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 6 * General Officer's Quarters, Ft. Belvoir, Virginia * March 19, 1989 * 6:30 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
"You're sure that's what Ludwig said, James?" Alex Reese had the telephone receiver tucked tightly in his shoulder as he took notes from his adjutant in Berlin. "Okay. Get in touch with the Poles and tell then that we'll be there Tuesday noontime. It will be me, my civilian secretaries, my translator, and my aide-de-camp." He smiled as he imagined the young lieutenant thinking that through. "No, sorry, son, not you this time. Lt. Col. Marlowe, two women from the Agency, and a young man from another group that I'm co-opting from here. I'll get names to you later today. Anything else?" There was just a small personnel issue that Reese delegated to Johnston before he signed off, one that made the young man feel much better about his absence from the Polish delegation.
Amanda will be thrilled. Billy will be furious. I wonder how Ian and Francine will feel?
British Airways International Departure Lounge * 6:45 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
"Amanda, I'll be fine." Lee Stetson hated saying good-bye anyway; this was the worst ever. Amanda was crying.
"But how do you know that? Who's got your back?" she asked through her sniffles.
He really didn't have an adequate answer to either of those questions, except his unshakeable faith that simply having Amanda to come home to was enough. So he just took her in his arms and held her for as long as he could before his flight to London was called.
He looked back as long as he could while he made his way down the jet way to the people mover, then set his game face in place. Lee Stetson would stay in London, while Rainer Volkmeister would enter Poland quite legitimately on business from West Germany.
The Olympic Training Facility, Warsaw, Poland * 2:10 p.m. (GMT+1)
Even the ordinarily unflappable Leon Ivanich Scholk was vocally impressed at the tremendous display of talent shown by the Polish Olympian as he watched Father Milowanowicz desecrate targets at 200 and 300 meters. "You have outdone yourself, Gregor," he complimented his companion. "He's definitely in the wrong profession."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he should be about killing people, not about saving their non- existent souls."
"I like to think he'll do both on Friday," Borodin replied dryly.
Scholk laughed and revised his opinion of the Pole. Perhaps he would have his uses after this was over. As might Milowanowicz, come to think of it. "I'll make my report, and you can expect final clearance tomorrow as your contact arranged previously. I'll be around just in case there are any late developments."
Milowanowicz came back from the firing line with his last set of targets, 350 meters from the line. Each had a neat circle carved in the middle of it, precisely the diameter of a .306 shell. Considering that he had fired three bullets into each target, that result was unheard of. The priest shrugged when the Russian congratulated him. "It is what I do best," he dismissed the praise. "It is what I do best."
The Agency * 2:15 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
Billy Melrose had a headache of epic proportions.
First of all, he was in the office on a Sunday on one of his few supposedly completely free weekends after having worked most of the day on Saturday.
Secondly, General Reese had just requisitioned Amanda and Francine for an overseas assignment of dubious worth.
Thirdly, Dr. Smyth had told him to let Amanda and Francine go if he really wanted to add Lt. Col. Marlowe to his staff after the upcoming promotions were announced.
He reached for his bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol and swallowed his third and fourth tablets of the day before he yelled for Francine.
"What is it, Billy? I'm trying to – " Francine stopped her complaint in mid-stream when she saw her section chief's face. "How can I help you?" she said instead.
"By not going with General Reese, but that's a done deal. What's your take on this?"
Francine closed her blue eyes for a second as she thought about the unexpected trip. She didn't know exactly where they were going, just that it was a legitimate cover for a trip behind the Iron Curtain. She had a hunch, though. "We're going wherever Scholk went."
"Which was?" Billy sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the light.
She shrugged. "We don't know. General Reese has better assets on the ground in most countries than we do."
"Great." He still had his eyes closed, even though it didn't seem to be working. "Call me when you get there."
"Um, Billy, we don't leave until late tomorrow night."
Now he sat up. "I'm taking a month off when this is all over. So are you and Amanda and Lee."
"Oh, I believe that," Francine rebutted, earning a clear non-verbal order to leave.
Billy waited until his agent and friend stood at the door. "Turn the lights out, please. I have a headache."
Gorky Park, Moscow, USSR * 10:00 p.m. (GMT+3)
A lone American stood in the snow under a street light just off the main path through Gorky Park, conspicuous because he wore a red, white and blue parka and a red and white striped scarf with blue fringe. He didn't know that another America also stood behind a tree just off the main path a short ways further into the park, waiting for someone who was not an American to arrive.
The second man saw his appointment strolling toward the bench a few feet in front of the tree and moved out to meet him, inviting the other man to sit down with exaggerated largesse. "You're late," he said, steel behind his jovial tone.
G.A. Tolstoy shrugged it off. "The subway was running a little slow. You called me, and it's cold out here. What do you have?" The steam of their breath rose around them as fog.
"Something I didn't think could wait. An American agent just went into Poland, covered as a businessman from somewhere in Europe. I am trying to find out more, but given the dragnet around the embassy in Washington, I thought you might want to know about this coincidence."
Tolstoy winced at the reminder of the dragnet; the Rezident had been less than happy about that whole incident and had made Tolstoy's day more miserable than Scholk's escape by itself. "Yes, thank you. I think that it is truly coincidence, but we'll keep a watch out."
"I'll do the same for further information." The American rubbed his hands across his parka nervously. "I'm a little worried about this," he hedged. "If you act on this, it may blow my cover."
Georg Alexeivich smiled. "There will be a triple payment in your usual account if you can get the additional information. Meanwhile, the usual will be available tomorrow."
The young American shook his head. "I really am worried about this." Then he thought for a moment. "But I'll try." He walked away, whistling a Tchaikovsky ballet theme.
Warsaw, Poland * 8:35 p.m. (GMT+1)
Lee Stetson was colder, hungrier, and lonelier than he had ever been in his life. At least that's how he felt, even though he knew objectively that there had been times in his early career when he had been colder, hungrier, and lonelier. That, he told himself, was LS-BA: Lee Stetson – Before Amanda. As he saw things now, LS-AA was so much better off than LS-BA that everything was worse when she wasn't around. And Warsaw was always bad anyway.
Getting into the country had not been as hard as he expected it to be; Poland was courting Western European investors openly these days and his cover as West German businessman Rainer Volkmeister went unchallenged. As Stefan promised, there was "mail" at the primary dead drop from the old network, an advertisement that told him when and where to meet the faithful remnants of his team. Instead of staying for the spicy pierogi being served for dinner at the hotel, Lee went back just long enough to retrieve the "size 44 horse shoes carefully cobbled by Smith and Wesson", then made his way along the 2 kilometers from the Hotel Europejski to the alley that ran between the crumbling walls of the old Jewish cemetery and the Powazkowski Cemetery, where he was to meet his contact in 10 minutes.
He paced, as he was wont to do, until he heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the Vistula River off to the east. With great deliberation, he relaxed and stepped back against the wall of the Catholic cemetery to watch for the recognition signals. There – two deliberate puffs on a lit cigarette, followed by a sequence of four taps on the stone wall with a metal hammer. His primary contact may have died five and a half years ago, but Piotyr had trained his network well.
Lee responded with his own verification – three taps with a stone, then a six second sweep with his flashlight and three more taps with a stone. He approached the other man with careful awareness, every nerve ending alert and ready to break and run should anything interfere.
The other man turned out to be a woman, who made Lee understand in a combination of thickly accented Polish, poor German, and hand signals that he was to follow her to her car. They crept north between the walls, then turned east toward the river and strolled arm-in-arm down Stawki Street past the Umschlagplatz memorial, such as it was. In typical Communist fashion, the residential area that had once been the Warsaw Ghetto was rebuilt after the war to reflect sensible Stalinist humanism. Nothing along these streets, quiet but not deserted in the mid-evening chill, remotely resembled that other "Gesture of Communist Comradeship" – the Palace of Culture. Thank God, Lee thought. Uniform gray was better than gaudy triumphalism.
After about 10 minutes, they came to a church that appeared deserted. The look was deceiving; three sharp raps on a rear door was "Open Sesame" in Polish. The interior of the church reflected the decrepit state of the Polish nation after 40+ years of Communist domination: the ceiling in the sanctuary was falling down in several places and water stains left the remainder mottled. A few dim electric lights cast ominous shadows on the wall and the boarded up windows kept out all light from the outside. However, despite the decay, someone had dusted and swept the space clean, and the air was redolent of sweet incense.
"Welcome, Scarecrow," a deep male voice said from the shadows as Lee stepped further into the interior. "It is nice to have you back in Poland."
"Piotyr?" Lee's voice betrayed his surprise.
"Raised from the dead, as it were." The man limped into the light and stretched out his hand to the American. "I go by Stefan now."
Lee looked at his Polish friend, realizing that he would never have recognized the man on the street. The once handsome face bore an ugly, jagged scar from its left eye to the corner of the painfully pale lips on the same side; hair that had been thick and blond and wavy now lay shorn close to his scalp and showed more white than yellow in the murky light. The fire fight at the border crossing, while not fatal, had been life- altering for the Polish activist. "I'm very glad to see you, whatever your current name. I was worried about a trap when the network became active again without warning."
Stefan nodded to the woman who had escorted Lee to the church, and to the three people with him. They departed the church by separate entrances, leaving Lee alone with the man who had once been his best contact and source behind the Iron Curtain. "I could not risk any more than I did. We just had to pray that the pieces fell into place."
"Unfortunately, the KGB snatched your courier, but you picked a very good one. She could be a real pro some day." He handed the Pole the package without comment.
"Yes, the woman at Auschwitz. I never learned her name." Stefan opened the package and nodded once in gratitude as he looked at the pistols he so urgently needed.
Lee thought for a moment. "Let's just say that she's got a father in high places who made life difficult for us until we got her back alive." He shrugged. "So, the microdot simply said that there was an assassination plot in motion." Time for brass tacks.
Stefan returned the shrug. "That's all we know for sure. When Gorbachev purged the leadership last September, we, too, suffered. Many of our sympathetic comrades were transferred back to Moscow or retired to the Black Sea."
"What do you hope I can do?"
The Pole laughed. "Frankly, my friend, we didn't expect you to come in person. Now that you are here, perhaps we can make something of your cover."
"How so?"
Stefan outlined a plan that was so audacious in its simplicity that Lee staggered out of the church 45 minutes later. He had a lot to do overnight to be ready for his act in the morning.
Interior Ministry Offices, Warsaw, Poland * March 20, 1989 * 9:15 a.m. (GMT+1)
"Good morning, Comrade Borodin. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice." Lee Stetson stood before the desk of a functionary at the Interior Ministry. His Polish, which he tried to keep German-accented, was passable enough for greetings but not for transacting business – at least according to his cover.
"You are quite welcome, Herr Volkmeister. Your call was most propitious."
Lee looked at the man with a sheepish grimace. "Sprechen sie Deutsch?"
Gregor Borodin smiled. "Jawohl." He rose from the desk and strode to the door, closed it with firm authority. When he sat back down, he continued in German. "You said you had information for me. May I ask what it is?"
Reaching down to his portfolio case, Lee pulled out a folder of neatly typed papers. "This is a summary of information my company has put together over the last several weeks from various sources within Poland. My colleagues and I decided that the big picture is ominous enough to warrant bringing this to you."
"Your 'sources'?" Borodin tapped the sheaf of papers with a skeptical frown as he willed himself to be calm.
"Not to be revealed, naturally."
"Just what is it that Heiß Kreideintelligent does?"
The name, essentially a nonsense phrase made of the words hot, chalk, and intelligent, lent itself to various interpretations. For this purpose, the Intelligent played the key part. "We are in the information collection and dissemination business," Lee said. "Perhaps thinking of us as information brokers is the best way to proceed."
"Perhaps," the Polish official acknowledged. "So, what do you have that makes an 'ominous' big picture?"
Lee laid out the meager information collected by Stefan's network, adding a few invented pieces here and there to fill out a plausible picture of an impending assassination attempt on a public figure.
"So you think that all of these disparate pieces – from an order for a rifle made to the exact specifications as that used by an Olympic champion to a Polish Forestry Ministry report on unexplained damage to trees in the forest outside Lublin – fit together to make a conspiracy." Borodin shook his head to hide the shake he felt inside. "Far fetched, at best. I will take it to my superiors, of course. Perhaps they have more pieces to plug in."
"I hope so. The champion's name, by the way, was Jaruslav Milowanowicz."
"Well, then I can assure you that there is no plot. He became a priest and serves on the Cardinal's staff at the Cathedral here in Warsaw."
"What would he want now with a competition rifle?" This was a legitimate question; Stefan's network either hadn't known or hadn't found it relevant that Milowanowicz was a priest.
Borodin shrugged. "It isn't unheard of for people to hunt for food or sport in Poland, Herr Volkmeister. That's how Father Jaruslav became a rifleman to begin with, after all." He sat back with the air of a man confident and at ease. "Besides, I myself have a reasonably new Milowanowicz competition rifle for my hunting. They were very popular after the Olympics, and this is my second one – I just gave the old one to my son two years ago. Maybe another father is doing the same."
"Perhaps," Lee allowed. "Well, if you have no other questions, I'll be on my way." He stood and offered his hand to the Pole behind the desk.
"Thank you, Herr Volkmeister. You'll be staying at the Europejski until…?"
"My business visa allows me to stay as long as three weeks; I have several other deals pending during the next week. I hope to return home for Easter at the weekend, of course." That was an understatement.
"No doubt. We'll be in touch if we need more information." Even Borodin wondered just who the "we" in "we'll be in touch" would be, but he gave nothing away to the man across the desk.
Lee strolled out of the typical gray concrete building feeling as though he had just wasted an hour of his time. Except that perhaps a visit to Father Milowanowicz might be in order, he thought as he made his way through the bright late winter day to while away time before his evening meeting with Stefan.
Warsaw, Poland * 2:50 p.m. (GMT+1)
Gregor Borodin jumped when the phone on his desk rang. He knew who it was and what it signified; that did not make him happy. "Interior Ministry," he answered.
"Can you tell me if the Holy Friday Mass in Castle Square has been authorized this year?" asked a voice he recognized as Pavel Igorovich Gogol's; he did not know G.A. Tolstoy was Gogol or he would have been far more impressed with the level of attention this whole matter attracted.
"We have authorized the Cardinal to preside at a service of Tenebrae at noon," he replied, the truthful answer.
"No mass?" The authorization to proceed.
"I am told that Mass is not celebrated on Holy Friday or Holy Saturday." Confirmation, and truth as well.
"Thank you," the voice said, and hung up.
Gregor looked at the phone with disgust before he roused himself enough to call their Judas Iscariot. It was time to ask what form his 30 pieces of silver would take.
Five minutes later, Borodin realized that he had not reported the West German's information. Far too many pieces of the puzzle had been put together by the other side, and it was time to make sure that no more were assembled before Friday at noon.
Warsaw, Poland * 7:30 p.m. (GMT+1)
"Scarecrow, you're wearing a hole in my nicely refurbished marble floor," Stefan – f/k/a/ Piotyr – whined with great irony as the American agent paced a track around the dilapidated plywood floor the disused church. "Are you charging your batteries or is this how that vaunted brain of yours works?"
Lee stopped where he was, across the murky room from the Pole, and stuck his tongue out at the courageous subversive.
Stefan laughed. "Is there another child you aren't telling me about, perhaps a three year old?"
Despite himself, Lee chuckled and relaxed a little bit. "Did you hear anything about the chemical attacks in Israel in January?"
"A bit," the other man nodded. "I seem to recall a kidnapping involving a teenager and a mother and child of about three, as well."
"My son Jamie and a delightful little girl named Marlena, along with Marlena's mother. Marlena lived with us while her mother recovered from her very serious injuries."
"I think I'd like to meet your family someday, Lee. Your Amanda sounds as though she has a heart large enough for the world."
"She has a heart big enough for the universe with room to spare, and an intellect just as grand. And she'd probably be telling me to sit down just about now, too."
"She's a wise woman, then. Okay, have you figured out any more since you started your wretched trip to nowhere?"
Lee shrugged and resumed his pacing, more slowly this time. "The flashing neon light in my head is still aimed directly at Father Milowanowicz. When I went to the Chancery this afternoon, I was treated less than enthusiastically, even though I went pretending to be a sports writer following up on past Olympic champions."
Stefan shook his head. "Stetson, I don't know whether to admire your audacity or curse your stupidity. They wouldn't let you in under that cover without a pass from the Sports Ministry."
Lee stopped again, his face brightening to red in the faded light. "Oh, man. That was a rookie mistake."
"Or one of an overconfident agent." Stefan's tone indicated both concern and admonishment. "You didn't consult your wife's instincts, did you?"
Shaking his head, the American sank into a nearby pew. "I hate working alone. When I'm with Amanda, all it takes is a look or a gesture to get her read on a situation – and she's so much better than I am now that I've forgotten how to do it on my own."
"You'd better learn fast, my friend." Stefan came and stood in front of him. "You never know who might learn about your indiscretion this afternoon."
The dank, frigid sanctuary turned bitterly cold with that pronouncement.
Maplewood Drive, Arlington, Virginia * 7:15 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"Amanda, honey, you look beat," Dotty West commented as her daughter staggered through the back door. She took out another mug and placed a tea bag in it as the kettle started to whistle.
"I am beat, Mother." Amanda struggled to the sofa and sat down heavily. "Work is always so much harder when Lee is away."
Dotty brought both cups of tea into the living room and sat down on the couch beside her weary child. "Do you know when he'll be back?" It drove her crazy not to know where her son-in-law was, but she knew better than to ask.
Amanda sighed and took a mug from her mother. "Before Sunday, but when exactly, I don't know. He'll probably call from the airport." Half the brew in the cup disappeared in one long swallow.
"You have that look like there's something you should be telling me."
Amanda was so tired she didn't even bother to contradict her mother. "Yes, I do. It won't matter too much logistically here, but I'm leaving on assignment tonight."
"When did you find out?" Dotty swallowed the contents of her mug in a long pull as she waited for her daughter's answer.
"About an hour ago," she fibbed, not wanting to tell her mother any details. "A car is coming for me at 10, so I need to pack and shower before then."
Dotty West sighed and then smiled. "Do you remember how to shower alone?"
"Mother!" Amanda flushed scarlet.
"Caught you." She reached over to pat Amanda's hand. "I was just going to go shower myself. Kurt wants to take me to Vermont to go skiing tomorrow, but he wants to go out tonight."
"One room or two?"
This time, Dotty blushed.
"Uh huh," Amanda winked. "Gee, not a single one of us around this week, what with the boys in Colorado with Joe for spring break. Who would have thought?"
"Just be home for Easter." Dotty's request had the authority of an order from the high command.
KGB Headquarters, Moscow, USSR * March 21, 1989 * 8:05 a.m. (GMT+3)
Feodor Petrovich Kaminsky didn't really like to journey into the KGB headquarters building in Dzerzhinsky Square now that he was "retired", but he had been doing it an awful lot of late. With plans afoot in Poland and pots bubbling in East Germany and Romania, he needed to be seen as a doddering old fool written off to innocuous obscurity, and there was no better way to do that than to wander the halls aimlessly. Whatever the abilities of the KGB in the outside world, it was notoriously accepting of the appearances of its own ranks. Hence the act once again as he made his way slowly through the halls toward G.A. Tolstoy's office.
Tolstoy sat behind his desk in his dank office, chain smoking vile Russian cigarettes as he leafed through a yellowed, crackling sheaf of papers. "Make it quick," he growled without looking up.
"I shall," Kaminsky replied with a smile, wondering what his former underling's response would be. He sat down in the disintegrating chair facing the office's primary occupant.
Tolstoy grimaced and muttered an apology before he looked up. "You are looking for news?"
"Yes."
"Well, to start with, an American agent, identity unconfirmed at this time, is known to be in Warsaw as of Sunday night. We believe that he is to make contact with a dissident cell, but we haven't found him yet. Then there's the overconfident Scholk. Miss Reese is now in intensive care at Johns Hopkins University Medical Center in Baltimore. Scholk is in Poland and reports that all is ready. Even he is impressed with Milowanowicz."
Kaminsky sighed. "Well, it could be worse, I suppose, Georg Alexeivich. How was Scholk discovered?
"I'm not sure. He wasn't really that forthcoming with the details. I do know that there was a rather airtight dragnet around the Embassy early Saturday morning."
"He was unlucky and cocky, a bad combination." He turned his head when footsteps approached in the hall way. "Forgive me if I am nattering like an old woman these days."
Tolstoy eyed the older man with humor. "You want people to think you're an 'old woman'. No one will suspect a foolish old man stripped of his power of being behind the most daring attempt to save our country yet seen."
"That is my hope," Feodor Petrovich nodded, a skeletal grin settling on his sharp features.
Tolstoy shivered. He knew the events planned were necessary, but that didn't mean he had to like them. "And if it doesn't work?"
"What have we to lose? We've already lost our status. If our country does fall, those we now count as enemies will fall with it, so we gain even in the loss. If it works… well, my friend, if it works, your office will be moving."
Mouth agape, Tolstoy fished for a response as he thought through the implications of the promise. A seat on the Politburo? A ministry position, maybe even Minister of State Security? There weren't too many positions available above his current position in the Covert Action Directorate. "That is very generous of you, Comrade Kaminsky. Let us hope that success is imminent."
"Indeed." Kaminsky read Tolstoy's thoughts easily. Yes, my friend. Perhaps even Minister of State Security. But first, we must have tremendous luck in Poland. Only then can we make our move here.
Warsaw, Poland * 7:15 a.m. (GMT+1)
"Somebody knows something," Borodin whispered to his intermediate contact as they stood in line at a bakery near the Interior Ministry.
"When did you find this out?" the man whispered back.
"Yesterday."
"Why didn't you call?" The volume crept up a notch.
Gregor's face reddened but he kept his voice under control. "I did. Starting at 3:00 yesterday afternoon until I reached you earlier. You said the number was always monitored."
The contact from Moscow shrugged. "You know how the phones work in Poland. What information and who is it who knows?"
Borodin filled in the details and gave the Russian the information about Herr Volkmeister's stay in Poland. "What should we do?"
"You should go on with business."
"What about the West German?" This time, his voice did rise a half octave.
A chilling smile slithered across the other man's face. "Oh, I'm sure you can figure that out."
American Airlines Flight 108 * Over Greenland * 3:20 a.m. (GMT-3)
Amanda envied Ian and Francine. The couple sat across the aisle from her in first class, arms wrapped snugly around each other and heads together as they slept their way across the Atlantic. She'd be doing the same thing if Lee were with her.
"Penny for your thoughts," Alex Reese said above her as he stood to stretch in the row ahead of her.
She smiled, allowing her fears to show in the wan attempt. "Lee."
"I thought so." He looked down at the seat beside him. "Kevin seems to have the same idea as Francine and Ian. May I?" The general indicated the empty seat next to her.
"Sure." She waited until he was seated and safely belted in before she continued the conversation. "What's keeping you up?"
Alex sighed. "Sandra. Lee. Scholk. The Red Sox."
Amanda couldn't suppress a laugh. "The Red Sox?"
"Of course. I haven't slept since game 6 of the '86 World Series." He watched as the smile became more genuine. "That's better. Your husband was right."
"About what?"
"Your public smile. It lights a city block. I wonder what the one you save just for him lights?"
Blushing furiously, Amanda stuttered a denial, but the older man cut her off. "Don't worry, Amanda. I'm not making any moves on you. It's just that I see you and Lee together and think about what I've lost in my life. And it's all Scholk's fault." A moment passed before he could speak again. "Eleven years, Amanda. And this was the third strike. He's out."
Amanda suppressed a shudder. Now she knew what Lee's face must have looked like when he took on Adi Birol to get her back.
KGB Headquarters, Moscow, USSR * 11:10 a.m. (GMT+3)
"Borodin's handler just called in," Tolstoy reported to Kaminsky as the two walked through the halls of the KGB's main office toward the tea room. "Borodin had a very interesting conversation with a West German businessman yesterday. It seems this business man has entirely too much information about our current operation – in fact, it's exactly the information we are afraid the underground got out via Sandra Reese."
"Really?" Kaminsky asked, genuine surprise in his voice. "I would not have thought the Americans would be so obvious."
"We get lucky, sometimes. I've set Scholk to the task of supervising the capture of our guest hopes of getting a lead on the subversive cell he's working with."
"Good." A pause. "Very good."
Warsaw, Poland * 10:00 a.m. (GMT+1)
Lee stepped out into the sunshine that predicted the beginning of astronomical spring later that day. Behind him, the lobby of the Europejski Hotel was quiet, long-since devoid of the Round Table delegations and not yet crowded by nomenklatura guests coming for Easter weekend masses by the Cardinal. Ahead, the mid-morning traffic of an Eastern European city made its orderly way through the square, busily about the business of keeping a decrepit state running just a little longer. Warsaw wouldn't be a bad place to live, he thought, if it hadn't been for the Communists and the Nazis before them.
He set out across the street to return to the Interior Ministry by way of an appointment with Stefan at a little bakery in Castle Square. He saw the usual tails and made no effort to evade them, knowing that evasion cast more suspicion than desired. They had left him alone since he arrived, apparently content that he could do no harm during non-business hours – and since he had evaded them the night he met Stefan, that was somewhat surprising to the veteran American agent.
His Polish contact made no notice of Lee when the married man strolled into the bakery; as all the tables were occupied, it made sense for Lee to take the empty seat across from Stefan after he paid for his coffee and roll.
Stefan looked up briefly from his newspaper, the "international" version of Pravda, and made passing eye contact with Lee. They didn't speak. A few minutes later, Stefan rose and departed the bakery, leaving the paper behind. Lee picked it up and spent a few moments glancing through it, then tucked it under his arm and followed Stefan.
The tails were still there, Lee noted. He had no way of seeing the man with the clipboard ahead of him who casually stuck his arm out, grazing the back of Lee's hand with a ballpoint pen as the American walked by. Moments later, Lee staggered against the stone wall of an old building, dizzy and breathless.
A passing police officer caught him before he could fall to the ground.
Central Amy Command, Warsaw, Poland * 2:30 p.m. (GMT+1)
Enemies or not, the Polish Chief of Military Intelligence was a funny man who had much in common with the head of the Joint Intelligence Command, and General Reese was man enough to say so as he returned the firm handshake of his host at the headquarters of the Polish army. The two men had known each other since they met as young junior officers at a NATO/Warsaw Pact negotiation 25 years before, and over the years theirs had been a friendship hampered by politics rather than any personal issues.
"Ah, Sasha, my friend, you haven't changed!" Leszek Wroebel pummeled the American's back as he pulled Reese into a bear hug. The man's English was accented with a flat New England tone – one strangely reminiscent of General Reese's.
Amanda and Francine stared at the display; Ian had seen it before, as had Kevin Reese, so they just grinned. Ian had once said to Kevin that the Pole and the American would have been best beer buddies under other circumstances.
Wroebel was no slouch in the memory department. "Maj – oh, Lieutenant Colonel Marlowe! How nice to see you again," he said as he took notice of the remaining Americans behind their leader. "And Kevin, you have changed just a bit."
The lanky young man returned the Pole's infectious smile and nodded. "It's been 6 years, General Wroebel."
"Has it? My, I suppose it has. Of course, I see your father once a year or so. And these lovely ladies are?"
"Francis Delaney and Amara Kane. Miss Delaney is my junior secretary, Miss Kane is my senior secretary, and Kevin will be my translator while I'm here. The colonel is, of course, my aide-de-camp."
Amanda had to admit that she was impressed with what she saw on the tour through the military complex – it was far more than she would have thought Americans would be allowed to see. Of course, she thought, it could all be a Potempkin's Village, too, and she said as much to General Reese later.
Reese shook his head and turned on a miniature white noise generator hidden in the insignia on his collar. "Not here, even with this," he said as quietly as he could. "I will tell you that Wroebel confirmed Scholk's presence here in Poland."
Amanda's eyes went wide as she worked out the ramifications of his statement.
"Yes," was all General Reese said to the realization that came to her knowing brown orbs.
In Line for Lenin's Tomb, Moscow, USSR * 2:50 p.m. (GMT+3)
Tolstoy's American smiled and acted like a typical American oaf as he spoke with the Russian agent. "The man in Poland is Lee Stetson, codename Scarecrow."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Tomorrow, then."
"Thank you."
Police Headquarters, Warsaw, Poland * 4:05 p.m. (GMT+1)
The clinic was like any other well-maintained clinic in Eastern Europe – about 10 years out of date and strongly infused with the smell of disinfectant. The cot was granite underneath him as Lee struggled to sit up. He looked around him at the institutional green tiles and wondered out loud – in German, he remembered almost too late - where he was.
"Oh, Herr Volkmeister," a voice beside him replied in German, "you're at the Warsaw Police Headquarters. You seemed to pass out on the street and one of our police officers brought you here."
It wasn't quite the truth, Lee thought vaguely, but since he couldn't be more specific, he didn't press the issue. "Am I okay?"
"You seem to be," the same soothing voice said, its owner coming into view as he leaned over to look into the American's eyes. "I thought it would be better to leave you here than to trust you to the state hospital. We've told the German mission that you're here for health reasons and that we could care for you adequately without hospitalization."
"May I leave?"
"I think so. Let me get the doctor." The man stood and left the room for a moment; when he returned, another man came with him, moving with brisk efficiency toward the patient.
"Any aches or pains?" the second man asked Lee as he poked and prodded the agent's various extremities. He pulled out a blood pressure cuff and wrapped it too tightly around the American's arm.
Lee winced. "A slight headache. Do you know what happened?"
From the look on the doctor's face, he knew but wouldn't say. "Food poisoning," he declared, pulling a stethoscope down from his ears.
A noise from the doorway drew the three men's attention. "I'm sorry to interrupt," Gregor Borodin said, "but I need to speak with Herr Volkmeister as soon as you've cleared him." Borodin flashed an Interior Ministry badge.
"He's free to go," the doctor nodded, pocketing the stethoscope. He motioned for the first man to follow him and left the room and, from the sound of a closing door a few seconds later, the clinic.
"Come, let's get you back to your hotel," the remaining Pole said. "We can talk there." Borodin escorted Lee outside to a waiting car and helped the taller man into it. He moved around to the driver's side, got in, and started the car. He pulled the car out into traffic and headed east toward the Vistula River.
The pair crossed the river. Borodin then looked at the American, whose expression showed both curiosity and confusion. "You were lucky, Herr Volkmeister."
"Why? And why aren't you taking me back to the hotel?"
"Because the police caught you when you fell." He smiled ghoulishly. "That wasn't how it was supposed to happen."
This time, Lee saw the needle before it penetrated his arm.
The Agency Field Office, Munich, West Germany * 4:35 p.m. (GMT+1)
"That was strange," the lead agent said to his associate as he hung up the phone on his desk. "The West German Passport office just called to say that a Rainer Volkmeister of Heiß Kreideintelligent was treated and released by the Warsaw Police for food poisoning."
"You know, your German isn't absolutely fluent. Are you sure that's what they said?
"Positive. She said it in English."
They traded looks; at length, the lead agent sighed and made a decision. "Add it to the report to Washington for tonight's status meeting."
Chapter 6 * General Officer's Quarters, Ft. Belvoir, Virginia * March 19, 1989 * 6:30 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
"You're sure that's what Ludwig said, James?" Alex Reese had the telephone receiver tucked tightly in his shoulder as he took notes from his adjutant in Berlin. "Okay. Get in touch with the Poles and tell then that we'll be there Tuesday noontime. It will be me, my civilian secretaries, my translator, and my aide-de-camp." He smiled as he imagined the young lieutenant thinking that through. "No, sorry, son, not you this time. Lt. Col. Marlowe, two women from the Agency, and a young man from another group that I'm co-opting from here. I'll get names to you later today. Anything else?" There was just a small personnel issue that Reese delegated to Johnston before he signed off, one that made the young man feel much better about his absence from the Polish delegation.
Amanda will be thrilled. Billy will be furious. I wonder how Ian and Francine will feel?
British Airways International Departure Lounge * 6:45 a.m. EST (GMT-5)
"Amanda, I'll be fine." Lee Stetson hated saying good-bye anyway; this was the worst ever. Amanda was crying.
"But how do you know that? Who's got your back?" she asked through her sniffles.
He really didn't have an adequate answer to either of those questions, except his unshakeable faith that simply having Amanda to come home to was enough. So he just took her in his arms and held her for as long as he could before his flight to London was called.
He looked back as long as he could while he made his way down the jet way to the people mover, then set his game face in place. Lee Stetson would stay in London, while Rainer Volkmeister would enter Poland quite legitimately on business from West Germany.
The Olympic Training Facility, Warsaw, Poland * 2:10 p.m. (GMT+1)
Even the ordinarily unflappable Leon Ivanich Scholk was vocally impressed at the tremendous display of talent shown by the Polish Olympian as he watched Father Milowanowicz desecrate targets at 200 and 300 meters. "You have outdone yourself, Gregor," he complimented his companion. "He's definitely in the wrong profession."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he should be about killing people, not about saving their non- existent souls."
"I like to think he'll do both on Friday," Borodin replied dryly.
Scholk laughed and revised his opinion of the Pole. Perhaps he would have his uses after this was over. As might Milowanowicz, come to think of it. "I'll make my report, and you can expect final clearance tomorrow as your contact arranged previously. I'll be around just in case there are any late developments."
Milowanowicz came back from the firing line with his last set of targets, 350 meters from the line. Each had a neat circle carved in the middle of it, precisely the diameter of a .306 shell. Considering that he had fired three bullets into each target, that result was unheard of. The priest shrugged when the Russian congratulated him. "It is what I do best," he dismissed the praise. "It is what I do best."
The Agency * 2:15 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
Billy Melrose had a headache of epic proportions.
First of all, he was in the office on a Sunday on one of his few supposedly completely free weekends after having worked most of the day on Saturday.
Secondly, General Reese had just requisitioned Amanda and Francine for an overseas assignment of dubious worth.
Thirdly, Dr. Smyth had told him to let Amanda and Francine go if he really wanted to add Lt. Col. Marlowe to his staff after the upcoming promotions were announced.
He reached for his bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol and swallowed his third and fourth tablets of the day before he yelled for Francine.
"What is it, Billy? I'm trying to – " Francine stopped her complaint in mid-stream when she saw her section chief's face. "How can I help you?" she said instead.
"By not going with General Reese, but that's a done deal. What's your take on this?"
Francine closed her blue eyes for a second as she thought about the unexpected trip. She didn't know exactly where they were going, just that it was a legitimate cover for a trip behind the Iron Curtain. She had a hunch, though. "We're going wherever Scholk went."
"Which was?" Billy sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the light.
She shrugged. "We don't know. General Reese has better assets on the ground in most countries than we do."
"Great." He still had his eyes closed, even though it didn't seem to be working. "Call me when you get there."
"Um, Billy, we don't leave until late tomorrow night."
Now he sat up. "I'm taking a month off when this is all over. So are you and Amanda and Lee."
"Oh, I believe that," Francine rebutted, earning a clear non-verbal order to leave.
Billy waited until his agent and friend stood at the door. "Turn the lights out, please. I have a headache."
Gorky Park, Moscow, USSR * 10:00 p.m. (GMT+3)
A lone American stood in the snow under a street light just off the main path through Gorky Park, conspicuous because he wore a red, white and blue parka and a red and white striped scarf with blue fringe. He didn't know that another America also stood behind a tree just off the main path a short ways further into the park, waiting for someone who was not an American to arrive.
The second man saw his appointment strolling toward the bench a few feet in front of the tree and moved out to meet him, inviting the other man to sit down with exaggerated largesse. "You're late," he said, steel behind his jovial tone.
G.A. Tolstoy shrugged it off. "The subway was running a little slow. You called me, and it's cold out here. What do you have?" The steam of their breath rose around them as fog.
"Something I didn't think could wait. An American agent just went into Poland, covered as a businessman from somewhere in Europe. I am trying to find out more, but given the dragnet around the embassy in Washington, I thought you might want to know about this coincidence."
Tolstoy winced at the reminder of the dragnet; the Rezident had been less than happy about that whole incident and had made Tolstoy's day more miserable than Scholk's escape by itself. "Yes, thank you. I think that it is truly coincidence, but we'll keep a watch out."
"I'll do the same for further information." The American rubbed his hands across his parka nervously. "I'm a little worried about this," he hedged. "If you act on this, it may blow my cover."
Georg Alexeivich smiled. "There will be a triple payment in your usual account if you can get the additional information. Meanwhile, the usual will be available tomorrow."
The young American shook his head. "I really am worried about this." Then he thought for a moment. "But I'll try." He walked away, whistling a Tchaikovsky ballet theme.
Warsaw, Poland * 8:35 p.m. (GMT+1)
Lee Stetson was colder, hungrier, and lonelier than he had ever been in his life. At least that's how he felt, even though he knew objectively that there had been times in his early career when he had been colder, hungrier, and lonelier. That, he told himself, was LS-BA: Lee Stetson – Before Amanda. As he saw things now, LS-AA was so much better off than LS-BA that everything was worse when she wasn't around. And Warsaw was always bad anyway.
Getting into the country had not been as hard as he expected it to be; Poland was courting Western European investors openly these days and his cover as West German businessman Rainer Volkmeister went unchallenged. As Stefan promised, there was "mail" at the primary dead drop from the old network, an advertisement that told him when and where to meet the faithful remnants of his team. Instead of staying for the spicy pierogi being served for dinner at the hotel, Lee went back just long enough to retrieve the "size 44 horse shoes carefully cobbled by Smith and Wesson", then made his way along the 2 kilometers from the Hotel Europejski to the alley that ran between the crumbling walls of the old Jewish cemetery and the Powazkowski Cemetery, where he was to meet his contact in 10 minutes.
He paced, as he was wont to do, until he heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the Vistula River off to the east. With great deliberation, he relaxed and stepped back against the wall of the Catholic cemetery to watch for the recognition signals. There – two deliberate puffs on a lit cigarette, followed by a sequence of four taps on the stone wall with a metal hammer. His primary contact may have died five and a half years ago, but Piotyr had trained his network well.
Lee responded with his own verification – three taps with a stone, then a six second sweep with his flashlight and three more taps with a stone. He approached the other man with careful awareness, every nerve ending alert and ready to break and run should anything interfere.
The other man turned out to be a woman, who made Lee understand in a combination of thickly accented Polish, poor German, and hand signals that he was to follow her to her car. They crept north between the walls, then turned east toward the river and strolled arm-in-arm down Stawki Street past the Umschlagplatz memorial, such as it was. In typical Communist fashion, the residential area that had once been the Warsaw Ghetto was rebuilt after the war to reflect sensible Stalinist humanism. Nothing along these streets, quiet but not deserted in the mid-evening chill, remotely resembled that other "Gesture of Communist Comradeship" – the Palace of Culture. Thank God, Lee thought. Uniform gray was better than gaudy triumphalism.
After about 10 minutes, they came to a church that appeared deserted. The look was deceiving; three sharp raps on a rear door was "Open Sesame" in Polish. The interior of the church reflected the decrepit state of the Polish nation after 40+ years of Communist domination: the ceiling in the sanctuary was falling down in several places and water stains left the remainder mottled. A few dim electric lights cast ominous shadows on the wall and the boarded up windows kept out all light from the outside. However, despite the decay, someone had dusted and swept the space clean, and the air was redolent of sweet incense.
"Welcome, Scarecrow," a deep male voice said from the shadows as Lee stepped further into the interior. "It is nice to have you back in Poland."
"Piotyr?" Lee's voice betrayed his surprise.
"Raised from the dead, as it were." The man limped into the light and stretched out his hand to the American. "I go by Stefan now."
Lee looked at his Polish friend, realizing that he would never have recognized the man on the street. The once handsome face bore an ugly, jagged scar from its left eye to the corner of the painfully pale lips on the same side; hair that had been thick and blond and wavy now lay shorn close to his scalp and showed more white than yellow in the murky light. The fire fight at the border crossing, while not fatal, had been life- altering for the Polish activist. "I'm very glad to see you, whatever your current name. I was worried about a trap when the network became active again without warning."
Stefan nodded to the woman who had escorted Lee to the church, and to the three people with him. They departed the church by separate entrances, leaving Lee alone with the man who had once been his best contact and source behind the Iron Curtain. "I could not risk any more than I did. We just had to pray that the pieces fell into place."
"Unfortunately, the KGB snatched your courier, but you picked a very good one. She could be a real pro some day." He handed the Pole the package without comment.
"Yes, the woman at Auschwitz. I never learned her name." Stefan opened the package and nodded once in gratitude as he looked at the pistols he so urgently needed.
Lee thought for a moment. "Let's just say that she's got a father in high places who made life difficult for us until we got her back alive." He shrugged. "So, the microdot simply said that there was an assassination plot in motion." Time for brass tacks.
Stefan returned the shrug. "That's all we know for sure. When Gorbachev purged the leadership last September, we, too, suffered. Many of our sympathetic comrades were transferred back to Moscow or retired to the Black Sea."
"What do you hope I can do?"
The Pole laughed. "Frankly, my friend, we didn't expect you to come in person. Now that you are here, perhaps we can make something of your cover."
"How so?"
Stefan outlined a plan that was so audacious in its simplicity that Lee staggered out of the church 45 minutes later. He had a lot to do overnight to be ready for his act in the morning.
Interior Ministry Offices, Warsaw, Poland * March 20, 1989 * 9:15 a.m. (GMT+1)
"Good morning, Comrade Borodin. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice." Lee Stetson stood before the desk of a functionary at the Interior Ministry. His Polish, which he tried to keep German-accented, was passable enough for greetings but not for transacting business – at least according to his cover.
"You are quite welcome, Herr Volkmeister. Your call was most propitious."
Lee looked at the man with a sheepish grimace. "Sprechen sie Deutsch?"
Gregor Borodin smiled. "Jawohl." He rose from the desk and strode to the door, closed it with firm authority. When he sat back down, he continued in German. "You said you had information for me. May I ask what it is?"
Reaching down to his portfolio case, Lee pulled out a folder of neatly typed papers. "This is a summary of information my company has put together over the last several weeks from various sources within Poland. My colleagues and I decided that the big picture is ominous enough to warrant bringing this to you."
"Your 'sources'?" Borodin tapped the sheaf of papers with a skeptical frown as he willed himself to be calm.
"Not to be revealed, naturally."
"Just what is it that Heiß Kreideintelligent does?"
The name, essentially a nonsense phrase made of the words hot, chalk, and intelligent, lent itself to various interpretations. For this purpose, the Intelligent played the key part. "We are in the information collection and dissemination business," Lee said. "Perhaps thinking of us as information brokers is the best way to proceed."
"Perhaps," the Polish official acknowledged. "So, what do you have that makes an 'ominous' big picture?"
Lee laid out the meager information collected by Stefan's network, adding a few invented pieces here and there to fill out a plausible picture of an impending assassination attempt on a public figure.
"So you think that all of these disparate pieces – from an order for a rifle made to the exact specifications as that used by an Olympic champion to a Polish Forestry Ministry report on unexplained damage to trees in the forest outside Lublin – fit together to make a conspiracy." Borodin shook his head to hide the shake he felt inside. "Far fetched, at best. I will take it to my superiors, of course. Perhaps they have more pieces to plug in."
"I hope so. The champion's name, by the way, was Jaruslav Milowanowicz."
"Well, then I can assure you that there is no plot. He became a priest and serves on the Cardinal's staff at the Cathedral here in Warsaw."
"What would he want now with a competition rifle?" This was a legitimate question; Stefan's network either hadn't known or hadn't found it relevant that Milowanowicz was a priest.
Borodin shrugged. "It isn't unheard of for people to hunt for food or sport in Poland, Herr Volkmeister. That's how Father Jaruslav became a rifleman to begin with, after all." He sat back with the air of a man confident and at ease. "Besides, I myself have a reasonably new Milowanowicz competition rifle for my hunting. They were very popular after the Olympics, and this is my second one – I just gave the old one to my son two years ago. Maybe another father is doing the same."
"Perhaps," Lee allowed. "Well, if you have no other questions, I'll be on my way." He stood and offered his hand to the Pole behind the desk.
"Thank you, Herr Volkmeister. You'll be staying at the Europejski until…?"
"My business visa allows me to stay as long as three weeks; I have several other deals pending during the next week. I hope to return home for Easter at the weekend, of course." That was an understatement.
"No doubt. We'll be in touch if we need more information." Even Borodin wondered just who the "we" in "we'll be in touch" would be, but he gave nothing away to the man across the desk.
Lee strolled out of the typical gray concrete building feeling as though he had just wasted an hour of his time. Except that perhaps a visit to Father Milowanowicz might be in order, he thought as he made his way through the bright late winter day to while away time before his evening meeting with Stefan.
Warsaw, Poland * 2:50 p.m. (GMT+1)
Gregor Borodin jumped when the phone on his desk rang. He knew who it was and what it signified; that did not make him happy. "Interior Ministry," he answered.
"Can you tell me if the Holy Friday Mass in Castle Square has been authorized this year?" asked a voice he recognized as Pavel Igorovich Gogol's; he did not know G.A. Tolstoy was Gogol or he would have been far more impressed with the level of attention this whole matter attracted.
"We have authorized the Cardinal to preside at a service of Tenebrae at noon," he replied, the truthful answer.
"No mass?" The authorization to proceed.
"I am told that Mass is not celebrated on Holy Friday or Holy Saturday." Confirmation, and truth as well.
"Thank you," the voice said, and hung up.
Gregor looked at the phone with disgust before he roused himself enough to call their Judas Iscariot. It was time to ask what form his 30 pieces of silver would take.
Five minutes later, Borodin realized that he had not reported the West German's information. Far too many pieces of the puzzle had been put together by the other side, and it was time to make sure that no more were assembled before Friday at noon.
Warsaw, Poland * 7:30 p.m. (GMT+1)
"Scarecrow, you're wearing a hole in my nicely refurbished marble floor," Stefan – f/k/a/ Piotyr – whined with great irony as the American agent paced a track around the dilapidated plywood floor the disused church. "Are you charging your batteries or is this how that vaunted brain of yours works?"
Lee stopped where he was, across the murky room from the Pole, and stuck his tongue out at the courageous subversive.
Stefan laughed. "Is there another child you aren't telling me about, perhaps a three year old?"
Despite himself, Lee chuckled and relaxed a little bit. "Did you hear anything about the chemical attacks in Israel in January?"
"A bit," the other man nodded. "I seem to recall a kidnapping involving a teenager and a mother and child of about three, as well."
"My son Jamie and a delightful little girl named Marlena, along with Marlena's mother. Marlena lived with us while her mother recovered from her very serious injuries."
"I think I'd like to meet your family someday, Lee. Your Amanda sounds as though she has a heart large enough for the world."
"She has a heart big enough for the universe with room to spare, and an intellect just as grand. And she'd probably be telling me to sit down just about now, too."
"She's a wise woman, then. Okay, have you figured out any more since you started your wretched trip to nowhere?"
Lee shrugged and resumed his pacing, more slowly this time. "The flashing neon light in my head is still aimed directly at Father Milowanowicz. When I went to the Chancery this afternoon, I was treated less than enthusiastically, even though I went pretending to be a sports writer following up on past Olympic champions."
Stefan shook his head. "Stetson, I don't know whether to admire your audacity or curse your stupidity. They wouldn't let you in under that cover without a pass from the Sports Ministry."
Lee stopped again, his face brightening to red in the faded light. "Oh, man. That was a rookie mistake."
"Or one of an overconfident agent." Stefan's tone indicated both concern and admonishment. "You didn't consult your wife's instincts, did you?"
Shaking his head, the American sank into a nearby pew. "I hate working alone. When I'm with Amanda, all it takes is a look or a gesture to get her read on a situation – and she's so much better than I am now that I've forgotten how to do it on my own."
"You'd better learn fast, my friend." Stefan came and stood in front of him. "You never know who might learn about your indiscretion this afternoon."
The dank, frigid sanctuary turned bitterly cold with that pronouncement.
Maplewood Drive, Arlington, Virginia * 7:15 p.m. EST (GMT-5)
"Amanda, honey, you look beat," Dotty West commented as her daughter staggered through the back door. She took out another mug and placed a tea bag in it as the kettle started to whistle.
"I am beat, Mother." Amanda struggled to the sofa and sat down heavily. "Work is always so much harder when Lee is away."
Dotty brought both cups of tea into the living room and sat down on the couch beside her weary child. "Do you know when he'll be back?" It drove her crazy not to know where her son-in-law was, but she knew better than to ask.
Amanda sighed and took a mug from her mother. "Before Sunday, but when exactly, I don't know. He'll probably call from the airport." Half the brew in the cup disappeared in one long swallow.
"You have that look like there's something you should be telling me."
Amanda was so tired she didn't even bother to contradict her mother. "Yes, I do. It won't matter too much logistically here, but I'm leaving on assignment tonight."
"When did you find out?" Dotty swallowed the contents of her mug in a long pull as she waited for her daughter's answer.
"About an hour ago," she fibbed, not wanting to tell her mother any details. "A car is coming for me at 10, so I need to pack and shower before then."
Dotty West sighed and then smiled. "Do you remember how to shower alone?"
"Mother!" Amanda flushed scarlet.
"Caught you." She reached over to pat Amanda's hand. "I was just going to go shower myself. Kurt wants to take me to Vermont to go skiing tomorrow, but he wants to go out tonight."
"One room or two?"
This time, Dotty blushed.
"Uh huh," Amanda winked. "Gee, not a single one of us around this week, what with the boys in Colorado with Joe for spring break. Who would have thought?"
"Just be home for Easter." Dotty's request had the authority of an order from the high command.
KGB Headquarters, Moscow, USSR * March 21, 1989 * 8:05 a.m. (GMT+3)
Feodor Petrovich Kaminsky didn't really like to journey into the KGB headquarters building in Dzerzhinsky Square now that he was "retired", but he had been doing it an awful lot of late. With plans afoot in Poland and pots bubbling in East Germany and Romania, he needed to be seen as a doddering old fool written off to innocuous obscurity, and there was no better way to do that than to wander the halls aimlessly. Whatever the abilities of the KGB in the outside world, it was notoriously accepting of the appearances of its own ranks. Hence the act once again as he made his way slowly through the halls toward G.A. Tolstoy's office.
Tolstoy sat behind his desk in his dank office, chain smoking vile Russian cigarettes as he leafed through a yellowed, crackling sheaf of papers. "Make it quick," he growled without looking up.
"I shall," Kaminsky replied with a smile, wondering what his former underling's response would be. He sat down in the disintegrating chair facing the office's primary occupant.
Tolstoy grimaced and muttered an apology before he looked up. "You are looking for news?"
"Yes."
"Well, to start with, an American agent, identity unconfirmed at this time, is known to be in Warsaw as of Sunday night. We believe that he is to make contact with a dissident cell, but we haven't found him yet. Then there's the overconfident Scholk. Miss Reese is now in intensive care at Johns Hopkins University Medical Center in Baltimore. Scholk is in Poland and reports that all is ready. Even he is impressed with Milowanowicz."
Kaminsky sighed. "Well, it could be worse, I suppose, Georg Alexeivich. How was Scholk discovered?
"I'm not sure. He wasn't really that forthcoming with the details. I do know that there was a rather airtight dragnet around the Embassy early Saturday morning."
"He was unlucky and cocky, a bad combination." He turned his head when footsteps approached in the hall way. "Forgive me if I am nattering like an old woman these days."
Tolstoy eyed the older man with humor. "You want people to think you're an 'old woman'. No one will suspect a foolish old man stripped of his power of being behind the most daring attempt to save our country yet seen."
"That is my hope," Feodor Petrovich nodded, a skeletal grin settling on his sharp features.
Tolstoy shivered. He knew the events planned were necessary, but that didn't mean he had to like them. "And if it doesn't work?"
"What have we to lose? We've already lost our status. If our country does fall, those we now count as enemies will fall with it, so we gain even in the loss. If it works… well, my friend, if it works, your office will be moving."
Mouth agape, Tolstoy fished for a response as he thought through the implications of the promise. A seat on the Politburo? A ministry position, maybe even Minister of State Security? There weren't too many positions available above his current position in the Covert Action Directorate. "That is very generous of you, Comrade Kaminsky. Let us hope that success is imminent."
"Indeed." Kaminsky read Tolstoy's thoughts easily. Yes, my friend. Perhaps even Minister of State Security. But first, we must have tremendous luck in Poland. Only then can we make our move here.
Warsaw, Poland * 7:15 a.m. (GMT+1)
"Somebody knows something," Borodin whispered to his intermediate contact as they stood in line at a bakery near the Interior Ministry.
"When did you find this out?" the man whispered back.
"Yesterday."
"Why didn't you call?" The volume crept up a notch.
Gregor's face reddened but he kept his voice under control. "I did. Starting at 3:00 yesterday afternoon until I reached you earlier. You said the number was always monitored."
The contact from Moscow shrugged. "You know how the phones work in Poland. What information and who is it who knows?"
Borodin filled in the details and gave the Russian the information about Herr Volkmeister's stay in Poland. "What should we do?"
"You should go on with business."
"What about the West German?" This time, his voice did rise a half octave.
A chilling smile slithered across the other man's face. "Oh, I'm sure you can figure that out."
American Airlines Flight 108 * Over Greenland * 3:20 a.m. (GMT-3)
Amanda envied Ian and Francine. The couple sat across the aisle from her in first class, arms wrapped snugly around each other and heads together as they slept their way across the Atlantic. She'd be doing the same thing if Lee were with her.
"Penny for your thoughts," Alex Reese said above her as he stood to stretch in the row ahead of her.
She smiled, allowing her fears to show in the wan attempt. "Lee."
"I thought so." He looked down at the seat beside him. "Kevin seems to have the same idea as Francine and Ian. May I?" The general indicated the empty seat next to her.
"Sure." She waited until he was seated and safely belted in before she continued the conversation. "What's keeping you up?"
Alex sighed. "Sandra. Lee. Scholk. The Red Sox."
Amanda couldn't suppress a laugh. "The Red Sox?"
"Of course. I haven't slept since game 6 of the '86 World Series." He watched as the smile became more genuine. "That's better. Your husband was right."
"About what?"
"Your public smile. It lights a city block. I wonder what the one you save just for him lights?"
Blushing furiously, Amanda stuttered a denial, but the older man cut her off. "Don't worry, Amanda. I'm not making any moves on you. It's just that I see you and Lee together and think about what I've lost in my life. And it's all Scholk's fault." A moment passed before he could speak again. "Eleven years, Amanda. And this was the third strike. He's out."
Amanda suppressed a shudder. Now she knew what Lee's face must have looked like when he took on Adi Birol to get her back.
KGB Headquarters, Moscow, USSR * 11:10 a.m. (GMT+3)
"Borodin's handler just called in," Tolstoy reported to Kaminsky as the two walked through the halls of the KGB's main office toward the tea room. "Borodin had a very interesting conversation with a West German businessman yesterday. It seems this business man has entirely too much information about our current operation – in fact, it's exactly the information we are afraid the underground got out via Sandra Reese."
"Really?" Kaminsky asked, genuine surprise in his voice. "I would not have thought the Americans would be so obvious."
"We get lucky, sometimes. I've set Scholk to the task of supervising the capture of our guest hopes of getting a lead on the subversive cell he's working with."
"Good." A pause. "Very good."
Warsaw, Poland * 10:00 a.m. (GMT+1)
Lee stepped out into the sunshine that predicted the beginning of astronomical spring later that day. Behind him, the lobby of the Europejski Hotel was quiet, long-since devoid of the Round Table delegations and not yet crowded by nomenklatura guests coming for Easter weekend masses by the Cardinal. Ahead, the mid-morning traffic of an Eastern European city made its orderly way through the square, busily about the business of keeping a decrepit state running just a little longer. Warsaw wouldn't be a bad place to live, he thought, if it hadn't been for the Communists and the Nazis before them.
He set out across the street to return to the Interior Ministry by way of an appointment with Stefan at a little bakery in Castle Square. He saw the usual tails and made no effort to evade them, knowing that evasion cast more suspicion than desired. They had left him alone since he arrived, apparently content that he could do no harm during non-business hours – and since he had evaded them the night he met Stefan, that was somewhat surprising to the veteran American agent.
His Polish contact made no notice of Lee when the married man strolled into the bakery; as all the tables were occupied, it made sense for Lee to take the empty seat across from Stefan after he paid for his coffee and roll.
Stefan looked up briefly from his newspaper, the "international" version of Pravda, and made passing eye contact with Lee. They didn't speak. A few minutes later, Stefan rose and departed the bakery, leaving the paper behind. Lee picked it up and spent a few moments glancing through it, then tucked it under his arm and followed Stefan.
The tails were still there, Lee noted. He had no way of seeing the man with the clipboard ahead of him who casually stuck his arm out, grazing the back of Lee's hand with a ballpoint pen as the American walked by. Moments later, Lee staggered against the stone wall of an old building, dizzy and breathless.
A passing police officer caught him before he could fall to the ground.
Central Amy Command, Warsaw, Poland * 2:30 p.m. (GMT+1)
Enemies or not, the Polish Chief of Military Intelligence was a funny man who had much in common with the head of the Joint Intelligence Command, and General Reese was man enough to say so as he returned the firm handshake of his host at the headquarters of the Polish army. The two men had known each other since they met as young junior officers at a NATO/Warsaw Pact negotiation 25 years before, and over the years theirs had been a friendship hampered by politics rather than any personal issues.
"Ah, Sasha, my friend, you haven't changed!" Leszek Wroebel pummeled the American's back as he pulled Reese into a bear hug. The man's English was accented with a flat New England tone – one strangely reminiscent of General Reese's.
Amanda and Francine stared at the display; Ian had seen it before, as had Kevin Reese, so they just grinned. Ian had once said to Kevin that the Pole and the American would have been best beer buddies under other circumstances.
Wroebel was no slouch in the memory department. "Maj – oh, Lieutenant Colonel Marlowe! How nice to see you again," he said as he took notice of the remaining Americans behind their leader. "And Kevin, you have changed just a bit."
The lanky young man returned the Pole's infectious smile and nodded. "It's been 6 years, General Wroebel."
"Has it? My, I suppose it has. Of course, I see your father once a year or so. And these lovely ladies are?"
"Francis Delaney and Amara Kane. Miss Delaney is my junior secretary, Miss Kane is my senior secretary, and Kevin will be my translator while I'm here. The colonel is, of course, my aide-de-camp."
Amanda had to admit that she was impressed with what she saw on the tour through the military complex – it was far more than she would have thought Americans would be allowed to see. Of course, she thought, it could all be a Potempkin's Village, too, and she said as much to General Reese later.
Reese shook his head and turned on a miniature white noise generator hidden in the insignia on his collar. "Not here, even with this," he said as quietly as he could. "I will tell you that Wroebel confirmed Scholk's presence here in Poland."
Amanda's eyes went wide as she worked out the ramifications of his statement.
"Yes," was all General Reese said to the realization that came to her knowing brown orbs.
In Line for Lenin's Tomb, Moscow, USSR * 2:50 p.m. (GMT+3)
Tolstoy's American smiled and acted like a typical American oaf as he spoke with the Russian agent. "The man in Poland is Lee Stetson, codename Scarecrow."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Tomorrow, then."
"Thank you."
Police Headquarters, Warsaw, Poland * 4:05 p.m. (GMT+1)
The clinic was like any other well-maintained clinic in Eastern Europe – about 10 years out of date and strongly infused with the smell of disinfectant. The cot was granite underneath him as Lee struggled to sit up. He looked around him at the institutional green tiles and wondered out loud – in German, he remembered almost too late - where he was.
"Oh, Herr Volkmeister," a voice beside him replied in German, "you're at the Warsaw Police Headquarters. You seemed to pass out on the street and one of our police officers brought you here."
It wasn't quite the truth, Lee thought vaguely, but since he couldn't be more specific, he didn't press the issue. "Am I okay?"
"You seem to be," the same soothing voice said, its owner coming into view as he leaned over to look into the American's eyes. "I thought it would be better to leave you here than to trust you to the state hospital. We've told the German mission that you're here for health reasons and that we could care for you adequately without hospitalization."
"May I leave?"
"I think so. Let me get the doctor." The man stood and left the room for a moment; when he returned, another man came with him, moving with brisk efficiency toward the patient.
"Any aches or pains?" the second man asked Lee as he poked and prodded the agent's various extremities. He pulled out a blood pressure cuff and wrapped it too tightly around the American's arm.
Lee winced. "A slight headache. Do you know what happened?"
From the look on the doctor's face, he knew but wouldn't say. "Food poisoning," he declared, pulling a stethoscope down from his ears.
A noise from the doorway drew the three men's attention. "I'm sorry to interrupt," Gregor Borodin said, "but I need to speak with Herr Volkmeister as soon as you've cleared him." Borodin flashed an Interior Ministry badge.
"He's free to go," the doctor nodded, pocketing the stethoscope. He motioned for the first man to follow him and left the room and, from the sound of a closing door a few seconds later, the clinic.
"Come, let's get you back to your hotel," the remaining Pole said. "We can talk there." Borodin escorted Lee outside to a waiting car and helped the taller man into it. He moved around to the driver's side, got in, and started the car. He pulled the car out into traffic and headed east toward the Vistula River.
The pair crossed the river. Borodin then looked at the American, whose expression showed both curiosity and confusion. "You were lucky, Herr Volkmeister."
"Why? And why aren't you taking me back to the hotel?"
"Because the police caught you when you fell." He smiled ghoulishly. "That wasn't how it was supposed to happen."
This time, Lee saw the needle before it penetrated his arm.
The Agency Field Office, Munich, West Germany * 4:35 p.m. (GMT+1)
"That was strange," the lead agent said to his associate as he hung up the phone on his desk. "The West German Passport office just called to say that a Rainer Volkmeister of Heiß Kreideintelligent was treated and released by the Warsaw Police for food poisoning."
"You know, your German isn't absolutely fluent. Are you sure that's what they said?
"Positive. She said it in English."
They traded looks; at length, the lead agent sighed and made a decision. "Add it to the report to Washington for tonight's status meeting."