Chapter One.
Wednesday 11th July, 1984.
Russia – somewhere in Siberia – 2.15am
Uri Gregorovich chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek and watched Vladimir Sevchenko sitting behind his desk, fingers drumming absently on the highly polished wooden surface, and Dr Jorge Dimitriov leaning, in a rather defeated stance against a filing cabinet which stood against the far wall.
The Special Ops Captain had been summoned to the General's office fifteen minutes before and had been greeted by the hangdog expressions on the other two men's faces, and Sevchenko telling him that he had received word from their agent still based in Los Angeles ….
Reporting that the Hawke look-alike had not been seen since the previous weekend.
It wasn't the best news in the world, but he wasn't quite so inclined to jump to the conclusion that ….
What was that expression that the English were so fond of ….
Ah yes ….
The jig was up ….
That he had been discovered ….
There could be any number of reasons why the Hawke look-alike had dropped out of sight ….
Perhaps the Santini man had persuaded him to take a few days holiday ….
Perhaps he was sick ….
Back in the hospital to have some of the wires on his jaw released ….
It didn't automatically follow that he had given himself away ….
Although ….
The more he thought about it ….
The more he looked at the sour looks on Dimitriov's and Sevchenko's faces ….
The more Uri Gregorovich began to feel that the situation was much more serious than they were telling him.
Involving Moscow ….
Fools ….
Even as the thought crossed his mind, the telephone on Sevchenko's desk rang out shrill and the General reached out quickly, snatched up the receiver and barked into it.
Gregorovich watched the colour drain from Sevchenko's face and he knew that the situation was definitely much more serious than he had been advised.
The General remained silent, nodding intermittently in response to the loud, angry voice on the other end of the line and after a very brief conversation, replaced the telephone receiver and let out a long ragged sigh.
"That was General Alexei Putin …." He informed with a sour look. "He wants to see us …."
"Me too?" Dimitriov gulped. "He has no jurisdiction over me …." He blustered.
"Shut up, Comrade Doctor!" Sevchenko snarled, pinning the other man with a hard, cold glare. "He wants to see all of us …. And believe me, it is not an invitation to a cocktail party or to share his box at the Bolshoi Ballet …." He sneered. "He wants to see all of us in his office as soon as possible …. We are to explain the reason for the failure of the American end of our mission …."
"We don't know that he has failed …." Gregorivich reminded impatiently.
"Archangel is still alive …. It is business as usual at the Firm's headquarters and we are no closer to gaining access to Airwolf …. Meanwhile, the look-alike has disappeared without a trace …."
"That means nothing …." Gregorovich protested.
"Putin just told me that the KGB have a double agent …. A mole …. Working deep inside the Firm …. How else do you think we got our information about the crew of that wretched helicopter in the first place …. Including your precious Stringfellow Hawke …" He spat the name viscously at the Special Ops Captain.
"The mole …." Sevchenko continued, a contemptuous look on his face now. "Reports that our look-alike Hawke was …. eliminated …. Before carrying out his mission to dispose of Archangel …."
"What did the Mole tell Moscow?" Dimitriov demanded. "Was the look-alike Hawke discovered because his programming …. Failed …."
"I don't know, the General was not prepared to go into that much detail …. He only indicated that the mole has a lowly position within Knightsbridge, but that in fulfilling his duties there, he had learned the fate of the look-alike." Sevchenko sighed heavily then.
"The General is, as you can imagine, Comrade Doctor, not very amused at this precise moment in time, and was not inclined to share anything more with me than he absolutely had too. His main interest was telling me that he expects the three of us in his office in the morning and we are to provide details as to how we can continue with this …. And use the real Hawke to gain the advantage over the Americans …."
"But surely they must know …. He must have told them …. He must have given himself away somehow!"
"You tell me how, Comrade Doctor …. He still had his jaw wired closed …. But, if you are asking if they know what his mission was …. We have to assume that they are intelligent enough to have worked it out …."
"And Archangel will shroud himself with even more protection …. We will never have another chance to get to him …."
"Oh God …. We are dead …." Dimitriov moaned and buried his head in his hands.
"Control yourself, Comrade Doctor …." Gregorovich sighed deeply, quickly grasping the implications of the situation. "While we still have the real Stringfellow Hawke …. We have a way to turn this around …."
"If you can ever get through his thick, stubborn, American head!" Sevchenko directed his anger toward the doctor now.
"That is not my fault." Dimitriov lifted his ashen face from the folds of his arms and glared at Sevchenko. "I told you we were going too fast with the look-alike …. I warned you that you were all pinning too many hopes on this new and as yet unproven technique …." He berated. "And now you do the same with the real Hawke! He is stubborn and strong willed …. But …. It can't be much longer …." Dimitriov defended quickly. "It can't …." He concluded on what sounded to Sevchenko and Gregorovich more like a prayer than the decisive opinion of a man of science ….
"Especially since I made sure that you removed that busy body doctor, Petrova." Gregorovich interjected.
"She has nothing to do with this …. He is obviously much stronger and more determined to hold out than the other subjects we have used …. But he is only human, and he will crack …. Eventually."
"Tell that to General Putin …." Sevchenko sighed. . "He has ordered a helicopter to collect us, ETA, 03.00 hours, so don't waste any time packing, gentlemen …. And might I suggest, we would be wise to spend the time spent travelling to Moscow in working out how we can use the real Stringfellow Hawke …." He rose stiffly from behind his desk then and ushered the other two men out of his office quickly. "We had better come up with something, and quickly …. Or else we could find ourselves in hot water …. Very deep …. Very hot water …."
And that just had to be the biggest understatement of the century …. Gregorovich thought silently to himself as he followed the other two men out of the office ….
For he had a feeling that the good doctor had been closer to the truth in his prediction of their future ….
Maybe not today ….
Maybe not tomorrow ….
Maybe not even next week ….
But some where, some time …. In the not too distant future ….
They were all dead men.
Failure is not an option …. Had been the main mission directive ….
And like it or not …. They had failed ….
On both fronts ….
For it was his opinion that the Hawke man would rather die than succumb to their will ….
And if the Petrova woman was right …. That moment was not very far off ….
No excuses could alter the fact that they had indeed failed ….
And Moscow was not renown for being forgiving of those who let them down ….
From this moment on, they were marked men …. Living on borrowed time ….
Indeed he could hear the clock ticking away loudly, incessantly, unrelenting …. inside his head ….
And he suspected that they would be extremely fortunate if their helicopter made it to Moscow in one piece ….
Wednesday 11th July, 1984.
Russia – somewhere in Siberia – 6.20am
"All set?" Yana Petrova asked Mischa Ivanov, as they made ready to leave the small apartment over the garage for what they hoped would be the last time.
Her expression was serious and she was all businesslike now, keen to get on with the task they had been charged with.
He too was solemn and serious, keenly aware of the dangers that lay ahead.
Mischa had worked late into the night to prepare the documents that they would require, finally able to put to use his skills as a master forger, producing all the documents that they would need to make their plan go smoothly.
Yana too, had spent a restless night, her mind running through what she needed to do ….
And all the things that she had no control over ….
The things that could trip them up …..
That could go wrong ….
"All set." He confirmed.
He looked very dapper and smart in the uniform of a Sergeant that Yana had pilfered from the base's laundry the day before, just on the off chance that he would agree to her crazy plan, beard gone now and hair neatly cut and combed.
He cleaned up rather well, Yana thought to herself as she watched him check again that his weapons had ammunition and extra clips ….
Just in case.
No-one would ever recognise him as the hairy, rough and ready man she had been living with these past few weeks.
Perfect.
They were both nervous.
Tense.
Adrenalin rushing through their veins as they prepared to carry out their mission.
The plan was very simple, parts of which Yana had already hastily prepared ….
The idiot Russian Captain, Gregorovich, playing right into her hands by going to Dr Dimitriov, and demanding to have her taken off the usual rota for the cell block and having her moved, to split her day between the pharmacy and the mortuary.
However, there were still so many things that could go wrong ….
So much of what they had planned depended on luck ….
And on sheer nerve.
"Time check …." He pulled back the sleeve of his great coat and saw that it was six twenty three am. He called the time out to Yana.
"Check." She agreed looking at the luminous dial of her own watch.
"Ok then …. Let's go."
The look they shared spoke volumes, as did their soft, reassuring smiles.
Yana stepped out of the apartment without a backward glance, knowing that there was nothing here that she would miss ….
If everything went to plan and they did not return.
And ….
If things didn't go according to plan ….
They still would not be back here again.
They would either be dead ….
Or high-tailing it out of Russia as fast as they could.
Mischa picked up the duffel bag that he had stuffed full of their clothes and a few meagre dry supplies and threw it over his shoulder as he followed her down the back stairs and out into the night.
The jeep she had signed out of the base the day before was parked in the dark yard, packed already with the supplies that Yana would need, extra medical supplies and blankets, food and water rations and plenty of ammunition.
Yana slid into the driver's seat and waited while he stowed the last bag, and then climbed into the back of the jeep, pulling the canvas cover over his body before lying down on the floor as flat as he could get in the cramped space.
Yana started the jeep then and slowly and carefully pulled out of the garage's backyard and crawled through town in a low gear, aware of the stirrings in the houses and businesses that lined the narrow streets now, and knowing that no-one would find it strange to see her driving herself back to the base at this time in the morning.
Nothing out of the ordinary in that.
She had done it many times before.
Had made sure that she was seen …. So that it would not appear suspicious or raise the alarm ….
On the outskirts of the town she took the fork in the road that would take her back to the base and picked up speed on the open road.
The journey was uneventful, no other traffic on the road at this early time in the morning.
Her shift in the pharmacy was due to begin at seven am and as she planned to do nothing to draw attention to herself this day, just to follow her usual routine, she would head straight for the mess hall and a light breakfast with one of her colleagues, to try to catch up on any gossip ….
Suss out who was around ….
Who might cause her a problem ….
Especially Gregorovich ….
Where everyone was supposed to be throughout the day ….
Get the latest scuttlebutt ….
She would then go to the pharmacy to begin her day ….
Drawing out the doses of GKP for each prisoner, as prescribed by the more senior medics on the programme, and setting up the trolleys ready for the doctors or orderlies to collect and take to the cell block. Dull, routine, demeaning work for a doctor of her calibre, and her ego was still smarting ….
But, she had accepted that everything happens for a purpose ….
Even this unexpected demotion ….
As she took the turning that would lead directly to the base, Yana slowed down briefly and called softly over her shoulder.
"Almost there …. Hold your breath and keep your head down, lover …." She advised Mischa in the back of the jeep, and then picked up speed once more.
At the gatehouse, the guard on duty recognised her immediately, but he was a stickler for protocol and checked out her ID and gave the jeep a curious glance, noting the canvas cover over the back.
"What's in there …." He indicated with his weapon and she gave him a weary smile.
"Supplies for the hospital wing …. Medical stuff and blankets." She told him truthfully.
And a whole heap of trouble for you …. if you don't keep your nose out of things, sonny ….
"They were accidentally left behind when the last shipment came in, so I said I would collect them, as I had plans to go to town anyway …." She explained in bored tones, noting his smug smile as he realised that someone had messed up big time.
He sucked on a foul smelling cigarette and eyed her curiously as he shone his torch down onto her ID and then up into her face, then silently began to walk around the jeep, kicking at the tires and checking the tail lights.
Yana yawned and stretched in the driver's seat as she waited patiently and watched him pace around the outside of the vehicle for a moment or two, praying that he would take her at her word and that his curiosity would not lead him to lifting up the canvas and taking a look for himself ….
Please don't chose today to be clever or cocky …
Or ambitious …..
Fortunately, stuck out here in the cold harsh desolation that was Siberia, the gate guards were a lazy bunch, wanting to hurry back to their cramped little booths, to huddle over their inadequate electric heaters, and sip hot, thick, strong coffee or tea, not wanting to freeze to death in the Siberian winter wind and snow.
Just because it was now mid summer, the mercury struggling to climb much higher up the thermometer, up here in the Arctic Circle, old habits were hard to break, even when the temperature did turn a little milder.
They also had learned that it did not pay to keep the base personnel waiting in the cold any longer than was necessary either, as it often ended up getting them a stint on patrol around the perimeter at night ….
Satisfied that all was well he returned to the booth at last.
Yana smiled and waved at him with an air of boredom as he finally lifted the barrier at last and she was allowed to drive onto the base.
Yana carefully drove the jeep straight into the compound at the back of the main building, finding a spot close to the fence, in the darkest area she could find, and then as she slid out of the jeep, she whispered.
"See ya later, lover …. Don't be late …." And then, she casually walked away toward the main building.
After a few minutes of silence, Mischa carefully slipped back the canvas cover on the jeep and peered out into the still, dark morning. No-one around, no sign of the dogs that sometimes patrolled …. Although he could hear the occasional bark or whimper in the distance.
Too cold for them …. He smiled ruefully to himself.
He slid out of the jeep, and clinging to the shadows, made his way to the hiding place that Yana had briefed him about, making himself as comfortable as he could in the shadows of the cramped garbage storage area, to watch and wait.
Inside the main building, Yana Petrova went through the usual routine of signing in, collecting her white coat and security badge from the duty officer and storing her coat and handbag in her locker, before heading to the mess hall, where she met her colleague, Sasha Sukova, a young blonde nurse who worked in the infirmary, and had little or nothing to do with the work being carried out in the cell block ….
Which, naturally, meant that she was privy to all kinds of information that she should not have.
Orderlies and nurses were terrible gossips and the only people they could unload on were the people who were not involved in the work they had to witness day in and day out.
Sasha was nursing a cup of hot tea and a slice of bread smeared with honey as Yana joined her and spent a few minutes listening to her go on about how Dr Dimitriov had once again tried to corner her and make a pass.
Yana smiled.
Her brushes with the Captain, Gregorovich, had made it easy for her to relate to the younger woman's woes in fighting off the senior doctor and had made her an instant friend to the younger woman.
Sasha had nothing new to tell her about the events of the evening since she had gone off duty, nothing new about the prisoners that was, but revealed that all had been quiet during the night, until Gregorovich, Dimitriov and Sevchenko had received orders summoning them to Moscow and had left in a flurry of activity and angry barked out orders ….
A helicopter coming to collect them no less …. Waking all the patients in the middle of the night with the noise ….
Good ….
Good ….
Things could not have worked out better ….
All the major obstacles removed from their path.
The timing was perfect ….
Or ….
Maybe it was just a little too perfect …. Yana mused silently to herself as she sipped at a cup of hot tea.
The cynic in her could not help thinking ….
Of course, Yana knew that no-one could possibly know what was planned for today, but she found it rather too much of a coincidence that all the senior brass would be off the base ….
Mysteriously summoned to Moscow ….
Of course, it wasn't unheard of ….
After all, it appeared that all the hard work being carried out here had yet to bear results ….
Perhaps Moscow had summoned them to account for the lack of progress ….
Still, she was naturally suspicious, and she could not help feeling just a little uncomfortable and unnerved by the news ….
Were they compromised?
Were they walking into a trap?
Did the Russians have someone on the inside that the Firm didn't know about …. Someone who could have learned of the plan …. And given them away?
It wasn't beyond the realms of possibility ….
After all, she and Mischa had been operating, independently, inside the USSR for years without being detected ….
Both of them as Russian as the natives themselves …. Or so it seemed ….
It was too late to worry about that now.
She and Mischa had agreed on a plan, and she had to stick to her end of it.
Yana bid her young friend a genuinely warm farewell as they parted outside the mess hall, and then made her way through the narrow, twisting maze of corridors to the pharmacy, where she unlocked the filing cabinet and drug cupboard and began to set out the items needed for that morning's round of testing, checking each file for the notes written up by the attending physician the previous day and drawing out the dose of GKP that was prescribed for each subject ….
Except Prisoner Z.
She scanned his file more closely, needing to know as much about his physical and mental condition as possible, especially today, noting with a sinking heart, that even with the short break from the treatment, which had resumed the day before, with as much vigour and carelessness as usual, there had been further serious deterioration in his physical condition.
It didn't look good at all ….
Damn ….
She and Mischa had obviously made the right decision ….
No more time to waste
Let's just hope that that lucky streak of his holds …. Just for a little longer …..
She pulled out a small vial of clear liquid from her skirt pocket and, unwrapping it from the flimsy tissue that had been its only protection in the folds of her skirt, substituted it for the vial of GKP, which she wrapped up in the crumpled tissue and slid back into her pocket ….
Perfect.
A sample that she could send back to the States to have analysed ….
She then filled a syringe with the required dose of the substitute ….
And hoped, as she did so, that the American guy would one day understand her actions.
Needs must ….
At a little before eight am, the orderlies and medical staff, yawning and stretching and rubbing tired eyes began to arrive at the pharmacy to sign out the trolleys assigned to their subject.
Nobody smiled.
Nobody made a joke.
They all looked thoroughly tired and miserable, joyless and without hope, as they collected their assigned trolley and signed for it before leaving to begin the day's thankless, monotonous work.
She watched with feigned boredom as the doctor assigned to Patient Z flicked through his file and checked the syringe to make sure that the drug dosage had been drawn correctly.
She was not offended or insulted.
He was just being thorough ….
Which would reflect more on him in the hours to come, than on her ….
She could not have made a mistake, because he had checked it ….
And would no doubt double check it again before he administered the drug ….
Therefore the mistake could not have been hers ….
And the spectre of suspicion would turn away from her ….
Leaving her free to finish what had to be done without the fear of being under surveillance or being detained while an investigation was carried out ….
It was nothing less than Yana had expected, Boris was a thorough man, always making sure that even the smallest detail was correct ….
She moved around the pharmacy, showing little interest, but regarding him covertly through her lashes, nonetheless, gauging his reaction. However, he showed not the slightest concern or hint of suspicion, and she smiled wearily at him as with a tired shrug, the man wheeled the trolley out of the pharmacy and began his brief journey to the cell block.
Yana let out a soft, silent sigh of relief ….
And so it began ….
Russia – Somewhere in Siberia.
Main cell block – 8.10am
Dr Boris Kuznetsov strummed his cold, numb fingers impatiently against the handle of his trolley as he waited for a particularly large and slovenly looking guard to open up the cell ….
The cold and damp which permeated the concrete walls around them and seeped into their bones and numbed their brains, he knew, made everyone slower and more lethargic, but the slovenliness was due more to the fact that the top brass had been called away from the base, and there would be no-one higher ranked than perhaps a Lieutenant, to supervise today's session, and to pull him up about his appearance ….
At last the man had the door open and Kuznetsov wheeled the trolley carefully inside the cold, damp empty concrete cell where he again checked that everything that he needed had been laid out on the sterile cloth or inside the stainless steel kidney dishes provided.
While he waited for the orderlies to bring Prisoner Z to the cell, and for the rest of the team to arrive, Boris quickly scanned through the most recent notes scribbled on the flimsy pages inside the manila file, which had been replaced on the bottom tray of the trolley, and a frown knitted his brow.
The prisoner had been written up for a hefty dose of GKP, which, he noted again, had already been prepared for him by his colleague, Petrova, in the pharmacy, and as usual, the half empty vial had been left in the kidney dish, beside the full syringe, just in case orders were changed by the Senior medic at the last minute, or he needed a 'top up' during the session.
The team had invested a lot of time and effort in working with this particular subject, but seemingly all for nought ….
This one was extremely strong willed.
Stubborn.
Still trying to fight against the drug and the absolutely deplorable treatment at the hand of his captors ….
However, the most recent notes indicated that he was weakening physically ….
That the last attending physician, Yana Petrova, he noted with some surprise, backed up by Dimitriov, had recommended that he be given a break from the procedure so that he could regain some of his physical strength.
Ah ….
So that was why Petrova had been exiled to the pharmacy ….
Lucky Yana ….
At least today she would be spared the screams ….
And the sight of the hideously inhuman treatment dished out by the men carrying out the treatments.
So, surely it was only a matter of time ….
Perhaps there would be some kind of break through today ….
Boris Kuznetsov liked that idea ….
He liked the notion that if the team succeeded today, some of their glory might be reflected back on him too ….
Which in turn, could result in a promotion out of this wretched place ….
From out in the corridor he could hear the unmistakeable sound of boot clad feet pounding on the solid concrete floor, announcing the arrival of his patient ….
Prisoner Z.
No doubt closely followed by the other prisoners due to be treated today.
Four sets of heavy foot steps pounded toward the cell …. Two orderlies and their two man armed escort ….
And stopped abruptly outside the cell door, as they waited for the same clumsy guard to open the door.
A few minutes later, a bedraggled, barefoot man, hence the reason why Boris had only been able to distinguish four sets of footfalls, was hauled roughly into the room and quickly forced down into the chair, strapped in speedily, restraints pulled so tight, Boris suspected that they must surely be cutting off his circulation at wrists and ankles.
Upon closer inspection, Boris noted that Prisoner Z was semi conscious …. Barely aware of his surroundings, and the other people in the room.
He had received his usual dose of GKP, despite the fact that he had been allowed a rest day from the procedure to recover a little strength.
He had been given clean clothes, but, it had been noted on his file, he had become very aggressive and physical when the orderlies had tried to help him into the clean fatigues, and was now sporting a freshly bruised right cheek, to go with the bruising on his chin, which had been inflicted after a previous session.
He had been given food, and, it was also noted, he had eaten it gratefully …. However, it had also been noted by the nursing staff, that the food had apparently not agreed with him ….
And he had spent most of the day and half the night being violently sick.
And then the treatment had resumed yesterday ….
Further weakening him physically ….
No wonder he still looked awful ….
Any benefit he might have gained from his brief respite from the procedure undermined by his physical deterioration.
His inability to tolerate food was also a bad sign ….
It was an indication, perhaps, that his body was shutting down.
Boris Kuznetsov took up his stethoscope and began his preliminary examination of Prisoner Z, who moaned and groaned intermittently, head lolling uncontrollably from side to side, eyes, pupils dilated and unfocused, rolling up into the back of his head.
The patient, he noted, had a slight temperature, but nothing to worry about, and certainly nothing that would prevent Boris from administering the required amount of GKP.
Pulse and blood pressure were also within acceptable ranges, and it was with huge relief that he would soon be out of these oppressive surroundings and back in his less severe office, that Boris took up the filled syringe of GKP and quickly slipped the hypodermic needle into the vein in the back of Prisoner Z's already bruised right hand, noting that the veins were practically compromised and that they would have to begin introducing the drug somewhere else if he did not succumb soon ….
No problem ….
There were plenty of other veins they could use ….
"All yours …." He told the guard on the door as he stored his equipment back on the trolley and began to wheel it towards the door, hoping to make a speedy exit, just as the rest of the team who were due to work on Prisoner Z today, arrived to pick up where they had left off after the last session.