Shadow Flight (1990)

by Joe Weber

  "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.

  NEUNKIRCHEN, AUSTRIA

  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.

  Kranz sat down at the wooden desk, opened the envelope, and spread out the paper. He looked only at the first word in each sentence.

  BEA IS DECEASED STOP TWO CEREMONIES PLANNED STOP

  AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT STOP MISSING YOU STOP CHARLES

  Kranz checked his watch, lifted the phone receiver, and rang the switchboard.

  "Hotel operator," the soft female voice responded.

  "Yes," Kranz said, looking at the cable. "Please connect me with the international operator."

  "One moment."

  Kranz waited, running RAINDANCE's phone number through his mind. He
had had to memorize a new seven-digit number after Mathias Rust, the West German private pilot, landed his Cessna 172 on Red Square. The upper echelon of the Troops of Air Defense had been shuffled, resulting in a new assignment and relocation for RAINDANCE.

  "May I help you?" the international operator asked.

  "Ah, yes," Kranz responded, looking at his hotel phone number. "I wish to place a call to Moscow. The number is two-four-onefour-four-three-zero." Kranz glanced again at his watch, hoping that his Kremlin contact had not left his quarters.

  The phone rang three times, then a fourth, before it was answered. "Lieutenant General Voronoteev."

  "I have a person-to-person call for Pyotr Syrokomskiy," Kranz said, then waited for RAINDANCE to respond to the code name.

  "You have the wrong number," Yuliy Lavrent'yevich Voronoteev, deputy commander of Rear Services, Troops of Air Defense, replied in heavily accented English.

  Kranz hesitated two seconds, allowing Voronoteev time to prepare to write seven numbers. "This is not six-five-four-one-five . . . ah, eight-two?" Kranz asked, giving Voronoteev his five-digit phone number in reverse, then adding his room number in reverse.

  "Nyet," Voronoteev answered bluntly, abruptly banging down the phone.

  Kranz hung up and looked again at the cable. He knew that Voronoteev would call him back as soon as the Soviet officer could reach a public phone. Kranz got up and walked to his window, feeling uncomfortable with his espionage role. He gazed at the Vienna State Opera House a few moments, then scanned the cable again.

  Chapter Eight

  MOSCOW

  Lieutenant General Yuliy L. Voronoteev folded the slip of paper containing the numbers, placed it in his shirt pocket, and slipped on his uniform jacket. He brushed back his short-cropped salt and pepper hair, picked up his cap and carefully placed it on his head, then walked out of his seventh-story Kalinin Avenue apartment. After carefully locking the door, he strolled the length of the freshly painted hallway.

  The slender, sixty-one-year-old former fighter pilot rode the elevator down to the parking deck, then stepped outside into the brisk morning air. Voronoteev inhaled deeply, glanced across the hazy skyline of Moscow, and walked toward his chauffeur-driven sedan.

  Voronoteev's driver, standing beside the Voyska PVO (Troops of Air Defense) Moskvich 412, saluted smartly as he opened the door. "Zdrastvuytye, comrade general."

  "Good morning, Sergeant Ogorkhov," Voronoteev replied, returning the greeting and salute as he entered the gleaming automobile. "We will make a brief stop at the government department store before going to the Kremlin."

  "Da, comrade general," the young driver replied, closing the door carefully.

  Yuliy Voronoteev sat quietly, wrestling with his deeply implanted, mixed emotions of loyalty and hostility toward the Rodina--the Motherland. Each time he committed treason, regardless of the magnitude of the offense, Voronoteev justified his act by dredging up his contempt for Soviet ineptness and brutality. After committing treason, the Air Defense officer habitually spent two or three days locked in his Kalinin apartment, drinking Stolichnaya around the clock. After a protracted period of inebriation, he had always managed to purge his disdain for the unnecessary injustices he had endured.

  Voronoteev stared out of the Moskvich 412's side window at the overcast sky, lost in the memories of his wife, while Sergeant Ogorkhov negotiated the turn from Kalinin Prospekt onto Manezhnaya Street. The general glanced at troitskiye vorota--Trinity Gate--that led to the Palace of Congresses inside the Kremlin compound.

  Returning to his thoughts, he remembered the day that his beloved wife had died under the scalpel of an incompetent butcher. Although that had been thirty-four years ago, the events were as clear in his mind as if the tragedy had happened yesterday.

  Larissa Innova Voronoteev, eight months pregnant, had suffered severe complications while her starshiy leytenant husband had been undergoing flight training three hundred kilometers away. Three days past her twenty-fourth birthday, she had died from a massive hemorrhage when the surgeon bungled the cesarean section. The female infant, deprived of oxygen for more than eight minutes, had died the following afternoon.

  Voronoteev recalled vividly the utter helplessness he had felt when his squadron commander had met him at the steps to his MiG21F. The young fighter pilot's shock and deep sense of loss had turned to rage when the lieutenant colonel explained that Larissa had died two and a half days earlier.

  "The stupid bastards," Voronoteev said quietly, unaware that he had spoken. His mind was consumed by the contempt he felt for the doctor and the administrators who had taken almost sixty hours to relay the message of his wife's tragic death.

  "Excuse me, comrade general?"

  Voronoteev looked up at the face reflected in the rearview mirror. "What, sergeant?"

  "I thought the general had asked a question," the driver said, slowing for traffic.

  "No," Voronoteev replied in a pleasant voice, "just thinking out loud again."

  "Yes, sir."

  Voronoteev gazed at the Kremlin Corner Arsenal Tower as his driver accelerated in the flow of traffic. The anguish and hatred swelled in his stomach again, as it always had, when he thought about Larissa's miserably incompetent doctor.

  Voronoteev had doggedly pursued a clear explanation of how and why his wife had died. Weeks after his beautiful Larissa had been laid to rest, the young lieutenant had discovered the awful truth. The relatively inexperienced physician had had a record of substandard performance, coupled with a history of frequent transfers and a known drinking problem. The sad part, Voronoteev thought angrily, was the fact that the marginally qualified doctor was still practicing.

  Sergeant Ogorkhov eased the Moskvich 412 to a smooth stop in front of the large government department store, better known to Muscovites as GUM. The driver stepped out and hurried around to open his general's door.

  "I'll only be a few minutes," Voronoteev said, stepping into the cold air.

  The driver acknowledged Voronoteev, then quickly returned to the driver's seat to stay warm.

  Lieutenant General Yuliy Voronoteev, ramrod straight, shoulders squared, entered the mammoth department store and walked to a bank of public telephones. He unbuttoned his jacket, reached into his shirt pocket, and glanced around the cavernous building before extracting the piece of paper.

  He placed the call, then waited for his contact to answer. Voronoteev could feel his pulse quickening as he continued to scan the interior of the building. No one appeared to be taking any interest in the handsome officer.

  HOTEL SACHER

  Fritz Kranz sat quietly at the small birch desk, tapping his fingers absently on the smooth top. He looked at the telephone, took a deep breath, then stood and started toward the shuttered window.

  Kranz flinched when the phone rang. He hurried back to the desk and lifted the receiver. "Peter Wipplinger," Kranz answered, using the fictitious code name.

  "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 somewha
t 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."

  PORT DOUGLAS, QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA

  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.