Colonel Bogdanov hurried through the separate Soviet-controlled terminal, fresh from her final meeting with Kosyk. She had already given her assistant instructions to signal Moscow that the countdown had begun. FedEx had made her pickup. From her discussion with Kosyk, she now knew the details of the operation and was on her way to Moscow to relay the final plans. The drab terminal was nearly empty, save for a few boisterous Soviet Army officers drinking vodka and munching on salami sandwiches at the snack bar. She carried her KGB uniform in a garment bag to change into once in the privacy of the airplane. The small three-engine Yak-40 waited for her at the gate; it sported the blue Aeroflot livery.
Just as she was about to walk out onto the tarmac to board her aircraft, someone shouted after her.
“Zara Antonovna.” General Ivanovski, Supreme Commander of Soviet Forces in Germany, called her by her patronymic. The bear of a man waddled to catch up with her, the gold stars of two Hero of the Soviet Union medals swinging back and forth on his chest. His four aides followed.
“Uncle Yuri! How are you?” She greeted him, exchanging small talk about their families. The aides stood a few respectful meters back.
“My little Zar! I have wanted to speak to you privately, and I have a few unexpected minutes now. My staff informs me a mechanical repair is needed on my personal aeroplane.”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry. And depending upon how private, that could be difficult here.”
“As the little spy of the family, you should know those things.” He laughed, swelling his already puffy double chin. “I take it you are going to Moscow. I will fly with you. My plane can follow with my staff whenever they’re finished taping it up. I only need to take along my communications officer so that I stay in touch in case… you understand why. This way we can talk under four eyes.”
Colonel Bogdanov guessed that they had crossed the Polish border about the time the plane leveled off at cruising altitude. She sat with the general in the first-class section at a table with four seats facing one another. Her back was toward the cockpit, allowing the general to sit facing the direction of travel. The uniformed Aeroflot flight attendant served the general vodka. Bogdanov chose Armenian cognac in hopes she wouldn’t be expected to keep pace with her uncle, a robust drinker even by Slavic standards.
The flight attendant covered the table with a linen cloth and fanned out a stack of napkins embossed with the signature winged hammer-and-sickle. After arranging silverware, she set a basket filled with black bread on the edge of the table along with crystal dishes mounded over with butter and caviar. She brought out a silver tray of white cheese and hard salami slices before fetching the drinks.
“Bring us the bottles and go in the back. We will call you when we need you.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “Na zdorove.” He downed the vodka.
The colonel sipped her cognac.
He splashed more vodka into his glass. “To the future, may it return past glories.” He drank it and let out a sigh. “I understand you’re the genius behind Operation Druzhba.”
Zara froze for a moment, staring at her uncle. She then threw the remaining cognac into the back of her throat. “You flatter me. I can’t take all the credit. I’m only a liaison.”
“That’s not what I’ve been told. You always were too modest.” He reached for bread and smeared it with a thick layer of butter. He dipped the same knife into the caviar, leaving butter traces in the precious roe.
“What are they saying about me and who’s saying it?”
“I thought the first rule of your trade was to protect your sources.”
“Of my trade, not yours. So what are they saying?”
“That you are working to restore order from the chaos and shame Gorbachev has leveled upon us. And that you’re doing it for the Motherland, for Marxism-Leninism and for my brother-in-law-your father.” The general popped the bread into his mouth and chewed as he spoke.
She now understood. They had used her. They had set her up. Operation Druzhba wasn’t intended to avert Gorbachev’s assassination and the overthrow of his government. It was to ensure it.
“Child, are you all right? You’re suddenly pale. I’ll have the pilot turn up the oxygen.” The general’s belly hit the table as he pulled himself to his feet. Vodka and cognac sloshed from their glasses.
High above the Polish capital, Zara Bogdanov realized she was trapped. And she had trapped Faith Whitney. She knew it was her duty to prevent the coup, but she didn’t know whom to trust. Her stomach churned as she recognized it was in her personal best interest for the putsch to succeed. If it failed, she’d be convicted before a secret military tribunal and executed within hours. If it succeeded, she’d enter the Soviet pantheon as one of its greatest heroes, the restorer of the lost order. With the elevated status, she’d enjoy all of the perks of unbridled power and her father would be rehabilitated. Either way, Faith would be killed.
Her choice was deceptively elegant in its simplicity: duty or power. She could either attempt to stop the coup single-handedly in a futile heroic effort or do her damnedest to make it succeed and save herself. Both were a gamble, but she knew the odds favored the coup-and the payoff was significantly higher. She pressed her face against the cold round window, looked down on the dying forests of the Polish countryside and hoped Faith had broken her word and was headed back to the States.
Part 2
The Rift Zone
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
TEGEL AIRPORT, WEST BERLIN
SATURDAY, APRIL 29
Faith handed the crumpled papers to the German flight attendant and boarded the Pan Am flight to Frankfurt, hoping that the Teutonic obsession with order would make the woman pay more attention to the crinkles than to the forged interline document. The flight attendant held the paper against the bulkhead and ironed the wrinkles from it with her hands. Faith ignored her, praying she didn’t get too picky with the documents. She eyed the last passenger to board, a gorgeous blond, probably some Scandinavian hockey star.
The flight attendant returned the papers to Faith. “The passengers are all seated. Take any seat you can find.”
Faith walked past her toward the open door of the cockpit.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
Faith ignored her and went onto the flight deck. “Permission to come aboard, Captain Ian?” She gave the captain a mock salute.
“Granted, my dear! Granted. I was starting to fear I’d have to leave without you. Take the jump seat.” Ian’s London accent was as strong as ever. Faith could never figure out how or why he became an American citizen, particularly since she didn’t think he’d ever lived in the States. He gestured toward the man in the right-hand seat. “Art Kivisto’s my first officer today. Frosty McGuire’s my flight engineer, best in the business. Gentlemen, this is-”
“Candace Adler. Pleased to meet you.” Faith bowed her head quickly.
Frosty shook Faith’s hand and spoke with a heavy southern drawl. “Heard a lot about you over the years. Listening to this guy, you’re almost a legend. Here, let me stow these for you.” Frosty wedged her plastic cooler and carry-on bag between his feet and a bulkhead.
Faith squeezed into the cramped jump seat behind the captain. She fumbled with the heavy shoulder straps of the seatbelt. The belts were wider and the metal clasp larger than those used for passengers. She fastened herself in and then released it to reassure herself she could get out. Time and painkillers had taken the edge off most of the ache, unless she moved in just the right way to send stabbing pain through her side. She wasn’t going to take any chances with the shoulder harness pressing too firmly on the wrong spot, so she loosened the belts. “Thanks for letting me join you up here. I always love the bird’s-eye view.”