Shadow Flight

"Hello, Peter," Voronoteev responded, cautiously surveying the people in the dimly lighted post office. "The destination is Cuba, at an—"

"You bastard!" Akhlomov yelled as he rushed around the partition and slammed Voronoteev into the side of the dusty booth. "You miserable bastard!"

The other three agents roughly subdued the struggling general as Akhlomov grabbed the dangling phone receiver. The line was dead.

Akhlomov spun around and shoved Voronoteev into the dingy wall. "Who were you talking to?"

Voronoteev paused a moment, trying to regain his shattered composure. "I am Lieutenant General Voronoteev."

"Shut up, you traitorous bastard," Akhlomov shouted, consumed in rage. "Out with it! Who were you talking to?"

Voronoteev, blood dripping from his mouth, remained firmly pinned to the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, the stunned general could see the throng of people rushing out the main entrance of the post office. Muscovites could smell trouble a block away, and they avoided it like the plague.

"You have made a grave mistake," Voronoteev said as evenly as possible, "and your superiors will—"

"You sucking dog!" Akhlomov hissed in Voronoteev's face, then bashed him into the wall again. "Tell me about the ATB. Tell me what you stole from the files this morning."

Voronoteev's eyes gave him away when he tried to recover from the sudden shock. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"The hell you don't!" Akhlomov said, positioning the point of his Antipov tactical knife against Voronoteev's throat. "Who were you talking to?"

"I demand—"

"Shut up," Akhlomov said as he pushed the blade against Voronoteev's neck a quarter inch, twisted it, and yanked it away. "You are under arrest, General Voronoteev, for committing treason."

Voronoteev started to speak, then realized that any effort to defend his actions would be in vain. His fate had been sealed when he had forced the issue by checking the contents of General Borol'kov's safe.

The bloodied general held his head high, nodding to his shocked driver, as he was escorted to the KGB automobile.

VIENNA

Fritz Kranz sat staring at the beige telephone on the small desk. His right hand, trembling uncontrollably, still rested on the receiver.

"Oh, god…," Kranz said to himself, then slowly removed his hand from the phone. "It's over."

Kranz sat quietly for a moment, contemplating his predicament, then bolted from his chair and walked to the window. He stared vacantly at the roof of the opera house while he tried to calm his nerves. I've been caught in the middle, he told himself. RAINDANCE had been apprehended. He had heard the commotion and the accusations. Would the KGB-no-how soon would the KGB trace him to Vienna?

He knew that his life was in jeopardy. He had to think clearly, and remember the procedures he had been taught by the CIA instructors at Langley. He paced back and forth between the door and the window, trying to sort out the enormity of what had happened in the past three minutes.

It had not been his fault, he told himself. He had been happily ensconced in his pleasant world, enjoying retirement, before this calamity. He knew now that he was swimming in a sea full of voracious sharks.

Now, Kranz kept telling himself, I must think rationally and clearly. The CIA gave me a telephone number to call in the event of such a disaster. "Use it," he heard himself say as he fumbled in his coat pocket for the matchbook. The cover displayed an advertisement for a seafood restaurant in New Haven, Connecticut.

Kranz walked over to the desk, sat down, and gingerly picked up the receiver. His hands were shaking and his temples throbbed. The emergency code words ran through his mind over and over again.

The frightened surgeon dialed the operator and thought about his wife. Christ, Katy had no idea of his involvement in this miserable business.

"Hotel operator," the innocent voice answered.

"I must… I need the international operator," Kranz replied, trying to sound calm and businesslike.

"One moment. I will connect you."

"Thank you," Kranz responded, taking deep, even breaths.

Kranz gave the overseas operator the phone number and waited for the call to go through. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the number began ringing. One ring. Two rings, then a pause before Kranz heard the recording.

"Thank you for calling. Please leave your name and telephone number at the sound of the tone."

"Good Christ," he blurted out, then heard the beep. "The ship is aground, the ship is aground," Kranz said impulsively, then continued in a hesitant voice, not sure if he should say anything else. "The tie has been—" Kranz stopped in midsentence when he heard an urgent voice speak to him.

"This is seafarer control," the vibrant male voice exploded. "Your number?"

"Ah…," Kranz hesitated, unsure of his response. He had been told expressly to use code letters. "F. K K… D D… 0… M," he said in a shaky voice.

No one said a word for fifteen seconds. Kranz was beginning to have doubts, when the man replied.