronoteev opened his tunic cautiously, pulled out the telephone number for his Vienna connection, then stepped into the dusty opening.

The phone booths did not have doors, making it difficult for the caller to hear over the incessant drone. As everywhere else in Moscow, the international post office had long lines of Muscovites shuffling along slowly, Voronoteev picked up the receiver, stole a quick glance around the large room, dropped two kopecks into the phone, and waited for the operator.

The general did not see the KGB officer dart across the room and yank the woman out of the booth next to his. Natanoly Akhlomov flashed his credentials in the frightened woman's face and thrust her aside. The KGB still had power to instill fear. The woman gripped her shopping bag and hurried off.

"Operator," the flat-pitched female voice answered.

"Soyedinite menya s etim nomerom?" Voronoteev asked. "Can you get me this number?" Voronoteev gave the operator the phone number for the Hotel Sacher in Vienna, then waited, glancing nervously around the large room.

"I am sorry," the operator said after a few seconds. "The wait for international calls is approximately two hours. You can book a reservation, if you like."

"This is official state business," Voronoteev blustered in his most authoritative manner. "I am First Deputy Litvinov, commander in chief of the main inspector staff, Kremlin code one-eight. Put the call through immediately, or give me your supervisor."

"Yes, comrade first deputy," the operator replied with a trembling voice. "I will disconnect a line. One moment, please."

Akhlomov, who had clearly heard the general's bold lie, motioned for his three associates to move closer. The damned fool was going to pass top secret state information over a common telephone line. Enormous stupidity, Akhlomov thought as he leaned closer to the partition separating him from Voronoteev.

"Room twenty-eight," Voronoteev said in passable English as he folded the slip of paper and placed it in his shirt pocket. The phone connection was unusually good. Voronoteev had almost finished buttoning his tunic when Fritz Kranz answered the long distance call.

"Peter Wipplinger," the nervous doctor said as evenly as he could.