"Who will be in the reviewing stand besides the two presidents?" she asked.
"I don't have access to the list. I'm sure General Kostikov has it. From the dimensions they gave us, it will be a small group. Probably a few aides to each of the leaders. Some Canadian government officials, probably the Prime Minister, the mayor of Toronto."
"Is it necessary to kill so many innocent people?"
Golanov's face broke into a thin smile. "Ah, my little Katya has a conscience, does she?"
She cocked her head, the frown firming her jawline. "It's not a bad thing to have on occasion, Andrei. The lack of it has caused some of our older comrades a great deal of grief. Even the people who say they would like Stalin back, to bring order out of the chaos, shudder when they talk of the mass murders."
He nodded sympathetically. "I agree. Killing thousands of innocent peasants is not the way to establish order. But at times, even some of our most loyal comrades must be sacrificed for the higher goals of the state. In this case, removing a few more high officials who don't likely share our view of the world will be necessary, though regrettable."
She shrugged in resignation. What he said made sense. "Then we should just be thankful we won't be among them. I gather from this that you're completely satisfied with the operation?"
"Eminently so," he said with conviction. "Jeffries and Ingram handled the firing this morning. Next week the team members will demonstrate their abilities. We'll discuss the plans for getting into Canada, what they are to do once in Toronto, and the plans for extraction."
"Would you make a request for me to be sent to Toronto to assist you?" she asked. "I could help maintain contact with the team. Maybe I could pose as a reporter."
He leaned back, his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin resting in one hand. "News people are clannish," he said. "They would probably sense you weren't one of them. Still, we might use you in some other role. Let me give it some thought."
They arrived back at the motel about nine. As Golanov was unlocking the door to 307, he heard a disturbing ring from the telephone inside.
"Who knows we're here?" he asked, pushing the door open.
"Only our contact at Aeroflot."
He picked up the phone and answered guardedly.
"Mr. Goldman?" It was the voice of someone in a hurry.
"This is Goldman."
"I've been trying to reach you for an hour," said the agitated male voice.
"I've been out to dinner." He said it as a fact, not a defense.
"I have a message from your Uncle Harry. He says the job in Atlanta didn't come through. You might as well go back home."
He flinched at the words, as though they were a slap in the face. It couldn't be. But there was no mistaking the message. It was a dire warning, received one hour late. "Thank you," said Golanov, reigning in his emotions. "Tell Uncle Harry I'll do as he suggests."
"Very well. Have a nice rest of the evening."
Golanov grimaced. That abominable American aphoristic leave-taking. Surely the comrades could do better. He hung up the phone and swung around toward Katya, eyes blazing.
"Uncle Harry?" she said, shocked. It was the code for blown cover.
"Right. I don't know where or when. Probably at the airport. Somebody I failed to see has recognized me. They warned me to get out of Atlanta right away. The island is still safe."
He moved quickly to return everything to his suitcase. Katya did the same.
"I don't know how far they've tracked me," Golanov said with disgust. "They may even know about the rental car."
"Shouldn't we get it away from here, then abandon it?" Katya asked.
"Right. I'll need transportation to get out of Atlanta, though."
"Why don't I rent a car," she suggested. "I could drive while you lie back with your face covered, as if sleeping. There would be no chance for anyone else to recognize you."
He considered that for a moment. "Where would we go?"
She tried to picture a map of the U.S., then remembered a sign she had seen on the interstate highway near the airport. "Birmingham," she said. "I don't have to be back in New York until tomorrow evening. I could fly out of Birmingham, I'm sure."
He could think of no better suggestion at the moment. "All right. Let's get out of here. Do we have to check out of the motel? I don't want any unhappy innkeepers chasing us also."
"I paid in advance."
He broke into a slow smile. "You are a jewel, Katya. Let's go."
Chapter 28
Since he had no idea of the time of the funeral, Burke called Lori early Saturday morning from a phone booth on the outskirts of Baltimore.
"Miss Quinn?" he asked, pitching his voice rather high.
"Yes, this is Miss Quinn."
"My name is Herbert Kennedy. I'm an old friend of your father's from Boston." It was his best impression of a Boston Irish accent. He hoped it sounded convincing.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Kennedy. I've heard my father speak of you very fondly."
"I just heard about his untimely demise. Most unfortunate. You have my deepest sympathy."
"Thank you. You're most kind."
"We were schoolmates at one time, you know. When is the funeral scheduled?"
"This afternoon. Two p.m. It will be a small, private service."
"I see. Yes. Well, I wish I could be there, but I won't be in Washington until later. It's quite possible I might drop by to see you, however. If that is all right?”
"Whatever would please you, Mr. Kennedy. But be careful. It could be rather treacherous around here" — she paused for a single beat—"if it rains."
"Thank you, young lady. I shall remember that."
He hung up the phone. Obviously her house was being watched or she felt there was an excellent possibility of it. He stopped at a men's hair salon to have his hair trimmed and styled in a more youthful look. He also had a rinse applied that hid the advancing gray by bringing back its original dark brown color. He didn't wear glasses, but he bought a pair with clear lenses to help modify the new look. And he visited a men's clothing store to purchase a few specialty items.
When Ted called his boss Saturday morning to report on the week's successful activities, the "old man" delivered the shocking news. The FBI had contacted Langley in search of current information on Lt. Col. Andrei Petrovich Golanov. He had been sighted at the Atlanta airport, but promptly disappeared. When the Agency reported that Golanov was now with the KGB's Second Chief Directorate in Moscow, the Bureau stirred up a flurry of activity. A taxi driver was located who had driven a man meeting Golanov's description to a nearby hotel. There they learned he had rented a Toyota Corolla in the name of Andrew Goldman. The car was found later, abandoned off I-285 a few miles from the hotel. At this point, the trail ended. They back-tracked at the airport, however, and discovered that a passenger named Andrew Goldman had arrived in Atlanta on a flight from Tallahassee. He had a return reservation for early Monday.
"Have you heard from him?" Ted’s boss asked in an unpleasant tone.
"No, sir. He isn't due back until Monday morning. There's no way I can get in touch with him." The FBI would have the airport staked out Monday morning. This could be disastrous. Then something the "old man" had said struck him as odd. "I wonder why he abandoned the car?"
"We got word to the proper party in New York. I presume they warned him to get the hell out of Atlanta."
"Good!" Ted sighed with relief. "He'll probably call us then, call to get in contact with Jeffries. They were supposed to meet in Tallahassee. Obviously, that's out."
When Lori had told "Mr. Kennedy" to be careful if it rained, she was merely using a natural reference to the dark, gloomy morning outside. But by two p.m., the leaden sky had begun to fulfill her prophecy. Rain splattered noisily against the roof of the small chapel at the cemetery, casting a pall over an already somber affair.