“Aw, shit! They’re on us, Dimitri. Let’s go.”
The two men raced down the hallway, clamored through a window, went part way down a fire escape, and leaped over a fence into an adjoining courtyard.
Dimitri stumbled and fell forward on his knees, knocking his hat off. Wickham picked him up, slamming Dimitri’s hat down over his ears.
Together the men raced toward the Moscow suburb of Barviha, where the CIA operatives had a Volga. The car was registered in the name of a United States embassy official, but reserved for this type of contingency, a quick escape from Moscow proper.
“Hurry, Dimitri! We can’t outrun their dogs.” Wickham’s breathing was becoming labored.
Dimitri’s response was a gasp, a croak, “Ahh—’kay.”
The two men emerged from a narrow passage between two buildings, 150 meters from the waiting Volga, and started walking across the street.
Suddenly, the American pushed Dimitri into a row of shrub trees, again knocking his hat askew. Wickham pointed down Kazabova street, visibly straining to slow his breathing, his lips parched dry.
Dimitri could see the black KGB car 200 meters past the Volga, their escape vehicle. Two GRU officers, one holding the leash of a Doberman pinscher, were talking with the driver.
The American quietly motioned to Dimitri. “Follow me and stay alert.”
Dimitri responded by grabbing the back of the agent’s coat as they forced their way through the shrubs and hedges until they were in a small yard.
“We’ll cut between the buildings, then try to approach from the dacha directly in front of the car.”
The two men crept across three small private yards in the posh suburb and stealthily approached the side of the dacha in front of the parked Volga.
Wickham motioned Dimitri to kneel down. They moved quietly to the side of the front porch, removing their hats. Dimitri could feel the Beretta gouging him between his back and belt.
“Listen,” Wickham whispered. “The keys are in a special container under the left rear fender.”
Dimitri listened intently, nodding his head in understanding. His hand still hurt, hot and stinging, but the pain was almost forgotten in his near-panic.
“I’m going to head for the car, get the keys, and unlock the driver’s door. Then — and only then — you walk casually out and get in the other side. Understand, Dimitri? Clearly?”
“Yes,” Dimitri said, fear written on his face. “I understand.”
Wickham nervously looked around the corner of the porch. The GRU officers and their Doberman were slowly crossing the street, approaching the row of dachas in front of the Volga.
The KGB men were still in their car with the passenger door open.
“Dimitri, it’s very simple. We have no other choice. If we stay here, I guarantee you we will be dead, or imprisoned and tortured, very shortly.”
“Yes, sir,” Dimitri replied, regaining his confidence.
“Then do as I say. Put your weapon in your outside coat pocket. If we need them, we’ll damn sure use ’em.”
Dimitri nodded, gently placing the Beretta in his right coat pocket.
“Here we go,” Wickham said as he walked from the side of the porch, shocking Dimitri with his boldness.
The American stepped between a tall hedge and the outside door of the dacha, pretending to be leaving the residence. He opened, then slammed the outside door, casually strolling down the short steps, carefully fitting his hat to his head.
“Good morning, comrades,” the American agent said in perfect Russian.
Dimitri was petrified as he watched the agent talk to the KGB officers.
“Morning,” came the brusque reply. The black Doberman growled menacingly, straining on his leash.
Wickham reached for the keys as the GRU officers started back across the street.
Dimitri watched as the American unlocked the driver’s door. The young Kremlin operative stood upright and started toward the car. Every step was filled with agonizing terror. Every fiber in his being cried out in alarm.
Without warning, the door to the dacha opened, startling Dimitri. A pretty Russian woman appeared, thinking someone had knocked on her door.
“What do you want?” she cried out, alarmed at the presence of GRU officers across the street.
The two officers stopped, turned around, a quizzical look on their faces.
Before Dimitri could respond to the frightened woman, the American turned and spoke to her in Russian.
“We apologize,” Wickham said loudly, “we knocked at the wrong dacha. Yevgeny Govorko, we have the wrong address.”
Dimitri hesitated, then started for the car.
“Keep moving, Dimitri,” Wickham said under his breath.
“Halt!” the GRU senior officer commanded. “Stop where you are!”
“Run, Dimitri!” the American ordered. “Get in the car.”
As Dimitri rounded the corner of the car, a black object hit him from the side. He felt searing pain in his right ear, then heard a loud shot close to him.
Wickham had shot the Doberman when he glanced off Dimitri, catching the vicious beast as he leaped off the pavement for another assault.
“GET IN,” the American shouted as he leaped into the driver’s seat and inserted the key.
Dimitri plunged headlong into the car as Wickham floor-boarded the Volga and careened into traffic.
The black KGB car made a U-turn and was recklessly pursuing the two CIA men, swerving wildly to miss oncoming vehicles.
The two agents had to lose the Russians quickly if they had any chance for survival.
Wickham yelled at Dimitri to keep his head down, then glanced in the rearview mirror at the pursuing automobile. At that precise instant the rear window was shattered by three rounds from a KGB submachine gun.
Chapter Nine
The vice president, surrounded by Cliff Howard, secretary of defense, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, waited patiently for Ted Corbin to enter the Situation Room.
The director of the Central Intelligence Agency had called the vice president only minutes before to report an “irregularity” in Moscow.
Susan Blaylocke, sensing a major problem developing, ordered the CIA director to report in person, then called a meeting of her staff.
Corbin entered the room, tie askew, and sat down.
The vice president spoke first. “What, precisely, is the problem in Moscow, Ted?”
The director seemed flustered, hesitating before he answered. “The information I have at the present time is preliminary and doesn’t accurately reflect appro—”
“Ted,” Blaylocke impatiently interrupted, “just state the problem, clearly and concisely.”
Corbin’s face flushed, turning almost crimson.
“Something has gone wrong in Moscow. We only know, at this juncture, that our senior field operative and the Kremlin plant have been involved in an altercation with the KGB. Our mole was apparently on to something. He violated the normal procedure for contacting the senior agent, and, we believe, that initiated the screwup.”
Every face in the room was staring at Corbin, unnerving the intelligence director.
“Altercation?” The vice president looked puzzled. “Could you be more specific, Ted?”
The director averted his eyes. “We don’t know the details as of yet. We do know there was some sort of scuffle. Our senior agent in Moscow, Steve Wickham, has disappeared, along with Dimitri. Our belief is that both men have been pla—”
“What do you mean by disappeared? Does the KGB have them in custody?” Blaylocke, irritated, watched the director closely, measuring him.
“We don’t believe the KGB has them,” Corbin responded, wetting his lips. “At least not at the moment.”
“Go on,” Cliff Howard prodded.
“As I started to say previously, our other senior field agent — he works closely with Wickham covering the Kremlin — reported the incident and the disappearance.”