New Life Ministries answered, and he identified himself according to established protocol. “I found the lost dog you’re looking for.” He heard a click and thought they either transferred him or put him on hold. “You still there? I said I have the information about the lost dog, but first we have to talk money.” Kivisto watched the man return the camera to the old woman.
“How much do you want?”
“I was thinking twenty-five grand, then I realized you must want this really bad to wake a little fish like me up in the middle of the night, so let’s just double that.” Kivisto smiled and leaned against the side of the booth. Art, you are the man.
“Fine.”
“That was fast. Clearly I sold myself short; let’s double down again.” Art, the man. Double-0-727. Kivisto recognized something about the man with the old lady. Maybe he’d seen him in the movies or sports pages.
Resnick squeezed the shoulder of the grandmother. “Go to your family, now!”
She didn’t budge. “I was hoping you’d have coffee and kuchen with me. You’re the sweetest person I’ve talked to in days.”
Resnick saw the meter on the phone begin to count down Kivisto’s remaining money. The rat was now connected. Resnick reached for the pen and took off the cap with the same hand. “You don’t really have a family waiting on you, do you?”
“No. I’m all alone.”
He gingerly patted her on the arm. “Well, then, I’ll have kuchen with you and I’ll be your family now.”
Her eyes widened with joy. Then Resnick poked her with his pen. The cobra-venom derivative acted with only a few seconds’ delay. He gently lowered her to the ground and shouted, “Help! Call an ambulance! My mother’s having a stroke!”
Kivisto watched the younger man take a few steps with the elderly woman as he listened for the KGB’s response to his hundred-thousand-dollar proposition. He was lousy with faces, but he definitely knew that man from somewhere. His handler came back on the line. “Agreed. But no more. Now the details.”
“It’s going in on PA1072 today.” Kivisto witnessed the man quickly stabbing the old lady’s forearm with something; then she fell to the ground. “What the hell?”
“What’s coming in? Who’s behind it?” the handler screamed into the phone.
Then Kivisto recognized him. the man he once knew as Sasha.
“You’ve double-crossed me! You bastards!” he shouted into the phone, then reached for the door.
Resnick bolted for the phone booth, shouting in German, “I need to call an ambulance. My mother’s dying!” Resnick yanked open the door just as Kivisto scrambled to get out. Resnick plunged the deadly writing tip into the first officer’s neck.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
HOTEL HUGENOTTENHOF, FRANKFURT AM MAIN AIRPORT
Major Natalia Nariskii sat crammed into an airport hotel room with two other operatives and cases of equipment, temporarily coordinating all efforts of the Bonn KGB residency at the Frankfurt airport. Despite the importance of the operation, Voronin wouldn’t spring for a suite. She looked at the digital clock. Eleven-thirty in the morning. She and twenty-six operatives and informants on the ground at the Frankfurt airport had worked through the night and into the morning. Not a single good lead had been turned up. The CIA said it was going down within the next twenty-four hours—and that was thirteen hours ago. Time was running out.
The secure line rang and the communications officer answered. He cupped his hand over the receiver. “Major, it’s General Voronin.”
Nariskii picked up the phone. “Listening.”
“We’ve got it. Pan Am 1072 today.”
Nariskii pointed at a blue flight schedule and motioned for the assistant to toss it to her. She cupped her hand over the phone. “Not that one. Pan Am. Right there. It says ‘New daily nonstops between Chicago and Frankfurt.’ ” He found it and tossed it to her. She caught it and flipped through the pages as she continued to speak with Voronin. “Anything else to work with?”
“No, the informant started shouting something about being doublecrossed. We heard a commotion, then nothing.”
She ran her polished nail down the column of the flight schedule. “Not good. PA1072 is scheduled for a noon departure. That’s in half an hour. Do you at least know what we’re looking for?”
“A nuclear suitcase is a suitcase. Figure it out.”
“There’s no time to go through all checked luggage and cargo even if I could come up with a way to do it. I suppose we could call in a bomb threat.”
“No. If the Germans are behind it, they’ll let it pass through. Even if they aren’t and they find it, the terrorists will still be out there. There’s only one way.”
“I don’t like it. It’s a civilian craft.”
“Just make sure it happens over our territory so we can sanitize the crash site.”
Nariskii turned to her communications officer. “Get me Gudiashvili immediately!”
Moments later, the com officer handed her a two-way radio. She hated unsecured communications, but was pleased with herself she had the foresight to give all of the Moscow flights of the day a special designation and assign codes to various contingency plans. “I understand there is a problem with the plumbing. Do your best to take care of it until help arrives. I need forty-five minutes to an hour. Afterward, I’m taking everyone out to eat.”
“Understood. Problems with the plumbing and we’re going out to eat.”
Nariskii put down the radio and turned it off. “Belenko, get the car. We’re leaving in ten minutes. Have the insertion team ready to meet me and get me onto that plane.”
Nariskii hoisted a weathered leather suitcase onto the bed. She prayed she had tossed everything she needed into the case when she packed last night. She opened it and inventoried the contents: a jumble of wires, batteries, tools, an alarm clock and a slab of Semtex. The soldering iron would need a few minutes to heat up, so she grabbed it first and searched for an outlet where she could plug it in. The cord of the lamp on the nightstand disappeared behind the bed. Following its trail, she shoved the mattress away from the wall and then reached behind the bed until she found the plug. She tugged, yanking it from the wall. Then she plugged in the soldering iron and set it on the nightstand.
She arranged a battery, an electric blasting cap and wire on the bed and sketched out a diagram in her mind, opting for a basic time-bomb design, simple but reliable. She waved her hand over the soldering iron and felt the heat rising. Time to get to work.
Careful to make sure she had a solid contact between the back of the clock and the copper wire, she soldered one end of the wire to the clock and the other end to the battery. Now she needed a screw. She ran her hand through the suitcase, but found nothing. “Get me a short screw! But with no paint on it. Try taking one off the toilet paper holder.”
She removed a drill from the suitcase and tossed it to her com officer. “Plug this in somewhere—just don’t mess with my soldering iron.”
“I thought you wanted the screw.”
“What! You don’t have the screw yet? Plug this in and find me a screw now!”
She picked up her shiny metal travel alarm. As long as she kept it wound, it had served her well. Saving her government was a good cause for its donation, but she’d miss its little face waking her everywhere from Havana to Vladivostok. And she wished she had a more professional device, like her favorite MST-13 timer. MEBO’s Swiss timers were almost as accurate as an atomic clock and the precise day and hour could be programmed into them, but she hadn’t seen equipment like that in ages. She knew she should count her blessings that support services at the Bonn residency actually had a slab of Semtex and a blasting cap left over from an aborted mission years ago. No one could even remember what the operation had been, only that there was surplus Semtex. The lack of collective memory surprised her, since Bonn saw real action so rarely. Black operations for the Bonn residency usually meant sending a whore to seduce a foreign dignitary an
d doing the photographic work. West Germany was the Stasi’s turf, and they ran it well. And it was the Berlin KGB residency that ran the Stasi, so Bonn was a backwater and Nariskii was stuck using screws from toilet paper holders and her own travel alarm to save the Politburo.
“Where’s my screw? I need it now!” She selected a fine bit and drilled a starter hole in the clear plastic face of the clock.
The officer handed her two screws.
“I asked for one. Do you have a flashbulb or a bulb like from a penlight? I want to test this circuit.”
“I have, but I fear there is no time. It is better if you do it right and do not test.”
Nariskii glanced at her watch. Eleven forty-two. It was too late for testing. She had to do it right the first time. Her hand shook from stress as she threaded the screw through the plastic face above the Roman numeral twelve. The screw reached just far enough to make contact with the metal hands. “Hold this.” She picked up the blasting cap, spread its wires apart and soldered one wire to the battery. “It’s hot now. Whatever you do, don’t let the loose lead touch the clock or the battery. And turn that damn radio off before you blow us up!” Nariskii popped the plastic face from her alarm and snapped off the minute hand. “Sorry, old friend.” She took a knife and scraped off the luminescence from the side of the hour hand to ensure a good contact. “Help me here. It’s a three-hour flight to Moscow and we want to make sure it’s over our territory. I’m guessing two hours after takeoff would be safe. Problem is calculating how long it takes us to plant it and for them to get in the air.”
“Last time I flew out of Frankfurt, we taxied thirty, forty-five minutes before takeoff.”
“If I only had a barometer, we could start the timer when the cabin pressurized.”
“Hurry. Gudiashvili is good, but he cannot delay it forever.”
“How quickly did he say they’d get me onto the ramp?” Nariskii put her finger on the hour hand and pressed lightly.
“Ten to fifteen minutes.”
“He always underestimates. Half-hour to the plane, another fifteen minutes to plant it and for them to close the door. A lot of charters leave midday on a weekend, so I’ll add forty-five for taxi, then two hours into the flight. And I always add an extra ten minutes for the bombmaker. I’ll set it for three hours and forty-five minutes from now. It’s eleven forty-five, so it should go off at five-thirty, Moscow time.” She moved the hand to a quarter past the numeral eight. Her hands trembled as she took the lead from the blasting cap, vigilant not to allow it to touch the metal casing of the clock. She paused for a second to study the wiring before she dared complete what she hoped was a broken circuit—broken until it closed at five-thirty Moscow time. Nariskii soldered the lead to the screw.
The com officer held the bomb while Nariskii set aside the soldering iron and jerked the cord from the wall. She picked up the brick of Semtex and weighed it in her hand. Four hundred grams, she guessed—a little more than their Libyan friends had used on Pan Am 103. It would suffice. She shoved a pencil deep inside the orange, claylike substance, pushed the blasting cap into the hole and then bundled the parts together with electrical tape. Not her finest work, but probably her most important. She wrapped it in a hand towel to ensure it wouldn’t make contact with the metal container in which she was going to stow it.
“Let’s go. We’ve got a plane to catch.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
FRANKFURT AM MAIN AIRPORT
The passengers were boarding the Clipper Pocahontas for Pan American World Airways flight 1072 from Frankfurt to Moscow when Faith scurried down the jetway. Airline identification tags flapped against her chest. Her blue jacket was a size too small and the gold buttons were poised to pop off if she breathed too deeply. She was pleased to have found a new crew tag for her bag. The paper things wore out so fast, even from her infrequent usage, that she didn’t understand why they didn’t switch to something laminated. She wheeled her carry-on bag across the foot of a businessman. “Sorry. My first Moscow run and I’m late. I’m so nervous. I’ve never been behind the Iron Curtain before.”
“Please.” The man stepped aside and motioned for her to pass. He leaned over to his colleague and spoke in German. “Lufthansa’s first class was booked. At least it’s not Aeroflot.”
The thirty-something purser stood in the doorway, glaring at Faith as he watched her scattered approach. If he booted her off the plane, it would spoil the run, and she didn’t want to think about what the Stasi would do to her if she didn’t deliver. She greeted the purser and shoved the wadded papers into his hand. “I’m so sorry I missed the preflight. I’ll never do it again.” She unclipped the identification badge from her jacket and shoved it into her small black purse.
He glared at her.
“I couldn’t help it. Let’s just say, unexpected female problems.”
“Step inside the galley and wait for me. You’re blocking the passengers.” He waved for a flight attendant in the coach cabin to come to the front. He held his hand up to halt the German businessman. “One moment, sir. I do apologize for the delay.” He went into the galley and jerked the blue curtain closed with such force that Faith feared he might pull it off the metal hooks. “You will never do that to me again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” She looked down in deference. A coffee stirrer was stuck to the floor under a stowed galley cart. Definitely not Lufthansa.
“You’re not on the crew manifest, Reeves.”
“I was just assigned. I gave you the addendum.”
“I’ve never known of a last-minute assignment on a Moscow haul. The Russians require too much paper—”
“I was supposed to start Moscow service next month.” She opened her purse and removed her thick business-size passport with a light brown folded paper inside. She held Hakan’s forgeries out to him and almost didn’t recognize her own hand with its fake press-on nails hastily polished in crimson surprise.
“Why would they add someone at the last minute?”
“I don’t know. I just work here and do what I’m told. Maybe because of a heavy load or something?”
“We’re only expecting forty-seven and six.”
“Maybe the return’s heavy out of Moscow.”
Someone tapped on the galley service door from the outside. The purser looked through the porthole, then glanced down to make sure the emergency slide was not already armed. He opened the door. Three LSG Sky Chefs caterers stood on the elevated platform on the back of their truck.
Two men immediately jumped aboard and pushed their way in. The purser and Faith stepped back. They started to remove the metal bins with the hot in-flight meals, but the purser stepped in front of them and blocked their way. “What in the world are you doing? We just got those meal inserts.”
The swarthy supervisor crowded into the galley. “I apologize, sir. But these are the wrong meals. My staff brought you only low-sodium meals, and you know how bland those are. Pan Am passengers deserve the best and we can’t have our reputation for excellent cuisine damaged, either. We’ll have you a new set of meals here in no time.”
“You can’t swap them out right now?” the purser said.
“No, sir. But, rest assured, they’re being freshly prepared and we’ll have them here in no time.” He nodded to his crew to remove the metal bins.
The purser threw up his arms. “You are not taking these. Just give me some extra salt packets.”
The supervisor leaned over to the purser. “Sir, I didn’t want to have to tell you this. The truth is these meals are designated MM.”
“I’m losing my patience here. I want an on-time pushback. Is everyone here conspiring to hold up this plane?” He threw his arms into the air. “Get me the salt and get out of here.”
“Sir, I don’t think you understand. MM is short for Mickey Mouse.”
“I don’t care if it’s Donald Duck à l’orange in there. I want an on-time departure.”
The supervi
sor whispered, “This is a delicate matter. It’s a Mickey Mouse problem. As in mouse. As in rats got into the food. As in rat spit. Rat pellets. Get it?”
The purser crinkled his face. “That’s just gross. Get those out of here. How long will it be?”
“Just a few minutes, sir.”
The caterers left, promising to return in ten minutes. The purser turned back to Faith. “This is not a good day. Give me your passport. It’s in order, but you didn’t report for the preflight and you caused a bit of a stir with the firstclass passengers blundering down the jetway. I’m not able to allow you—”
A shout in Russian interrupted him.
“Ma’am, you can’t take this aboard the aircraft.” A flight attendant raised her voice.
The purser pushed back the galley curtain. A robust Russian woman hoisted a boxed Sanyo television onto a first-class seat. She dragged an overstuffed red, white and blue striped burlap bag behind her. It was larger than the television box. Her travel companion wedged two other bags into the cabin exit. The purser rushed through first class to the forward exit.
“We have to check these or you’ll have to disembark from the aircraft.” The purser held up both hands with outstretched palms as if he were pushing her back off the plane with each word.
The woman barked something in Russian, first wagging her finger at the purser, then pointing at the TV. He repeated his instructions in French, speaking more loudly in case it helped the woman better understand. She screeched at them. The German businessmen shook their heads and whispered to each other. Passengers filled the jetway, craning their necks to watch.
Faith tapped the purser on the shoulder. “Let me see what I can do.” He switched places with her. Faith transformed from flustered innocence into the tough-love charm of a jaded Aeroflot stewardess. She spoke in flawless Russian. “Look, lady, this isn’t the train to Nizhniy-Novgorod. You can’t bring aboard everything you can manage to pack onto your tree-stump legs. This is an American airline, and you’re violating American law.”
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