Major Serge Ulanov made his telephone calls from the office of the military attaché at the Russian Embassy, even as he was sure that James Newkirk made his calls to Langley from the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. The major did not know or care whether Newkirk or one of his minions had followed him there or not. Another day and Newkirk would be a thing of the past. Actually, he rather hoped that Newkirk had followed him, for a heavy rain had begun to fall, with ominous mutterings from a bank of even blacker clouds in the west, and it somehow made Ulanov feel better to think of the other man somewhere out in the rain, keeping a sharp eye on the heavy doors of the embassy.
The major’s first call was to an old acquaintance, the manager of Aeroflot Airlines, in London. He spoke in Russian.
“Two people, Alexis,” the major said quietly. “And all of this completely confidential, of course. A Dr. Gregor Kovpak, a Russian national, and a Dr. Ruth McVeigh, carrying an American passport. Of course, they may not be traveling by Aeroflot, but I think it possible since Kovpak already has his return on your line. But in any event, I’m sure your computer can find them. What? Going possibly to East Berlin, but not necessarily. Yes, traveling together. For sometime tomorrow morning, I’m fairly sure. What? Yes, I’ll wait.”
He leaned back and looked at the heavy drapes and ornate furniture of the room the military attaché had given him to use, with the inevitable pictures of heroes of the Revolution on the walls. And he undoubtedly thought he was showing me courtesy, giving me this mausoleum to use, Ulanov thought, and smiled. A little of Playboy art would do wonders in sprucing up the place, he thought, and then brought his attention back to the telephone, frowning in amazement.
“What? What do you mean, Aeroflot doesn’t fly to East Berlin? Why not, for heaven’s sake? You fly to Boston, you fly to Bangkok, you fly to Belfast, and you don’t fly to East Berlin?” Good God! he thought, we let all that nice hard capitalist currency go to other airlines? Typical. “What? But you found the two of them on the computer, anyway? Well, that’s better; you had me frightened there for a moment. What line? Lod? I see. Leaving Heathrow at 11:50 tomorrow, arriving at Schönefeld Airport in East Berlin at 13:25... Flight 286, nonstop... and with a car rental waiting for them at the airport.... Wait a minute, Alexis, let me think.”
Ulanov frowned at the ceiling of the room while he sorted things out in his mind; then he smiled, a broad smile. He straightened his face as he spoke into the instrument.
“All right, Alexis, this is what I want you to do. The Lod flight was booked through your office, wasn’t it? I thought so. Good. I want you to call Dr. Kovpak and Dr. McVeigh at their hotel — you have it? Good. Call them and inform them that, unfortunately, Flight 286 has been overbooked, but that you, in your infinite wisdom and skill, have managed to book them on a slightly later flight. How much later? Oh, an hour should do, I suppose. Pick out a flight like that and let me know. Oh, and also, of course, make sure there is space on the flight for them. I’ll wait.”
He leaned back again, wishing desperately that the Ambassador didn’t have asthma, and wasn’t so maniacally set against the smoking of tobacco in any form in the embassy rooms. He couldn’t imagine how the others in the place could tolerate such a restriction. Probably spend 90 percent of their time in the toilets, he thought, and smiled at the picture, wondering what would happen to anyone who might want to use the rest rooms for a more legitimate purpose. Probably have to go to the pub around the corner, he thought, and then paid attention as the telephone spoke.
“What? But that leaves only fifteen minutes later! Ah! A connection in Amsterdam, eh? How long? Excellent. What line is it? KLM, and then who? Interflug? Never heard of them, but so long as their planes don’t fall down. And there is space for both of them on the flight? Good! Alexis, you are a genius. What? Well, the computer is a genius, then. No, that’s about it. And thanks for your trouble.” Ulanov was about to hang up and go on to his next call when he suddenly remembered something; he mentally struck himself on the forehead for almost forgetting. “Alexis? Thank heaven I caught you before you hung up and went and sold those two seats to East Berlin on Lod! What? Oh, you can sell one of them, but hold the other one for me. Well, of course. What do you think this whole charade was all about, anyway?”
He hung up, thought a moment, and then placed his second call, a call to a special number in Berlin which he read from a small notebook. Knowing the bureaucracy that exists in all government departments, he hoped not everyone had already gone home. It was almost six o’clock in the evening, and not everyone, he knew, was as dedicated to their job as Serge Ulanov. The thought made him smile as he waited, but his smile disappeared when his call finally went through and he realized his fear had been well-founded, for the man who answered the telephone seemed suspicious of the call and was not inclined to accept it. Ulanov made himself heard above the voice of the international operator, who sensibly retired from the battle, leaving Ulanov on the line.
“This is Major Ulanov,” he said, speaking German and putting all the authority he could muster into his voice. “I’m calling from London. Who am I speaking to?”
“Who do you want to speak to?”
Ulanov bit back his temper. “I placed this call to Colonel Franz Müeller. Is he there?”
“No.” There was a click followed by a dial tone; the man at the other end had obviously disconnected.
Ulanov clenched his jaw and called for the international operator again, repeating the number. After what seemed to the impatient Ulanov to be an unconscionable wait, the telephone rang. The same voice came on the line. “Hello?”
“This is Major Ulanov again,” the major said, making no attempt to disguise the fury in his voice. “Did you hang up on me?”
“You said you wanted Colonel Müeller,” the voice said, attempting to appease this irascible stranger with pure logic. “He isn’t here.”
“Well, you listen to me! And if you hang up again, I promise you you’ll be the sorriest man in all Germany, East or West! I am Major Serge Ulanov of the KGB, and when I call someone in your organization I don’t expect him to hang up on me! And please don’t tell me I wasn’t calling you! And please don’t tell me who is or isn’t there! Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good! Now, who am I speaking to?”
“This is Corporal Burkhardt, sir.” The tone was much more respectful.
“All right, Corporal,” Ulanov said coldly, “listen and listen very carefully! I am arriving at Schönefeld Airport tomorrow early afternoon. Have you got that?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell Colonel—”
“Be quiet! I’m not through. Now, I want to be met with a car—” Ulanov thought a moment and then frowned. “No, make that two cars. I want them to be—”
“Sir?”
“Wait until I finish. I want them both to be—”
“Sir?”
“If you interrupt me once again—!” Ulanov said savagely, and then resigned himself to the fact he was dealing with an idiot. “Well, what is it?”
“Sir, I can’t arrange any cars. That would be the responsibility of the motor pool section, sir. Sir, I don’t even have a car myself. I come to the barracks on a bicycle—”
Ulanov took a deep breath. Obviously speaking with this moron was wasting time. “Where is Colonel Müeller?”