Dimitri didn’t answer. His breathing was already ragged, his mouth tasted like cotton, and his right hand throbbed with pain.
Wickham continued to instruct Dimitri as the two men hurried down walkways and back streets.
“Hang on, Dimitri. Two more minutes and we’ll be in my apartment.”
“Okay. I’m not—”
“Don’t talk,” barked the agent. “Just listen!”
Dimitri didn’t respond as he tried to quicken his pace behind the fast-moving American.
“When we get to the apartment,” the CIA agent paused while he reconnoitered Cherkasskiy street, “we will change into disguises to facilitate our escape.”
The American slowed to a normal walk as they approached his apartment.
“No need to draw unwanted attention or suspicion. Just be casual,” the agent cautioned as they neared the Novaya apartment complex, “and speak in Russian at all times.”
“Da,” Dimitri replied as he glanced from side to side, then down to his aching hand.
The CIA operative looked up at his apartment window, then continued talking to Dimitri.
“We will become Soviet bureaucrats. Agriculture inspectors traveling to Leningrad to examine the truck farming administrative center. The credentials are flawless.”
Dimitri knew, at this point, to listen, not respond to the American.
“I will brief you on the train,” Wickham continued as they started up the steps to the apartment building. “The area around Leningrad is full of state-run farms producing potatoes, vegetables, dairy products, and they also raise hogs and livestock.”
“Okay.” Dimitri ventured a tentative reply.
The CIA agent, noticing the long hallway was empty, continued summarizing the escape plan.
“The KGB will be circulating our descriptions throughout the city in a matter of minutes. You’ll be missed at the Kremlin by midafternoon.”
“Yes. Before, probably,” replied the frightened young auto mechanic, wishing he could be with Svetlana in New Jersey. His mind raced as the events of the morning caught up with him. No turning back.
“We have some time, not a lot, but enough to prepare adequately for our trip.”
Dimitri nodded, thinking about Svetlana.
The agent, reaching for his keys, continued. “We have to catch the ten-thirty train to Leningrad. The KGB will be everywhere, but our disguises and credentials will obviate any suspicion. Understand?”
“Y-Yes,” Dimitri stammered, not accepting the necessity for the sudden departure from Moscow. He ached for Svetlana and the passion-filled nights they had shared. Would he ever see her again? Could he ever explain?
The CIA agent unlocked the door and the two men stepped inside. The American immediately went to the window and peered into the street. A black Volga containing three KGB agents drove slowly down the street, stopping in the intersection.
“The KGB is already out in force,” the CIA operative reported, slowly turning his head to view the opposite direction.
“Dimitri, I hope you can appreciate how serious this is.” The agent released the window curtain and turned to face Dimitri.
“Sorry, the wheels just fell off and we’ve got—”
Wickham stopped in midsentence, horrified. His eyes widened and he swallowed twice before speaking, pointing his finger, arm outstretched, at Dimitri’s right hand.
“Dimitri, your hand is bleeding!”
Both men stared at the bright red blood steadily dripping on the floor. The two agents realized they had left a clearly marked trail to the apartment. Their sanctuary was now a deathtrap.
Major DiGennaro concentrated on flying perfect formation while he glanced at his fuel gauges. Two minutes passed before he saw the refueling light wink out on the huge KC–10, checked his fuel load, and prepared to unplug from the tanker.
“Cobra One,” announced the fueling boom operator, “you’re cleared down and to the left.”
“Roger, One is down and left,” DiGennaro replied, easing back on his throttles.
The sleek F-15 disengaged from the tanker cleanly, dropped astern twenty feet, and slowly moved below and to the left of the mammoth flying gas station.
Now it was Parnam’s turn to take on fuel before the other thirsty F-15s arrived on station. DiGennaro knew their flight leader would be anxious to have his troops topped off before confronting the Russians.
DiGennaro watched as Parnam made an abortive attempt to mate with the KC–10, then smoothly plugged into the tanker on his second try.
“How ya doin’, Bill?” DiGennaro asked in a conversational tone, noticing the pilot induced oscillations were dampening.
“Mighty fine, boss,” Parnam responded, intently concentrating on his formation flying, “and the price isn’t bad either.”
DiGennaro chuckled to himself, knowing his wingman was damn good. He checked his fuel gauges once more, glanced at his armament panel, and called the AWACS.
“Pinwheel, Cobra with you.”
“Cobra, Pinwheel.”
“I’m topped and Two will be off the tanker in a minute. Where are the other fifteens?”
“They’re thirty out, Cobra, descending on the tankers.” The voice was calm, reassuring.
“Roger, Pinwheel. Point us toward the bogies,” DiGennaro replied, checking Parnam’s F-15.
“Two eighty-five, blocking three-three-zero to four-one-oh, one hundred forty out.”
“One with a copy,” responded the flight leader, waiting for his wingman to finish refueling.
“Two shows full,” Parnam announced in a quiet, steady voice.
“Nightrider confirms,” the boom operator verified the load, “cleared down and to the right.”
“Down and right,” Parnam repeated, easing the F-15 back to the right of the tanker. He looked over to his flight leader on the left.
“Good hunting, Cobras,” radioed the pilot of the lumbering KC–10.
“Thanks, Nightrider. Appreciate the drink,” replied DiGennaro as he watched his wingman slide into position on his right wing.
“Our pleasure, guys,” responded the KC–10 pilot. The tanker was already turning to remain in the racetrack refueling pattern.
“Cobras, go combat spread,” ordered DiGennaro. “Check your panel; we’re goin’ upstairs.”
“Roger, lead. Clean and green,” replied Parnam, inching his throttles forward while he scanned his radar.
The Russian bomber group and fighter escorts were approaching the American fighter pilots at a combined closure rate of over 1,000 miles per hour.
The CIA agent shoved Dimitri toward the tiny bathroom, shouting orders, as he hurried to effect their escape. No time now for a full transformation or disguise. Their options were dwindling rapidly.
“Wash your hand off and wrap it with gauze,” Wickham said, yanking open drawers. “Keep your gloves on.”
The American agent quickly combed white powder through his hair, creating an instant aging effect. Wickham, donning different trousers, white shirt, conservative dark tie, and long black topcoat, began to look like a Soviet bureaucrat, an agriculture inspector. He topped off the ensemble with a black, Russian-made, medium-brimmed hat.
Racing back to the window, the agent tossed Dimitri a pair of pants, long coat, and similar black hat.
“Get into those quick! Remember how to use this?” Wickham asked, tossing Dimitri a 9-mm Beretta.
“Yes,” Dimitri responded, dancing on one leg while he tried to get the pants over his shoes. The pistol bounced off his left knee as Dimitri simultaneously lost his balance and fell against the bed.
“Don’t, unless you absolutely have to,” the agent said, holding the window curtain open half an inch. “We’ve gotta move fast!”
The American thrust a package of credentials into Dimitri’s inside coat pocket, peered out the window, and quickly stepped back.