Levchenko had already spoken with Maj. Anatoly Sokolviy, who had been extremely hostile and defiant. The confrontation had ended abruptly when the MiG fighter pilot, encouraged by his fellow aviators, walked away from the contentious KGB director.
Pogostyan ran down the steep stairs of the control tower, then hurried across the tarmac toward Levchenko. "Comrade director, the helicopter pilot reports only one American survivor."
"We only need one," Levchenko snorted. "What condition is he…"
"He is reported," Pogostyan said cautiously, "to have suffered only cuts and bruises."
"Excellent!" Levchenko spat, turning to the ranking KGB officer now in charge of security. "Talavokine," he shouted at the short, beefy agent. "Come here!"
The security officer turned to the Cuban army lieutenant, said a few quick words, then walked over to Levchenko. "Da, comrade director," the security expert said, standing uneasily.
Levchenko glared at Talavokine. "You will be personally responsible for the confinement of the American. I don't care if you have to guard him yourself-twenty-four hours a day. Do you understand me, Talavokine?"
"Yes, clearly, comrade director."
"Good."
The surprised KGB officer avoided Levchenko's eyes by staring over his right shoulder.
"If there is one screwup," Levchenko said, shaking his right index finger in the officer's face, "I will see that you spend the rest of your miserable career as a clerk on Taymyr Peninsula in Siberia."
The agent swallowed, then nodded his understanding.
"If you allow him to escape again," Levchenko warned, "plan your own escape. You will both be dead men."
"Da, comrade director," the officer stammered. "I will not allow anything to happen."
"Meet the helicopter," Levchenko ordered, seeing the approaching Mil Mi-17's landing light illuminate, "and escort the prisoner to the hangar."
The KGB agent backed away without responding, then turned and walked toward the squad of Cuban soldiers.
Levchenko, shielding his eyes from the rotor wash, watched the Mi-17 descend to a hover in front of the tower. The big Isotov turbines caused the ground to vibrate as the pilot lowered the helicopter gently onto its wheels. Levchenko turned and walked to his field car, then ordered the driver to take him to his office.
Fritz Kranz was startled awake when the phone rang. The sixtyeight-year-old, white-haired, heavyset, retired thoracic surgeon struggled with the bed cover, then freed his feet. "One moment, please," Kranz mumbled, fumbling for his robe. He patted his wife. "Sorry, my Katy."
"Who could it be at this hour?" she asked.
"I don't know, dear."
The phone rang again and again, loud and obtrusive in the quiet cottage. Kranz searched for his slippers, then gave up and crossed the bedroom cautiously, opened the door fully, and stepped into the hallway. He turned on the single light and picked up the ringing phone.
"Kranz."
"Herr Doktor," the cheery male voice said, "I am Johann at the cable office."
"Yes."
"I apologize for the untimely intrusion, but we have a cable for you, marked most urgent."
Kranz's mind raced. He had received only four urgent cables during the nine years he had worked with the Central Intelligence Agency. "Oh, yes," Kranz replied, rubbing the sleep from his puffy eyes. "We have been expecting an urgent message. I must be in the city early this morning, so I will stop by your office."
"Very well, Herr Doktor," the pleasant voice said. "Again, my apologies."
"You are very kind," Kranz responded, straining to see the grandfather clock in the living room. The antique timepiece indicated 4:54 A. M. "Good morning."
Kranz replaced the phone receiver, then started for the small bathroom. He replayed the procedures in his mind. Was RAINDANCE still secure?
"Who was it, Fritz?"
"One of my patients, dear. They don't seem to understand that I am retired."
Kranz dressed hurriedly, grabbed his medical bag, kissed his dozing wife good-bye, and drove the sixty kilometers into the heart of Vienna.
Entering the city, Kranz slowed near the Hofburg. He glanced at the Lippizaner stallions across the avenue. The beautiful horses turned the cold morning air to steam with their breath.
As he passed the historic imperial palace, Kranz mentally reviewed the CIA code and procedures used to contact RAINDANCE. This type of connection was referred to in the agency as a threearms'-length transaction. Trust and obscurity held the loop together.
Nearing the cable office, Kranz allowed his mind to drift back a few years. He could clearly see his dear friend and mentor, Doctor William G. Keating, former Dean of Medicine at Harvard University. What wonderful years we had, Kranz thought to himself, remembering how Keating had arranged for Kranz to enter the prestigious medical school.
Fritz Hoffmann Kranz had been one of three highly gifted foreign medical students whom Keating had sponsored in 1948.
Keating had respected the young Austrian for his study habits and diligence in pursuing the highest standards of the medical profession. The two men had developed a close relationship — some said like father and son — and Fritz became part of the Keating family.
During the Christmas holidays of 1949, Kranz had married Keating's daughter, Kathryn Lynne, two years his junior. During the spring of 1955, the Kranzes, with their three-year-old daughter, Anna, moved to Austria. Fritz and Kathryn had made it a ritual to return to Cambridge, Massachusetts, every other year for the holiday season.
Kranz had never known about Keating's involvement with the CIA until the day Keating had recruited him. That had been three weeks before Keating died. Fritz and Kathryn had rushed home, accompanied by Anna and her children, to be with the terminally ill doctor. Bill Keating had called his son-in-law into his bedroom, offered him three fingers of Chivas, then laid out his desire for Kranz to accept the responsibility that Keating had been fulfilling for the CIA.
Fritz Kranz had been incredulous initially. The retired Dean of Medicine had explained to Kranz the proposed relationship with the CIA, who the contact would be, the fact that Kranz, with his background, would never be suspected of espionage, and that he would be serving a very worthy cause.
Kranz had resisted politely but firmly until Keating had reminded him of the question he had asked his sponsor upon entering Harvard. Fritz Kranz had remembered the words clearly. "How can I ever repay you, Doctor Keating?" Keating followed the reminder with the disclosure that he could not, under any condition, trust anyone else except his son-in-law. Fritz Kranz had embraced the dying man, then vowed solemnly to continue the service that Keating had been providing for the CIA.
Kranz snapped back to the present as he parked at the cable office. The streets were slowly beginning to fill with people and traffic. The retired surgeon stepped out of his well-worn BMW, shut the door, and walked into the small, unadorned office.
"Good morning," the jovial clerk said.
"Good morning," Kranz replied. "I am Doctor Kranz. You called in regard to a cable."
"Oh, yes," the young man responded. "Have it right here."
Kranz quickly signed for the cable in an unreadable scrawl, then took the envelope and placed it inside his jacket pocket. "Thank you."
"You're quite welcome, Herr Doktor," the clerk replied as Kranz opened the squeaky door and stepped outside.
Well, Fritz, Kranz thought, let us pray no one has been compromised. He returned to his automobile, started the engine, patted his jacket pocket nervously, then drove to the Hotel Sacher at Number 4 Philharmonikerstrasse.
The CIA intermediary, carrying a small overnight bag from his trunk, checked into the elegant hostelry, then hurried to his room on the second floor. He placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob, locked the door, and reached into his jacket for the cable.