“Where are we going?” Dimitri asked, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for possible threats.
“To Kalinin to catch the train. Two-hour drive, at most. We will turn off the highway at Khimki and follow the road to Kalinin. I’ll explain more when we get out of traffic. They probably won’t miss this car for a couple of hours.”
Dimitri sat quietly, watching the CIA agent drive with his left hand. His right arm remained motionless with the hand through his coat front, providing a sling.
As the Lada reached the outskirts of Moscow, both men breathed easier. Each kilometer spelled safety, more security for the agents.
“Dimitri, our original plan won’t work now.”
“What are we going to do?” the young agent blurted, in a small voice, tension tightening his throat.
“I’ll need your help, so listen closely.”
Dimitri nodded, rising in his seat to look behind the automobile. His heart still pounded. What would they do to Svetlana? He ached to go back to her, then realized he could never return.
“When we get to Kalinin, we’ll submerge the car in the river. Then we’ll separate to enter the train station a few minutes apart.”
Dimitri’s eyes appeared glazed.
“Are you listening, goddamnit?”
“Yessir,” Dimitri replied, focusing on Wickham’s face.
“When we enter the station, Dimitri, you go into the john, the men’s room, and enter a stall. Stay in there until the train arrives. I’ll come and get you when it’s time to board.”
“I understand. Where are we going?”
The agent checked in every direction, awkwardly downshifted for a corner, then continued.
“The train will take us close to Leningrad. We’ll get off outside Novgorod, next to the Volkhov River.”
“Then we go by truck again …?” Dimitri interjected, hoping their escape would be in a familiar, nonthreatening environment.
“No, that’s too risky. Intelligence has informed us the Soviets are on to the ruse. We lost two men eight months ago. The Russian border guards knew precisely where our agents were concealed in the truck. We had to resort to hiding our people inside the trucks a few months after your insertion.”
“How then—?” Dimitri stopped himself, seeing the look on the American’s face.
“When we get off the train near Novgorod, at night, I’ll send a prearranged signal via satellite. That will set the rescue operation in motion.”
The American braked for another turn and continued his brief to Dimitri. “I have a satellite transmitter sewn inside my topcoat. We can send only coded messages. No voice.”
Without hesitating, the agent continued. “When we are in place, at the pickup point, I’ll send a coded message and the helos will be en route almost immediately.”
“Helicopters?” Dimitri was astonished.
“That’s correct. The extraction procedure has been rehearsed many times. I have a UHF radio built into the satellite transmitter. I will be able to talk with the pilots when they are within fifteen or twenty miles of our position.”
The Lada rounded a corner and the American continued his explanation to the frightened young operative. “Dimitri, when we get close to Kal — OH SHIT!”
Both men saw the checkpoint simultaneously. The guard house and closed gate were only four hundred meters away as the American started slowing the Lada.
“Dimitri, quick, grab the scarf from my right coat pocket and wrap it once around my neck.”
Dimitri complied, initially fumbling to unfold the brown knit fabric.
“Make sure it covers the blood around my collar.”
“It’s covered,” Dimitri responded, his voice again choked in near panic.
“Drape the end over my torn shoulder.” Wickham squirmed as a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. “Got it?”
“It’s completely covered,” Dimitri said as he spread the scarf over the agent’s wound.
“Okay, Dimitri, I’ll talk. We’re agriculture inspectors, so act like one.” Wickham motioned to Dimitri. “Get out your credentials.”
The Lada slowed as the American glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. No trace of blood visible, at least from the left side.
Two guards, one with a Kalashnikov rifle and the other brandishing a submachine gun, stood in front of the closed gate.
Both Russian guards raised their hands, motioning for the Lada to stop.
“Get a hold on yourself, Dimitri, or we’re both dead. Act the part you’re supposed to be.” Wickham lowered his voice. “Official.”
The American brought the automobile to a smooth stop as the guards approached the Lada, one on each side.
“Greetings, comrades,” the American said, displaying his credentials.
The guard studied the papers closely, then looked at the American and Dimitri.
“Step out and open the trunk,” the Soviet guard sternly ordered.
“Yes, comrade,” the American replied, opening the door gingerly with his left arm.
Wickham’s mind raced, knowing he didn’t have a key to the trunk. He had hot-wired the ignition to start the car.
The American rounded the end of the automobile, appearing to search for a key.
“What is wrong with your arm, Comrade Inspector?” the Russian holding the Kalashnikov rifle asked, suspicion written on his face.
“Farming accident, comrade.” Wickham appeared nonchalant. “Many years ago in Groznyy.”
The American was in pain and he hoped it didn’t show on his face.
“Comrade Inspector, this is not an Agriculture Bureau automobile. This is registered to the State Medical Department.”
“That is true, comrade. Our vehicle was in for routine service and inspection. The Bureau Directorate procured this automobile for our trip.”
The other guard, listening to the conversation, was examining Dimitri’s credentials through the open passenger window.
“Open the trunk, Comrade Inspector,” the guard again ordered, tapping the metal with the barrel of his weapon.
“I’m afraid they didn’t give me a key to the trunk. The inept blunderheads,” responded the American as he noticed the other guard carrying Dimitri’s credentials into the guard house. If he got on the phone with the false papers, it was all over.
“Comrade Inspector, let me have your key to the ignition,” the guard ordered in a loud voice, raising the barrel of the rifle strapped over his shoulder.
“Yes, of course,” Wickham replied as he approached the open driver’s door. He reached inside, as if to retrieve the key, and noticed the other guard dialing the wall-mounted phone.
The orbiter drifted effortlessly over the azure Pacific Ocean, inverted, top facing the planet, as the crew prepared to extend the remote manipulator arm.
Maj. Ward Culdrew, the mission specialist, looked through the aft crew station windows. The three satellites appeared unharmed after the rocket flight into space.
Doctor Minh Tran, mission payload specialist, stood at the payload handler station. Tran was preparing to operate the remote manipulator system.
Hank Doherty was at the pilot’s position in the center of the aft crew station. His job would entail maneuvering Columbia during the satellite deployment procedure.
Alan Cressottie manned the other mission payload specialist position, ready to assist any crew member, while Colonel Crawford supervised the operation from the forward flight deck.
The shuttle was parked in orbit in the lower Van Allen belt. The crew could not spend long periods at this altitude because of the radiation hazard.
“Stand by to deploy the RMS,” Culdrew ordered.
The cargo-bay floodlights were on, creating eerie shadows toward the rear of the compartment, along with the television cameras and viewing monitors.