Colonel Bogdanov kicked off her East German penny loafers and pulled off her Soviet-tailored ladies’ suit and exchanged them for a black silk blouse, black Benetton slacks and a matching blazer. She picked up the ugliest piece of jewelry she’d ever seen, an avant-garde brooch with twisted silver icicles dripping from a polished oval of lapis. She flipped it over; a miniature microphone transmitter was mounted on the reverse. She set it on the dresser. After a few brushes of mascara, she put on a pair of blue designer frames with nonprescription glass lenses. As a finishing touch, she rolled up her right pant leg and strapped on her nine-millimeter Makarov service pistol.
Bogdanov walked into the living room. Her assistant, Ivashko, spoke into a radio, holding the receiver against his hairy ear. Did Ivashko believe he was working to save or assassinate Gorbachev? Was he working for her? Titov? Stukoi? She had been on several operations with him over the last decade, but she still didn’t know the man. In Pyongyang while evaluating North Korean nuclear capacities, he had praised the Stalinist regime’s tight social order. On a mission in Cuba, he couldn’t say enough negative things about Castro’s iron-fisted regime. The only thing she was certain about the man was that he resented any physical movement.
Ivashko twitched his bushy white eyebrows when he spoke. “Good. I want you to follow him wherever he goes, and that includes the john. If he starts to leave, figure out a way to stall him. I don’t care what you do-order him a round of beers, fake a heart attack-I don’t care. Whatever you do, prevent him from going onto a US base. If he goes there, it’s over. We can’t touch him.” Ivashko paused. “Think. Cause a minor traffic accident. If he’s on foot, stage an attack on one of our female crew. He’s a good boy. He’d stop to help her. You think you can handle it now? Good. Report back any change in status.” He set the microphone beside him on the sofa but continued to wear the earpiece. He looked up at Bogdanov. “That was a fast trip to Moscow. I thought we’d wrapped up the Berlin side of things and were done with Otter when FedEx left town this morning.”
“It was decided we need to tie up a few extra loose ends. I can’t say more. Any developments?”
“He just bought a third round of beers for the table. That is, the third round that we know about. They were already drinking when we caught up with them.”
“Any idea who his friends are? How many? Are they armed?”
“We know very little, only what we’ve picked up from surveillance. A major and a Negro captain-both US Army. They don’t seem to be carrying firearms.”
“Do you have papers for me in case something goes awry?” Bogdanov said.
“Already in your new purse. You’re now a subject of the Queen, complete with British driver’s license and a few assorted pound notes.”
“I told you I wanted to go as an American. Americans innately trust other Americans more than they do Europeans.”
“I had problems getting the papers together. I got the blank passports and collateral documents you requested, but we didn’t have time to create new ones for you. We had to use papers from an existing legend. I didn’t have the manpower to spare to search your embassy office for one of your American passports, but the residency did have this on file along with a Canadian set.”
“I told you not to use the residency.” Bogdanov raised her voice.
“The last orders I had from you were to use any means at my disposal to pull this off. You required some very specific things. The residency was the only way.”
She removed the British passport and skimmed through it. “Doesn’t look like Veronica gets around much except to Spain and Malta.”
“You’re a nurse from Brighton here visiting a German friend, Beate Hirschbein of Krumme Strasse eleven. You met her while vacationing last October on Majorca. Hirschbein’s a sleeper we’ll reactivate and brief if you’re held for questioning.”
“I don’t anticipate it. I expect he’ll come along with me willingly, particularly if I use that Canadian cover. Americans don’t consider Canadians foreigners-they’re not really sure what to think of them, but they’re definitely family. I want everything possible going for me. It’s also fast for Berlin authorities to get a check on a British national through the British occupying forces here. After three years at the San Francisco residency, my American is much better than my British, so I’m Canadian tonight.” She returned the British passport and driver’s license to Ivashko. Each time she worked with him, it became clearer to her why he had never advanced beyond the rank of major despite his three decades with the KGB.
Ivashko opened his scratched plastic briefcase and removed a manila envelope. He tore it open and let the Canadian documents drop out onto the ratty sofa. Bogdanov thumbed through them, committing the pertinent information to memory.
“I’m now a nurse from Toronto. Otherwise, the same legend.” The colonel slipped the passport and driver’s license into the purse and flicked the gold latch shut.
“I arranged for Kolvich and Valov to accompany Otter as guards on the flight with you to Moscow, unless you want someone else.”
“They’re adequate for the job, but I don’t need anyone,” Bogdanov said.
“Otter is a strong guy, well trained in hand-to-hand combat.”
“He’ll be cuffed and on a plane.”
“Violate protocol if you wish,” Ivashko said.
“Okay, I’ll take the muscle.”
“They’ll be waiting for you at the airport. We have two taxis on surveillance. Both are set up for you. You have to make sure he’s the one who touches the backseat’s door-handle-passenger side. It’s the one inside that you have to worry about. It has sharp edges coated with a chemical that should knock him out in two or three minutes. If he tries to get in on the other side, the driver knows to tell him the door’s broken and he needs to go around. If you absolutely have to get out through that door, roll the window down and use the outside latch.”
“Fast work.”
“I think it’s clear to you now that I had to get help from the residency.”
“No, it’s not. My standing orders were to avoid contact. And I have one last order-do not injure Otter. Make sure everyone understands that. The more bruises he has on him, the harder time I’ll have getting FedEx to cooperate. So when they transfer him to the trunk of my car for the ride East, I want them to be civil. I’ve seen what they do and I don’t want a lot of marks, and definitely no injuries.”
“Understood. The other items you requested will be loaded on your Yak by the time you’re there. Looks like you forgot the wire. It’s on the back of the silver pin in the bedroom. Given how cobbled together this operation is, I figured we’d better be listening in just in case something doesn’t go as planned.”
“Things will go as planned. No self-respecting Canadian would wear that piece of trash. I don’t want it.”
“You never know what’s going to happen.” Ivashko leaned forward in his chair, coaxing an extra boost from the inertia of his body. “I’ll get it for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Bombs do not choose. They will hit everything.
– KHRUSHCHEV
IVANSKOE AIR CORRIDOR, MOSCOW ATC REGION
5:27 P.M., MOSCOW TIME
Faith picked up the last food tray, stowed it in her trolley and headed back to the galley. Serving meals and apologizing for a shortage of blankets and pillows was not her idea of a good time. At least the flight was going well. She’d been worried that they’d hit turbulence and her fear would give her away. No one seemed to suspect that she wasn’t a regular flight attendant.
The passengers were a typical mix of Russian expatriates and West European businessmen with an occasional Western student thrown in. Only one passenger intrigued her-the striking Nordic-looking operative whom she couldn’t place. When she delivered him the meal, she spoke with him in German and he sounded straight out of Saxony. They chitchatted in Russian when she picked up his empty tray. This time he commanded a perfect Leningrad accent. With her mind on the mystery agent, she wheeled the cart into the first-class cabin before she realized it. She rolled the awkward contraption backward and bumped into someone.