The colonel grimaced. Transferring so many aircraft away from the Polish front was madness — especially right now. Caught between their own combat losses and the steady tide of U.S. reinforcements flying into Poland, the Luftwaffe and the French Air Force were already increasingly unable to control the air over the battlefield. This latest move would only make the situation worse.
He turned abruptly and stomped away from the window. The tower’s junior officers and enlisted personnel saw him coming and hastily bent to their work. When the colonel was in one of his rages, it was safest to stay out of his way.
These French idiots have opened a hornet’s nest and now they’re clutching at straws, Witz thought bitterly. The Combined Forces were stripping away French and German military capabilities one at a time. Round-the-clock air raids and cruise missile attacks had sunk most of the Confederation’s naval units. Those few ships and submarines still afloat were being bottled up in port by enemy minefields. Now the Americans and British were going after French nuclear forces. And once they were finished with that, he knew only too well whose air bases would be next on the target list.
CHAPTER 27
Annunciation
Diplomats stationed in Russia’s capital city, especially those from the world’s wealthier nations, had a range of perks and special privileges beyond the common Muscovite’s wildest dreams. Those perks included unrestricted access to fresh produce and other foodstuffs. While average citizens made do with ration coupons that allowed them meat and other luxuries only two or three times a month, a foreigner with rubles in his pocket could still buy whatever he could pay for. That was one of the few concessions the military-controlled bureaucracy was willing to make to the free market.
So the three-man FIS surveillance team stationed outside the U.S. Embassy wasn’t especially surprised when a delivery van from the Kuskovo Commercial Food Collective pulled up to the enclave just before first light. After all, everybody knew how particular the Americans were — especially when it came to their precious stomachs.
“Whew! Take a look at that!” Pavel Voronzov, the youngest and least experienced of the three, had their tripod-mounted binoculars focused on the van as it drove around the big, red brick chancery building and parked near a side door.
“Take a look at what, Pasha?” A second team member pushed back the earphones he was wearing and looked up from a bank of reel-to-reel recorders. So far this morning their directional microphones hadn’t picked up anything worth listening to. Just the usual obscenity-sprinkled complaints from the Russian militiamen on duty outside the compound and incomprehensible sports chatter from the U.S. Marines guarding the main gate.
“Fresh sausages! Crates of vegetables.” The young man could feel his mouth watering as he watched workers in coveralls unloading the van. “My God, they’ve even got two sides of beef. And a box of oranges!”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, shut up! And look at something else!” the senior watch officer snapped in irritation. “We’re hunting for spies, not greengrocers!” Not even the special ration coupons issued to state officials under martial law stretched far enough — not this close to the end of the month. His dinner the night before had consisted of weak tea, stale bread, a very thin pat of butter, and some suspiciously spotted cabbage. The older FIS man turned back to the reports he was filling out, determined to ignore the growling noises coming from his stomach.
Properly chastened, Voronzov swung his binoculars back to the chancery. Only a few lights were on, all on the floor where the Americans maintained a round-the-clock duty station and communications watch. Whoever was awake over there was probably as bored as he was, he decided. But they probably had food right at hand. Chocolate bars, perhaps. Or maybe even a Big Mac. He sighed.
Without really meaning to, he found his gaze drawn back to the delivery van. No, it was no good. The Kuskovo Collective’s workers had finished unloading and were leaving. Lucky bastards. They probably got to squirrel away a few delicious odds and ends from every shipment. He looked away, losing interest. The edible objects of his desire were inside the embassy’s kitchens, not inside an empty truck.
It never occurred to him that the van might not be empty — that other items and even people might have been slipped in while the food was being taken out.
The van from the Kuskovo Commercial Food Collective, a wholly owned subsidiary of the New Kiev Trading Company and the CIA, turned left out the main gate and accelerated.
Swaying with the van’s movement, Erin McKenna finished unzipping her workman’s coveralls and shrugged them off. The baggy cloth cap hiding her auburn hair came off next. Underneath the rough disguise she wore a plain, dark blue sweatshirt, shorts, and running shoes. Nothing fancy. Nothing eye-catching.
She glanced up and saw Alex Banich watching her with a carefully blank face. She knew that he still didn’t approve of this rendezvous with Colonel Soloviev — that he thought it was too risky. In the end it had taken a direct order from Len Kutner, backed by Langley itself, to break down his resistance. And even then he’d insisted on taking every precaution he could think of.
Like the wire she was wearing under her clothes.
Whenever Erin shifted positions she could feel the tiny microphone taped just below her throat. She could also feel the hair-thin connecting cable running down between her breasts to a miniaturized battery pack, microrecorder, and transmitter taped to the small of her back. Since the system was fully self-contained, she shouldn’t have to fiddle with it while running. “Just don’t sweat,” Banich had said with a faint grin. Faint or not, that was the first time he had smiled since the Russian colonel made his covert approach.
Wearing the wire was a calculated risk. If Soloviev’s request was a trap, the fact that she was wired for sound could be used as evidence that she was an espionage agent. On the other hand, wearing it would let Banich and Mike Hennessy listen in on the meeting from start to finish. If anything went wrong, that might give them enough of a head start to pluck her out of trouble. Maybe.
“You know what to do if you see something odd or if you start getting a bad feeling about the way the conversation’s heading?” Banich asked.
Erin nodded silently. She’d spent several hours the night before memorizing a short list of innocuous-sounding emergency phrases that would trigger action by Banich and Hennessy. At his insistence, she’d even read a brief rundown on escape-and-evasion techniques. She had also learned the location of one of the CIA’s Moscow safe houses.
“Remember to let Soloviev do most of the talking. Stick to generalities wherever you can. Got it?”
She nodded again, half-angry at being treated like a small child or hapless nitwit and half-amused by the evidence of the depth of Banich’s concern for her safety. He knew that she had the contact procedures down cold, but he couldn’t stop himself from going over them one last time. For someone other embassy staffers called the Ice Man, Alex Banich had a bad case of the jitters.
If she called him on it, he’d only claim he was worried that she might blow their cover here in Russia. She knew better. Shared work, shared meals, and a growing appreciation of each other’s intelligence and sense of humor had brought them closer and closer together — whether or not they were willing to admit it yet. The van slowed and came to a stop. “We’re here, Alex. The Novodevichy Convent’s just up ahead, on the right,” Hennessy announced from the driver’s seat, his voice muffled by the partition.
“No signs of a tail?” Banich asked.