"Hello, Peter," Lieutenant General Voronoteev said cheerfully. "Alexei Arbatov, returning your call. It has been a long time."
"Yes, my friend," Kranz responded evenly. "Good to hear your voice again."
"Thank you, professor," Voronoteev replied, carefully scrutinizing the dirigible hangar — shaped building. "What news have you heard?"
"My colleagues at the university," Kranz answered uncomfortably, "have reported that a B-2 Stealth bomber is missing. The speculation is that it did not crash."
"That is very interesting," Voronoteev replied, placing the small strip of paper back in his shirt pocket. He knew what Kranz was alluding to. Some Soviet faction apparently had their hands on the top secret bomber.
"Peter, I have a call on another line," Voronoteev said, seemingly surprised by the news. "I'll contact you when I am not so busy."
"That will be fine, Alexei. I look forward to hearing from you," Kranz replied, then acknowledged Voronoteev's salutation and replaced the receiver in the cradle.
The Austrian physician felt somewhat relieved, knowing that his contact would not call again until the next day. The follow-up calls were always between three and five o'clock in the afternoon, allowing Kranz to return home while he retained the room. He always left toilet articles strewn in the bathroom, and he rumpled the bed, as if it had been slept on.
Kranz walked into the well-appointed bathroom, then stared at his puffy face in the oval mirror. "Fritz, you're too old and you get too nervous for this kind of nonsense."
The captain of the power catamaran Quicksilver II waited patiently, along with his thirteen scuba diving enthusiasts, for one of their companions to complete his telephone conversation. The noisy group, anxious to reach the outer regions of the Great Barrier Reef, had been delayed already by a faulty fuel line.
After receiving a new fuel hose, Quicksilver II had cast off scant seconds before the Sheraton Mirages courtesy van had slid to a grinding halt at the dock. The ensemble had watched curiously as the tanned American had leaped from the catamaran to the pier and run the short distance to the shouting messenger. Most of the passengers had noticed the two large scars on their American diving companion, one on the right shoulder, the other across his lower back.
"I'll go see what the problem is," Rebecca Marchand offered, stepping onto the wooden dock.
"Thanks, mate," the leathery-skinned captain responded, admiring the beautiful, blond-haired young woman. He could clearly see the skimpy blue and white bikini under her thin cover-up.
The Pan American Airlines flight attendant was only twenty feet from the small passenger shelter when her fiance, Stephen Wickham, raced out the door. "Becky, we have to cancel — I'll explain later."
"What's wrong, Steve?"
"I'm not exactly sure," he answered, darting a look at the catamaran. "Let's grab our gear."
Steve turned to the hotel driver. "Hang on, we'll be just a couple of seconds."
"Take your time, Mister Wickham," the easygoing Australian said, leaning against the front fender.
Steve and Becky trotted down to the waiting catamaran, apolo-_ gized to the skipper and their fellow passengers, retrieved the rented diving gear, then hurried back to the Sheraton's passenger shuttle.
"Honey, I have to go back," Steve said, lowering his voice when the driver opened his door to get in. "Some kind of crisis at the agency."
"You've got to be kidding," Becky responded as the shuttle van accelerated toward the hotel.
"Becky, I know this isn't fair to you, but something very important — really big — has happened. I honestly don't know the particulars, but it's a category one panic."
"Steve, can't they assign someone else? You're on vacation — a well-deserved vacation I might add — and we've only been here three days."
Steve placed his hand on Becky's thigh and patted her in an affectionate manner. "Hey, kiddo, I know you're upset, but it isn't as simple as it sounds."
Becky raised Steve's hand and held it between hers. "I'm not upset with you, Steve. It just seems that every time we arrange anything together…"
"I know," Steve responded, "and I can only apologize."
Becky turned slightly to look directly into Steve's sparkling green eyes. "What could be so important that you have to cancel your vacation and race back to Langley?"
Steve remained quiet a moment, selecting his words carefully. "Stephen," Becky said, tilting her head slightly, "you're holding something back, aren't you?"
"Could we give this a rest," Steve said in a hushed whisper, "until we get to our room?"
Becky paused, giving her fiance a stern but understanding look. "Yes, Clark Kent. Just one thing."
"I know," Steve replied, trying to suppress a grin.
"Well, why not?" Becky asked in a pleasant manner. "After risking your life in the Marine Corps and damn near getting killed last year in Russia… Steve, taking an administrative position isn't the end of the world. You're an excellent manager and leader."
Becky stopped, knowing that this was not the time to discuss her ongoing concern about Steve's profession. "I love you," she said, still clutching his hand, "and I want to spend a long, happy life with you."
Steve Wickham grinned again, revealing his even, white teeth. "Sitting together in our rocking chairs, staring out across the lake?"
"That's right," Becky chuckled, nudging her husband-to-be with her shoulder.
The van stopped at the entrance to the hotel. Steve tipped the driver and followed Becky to their room. Closing the coral pink door of their suite, Steve turned to his fiance. "Honey, do you want to stay over for a couple of days?"
Becky looked at Steve with a quizzical expression. "No. I want to be with you. We'll go back together and I can spend some time in Washington."
Steve put up his hand, indicating that he needed to explain the situation. "Becky, it isn't quite that easy. I won't be going back on the airline, and… I won't be going to Langley."
Becky sat down on the floral print couch and crossed her slender legs. "Okay, Steve, out with it."
Steve walked to the small refrigerator and grabbed a can of Foster's lager. "Care for anything?"
"Yes," Becky replied, pulling a pillow toward her. "An explanation."
Steve popped the top and sat down in a chair across from Becky. "Honey, you don't hold a clearance, but I'm going to tell you as much as I can." Becky nodded, curling her shapely legs under her thin cover-up.
Steve swallowed a quick mouthful of the cold brew. "The Navy is sending a fighter — an F-14 Tomcat — to pick me up and boom me to Key West, Florida.* That's all I know right now, honestly."
"Steve," Becky hesitated, "fighter planes don't have the ability to fly nonstop from Australia to Florida."
"Honey," Steve responded, sipping his Foster's, "the Navy is going to aerial refuel the Tomcat all the way across."
"I don't like this, Steve," Becky said, a frown on her attractive face. "The agency doesn't fly CIA agents halfway around the world in a fighter plane if it isn't some kind of crisis."
The former marine corps infantry captain placed his aluminum can on the end table, hesitated a brief second, then leaned forward. "Becky, I haven't explained to you what I'm doing at the present time… in the agency."
Becky stood, walked to the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of chilled champagne. "I was saving this for tonight, but I believe now would be an appropriate time to open it. Please go on."
Steve cleared his throat quietly. "I was reassigned to Clandestine Ops after I came back from recuperative leave."
"Clandestine Ops," Becky repeated, popping the cork out of the cold bottle. "That sounds like a nice, safe, long-term career position."