DISCLAIMER: If you recognize people or organizations from the television
series, they belong to Shoot the Moon Productions and Warner Brothers.
I've borrowed them with love and deep appreciation for the many years of
enjoyment I've received from them and am making absolutely no money from
this enterprise. If you recognize them from history, no infringement is
intended on them; they merely serve to provide the story with an authentic
setting. If you don't recognize them from either of those two sources,
they're products of my very odd imagination and I claim full responsibility
for their imaginary actions.
Chapter 4 * Washington, D.C. * 7:45 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
The first time Ian Marlowe had stood on Francine Desmond's doorstep, he had been as nervous as a new recruit facing a Drill Instructor for the first time. Now, almost two months into what he hoped would be a permanent, "till death do us part" relationship, the nerves held a different quality. What if she doesn't really want to see me any more and she's just being nice? he thought as he waited for her to answer.
Inside, Francine checked her makeup one last time, resisted the urge to put on lipstick, and opened the door. "Hello, lover," she said in her best bedroom voice.
That answers that question, Ian chided himself as Francine hauled him inside, shut the door to close the world out, and pulled him into a kiss that rocked him from his high and tight haircut to his neatly trimmed toenails.
She let him go after a long minute, smiling into his dark eyes with an inner glow that made her the most beautiful woman in the world. "I'll be back. Now I can put on my lipstick."
He returned her smile, appreciating the gesture she made by not putting any on to greet him. "Hurry back."
Francine's dress left nothing and everything in the mind's eye at the same time. Cobalt blue velvet with rhinestone accents formed the fitted bodice; the same velvet in the skirt barely skimmed her hips as it fell straight to the floor. A shear scarf wrap, held in place with a rhinestone brooch on her left shoulder, completed the outfit.
Ian stood and daydreamed about taking her out of that dress – it looked a bit complicated with crisscross straps in the back and that brooch which must have been anchored to the dress somehow – but he knew that the day was far in the future when he might actually have the chance to fulfill his fantasy. As hard as it had been to make the decision, both he and Francine had determined that their relationship had to be more about the interpersonal depths of friendship and love than about sex at this stage. He was often surprised at how infrequently he regretted that decision, although tonight, he admitted to himself, just might be one of those rare times. Then he remembered that General Reese expected him at breakfast tomorrow morning and the regrets vanished completely.
Francine came out, still luminous from the kiss and fully prepared for the embassy reception. She stopped a few feet from him and studied him for several seconds. "If I'm hyperventilating, it's because you take my breath away in that uniform."
"What, this old thing? I found it hanging in my closet and it happened to fit." He knew he looked good in his evening dress uniform; by the look on Francine's face, he might have been the single most incredible sight in the world.
"I always have liked men in uniform. You, however, put everyone else I've ever seen to shame." She stepped closer to him, fingered the gold braid on his dark blue jacket cuffs, traced the brim of his regulation white hat where it sat above his ears with teasing fingertips – to hell with the fact that I've got my cover on inside – stepped out of her rhinestone encrusted sling back heels to run a stocking-clad foot up the red and gold stripes on his trousers…
"Uh, honey, we do have an assignment to attend to tonight," Ian managed to squeak out as Francine ran her hands under his scarlet cummerbund.
"Oh, I know. I'm just making sure that every woman who swoons at your feet knows beyond a shadow of any doubt that you are my man." She stepped even closer, leaned in; with her lips millimeters from his ear, she whispered the words he had been longing to hear from her since the day they met. "I love you, Ian."
Unprepared as he was, Ian realized that the finger she ran down his cheek was wet with a tear – his tear - and more were following. His voice, when he found it, came out hoarse with emotion. "Francine, I love you. More than I ever thought possible. More than when I walked in. Oh, God, help me! I love you, Francine."
Near the Kremlin * Moscow, USSR * March 17, 1989 * 5:00 a.m. (GMT+3)
Unlike most of his contemporaries, Feodor Petrovich Kaminsky enjoyed a healthy lifestyle. Early each morning for fifty years, even now as he approached his eightieth birthday, he ran between three and four miles. Whenever possible, he invited a colleague or subordinate to join him, as much for the fun of watching their bravado disintegrate in the second mile as to accomplish any real business. This morning, however, his companion kept easy pace with him as they made good time down the bank of the Moscow River across from Red Square and the Kremlin in the pale light of a late winter dawn.
"You surprise me, Georg Alexeivich. You don't look like a man in shape to run." The words came out on the steam of Kaminsky's breath.
Tolstoy smiled as the pair rounded a slight curve and turned down a side street that led back toward the Kamenii Bridge. "You taught us to be masters of disguise. So I am like a Japanese Sumo wrestler – I look fat, but I am all muscle underneath."
"I am impressed. What can you tell me about our operation?"
"The Polish element progresses nicely – the dupe is every bit as good as Borodin promised, and perhaps better, if you can imagine. Only time will tell when that will actually come to fruition during next week, although the thought now is next Friday during the noon service in Castle Square. Leon Ivanich has been working on our problem child, but as yet with no success." The pair turned sharply onto the pedestrian walkway of the bridge and headed back across the river toward the Kremlin. "What we do next for that is an unknown. We don't think it is safe to try to take her out of the country, but we also are not completely comfortable with security in the United States."
Kaminsky said nothing as the wind, unfettered by buildings over the open river, whipped through the runners. Only when they had turned off the bridge and were running comfortably along the other bank of the polluted waterway did the older man comment. "Deal with it there. If all else fails, she will just be another young woman abducted, raped, and killed in the decadent West."
The Soviet Embassy, Washington, D.C. * March 16, 1989 * 9:05 p.m. EST (GMT- 5)
"Miss Desmond, you are truly a vision to behold," the Naval Attaché of the Soviet mission said as he bowed with great ceremony over Francine's extended hand. His greeting to Ian a moment before had been something just barely above zero degrees Kelvin, as she had predicted.
"Thank you," she replied, and couldn't help herself after his treatment of her date. "This is just a bit bourgeoisie, don't you think?"
The comment had the desired effect as the urbane, self-important man excused himself abruptly and went off to find someone else to greet.
Ian raised an eyebrow in silent amusement; even so, he felt obliged to lean down to the delicate bejeweled ear closest to him and whisper, "That was harsh, don't you think? He was just being polite."
Francine arched her eyebrows in return and murmured, "The guy is a creep. He got fresh with me three years ago at a New Year's Eve party. Lee and Amanda had to pull me off of him before I killed him."
"Oh."
The striking American couple made their way through the many greetings and conversations toward the hors d'oeuvre table. Ian's uniform was distinctive among the formal wear of his fellow party-goers; try though they might, the Soviet Bloc officers could not come close to the inimitable aura of power and authority carried by one in the uniform of a United States Marine. The combined effect of Francine's bedazzling beauty and Ian's masculine form on those gathered was that of royalty on children – breathless anticipation of the moment of meeting.
"They love us," Ian whispered at one point when he had the food in sight. "So much that we're going to starve in the process of greeting our public." The table disappeared as the gathered group of diplomats and functionaries pushed the couple along in its tidal surge.
"You've already had dinner," she chided. "Besides, what's not to love?" Francine returned to his first comment, rolling her eyes. This was not what she had in mind at all. She went from hand to hand with Ian in tow, meeting and greeting the "in" people of the moment and wondering if the fruits of this evening would be solely personal. That would, of course, be fine, given the earlier conversation with Ian – but it would be nice to have a break in this kidnapping case, too.
After forty minutes of wading with the tide of celebrants, Ian and Francine made it to the chafing dishes and fondue pots. "Try the pierogi," Francine advised as Ian looked over the assortment of food. "That's the one thing that has never been bad."
"They are indeed extraordinarily good this evening," a deep, British- accented voice said from behind the couple, startling both as they loaded their small plates.
Ian turned before Francine did, recognizing the voice but needing the visual confirmation of his intuition. "Leon Ivanich, I had no idea you were in Washington."
The Soviet agent smiled and nodded, recognizing Ian from their travails in Moscow. "Lieutenant Colonel Marlowe, I see. That certainly wasn't made clear three years ago. Never mind. Yes, I have been assigned to the embassy here as an interpreter. Not that the Ambassador really needs one, you understand, but just in case."
"Of course. Miss Desmond?" Ian guided Francine around to face the other man. "May I present Miss Francine Desmond, a unit director with International Federal Film. Miss Desmond, this is Leon Ivanich Scholk, a translator on staff here."
"A pleasure, Miss Desmond." Unlike the Naval Attaché, Scholk merely shook her hand. "Your Colonel Marlowe travels around a bit. I last saw him in Moscow under less than auspicious circumstances."
Ian shook his head. "No need to dredge up unpleasant memories."
"No, indeed. Please, enjoy the hospitality." Scholk took his leave; Ian lost sight of him as the tuxedoed man blended into the milling crowd.
"What's wrong, Sweetheart?" Francine asked, seeing the menacing expression on Ian's face.
The endearment distracted him briefly as he smiled a knee-weakening smile solely for Francine's benefit. "Not here. Not now. We need to leave as soon as it's polite to do so."
"Why?"
The shudder that went through the Marine was one of relived terror; the fierce effort to suppress the memory showed on his face. Calmer, he pulled Francine into what could have been mistaken for a passionate embrace and whispered in her ear. "I know who has Sandra."
Flag Bachelor's Officer Quarters, Ft. Belvoir, Virginia * 11:45 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"This is a dumb question, I'm sure, but are you one hundred percent positive that it was Leon Ivanich Scholk at the embassy?" General Reese stood at the window overlooking the parade field, staring into the black night seeking a different answer than the one he knew his guest would give.
"Yes, sir," Ian Marlowe replied. "I doubt I could ever mistake him for anyone else."
Reese nodded without turning. "No, I don't suppose you could." The general and the lieutenant colonel were silent for several minutes before the ranking officer spoke again. "That bastard killed my wife, then he hurt my daughter and brought my son to the brink of suicide before we got her back. Now he has my daughter again. This is it. Third strike."
Ian grimaced, memories of both previous episodes rolling voraciously over him. "He's out, sir."
"Damn straight, Marine. And I don't care what I have to do to make it happen."
Somewhere in the Washington, D.C. Area * March 17, 1989 * 1:20 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
"I am forced to admit that even though you are not one of ours, I am impressed, Miss Reese. Thirty-six hours without sleep and yet you still hold your secrets." Leon Ivanich Scholk circled his captive, pacing with his arms behind his back as though on a stroll along the Mall.
Her own father might have had a hard time recognizing Sandra Reese; her blue-black hair lay matted and rank against her scalp and her Wedgwood blue eyes were barely distinguishable from the blue circles around them. Her ivory skin had a yellow hue where exposed; under her clothing, much of it bore deep bruises from skilled torture inflicted at the direction of Scholk. When she found the strength to reply, it was in a voice raspy and weak from pain, exhaustion, and effort. "I have nothing to tell you," she repeated for what seemed like the millionth time. It did no good, of course; in some dimly functioning part of her mind, the young woman wondered if she could make something up that would satisfy the zealous KGB agent.
"Of course you do, Sandra. And you will tell me, sooner rather than later." He went to the door of what had become her prison cell and opened it, motioned a man inside. "Perhaps you remember Room 315? Oh, yes, you do. We've had this conversation. I thought we would recreate a few memories, for old time's sake."
He whipped a cloth off the cart ushered in by the second man, revealing an electro-shock machine. "I'm sure I will enjoy this far more than you will."
Outside the Soviet Embassy, Washington, D.C. * 8:00 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
Ian Marlowe navigated a brand new, dark green Chevy Impala through the maze of back streets and alleys toward the waiting surveillance car, a silver Ford Escort station wagon that had seen better days. Francine sat beside him, moaning about having to work when he was in D.C. He agreed that there were many other more enjoyable things they could be doing – but he wouldn't be in D.C. if it weren't for their day's activity.
"Good morning, Mr. Marlowe, Ms. Desmond," the agent in the driver's seat of the Escort acknowledged. "It was a quiet night. Comrade Scholk went as far as the tea room on Pennsylvania Avenue a little after 10 and was back by midnight. Our people had him in sight the entire time. Apparently, he has a friend at the tea room." The meaning of friend was unmistakable.
"Is he still in there?" Francine motioned to the embassy building.
"Yes. Our inside source says he's a late riser, between 9 and 10, usually." Leave it to the FBI to have a source inside the Soviet Embassy; one had to wonder what infraction that information was hiding.
"Joy, two more hours of nothing. Okay, consider yourself relieved."
"Thanks, Ms. Desmond. See you tomorrow morning."
I hope not, Francine thought as she waved to the departing FBI man. "I don't get it," she said to Ian as he pulled the car into the vacated space. "We've been watching Scholk on and off since he arrived in country, but all the intense scrutiny and review of the old data has only told us that he enjoys the company of a waitress at the English tea room on Pennsylvania Avenue."
An hour of cold, boring duty passed, lulling the Marine and the federal agent into hazy stupor of half-sleep. With no ceremony at intemperate speed, Ian smacked his forehead with his open palm and screeched out "Of course!" At Francine's concerned, questioning look, he calmed his voice and asked, "Can we get current blueprints of the embassy compound?"
"I suppose," Francine mused. "We've used them before too…" At Ian's raised eyebrow, she shrugged. "Need to know," she apologized. "What are you thinking?"
"That there's another exit from the compound that we don't know about. What if the Soviets, through a dummy corporation, owned a building not too far from here where a tunnel from the embassy came out?"
Francine stared at him for a long moment, knowing that if Lee and Billy had once gotten in that way, there was nothing preventing a reverse situation. "Those bastards are just sneaky enough to pull it off, too." She activated the car phone and punched in Billy's direct line.
The Agency * 11:55 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
Amanda sat in the conference room with General Reese while the military man pulled every string he could think of to get information about the owners of buildings within one block of the Soviet Embassy. She took notes while he repeated tidbits and nuggets given to him by networks of informants and agents in place since the Cuban Missile Crisis – or perhaps even longer.
"Somebody will appreciate the fact that these are all local calls," he groaned after one particularly frustrating attempt that led nowhere.
"General Reese, sir, I don't think anybody is counting the cost where Sandra's life is in danger." Amanda gave him with her peaceful, calming smile.
He sighed and reached out to pat her hand. "Make you a deal, Mrs. Stetson. Call me Alex.."
Amanda took his hand and squeezed it. "Please, call me Amanda, Gen – Alex."
"Good. Thank you for all you've done to help with this. You can't imagine…"
"Actually, Alex, I don't have to."
Reese looked away as he saw the tears glistening in Amanda's eyes. "No, I suppose you don't. But you'd be doing this anyway, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I would," Amanda affirmed, "and not just because it's my job. I only got to spend a little while with Sandra, but it's enough to know that she's a very special young lady with a lot of potential."
"Just like her mother. She'll be fine." He turned back toward the agent across the table. "She'll be fine."
Outside the Soviet Embassy * 12 noon EST (GMT-5)
Lee Stetson sat on the park bench and looked bored, as befit a public servant on his lunch break. It wasn't hard; with Amanda back at the office working with General Reese on Ian's dummy corporation idea, he had no one to talk to as he watched the front entrance of the Embassy for one Leon Ivanich Scholk to make an appearance. The comings and goings of average American citizens held no interest for him, but that's all he saw for the first 89 minutes he spent at his post. Just as he was ready to call in his relief, the main gate to the compound opened and a car with diplomatic plates pulled out into traffic on 16th Street. Scholk sat in the back seat, apparently directing the driver.
Moving his mouth as little as possible, Lee spoke into the microphone in his collar, directing Ian and Francine to the car so they could follow it. Maybe this would be the break they needed.
In the Virginia Countryside * 2:20 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"We've been tailing this dude for almost an hour. What's he doing?"
Francine shrugged at the speaker. "I have no clue, Ian. If it were Sunday, I'd say he's out for a Sunday drive, but it's Friday."
"Maybe he's counting cows."
"What?"
"Well, what if there's a bovine gap? I mean, we could be entering the beef race, when huge proportions of our Gross National Product are redirected from civilian industry toward trampling the Soviet Union into submission in the cattle processing industry." Ian Marlowe kept his face almost motionless, waiting for the reaction.
"You… you're crazy," Francine murmured just loudly enough for him to hear over the humming of the motor.
"Yes, I am. About you. But that's neither here nor there in this discussion. Can you think of any better reason that an official from the Soviet Union would be out joyriding on a Friday afternoon in late winter – before the trees have even budded?"
Eyebrows furrowed in thought, Francine just looked at her companion as they continued to follow the Soviet Zil sedan. "Red herring," she finally said.
"Come again?"
"Red herring. He's just throwing off any routine surveillance by doing something slightly suspicious. We do it to the other side all the time to waste resources."
Ian thought for a moment. "Well, we'll see. He's taking the exit onto the interstate headed back to D.C. Odds that he'll go back to the Embassy without passing 'Go'?"
"No better than 2 to 1 – probably 3 to 2 or even 4 to 3."
"Remind me to take you to Las Vegas next time I go. You're much better at that than I am."
"I prefer Monte Carlo."
"Whatever your heart desires, mon ami."
Francine proved right; the sedan pulled back into the Embassy about 80 minutes after Lee dispatched them, and the car had never stopped except to obey traffic rules. "Well, paint me vermilion and give me gills," Ian groused as the couple made their way back to the Agency for the afternoon briefing. "Red herrings, indeed."
"Moooooooo," Francine replied.
Ian had to pull the car over because he couldn't control the car and laugh at the same time.
The Agency * 4:45 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"Alex, sir, I think we may have a solid lead here," Amanda said as General Reese hung up the phone in disgust beside her.
"Not from that phone call," he negated. "Useless son of a…"
Amanda gave her best smile of motherly toleration and pointed toward the map on the wall. "No, sir, general. I think I've found another dummy corporate layer for the owners of this building right here across the street from the back corner of the Soviet Embassy."
Reese had the grace to look abashed as he chuckled at his own grim determination. "Amanda, you are amazing. How do you have the patience to sit and do paper research?"
"Oh, this is a perfectly normal situation. Lee's out running around chasing people leads, so I just do the bookwork. You used to it."
"I'll bet you're just as good at the other, Amanda, when you get a chance.
She smiled again, more brightly. "I had a great teacher."
Lee heard that from the hallway as he passed and changed course, coming up behind his wife and laying his hands on her slim shoulders. "Are you referring to me?" he asked with a wink at the older Army man.
"Maybe," she replied with a sly grin. "Or maybe not. You don't know what I learned."
As Lee opened his mouth to counterattack, Billy entered the conference room, followed by Francine and Ian. "Any luck in here?" he asked, pulling out a chair and plunking his heavy frame into it.
"Maybe," General Reese allowed. "Amanda has been slowly uncovering the layers of ownership on several buildings around the embassy. She's just told me of a promising lead."
"Amanda, I always did figure you were the work horse of the unit," Ian quipped, earning an elbow in the ribs from Francine.
With a nod from Billy, Amanda laid out her latest find, by far the most promising of a short list of possible alternate escape terminals. "And according to the blueprints, this building is the closest private building to the wine cellar and laundry facilities in the sub-basement of the residential building on the grounds." She oriented the group to the suspect property on the map and on the blueprint of the embassy.
Lee growled. "Places we have no way to observe because they are deep inside. Perfect from their perspective."
"Let's not get carried away, yet," Billy warned. "We still have to prove that the Soviets actually own the private property."
Ian and Francine looked at each other in perfect understanding. "Sir," Ian started, "could we double our surveillance on that corner for the next 24 hours, just to see if by chance we've missed something that's been under our noses all along? Francine and I can start at the 8:00 shift change."
"Do it," Billy affirmed. "Amanda, keep working on this property paper chase. Lee, get back to the microdot and see if you can get a lead on reestablishing contact. Shall we order dinner?"
Everyone groaned at the thought of yet another cafeteria meal, but no one balked. Time was running out, and they all knew it.
Somewhere in the Washington, D.C. Area * 5:15 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"Comrade Scholk, why don't you just kill her now and be done with her?" Pavel Constantinovich pleaded, finally finding some pity for the body that had once been a vibrant young woman.
"Because then she will have beaten me, Pavel. And no one bests Leon Ivanich. No one."
The heap on the floor stirred, light firing briefly in the dull, sunken, blue-molded eyes. "Bet me," a croaking voice said, barely audible even in the close confines of the brick room.
"You see, Pavel? Defiant even now. If I didn't know better, I'd say that she knew absolutely nothing about this whole thing. But she knows – not much, but enough. And I will get it out of her if it's the last thing I ever do."
The Agency * 9:20 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"Eureka!" It wasn't original, but it fit, Lee thought as soon as the word escaped his lips. General Reese and Amanda came out into the bullpen from the conference room at his utterance, and Billy came at a run from his office.
"You've got the new link?" Billy asked in a breathless whisper as he came to a stop at the computer terminal where Lee sat.
"Right here in black and white. Business connections through a fictitious West German company called Heiß Kreideintelligent – we go in through the West German consulate in Gdansk and they will get the message through to Warsaw. The leader of the cell is someone named Stefan – he says he knows the network from the good old days."
Amanda hugged Lee's shoulders. "I'm so happy for you," she said, but her tone indicated that she wasn't thrilled with what she knew would come soon.
"There's more. Stefan says he has information on an assassination plot to be carried out next week. He isn't sure who the target is, but guesses that it's got to be Walesa, Jaruzelski, or possibly even Glemp."
"I'd bet money on Glemp." General Reese commanded their collective attention. "Solidarity doesn't like him, the Communists like him alive but might like him more dead –if the KGB were to mastermind his assassination, they could blame it on Solidarity and make the crackdown in 1981 look like a military exercise."
Billy pondered that for a moment. "Do you have any indications from your end that can corroborate that hypothesis?"
"I don't at the moment, but I can get someone on it as soon as my ops officer is in – say just after 1:00 tomorrow morning. I'll fax the order over so it's clear."
Lee took another practical angle. "Billy, I've got to start getting my legend in order."
"Write it up for Leatherneck for first thing in the morning – send a confirmation message back through first, though. Are we all up for the overnight surveillance shift?"
Three grown ups moaned like children at the thought, but in jest. The work was too important to whine about.
Outside the Soviet Embassy, Washington, D.C. * March 18, 1989 * 12:05 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
"You know, under other circumstances, this would be romantic," Ian Marlowe grumbled as he sipped from a steaming cup of coffee and wiggled around in the front seat of the Chevy Impala to find a more comfortable position.
Francine giggled, shifted the camera in her lap, and ran her left hand through his hair. "We might have to make it that way occasionally…"
He flashed his smile at her. "I'm kind of counting on that. It's the only reason I suggested that we take the first double coverage shift."
"It is not," she replied, challenging him to keep up the argument.
"Ah, my love, you know me too well." He slid his free arm around the beautiful woman beside him. "I want this bastard, Francine. It's bad enough that he plies his trade in Moscow, but that he's here and doing it on American soil is just beyond outrageous."
Her head settled naturally in the curve of his shoulder – and high enough that she could continue her vigilant watch on the property Amanda and General Reese had pinpointed – Francine sighed in a combination of contentment and frustration unique to the situation. "Call me that again. And you're right, it is outrageous."
"My love. My love. Wow, that sounds wonde – oh, hello, what do we have here?"
The two agents sat up, fully alert as they watched and photographed a well- dressed man exit a taxi and pull out a key to open the building they had under surveillance. "It's too dark for me to say positively, but he walks like Scholk," Ian stated as the man disappeared from view. "What time was the last confirmed sighting we have of him?"
Francine checked the mini-clipboard on the visor over her head. "After this afternoon's joyride, we had him under surveillance continuously from 6:30 until 10:15 – he left the Embassy, went to the movies and saw some French import, went to his favorite tea room, and came back. He must have slipped out of here without us catching him – maybe around 11 when all those people left at once."
"Didn't Amanda say that there's a telemarketing service in the building? The second shift must have been let go around then. Damn – should have thought about that."
"Assuming he did slip out with second shift – why risk coming back before the day shift comes in?"
Ian crossed his arms and stared out at the street. His voice was gritty as he answered the question. "Over confidence. And it just hanged him."
The two waited in the cold for a little more than an hour and a half – keeping warm in some very inventive ways at times – before they struck pay dirt. "É violá!" Francine proclaimed in a hushed voice when light briefly flooded the sidewalk outside the door of the building she and Ian had been watching.
"Hallelujah, thank you, Jesus," Ian added, glad that he had started the car a little while before to ward off the late March chill that even the heat he and Francine generated on their own couldn't completely overcome. The two watched the man they were sure was Scholk get into a car a block down from the door. "Here we go."
Francine spoke into the car phone as Ian pulled away from the curb, alerting the night duty desk at the Agency and rousing Lee, Amanda, General Reese, and Billy from their late night vigils elsewhere in the area. The two teams would provide back up for Francine and Ian in the pursuit. "Do you think we'll find out where he's keeping Sandra?"
"We'll be lucky if we do tonight. It's going to be damned hard to follow him inconspicuously at this time of night."
She pulled a face as she thought about Ian's words. "That's rotten luck," she agreed. "If he goes outside the city, you'll probably have to turn off."
"Yep. But at least we'll have a direction."
The two other teams joined the tail, staying half a mile or so back. About twenty minutes from the Embassy, the car Scholk was driving turned off the main road onto a smaller road, and Ian felt the risk was too great to continue in his role as the lead car. While Francine talked with Billy in the third vehicle, Ian turned their car around and went back to the smaller road. Amanda and Lee, in the Jeep Cherokee, also turned around, but they turned onto the smaller road to follow Billy's car.
"Well, what should we do?" Ian asked as they came to a stop, well screened behind a budding bush.
"We can stay here to wait until Billy calls us with the first turn. Then we can follow Amanda and Lee."
Ian flashed a bright smile at her in the pre-dawn darkness. "It's nice and quiet…"
"You are a bad influence, Colonel Marlowe." She leaned over and kissed him with all the passion she could muster after a full day of work and 6 hours on stakeout. "And I like it like that."
He laughed; they settled together in the car to wait for the next call from Billy.
Warsaw, Poland * 8:10 a.m. (GMT+1)
"Ah, friend Stefan. How are you this bright morning?" Father Milos asked his parishioner, hoping for a different answer than he had received each morning since Sunday.
Stefan, who limped toward the priest with evident pain, smiled. "It's a small thing, but I found out that the initial message has been received. There seems to be a delay in the network – our messenger met with my contact on Wednesday but I only heard this morning before mass, and it was very brief – just enough to confirm that they have the information."
"That's something, then. When do you suppose they'll contact us again?"
"I have no idea, Father. I just hope it's soon."
Father Milos nodded. "Do you still believe it will be next Friday?"
Stefan grimaced. "It makes all too much sense. It's the only time all three logical targets might be together in public. I just wish I knew who was truly behind it."
"I'd like to know who the assassin is. At least we could stop him and buy ourselves some time."
A skeletal figure approached the two men, apparently uncomfortable in his white alb with its already unsnapped black cassock underneath. "Father Milos, you have inspired me. I wish the Cardinal could have heard you – he might change his mind about the underground universities."
"Not likely, but thanks for the thought. Stefan, may I introduce Jaruslav Milowanowicz, from the Chancery."
The two men shook hands as Stefan eyed the younger man thoughtfully. "Moscow Olympics, 1980, right? Rifle team – you won several medals."
Father Milowanowicz blushed. "Yes. You have a very good memory."
"You made us proud. God's peace be with you, Father Milos, Father Milowanowicz."
"See you tomorrow, Stefan," Father Milos acknowledged, turning away from his co-conspirator toward his guest from the Chancery.
Stefan limped away, wondering idly if the Olympian had continued to shoot since his successes so many years ago.
Chapter 4 * Washington, D.C. * 7:45 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
The first time Ian Marlowe had stood on Francine Desmond's doorstep, he had been as nervous as a new recruit facing a Drill Instructor for the first time. Now, almost two months into what he hoped would be a permanent, "till death do us part" relationship, the nerves held a different quality. What if she doesn't really want to see me any more and she's just being nice? he thought as he waited for her to answer.
Inside, Francine checked her makeup one last time, resisted the urge to put on lipstick, and opened the door. "Hello, lover," she said in her best bedroom voice.
That answers that question, Ian chided himself as Francine hauled him inside, shut the door to close the world out, and pulled him into a kiss that rocked him from his high and tight haircut to his neatly trimmed toenails.
She let him go after a long minute, smiling into his dark eyes with an inner glow that made her the most beautiful woman in the world. "I'll be back. Now I can put on my lipstick."
He returned her smile, appreciating the gesture she made by not putting any on to greet him. "Hurry back."
Francine's dress left nothing and everything in the mind's eye at the same time. Cobalt blue velvet with rhinestone accents formed the fitted bodice; the same velvet in the skirt barely skimmed her hips as it fell straight to the floor. A shear scarf wrap, held in place with a rhinestone brooch on her left shoulder, completed the outfit.
Ian stood and daydreamed about taking her out of that dress – it looked a bit complicated with crisscross straps in the back and that brooch which must have been anchored to the dress somehow – but he knew that the day was far in the future when he might actually have the chance to fulfill his fantasy. As hard as it had been to make the decision, both he and Francine had determined that their relationship had to be more about the interpersonal depths of friendship and love than about sex at this stage. He was often surprised at how infrequently he regretted that decision, although tonight, he admitted to himself, just might be one of those rare times. Then he remembered that General Reese expected him at breakfast tomorrow morning and the regrets vanished completely.
Francine came out, still luminous from the kiss and fully prepared for the embassy reception. She stopped a few feet from him and studied him for several seconds. "If I'm hyperventilating, it's because you take my breath away in that uniform."
"What, this old thing? I found it hanging in my closet and it happened to fit." He knew he looked good in his evening dress uniform; by the look on Francine's face, he might have been the single most incredible sight in the world.
"I always have liked men in uniform. You, however, put everyone else I've ever seen to shame." She stepped closer to him, fingered the gold braid on his dark blue jacket cuffs, traced the brim of his regulation white hat where it sat above his ears with teasing fingertips – to hell with the fact that I've got my cover on inside – stepped out of her rhinestone encrusted sling back heels to run a stocking-clad foot up the red and gold stripes on his trousers…
"Uh, honey, we do have an assignment to attend to tonight," Ian managed to squeak out as Francine ran her hands under his scarlet cummerbund.
"Oh, I know. I'm just making sure that every woman who swoons at your feet knows beyond a shadow of any doubt that you are my man." She stepped even closer, leaned in; with her lips millimeters from his ear, she whispered the words he had been longing to hear from her since the day they met. "I love you, Ian."
Unprepared as he was, Ian realized that the finger she ran down his cheek was wet with a tear – his tear - and more were following. His voice, when he found it, came out hoarse with emotion. "Francine, I love you. More than I ever thought possible. More than when I walked in. Oh, God, help me! I love you, Francine."
Near the Kremlin * Moscow, USSR * March 17, 1989 * 5:00 a.m. (GMT+3)
Unlike most of his contemporaries, Feodor Petrovich Kaminsky enjoyed a healthy lifestyle. Early each morning for fifty years, even now as he approached his eightieth birthday, he ran between three and four miles. Whenever possible, he invited a colleague or subordinate to join him, as much for the fun of watching their bravado disintegrate in the second mile as to accomplish any real business. This morning, however, his companion kept easy pace with him as they made good time down the bank of the Moscow River across from Red Square and the Kremlin in the pale light of a late winter dawn.
"You surprise me, Georg Alexeivich. You don't look like a man in shape to run." The words came out on the steam of Kaminsky's breath.
Tolstoy smiled as the pair rounded a slight curve and turned down a side street that led back toward the Kamenii Bridge. "You taught us to be masters of disguise. So I am like a Japanese Sumo wrestler – I look fat, but I am all muscle underneath."
"I am impressed. What can you tell me about our operation?"
"The Polish element progresses nicely – the dupe is every bit as good as Borodin promised, and perhaps better, if you can imagine. Only time will tell when that will actually come to fruition during next week, although the thought now is next Friday during the noon service in Castle Square. Leon Ivanich has been working on our problem child, but as yet with no success." The pair turned sharply onto the pedestrian walkway of the bridge and headed back across the river toward the Kremlin. "What we do next for that is an unknown. We don't think it is safe to try to take her out of the country, but we also are not completely comfortable with security in the United States."
Kaminsky said nothing as the wind, unfettered by buildings over the open river, whipped through the runners. Only when they had turned off the bridge and were running comfortably along the other bank of the polluted waterway did the older man comment. "Deal with it there. If all else fails, she will just be another young woman abducted, raped, and killed in the decadent West."
The Soviet Embassy, Washington, D.C. * March 16, 1989 * 9:05 p.m. EST (GMT- 5)
"Miss Desmond, you are truly a vision to behold," the Naval Attaché of the Soviet mission said as he bowed with great ceremony over Francine's extended hand. His greeting to Ian a moment before had been something just barely above zero degrees Kelvin, as she had predicted.
"Thank you," she replied, and couldn't help herself after his treatment of her date. "This is just a bit bourgeoisie, don't you think?"
The comment had the desired effect as the urbane, self-important man excused himself abruptly and went off to find someone else to greet.
Ian raised an eyebrow in silent amusement; even so, he felt obliged to lean down to the delicate bejeweled ear closest to him and whisper, "That was harsh, don't you think? He was just being polite."
Francine arched her eyebrows in return and murmured, "The guy is a creep. He got fresh with me three years ago at a New Year's Eve party. Lee and Amanda had to pull me off of him before I killed him."
"Oh."
The striking American couple made their way through the many greetings and conversations toward the hors d'oeuvre table. Ian's uniform was distinctive among the formal wear of his fellow party-goers; try though they might, the Soviet Bloc officers could not come close to the inimitable aura of power and authority carried by one in the uniform of a United States Marine. The combined effect of Francine's bedazzling beauty and Ian's masculine form on those gathered was that of royalty on children – breathless anticipation of the moment of meeting.
"They love us," Ian whispered at one point when he had the food in sight. "So much that we're going to starve in the process of greeting our public." The table disappeared as the gathered group of diplomats and functionaries pushed the couple along in its tidal surge.
"You've already had dinner," she chided. "Besides, what's not to love?" Francine returned to his first comment, rolling her eyes. This was not what she had in mind at all. She went from hand to hand with Ian in tow, meeting and greeting the "in" people of the moment and wondering if the fruits of this evening would be solely personal. That would, of course, be fine, given the earlier conversation with Ian – but it would be nice to have a break in this kidnapping case, too.
After forty minutes of wading with the tide of celebrants, Ian and Francine made it to the chafing dishes and fondue pots. "Try the pierogi," Francine advised as Ian looked over the assortment of food. "That's the one thing that has never been bad."
"They are indeed extraordinarily good this evening," a deep, British- accented voice said from behind the couple, startling both as they loaded their small plates.
Ian turned before Francine did, recognizing the voice but needing the visual confirmation of his intuition. "Leon Ivanich, I had no idea you were in Washington."
The Soviet agent smiled and nodded, recognizing Ian from their travails in Moscow. "Lieutenant Colonel Marlowe, I see. That certainly wasn't made clear three years ago. Never mind. Yes, I have been assigned to the embassy here as an interpreter. Not that the Ambassador really needs one, you understand, but just in case."
"Of course. Miss Desmond?" Ian guided Francine around to face the other man. "May I present Miss Francine Desmond, a unit director with International Federal Film. Miss Desmond, this is Leon Ivanich Scholk, a translator on staff here."
"A pleasure, Miss Desmond." Unlike the Naval Attaché, Scholk merely shook her hand. "Your Colonel Marlowe travels around a bit. I last saw him in Moscow under less than auspicious circumstances."
Ian shook his head. "No need to dredge up unpleasant memories."
"No, indeed. Please, enjoy the hospitality." Scholk took his leave; Ian lost sight of him as the tuxedoed man blended into the milling crowd.
"What's wrong, Sweetheart?" Francine asked, seeing the menacing expression on Ian's face.
The endearment distracted him briefly as he smiled a knee-weakening smile solely for Francine's benefit. "Not here. Not now. We need to leave as soon as it's polite to do so."
"Why?"
The shudder that went through the Marine was one of relived terror; the fierce effort to suppress the memory showed on his face. Calmer, he pulled Francine into what could have been mistaken for a passionate embrace and whispered in her ear. "I know who has Sandra."
Flag Bachelor's Officer Quarters, Ft. Belvoir, Virginia * 11:45 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"This is a dumb question, I'm sure, but are you one hundred percent positive that it was Leon Ivanich Scholk at the embassy?" General Reese stood at the window overlooking the parade field, staring into the black night seeking a different answer than the one he knew his guest would give.
"Yes, sir," Ian Marlowe replied. "I doubt I could ever mistake him for anyone else."
Reese nodded without turning. "No, I don't suppose you could." The general and the lieutenant colonel were silent for several minutes before the ranking officer spoke again. "That bastard killed my wife, then he hurt my daughter and brought my son to the brink of suicide before we got her back. Now he has my daughter again. This is it. Third strike."
Ian grimaced, memories of both previous episodes rolling voraciously over him. "He's out, sir."
"Damn straight, Marine. And I don't care what I have to do to make it happen."
Somewhere in the Washington, D.C. Area * March 17, 1989 * 1:20 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
"I am forced to admit that even though you are not one of ours, I am impressed, Miss Reese. Thirty-six hours without sleep and yet you still hold your secrets." Leon Ivanich Scholk circled his captive, pacing with his arms behind his back as though on a stroll along the Mall.
Her own father might have had a hard time recognizing Sandra Reese; her blue-black hair lay matted and rank against her scalp and her Wedgwood blue eyes were barely distinguishable from the blue circles around them. Her ivory skin had a yellow hue where exposed; under her clothing, much of it bore deep bruises from skilled torture inflicted at the direction of Scholk. When she found the strength to reply, it was in a voice raspy and weak from pain, exhaustion, and effort. "I have nothing to tell you," she repeated for what seemed like the millionth time. It did no good, of course; in some dimly functioning part of her mind, the young woman wondered if she could make something up that would satisfy the zealous KGB agent.
"Of course you do, Sandra. And you will tell me, sooner rather than later." He went to the door of what had become her prison cell and opened it, motioned a man inside. "Perhaps you remember Room 315? Oh, yes, you do. We've had this conversation. I thought we would recreate a few memories, for old time's sake."
He whipped a cloth off the cart ushered in by the second man, revealing an electro-shock machine. "I'm sure I will enjoy this far more than you will."
Outside the Soviet Embassy, Washington, D.C. * 8:00 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
Ian Marlowe navigated a brand new, dark green Chevy Impala through the maze of back streets and alleys toward the waiting surveillance car, a silver Ford Escort station wagon that had seen better days. Francine sat beside him, moaning about having to work when he was in D.C. He agreed that there were many other more enjoyable things they could be doing – but he wouldn't be in D.C. if it weren't for their day's activity.
"Good morning, Mr. Marlowe, Ms. Desmond," the agent in the driver's seat of the Escort acknowledged. "It was a quiet night. Comrade Scholk went as far as the tea room on Pennsylvania Avenue a little after 10 and was back by midnight. Our people had him in sight the entire time. Apparently, he has a friend at the tea room." The meaning of friend was unmistakable.
"Is he still in there?" Francine motioned to the embassy building.
"Yes. Our inside source says he's a late riser, between 9 and 10, usually." Leave it to the FBI to have a source inside the Soviet Embassy; one had to wonder what infraction that information was hiding.
"Joy, two more hours of nothing. Okay, consider yourself relieved."
"Thanks, Ms. Desmond. See you tomorrow morning."
I hope not, Francine thought as she waved to the departing FBI man. "I don't get it," she said to Ian as he pulled the car into the vacated space. "We've been watching Scholk on and off since he arrived in country, but all the intense scrutiny and review of the old data has only told us that he enjoys the company of a waitress at the English tea room on Pennsylvania Avenue."
An hour of cold, boring duty passed, lulling the Marine and the federal agent into hazy stupor of half-sleep. With no ceremony at intemperate speed, Ian smacked his forehead with his open palm and screeched out "Of course!" At Francine's concerned, questioning look, he calmed his voice and asked, "Can we get current blueprints of the embassy compound?"
"I suppose," Francine mused. "We've used them before too…" At Ian's raised eyebrow, she shrugged. "Need to know," she apologized. "What are you thinking?"
"That there's another exit from the compound that we don't know about. What if the Soviets, through a dummy corporation, owned a building not too far from here where a tunnel from the embassy came out?"
Francine stared at him for a long moment, knowing that if Lee and Billy had once gotten in that way, there was nothing preventing a reverse situation. "Those bastards are just sneaky enough to pull it off, too." She activated the car phone and punched in Billy's direct line.
The Agency * 11:55 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
Amanda sat in the conference room with General Reese while the military man pulled every string he could think of to get information about the owners of buildings within one block of the Soviet Embassy. She took notes while he repeated tidbits and nuggets given to him by networks of informants and agents in place since the Cuban Missile Crisis – or perhaps even longer.
"Somebody will appreciate the fact that these are all local calls," he groaned after one particularly frustrating attempt that led nowhere.
"General Reese, sir, I don't think anybody is counting the cost where Sandra's life is in danger." Amanda gave him with her peaceful, calming smile.
He sighed and reached out to pat her hand. "Make you a deal, Mrs. Stetson. Call me Alex.."
Amanda took his hand and squeezed it. "Please, call me Amanda, Gen – Alex."
"Good. Thank you for all you've done to help with this. You can't imagine…"
"Actually, Alex, I don't have to."
Reese looked away as he saw the tears glistening in Amanda's eyes. "No, I suppose you don't. But you'd be doing this anyway, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I would," Amanda affirmed, "and not just because it's my job. I only got to spend a little while with Sandra, but it's enough to know that she's a very special young lady with a lot of potential."
"Just like her mother. She'll be fine." He turned back toward the agent across the table. "She'll be fine."
Outside the Soviet Embassy * 12 noon EST (GMT-5)
Lee Stetson sat on the park bench and looked bored, as befit a public servant on his lunch break. It wasn't hard; with Amanda back at the office working with General Reese on Ian's dummy corporation idea, he had no one to talk to as he watched the front entrance of the Embassy for one Leon Ivanich Scholk to make an appearance. The comings and goings of average American citizens held no interest for him, but that's all he saw for the first 89 minutes he spent at his post. Just as he was ready to call in his relief, the main gate to the compound opened and a car with diplomatic plates pulled out into traffic on 16th Street. Scholk sat in the back seat, apparently directing the driver.
Moving his mouth as little as possible, Lee spoke into the microphone in his collar, directing Ian and Francine to the car so they could follow it. Maybe this would be the break they needed.
In the Virginia Countryside * 2:20 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"We've been tailing this dude for almost an hour. What's he doing?"
Francine shrugged at the speaker. "I have no clue, Ian. If it were Sunday, I'd say he's out for a Sunday drive, but it's Friday."
"Maybe he's counting cows."
"What?"
"Well, what if there's a bovine gap? I mean, we could be entering the beef race, when huge proportions of our Gross National Product are redirected from civilian industry toward trampling the Soviet Union into submission in the cattle processing industry." Ian Marlowe kept his face almost motionless, waiting for the reaction.
"You… you're crazy," Francine murmured just loudly enough for him to hear over the humming of the motor.
"Yes, I am. About you. But that's neither here nor there in this discussion. Can you think of any better reason that an official from the Soviet Union would be out joyriding on a Friday afternoon in late winter – before the trees have even budded?"
Eyebrows furrowed in thought, Francine just looked at her companion as they continued to follow the Soviet Zil sedan. "Red herring," she finally said.
"Come again?"
"Red herring. He's just throwing off any routine surveillance by doing something slightly suspicious. We do it to the other side all the time to waste resources."
Ian thought for a moment. "Well, we'll see. He's taking the exit onto the interstate headed back to D.C. Odds that he'll go back to the Embassy without passing 'Go'?"
"No better than 2 to 1 – probably 3 to 2 or even 4 to 3."
"Remind me to take you to Las Vegas next time I go. You're much better at that than I am."
"I prefer Monte Carlo."
"Whatever your heart desires, mon ami."
Francine proved right; the sedan pulled back into the Embassy about 80 minutes after Lee dispatched them, and the car had never stopped except to obey traffic rules. "Well, paint me vermilion and give me gills," Ian groused as the couple made their way back to the Agency for the afternoon briefing. "Red herrings, indeed."
"Moooooooo," Francine replied.
Ian had to pull the car over because he couldn't control the car and laugh at the same time.
The Agency * 4:45 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"Alex, sir, I think we may have a solid lead here," Amanda said as General Reese hung up the phone in disgust beside her.
"Not from that phone call," he negated. "Useless son of a…"
Amanda gave her best smile of motherly toleration and pointed toward the map on the wall. "No, sir, general. I think I've found another dummy corporate layer for the owners of this building right here across the street from the back corner of the Soviet Embassy."
Reese had the grace to look abashed as he chuckled at his own grim determination. "Amanda, you are amazing. How do you have the patience to sit and do paper research?"
"Oh, this is a perfectly normal situation. Lee's out running around chasing people leads, so I just do the bookwork. You used to it."
"I'll bet you're just as good at the other, Amanda, when you get a chance.
She smiled again, more brightly. "I had a great teacher."
Lee heard that from the hallway as he passed and changed course, coming up behind his wife and laying his hands on her slim shoulders. "Are you referring to me?" he asked with a wink at the older Army man.
"Maybe," she replied with a sly grin. "Or maybe not. You don't know what I learned."
As Lee opened his mouth to counterattack, Billy entered the conference room, followed by Francine and Ian. "Any luck in here?" he asked, pulling out a chair and plunking his heavy frame into it.
"Maybe," General Reese allowed. "Amanda has been slowly uncovering the layers of ownership on several buildings around the embassy. She's just told me of a promising lead."
"Amanda, I always did figure you were the work horse of the unit," Ian quipped, earning an elbow in the ribs from Francine.
With a nod from Billy, Amanda laid out her latest find, by far the most promising of a short list of possible alternate escape terminals. "And according to the blueprints, this building is the closest private building to the wine cellar and laundry facilities in the sub-basement of the residential building on the grounds." She oriented the group to the suspect property on the map and on the blueprint of the embassy.
Lee growled. "Places we have no way to observe because they are deep inside. Perfect from their perspective."
"Let's not get carried away, yet," Billy warned. "We still have to prove that the Soviets actually own the private property."
Ian and Francine looked at each other in perfect understanding. "Sir," Ian started, "could we double our surveillance on that corner for the next 24 hours, just to see if by chance we've missed something that's been under our noses all along? Francine and I can start at the 8:00 shift change."
"Do it," Billy affirmed. "Amanda, keep working on this property paper chase. Lee, get back to the microdot and see if you can get a lead on reestablishing contact. Shall we order dinner?"
Everyone groaned at the thought of yet another cafeteria meal, but no one balked. Time was running out, and they all knew it.
Somewhere in the Washington, D.C. Area * 5:15 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"Comrade Scholk, why don't you just kill her now and be done with her?" Pavel Constantinovich pleaded, finally finding some pity for the body that had once been a vibrant young woman.
"Because then she will have beaten me, Pavel. And no one bests Leon Ivanich. No one."
The heap on the floor stirred, light firing briefly in the dull, sunken, blue-molded eyes. "Bet me," a croaking voice said, barely audible even in the close confines of the brick room.
"You see, Pavel? Defiant even now. If I didn't know better, I'd say that she knew absolutely nothing about this whole thing. But she knows – not much, but enough. And I will get it out of her if it's the last thing I ever do."
The Agency * 9:20 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"Eureka!" It wasn't original, but it fit, Lee thought as soon as the word escaped his lips. General Reese and Amanda came out into the bullpen from the conference room at his utterance, and Billy came at a run from his office.
"You've got the new link?" Billy asked in a breathless whisper as he came to a stop at the computer terminal where Lee sat.
"Right here in black and white. Business connections through a fictitious West German company called Heiß Kreideintelligent – we go in through the West German consulate in Gdansk and they will get the message through to Warsaw. The leader of the cell is someone named Stefan – he says he knows the network from the good old days."
Amanda hugged Lee's shoulders. "I'm so happy for you," she said, but her tone indicated that she wasn't thrilled with what she knew would come soon.
"There's more. Stefan says he has information on an assassination plot to be carried out next week. He isn't sure who the target is, but guesses that it's got to be Walesa, Jaruzelski, or possibly even Glemp."
"I'd bet money on Glemp." General Reese commanded their collective attention. "Solidarity doesn't like him, the Communists like him alive but might like him more dead –if the KGB were to mastermind his assassination, they could blame it on Solidarity and make the crackdown in 1981 look like a military exercise."
Billy pondered that for a moment. "Do you have any indications from your end that can corroborate that hypothesis?"
"I don't at the moment, but I can get someone on it as soon as my ops officer is in – say just after 1:00 tomorrow morning. I'll fax the order over so it's clear."
Lee took another practical angle. "Billy, I've got to start getting my legend in order."
"Write it up for Leatherneck for first thing in the morning – send a confirmation message back through first, though. Are we all up for the overnight surveillance shift?"
Three grown ups moaned like children at the thought, but in jest. The work was too important to whine about.
Outside the Soviet Embassy, Washington, D.C. * March 18, 1989 * 12:05 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
"You know, under other circumstances, this would be romantic," Ian Marlowe grumbled as he sipped from a steaming cup of coffee and wiggled around in the front seat of the Chevy Impala to find a more comfortable position.
Francine giggled, shifted the camera in her lap, and ran her left hand through his hair. "We might have to make it that way occasionally…"
He flashed his smile at her. "I'm kind of counting on that. It's the only reason I suggested that we take the first double coverage shift."
"It is not," she replied, challenging him to keep up the argument.
"Ah, my love, you know me too well." He slid his free arm around the beautiful woman beside him. "I want this bastard, Francine. It's bad enough that he plies his trade in Moscow, but that he's here and doing it on American soil is just beyond outrageous."
Her head settled naturally in the curve of his shoulder – and high enough that she could continue her vigilant watch on the property Amanda and General Reese had pinpointed – Francine sighed in a combination of contentment and frustration unique to the situation. "Call me that again. And you're right, it is outrageous."
"My love. My love. Wow, that sounds wonde – oh, hello, what do we have here?"
The two agents sat up, fully alert as they watched and photographed a well- dressed man exit a taxi and pull out a key to open the building they had under surveillance. "It's too dark for me to say positively, but he walks like Scholk," Ian stated as the man disappeared from view. "What time was the last confirmed sighting we have of him?"
Francine checked the mini-clipboard on the visor over her head. "After this afternoon's joyride, we had him under surveillance continuously from 6:30 until 10:15 – he left the Embassy, went to the movies and saw some French import, went to his favorite tea room, and came back. He must have slipped out of here without us catching him – maybe around 11 when all those people left at once."
"Didn't Amanda say that there's a telemarketing service in the building? The second shift must have been let go around then. Damn – should have thought about that."
"Assuming he did slip out with second shift – why risk coming back before the day shift comes in?"
Ian crossed his arms and stared out at the street. His voice was gritty as he answered the question. "Over confidence. And it just hanged him."
The two waited in the cold for a little more than an hour and a half – keeping warm in some very inventive ways at times – before they struck pay dirt. "É violá!" Francine proclaimed in a hushed voice when light briefly flooded the sidewalk outside the door of the building she and Ian had been watching.
"Hallelujah, thank you, Jesus," Ian added, glad that he had started the car a little while before to ward off the late March chill that even the heat he and Francine generated on their own couldn't completely overcome. The two watched the man they were sure was Scholk get into a car a block down from the door. "Here we go."
Francine spoke into the car phone as Ian pulled away from the curb, alerting the night duty desk at the Agency and rousing Lee, Amanda, General Reese, and Billy from their late night vigils elsewhere in the area. The two teams would provide back up for Francine and Ian in the pursuit. "Do you think we'll find out where he's keeping Sandra?"
"We'll be lucky if we do tonight. It's going to be damned hard to follow him inconspicuously at this time of night."
She pulled a face as she thought about Ian's words. "That's rotten luck," she agreed. "If he goes outside the city, you'll probably have to turn off."
"Yep. But at least we'll have a direction."
The two other teams joined the tail, staying half a mile or so back. About twenty minutes from the Embassy, the car Scholk was driving turned off the main road onto a smaller road, and Ian felt the risk was too great to continue in his role as the lead car. While Francine talked with Billy in the third vehicle, Ian turned their car around and went back to the smaller road. Amanda and Lee, in the Jeep Cherokee, also turned around, but they turned onto the smaller road to follow Billy's car.
"Well, what should we do?" Ian asked as they came to a stop, well screened behind a budding bush.
"We can stay here to wait until Billy calls us with the first turn. Then we can follow Amanda and Lee."
Ian flashed a bright smile at her in the pre-dawn darkness. "It's nice and quiet…"
"You are a bad influence, Colonel Marlowe." She leaned over and kissed him with all the passion she could muster after a full day of work and 6 hours on stakeout. "And I like it like that."
He laughed; they settled together in the car to wait for the next call from Billy.
Warsaw, Poland * 8:10 a.m. (GMT+1)
"Ah, friend Stefan. How are you this bright morning?" Father Milos asked his parishioner, hoping for a different answer than he had received each morning since Sunday.
Stefan, who limped toward the priest with evident pain, smiled. "It's a small thing, but I found out that the initial message has been received. There seems to be a delay in the network – our messenger met with my contact on Wednesday but I only heard this morning before mass, and it was very brief – just enough to confirm that they have the information."
"That's something, then. When do you suppose they'll contact us again?"
"I have no idea, Father. I just hope it's soon."
Father Milos nodded. "Do you still believe it will be next Friday?"
Stefan grimaced. "It makes all too much sense. It's the only time all three logical targets might be together in public. I just wish I knew who was truly behind it."
"I'd like to know who the assassin is. At least we could stop him and buy ourselves some time."
A skeletal figure approached the two men, apparently uncomfortable in his white alb with its already unsnapped black cassock underneath. "Father Milos, you have inspired me. I wish the Cardinal could have heard you – he might change his mind about the underground universities."
"Not likely, but thanks for the thought. Stefan, may I introduce Jaruslav Milowanowicz, from the Chancery."
The two men shook hands as Stefan eyed the younger man thoughtfully. "Moscow Olympics, 1980, right? Rifle team – you won several medals."
Father Milowanowicz blushed. "Yes. You have a very good memory."
"You made us proud. God's peace be with you, Father Milos, Father Milowanowicz."
"See you tomorrow, Stefan," Father Milos acknowledged, turning away from his co-conspirator toward his guest from the Chancery.
Stefan limped away, wondering idly if the Olympian had continued to shoot since his successes so many years ago.