Seth Alevy looked at his watch. It was just 2:05 A.M. He said to O’Shea, “Captain, you will lift off not later than three forty-five, with or without passengers, and that includes any or all of the three of us. Understand?”
“Understood.”
“Shut it down.”
O’Shea shut off the engines, and the blades wound down.
The beam of light coming from the vicinity of the radio cabin about a hundred meters off played over the helicopter, picking out the cockpit, the cabin windows, the Aeroflot emblem, and finally the registration number, P-413, on the tail boom.
Alevy climbed back into the cabin and slid open the portside door. Brennan said, “Good luck.”
Mills added, “You look Russian.”
Alevy jumped down, put on his officer’s cap, and strode purposefully toward the searchlight and the log cabin. He said to himself, “I hope so.”
The man behind the light shut it off, came down from the flatbed, and walked toward Alevy. As he drew within ten meters, Alevy saw he was a young KGB Border Guard carrying an AK-47 at port arms. The KGB man stopped and issued a challenge. “Halt! Identify yourself.”
Alevy stopped and replied in brusk Russian, “I am Major Voronin.” Alevy strode up to the man, who had come to a position of attention, the AK-47 still at the ready across his chest, his finger on the trigger. Alevy stopped a few feet from him. “I’m here to see your colonel,” Alevy said, not knowing if Burov used that nom de guerre here or used Pavlichenko, which General Surikov had indicated was Burov’s real name. Alevy snapped, “Are you deaf, man? I’m here to see your colonel!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Has he sent a vehicle for me?”
“No, sir. And I have no instructions regarding your arrival, Major.”
“How unfortunate for you,” Alevy said, using a sarcasm favored by KGB officers. “What is your name, Private?”
“Frolev.”
“Well, Frolev, call and get me a vehicle.”
“Yes, sir.” Frolev did an about-face and marched back to the radio cabin.
Alevy followed.
Frolev walked past the spotlight’s flatbed, which Alevy noted had no vehicle attached to it. This izba was a simple structure of hewn logs and the ubiquitous sheet metal roof. There were some windows cut into the cabin, and from the roof protruded a stovepipe and two aerials. Two wires, electric and telephone, ran from the cabin to a nearby pine tree.
Frolev opened the door of the one-room izba and moved aside as Alevy entered. A bare lightbulb hung from the center rafter. Inside were two other men — one more than Alevy had figured on.
One man lay sleeping on a cot along the far wall, a hard-cover copy of Rybakov’s The Children of the Arbat on his rising and falling chest. The other man, a sergeant, sat at a field desk studying a game of chess that had neared its end. As Frolev pulled the door shut, he yelled, “Attention!”
The sergeant jumped to his feet, and the sleeping man stumbled out of the cot and stood to attention.
Alevy looked around the room. In the far corner was a ceramic tile stove atop which sat a steaming teakettle. Along the right wall was a long table on which were a VHF radio, a shortwave radio, and two telephones.
Alevy moved to the chessboard and examined the pieces. He said to Frolev, “Are you white? How did you get yourself into such a mess?”
The man laughed politely.
The middle-aged sergeant, standing at the desk, cleared his throat, “Excuse me, Major.”
Alevy looked at the man. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“Unfortunately I know nothing of your arrival.”
Frolev said quickly, “Sergeant, this is Major Voronin to see Colonel Burov. He requires a vehicle.”
The sergeant nodded and said to Alevy, “Sir, we were not able to raise you on the radio.”
“Nor was my pilot able to raise you. You’ll do a communications check with him. Have you called the duty officer regarding our landing?”
“No, sir, but I’ll do that now.” He said to the man near the cot, “Kanavsky, call Lieutenant Cheltsov.” Kanavsky moved quickly toward the field phones.
Alevy drew a short, discreet breath. Things were going well. Or perhaps his years in this country had given him some insight into how these people reacted to given situations. The sergeant hadn’t called the duty officer because he didn’t want to annoy an officer, who would only have snapped something like, “What the hell do you want me to do about it? Flap my wings and intercept the helicopter? Find out who he is and call me back.”
Alevy stepped casually off to the side so that he had the three men in his view. Kanavsky picked up the field phone and reached for the hand crank.
Without making an abrupt movement, Alevy drew his silenced automatic and put the first round through the chest of Frolev, still standing with the AK-47 at the door. Frolev gave a start but didn’t seem to know that he’d been shot. Alevy spun and put the second round into the side of Kanavsky. The man shouted in surprise, dropped the phone, and his hand went to his rib cage.
The sergeant reacted quickly, drawing his revolver from his holster. Alevy fired first, hitting the man in the midsection, causing him to double over and stagger back into the field desk, scattering the chess game. Alevy fired again into the crown of the sergeant’s head, and the man dropped to the floor.
Alevy walked to Kanavsky, who was still standing, and put a bullet into his head, then went to Frolev, who was trying to get to his feet. Alevy stood off a short distance so as not to get splattered and fired once into the side of Frolev’s head.
Alevy hung up the telephone and took the kettle off the wood stove. He found a wool glove warming by the stove and wiped the wetness from his gun hand, then cleaned the blood from his jackboots. He loaded a fresh magazine into the automatic, drew a deep breath, and reminded himself that several hundred Americans had lived and died in this place for nearly two decades. He composed himself and stepped outside.
Brennan and Mills were already there, Brennan with the Dragunov sniper rifle and Mills with the black leather overnight bag. Alevy said in a low voice, “Bill, you tidy up in there and stay put.”
Brennan asked, “Are you sure I can’t come along?”
Alevy liked Brennan, and Brennan was very brave and enthusiastic but had a short attention span. “As I told you, Captain O’Shea needs some advance warning if things start to come apart. Also we don’t know if these guys phone in scheduled sit reps to anyone or if anyone calls them periodically. So if somebody calls looking for a situation report, just say nechevo—there is nothing. That’s standard radio lingo for negative sit rep. Nechevo.”
“Nechevo.”
“Sound bored and tired. Yawn.”
Brennan yawned and said through his yawn, “Nechevo.”
“Good. If anyone gets chatty on the phone say it again with emphasis. Be rude and hang up.” Alevy added, “I’m assuming that calls originate from headquarters, so I’ll relieve the commo man there of his duties. I’ll call you from there — you answer the phone with Da. Not Allo. Da.”
“Da. Nechevo.”
“Fine. And if anyone comes around to check this post, let them in, but don’t let them out.”
Brennan smiled. “I’ll let the Dragunov talk Russian.”
Mills added, “Don’t hesitate to jump on that chopper if you hear all hell breaking loose.”
Brennan didn’t reply.
Alevy slapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck, Bill.”
“You too.”