"As you say, comrade director."
Levchenko turned off the recorder, retrieved the two tapes, ground out his cigarette, and walked into his office. He placed the tapes carefully in their original containers, then into watertight bags. After sealing the bags, he placed them in metal containers and locked the square boxes in his desk. The KGB director picked up his phone receiver and punched in three numbers to connect him with the KGB senior security officer.
"Talavokine," the agent answered quickly.
"Send in the guards," Levchenko ordered, "and have that other slime — Simmons — sent in."
"Da, comrade director," Talavokine answered. "The pilot is to return to his cell?"
"Yes," Levchenko responded. "He is to be exercised and fed only — no shower."
"Da, comrade director," the agent replied, spying Larry Simmons. "The guards are on the way and I will escort the traitorous American to your office."
Chapter Eleven
Senior Warrant Officer Vitaliy Lugayev had grown impatient with the snarled traffic. His driver had been trying to negotiate the approach to Dzerzhinsky Square, but an accident 200 meters in front of them had brought the vehicles to a halt.
Lugayev, exasperated, could see the imposing Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti building. The Kremlin spy headquarters was less than a kilometer away. "I will walk the rest of the way," Lugayev said as he opened the door and stepped out. "Park in the Kremlin spaces, and do not go to lunch."
Lugayev slammed the Moskvich 412's door, muffling the driver's acknowledgment. The warrant officer hurried toward the KGB building, darting between the gridlocked cars and buses. He cursed the ministry of transportation for their inefficient traffic system and complex driving regulations.
"What has happened?" a shriveled old man asked as Lugayev passed the window of a faded Zhiguli.
"Proizoshla avariya," the warrant officer shouted. "There's been an accident."
Lugayev stopped and moved between two cars when a motorcycle traffic policeman waved him out of the way. The armed militiaman, dressed in a gray uniform and carrying a white baton, weaved through the narrow passage with ease.
Lugayev raced across the square in front of the spy headquarters, slowed to a walk to recover his wind, and entered the massive structure.
Vitaliy Lugayev nervously removed his hat and approached the information desk. "I am Senior Warrant Officer Lugayev," the dapper administrator announced, proudly flipping open his credentials for inspection. "I am General Borol'kov's aide — Troops of Air Defense — and I must see the chief of investigations immediately."
The white-haired, bleary-eyed man did not respond. He continued to scrutinize Lugayev's papers.
"At once," Lugayev said impatiently.
The information clerk closed Lugayev's credentials and handed the folder back to the warrant officer. "The chief of investigations," the elderly clerk droned slowly, "is out of the city."
"Then I must see his assistant," Lugayev almost shouted, "or someone in charge."
The withered clerk looked up sluggishly, staring into Lugayev's eyes. "You will have to have an appointment to see the assistant chief of—"
"You blubbering old fool!" Lugayev said, trying to control his voice. "This matter is of the greatest concern — I represent General of the Army Borol'kov. I must see an official — immediately!"
"What is the problem?" a senior officer walking by interrupted.
Lugayev quickly explained the situation to the startled bureaucrat.
"Nikolai," the well-groomed KGB officer said to the aging clerk. "Inform investigations that I am on my way to see Akhlomov."
The solemn clerk raised his telephone handset. "Yes, sir, comrade inspector."
The KGB officer, followed by Lugayev, hurried to the elevator. After a brief ride, both men walked at a brisk pace to the office of the deputy chief of investigations.
Natanoly F. Akhlomov, second in command of the department, remained seated while Lugayev introduced himself. "Have a seat, Starshiy Praporshchik Lugayev," the unsmiling deputy said, then turned his attention to the head of the KGB training academy. "Join us, Pyotr."
Both men sat down while Akhlomov energized a recorder built into the front of his desk. Then Lugayev explained, in detail, what had transpired in General Borol'kov's private office.
Akhlomov, without taking his eyes off the warrant officer, wrote quick memos to himself. "Tell me, Comrade Lugayev," Akhlomov said, darting a glance at his KGB associate, "where is General Voronoteev at the present time?"
Lugayev, trying to conceal his anxiety, looked at his shiny black-market watch. "The general is preparing, I'm sure, to go to lunch."
"Thank you," Akhlomov said as he stood from behind his cluttered desk. "We will be in touch if we need further information."
Lugayev rose awkwardly from his chair, grasping his hat with both hands. "Thank you, comrades," he ventured, then walked out the door held open by the other KGB officer.
Akhlomov waited until the door was closed, then turned off the recorder and smiled at his friend. "Well, Pyotr Igoryevich," Akhlomov said quietly, turning serious, "the general finally surfaces for what he is — a treasonous scum."
"I… as we have suspected for a long time," the chief of training offered, than lowered his head slightly. "This is a sad day, comrade."
"I agree," Akhlomov replied in a disappointed tone. "We have to move fast — the traitorous bastard knows about the ATB project."
The academy training director looked confused. "The what project, comrade?"
Akhlomov moved quickly around his desk and clasped his friend's shoulders before speaking. The deputy chief of investigations knew that he had made a mistake by blurting out "ATB."
"Pyotr Igoryevich," Akhlomov said, convincing in his pretension, "I will explain the project to you when I have authorization."
"I understand, comrade," the training director replied uncomfortably.
Akhlomov walked his associate to the door, then continued down the corridor to the files section. He bypassed the superintendent and personally gathered the dossier of Lt. Gen. Yuliy Lavrent'yevich Voronoteev.
Akhlomov returned to his desk, phoned Voronoteev's office, under the guise of a fellow general, and gleaned the knowledge he needed to locate the traitor. Voronoteev was at lunch and would be out of the office for the afternoon. Voronoteev's aide also provided the names of the places the general normally frequented for lunch.
Akhlomov placed a second call to his subordinate, detailing the description of Voronoteev and his chauffeur-driven automobile. Akhlomov's orders were clear. Locate Voronoteev, using any means available, and report back immediately. Time was extremely critical, Akhlomov explained, then he hung up and rushed downstairs to the transportation section.
Steve Wickham adjusted his oxygen mask and wedged the sealed manila envelope between his ejection seat and the right side of the F-14D's cockpit.
Up front, Comdr. Dalton McDonald eased the howling Tomcat over the catapult shuttle and stopped. The green-shirted catapult crews scurried under the fighter as the blast deflector was raised.
Wickham watched in fascination as a flight deck crewman held up a lighted display board to the pilot. McDonald acknowledged the deckhand with a thumbs-up, indicating that the number on the board corresponded to the F-14's weight.
"Brace your helmet against the headrest," McDonald instructed, simultaneously advancing both throttles to military power.
Wickham, without replying, leaned back his head and braced himself for the night catapult shot. When the nose of the Tomcat dropped, his mind ceased thinking about the top secret message he had read.
"You ready?" McDonald asked as he scanned his engine instruments quickly.