But right now he was too worn out to worry any longer. It seemed that he had been traveling forever.
Chapter 27
Jeffries' Cherokee Lance departed Oyster Island early on Friday afternoon and made a brief stop at Tallahassee to drop off Golanov. The Russian promptly boarded a flight for Atlanta, arriving at Hartsfield International Airport within the hour. Strolling out from the gate area, he found himself immersed in a steadily flowing tide of humanity as the end of the work week brought businessmen and women thronging toward flights back to their home bases. He hadn't been through Atlanta in years and had forgotten how crowded it could be. Walking along the main concourse, he followed the signs that directed passengers toward the escalator leading down to the subway linking the various terminals.
Everyone was in a rush, thought Golanov, their faces mostly masks of indifference. But he cast a wary eye over them all, alert for any sign of interest in himself. A stocky black man with a thin mustache, dressed in a dark blue business suit and carrying an attaché case, failed to attract his attention, however, but for a very good reason. The man had already walked past him in the opposite direction before doing a double take.
Terry Packer, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the FBI's Atlanta field office, realized the face he had just seen was ringing a small warning bell in his memory bank. He needed only an instant to put a name to it: Andrei Golanov. He remembered Golanov from his assignment in New York a few years before, when his responsibility had involved keeping tabs on KGB men in the Soviet UN delegation. Packer quickly glanced about to see if he could spot any agents tailing the Russian. He saw none.
He hurried after the retreating figure, now approaching the escalator. Damn! He was nearly late for a flight to Washington, where he was expected for a meeting in the Director's office an hour after landing at National Airport. Could Golanov be here legitimately? With this glasnost business, you were never sure anymore. He knew the KGB had sent people over here for meetings with their American counterparts on terrorism, and God knows what else. They were sure to have a team coming in advance of the summit. But he had no idea what Golanov's current assignment might be.
He didn't want to approach too closely. He was fairly positive the Russian had paid no attention to him when they passed, but a second look now would be a certain danger signal. He moved to the side, out of the stream of passengers, and reached into his attaché case for a small hand-held radio.
"This is Packer," he said quickly into the radio. "Do we have anyone here at Hartsfield?"
"Alvarez here, Terry," came the reply. "I'm in B Terminal."
Alvarez was a Cuban from Miami. One of the Atlanta office's better agents. "You on a surveillance, Alvarez," he asked, "or can you take an assignment?"
"I can handle it. What you got?"
"Get down to the subway and watch for a white male, six-one, a hundred-eighty pounds, dark hair, green shirt, green-checked leisure slacks. He's a Soviet agent. He'll be coming your way from C Terminal. Keep him in view while I call and see if he's hot."
"Roger, on my way," Alvarez said.
Packer swung his head back and forth like a panning TV camera, searching for a telephone. His frown deepened as his field of view momentarily locked onto a digital clock display. If he was late getting to Washington, the Director would just have to understand. He wasn't about to let some hotshot KGB spy wander through his territory without a challenge. He didn't buy all that bullshit about the end of the Soviet threat. The Komitet was, if anything, even busier now than before.
Golanov ran to board the train just before the doors slammed shut. The brightly colored seats caught his attention immediately. He wondered if it were a deliberate attempt to deflect people's consciousness from the frenetic rat-race of an existence they had to suffer through in this so-called land of milk and honey. And the capitalists used to accuse us of mind control, he recalled with a touch of irony.
The car was full of travel-weary passengers who had found just enough energy for a horse race toward the available seats. Golanov remained aloof from the jaded herd, standing calmly near the rear door. The subway quickly glided along the rails to the accompaniment of a lifeless digital voice warning about doors closing and calling out the next stop.
The car paused briefly beneath B Terminal, letting off a few passengers and gathering in another flock. Then the doors slid shut and it picked up speed heading for the final stop at A Terminal.
Alvarez rushed out onto the platform just in time to see the tail end of a car headed for the last terminal. He had been some distance from the escalator when Terry Packer called, requiring a sprint through the terminal reminiscent of a scene from an old TV commercial. And though he had early on learned to run fast enough to stay out of trouble in a Miami barrio, he wondered if it had been fast enough this time. It left him with nothing but questions. Had that car been the one with the Russian? Should he take the walkway that paralleled the tracks? What if the KGB agent were on the next train and got off at B Terminal? He decided his best bet would be to board the train now headed this way. If the man dressed in green were not on it, he would make a quick search of the A Terminal area.
Golanov stepped off the subway and took the escalator up. He had intended to stop at the car rental counters and arrange for a small, inconspicuous Japanese import, but with a sudden burst of caution, he walked straight out to the taxi stand and hopped into the first available car. He asked the driver if he knew of a car rental agency outside the airport.
"Sure. There's one at a hotel not far from here, just beyond the airport boundary."
"Good. Let's go there," Golanov said.
At the hotel, he signed up at the rental desk, took the keys and strolled out to the parking area to find the Toyota Corolla he had been assigned. He noticed the fresh, new car smell, but wasn't familiar with what it meant. Inside the car, he checked his map and found the motel Captain Makarenko had specified. It was a few miles away off the I-285 By-Pass.
Carefully observing the posted speed limit, he watched the cars whizz past as he drove toward the designated exit. Americans and Germans, he mused, drove like their highways were race tracks. When he arrived at the motel, he asked the desk clerk if there were any messages for Andrew Goldman.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Goldman. Your wife has already registered. She left this." He handed over an envelope.
Golanov walked away from the desk, frowning as he tore open the envelope. He looked inside and found a key to room 307, along with a note that said, "Come on up. Margo."
He questioned her having registered them as man and wife, but it wouldn't be his first operation where such a partnership had been used. He took the elevator to the third floor, then walked cautiously down the empty corridor to 307. He stopped, wondering for a moment if he should knock, then inserted the key and opened the door. The room was in semi-darkness, with only a halo from around the drapes providing any illumination. His body tensed, his senses suddenly at maximum alert.
"Don't just stand there, Mr. Goldman, come on in," said Katya Makarenko's sexy voice.
He closed the door and walked in, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the low light. As he moved closer, he caught the scent of her perfume, a delicate aroma he hadn't experienced before. Then he stopped, frozen still by what he saw. It was the outline of a figure beneath the bedcovers, a pair of bare arms on top and a blonde head lying on a pillow.