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 8 * Castle Square, Warsaw, Poland * 8:00 p.m. (GMT+1)
Stefan's notes at each drop earlier in the day had specifically asked for the Scarecrow's wife to be the contact for an evening meeting. Only that request – and Lee's insistence that she go – brought Amanda to the front table of a little café, feeling exposed and vulnerable as she tried to look inconspicuous in the light crowd of a Wednesday evening. The Polish dissident had left no instructions for identification other than for her to sit at a specific table; he would initiate the encounter.
"Amanda," Lee had said before she left the hospital, "Stefan will be pretty obvious. He has a nasty scar on his face and limps terribly." His description of Stefan didn't really settle Amanda's nerves, but she didn't bother to remind her injured husband that a scar could be hidden and a limp evened out reasonably easily. His final words just made her smile. "And he's a real player with the ladies, so be prepared."
She was still musing when a voice above her interrupted her thoughts. "It really is a shame that the Scarecrow has already had his Dorothy."
Startled, Amanda jumped. "Oh, hi," she covered, hoping that she didn't sound as flustered as she felt. "Please, have a seat."
The man had neither a limp nor a noticeable scar, but as Amanda looked at the man across the table, she saw the evidence of an old, ill-healed injury along his jaw and into his shorn scalp. His smile was crooked, she noted, probably as a result of the marred tissue. But his eyes had a fire that she could understand, so she settled a little in her chair and waited for him to begin.
"Your husband, as much as he tried, didn't do you justice," the man said after a moment of equally intense scrutiny toward her. "You are even more beautiful than the picture he painted in my mind."
This was Stefan, no question. "Thank you. What do you need?"
"Your husband," he said. "He's missing."
Amanda sagged in relief. "We found him earlier today. He's alive but in the hospital."
Now Stefan's relief showed in his face and posture. "Thank God. Has he told you anything?"
"Everything," the American woman confirmed. "The rifle, the priest, the remnants of the network, Lee's visit to the Interior Ministry and to the Chancery, your role in getting us the microdot…"
"So, what do we do now?"
This was the delicate part. "Well, Stefan, there's another party in this who may have the other half of the picture. And there are at least two bad guys out there loose, one of whom we are sure knows Lee's identity and the other of whom we think knows."
"A mixed bag." He sat across the table from Amanda in silence except to order a coffee for each of them. Finally, when his cup was drained and refilled the second time, he turned his focus back to his companion. "So, how do we tape this picture together?"
Amanda smiled and reached out to grasp his hand. "Trust me like you would Scarecrow, and come with me."
Stefan squeezed her hand. "If he trusts you, then I trust you. Lead on, Mrs. Scarecrow."
Near the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR * 11:10 p.m. (GMT+3)
G.A. Tolstoy paced the length of the hallway as he waited for Feodor Petrovich Kaminsky to open his flat door. The information he had to share was far too important to trust to the Moscow telephone system.
The older man pulled the portal back and heaved Tolstoy in without ceremony. Kaminsky shuffled back to his immense dining room table, inviting his guest to follow with the wave of a clawed hand. He sat down and motioned Tolstoy to join him, pouring out four shots of vodka from a bottle the size of a magnum of champagne. "Did you want some?" he asked with a wry smile toward the active KGB agent.
Tolstoy laughed and nodded. "Just two."
"You didn't come just for the alcohol," Kaminsky observed when the two men had toasted their health. "You have urgent news?"
"Disturbing news more than urgent. Leon Ivanich has been injured."
"How badly?" Bushy eyebrows furrowed in concern.
"He dislocated his left shoulder and tore some muscles in the process. He's resting now in a secret location. And Gregor Borodin is apparently persona non grata at the Interior Ministry. Another operative reported in that there is a full-scale alert out for him."
"So he's a liability now. Have Scholk deal with him."
"As you wish. There's more."
"Do I really want to know?"
"Probably not, but I'm going to tell you anyway. You already know that General Alexander Reese is in Poland with Leszek Wroebel. Now, we believe that he has at least two regular operatives with him – probably including Stetson's partner – as well as an auxiliary agent and another military man."
Kaminsky rubbed his face with one gnarled hand. "Why now? And do we have any reason to think that they know anything new about our plans?"
Tolstoy sighed. "Not at the moment, but I agree that the timing leaves something to be desired. Do you want me to pressure our friends to put another one of our men on the case rather than someone whose loyalty is less than solid?"
"If you can. I want to know if they get any closer."
Guest Officers' Quarters, Central Army Command, Warsaw, Poland * 9:30 p.m. (GMT+1)
The collection of people sitting in Amanda's room awed Stefan. He knew of Wroebel, who was something of a hero in Poland, but did not know he was a less-than-Communist. He knew none of the Americans other than Amanda, but he could sense that the men and women gathered were dedicated to the same ideals of freedom that motivated him to run the risk of death every day.
"So, Stefan, you are a Polish patriot as well?" the general asked, inviting the civilian to join him on the settee at the window.
"Yes, yes, sir, General Wroebel." He moved to sit with the other man, who was just slightly older.
Alex Reese cleared his throat. "Okay, we need to lay all the cards out on the table and see just what puzzle we actually have. Leszek, you've gotten the update on your side, so why don't you go first?"
With a tight smile, the mole began to explain the most recent events, including the fact that Scholk had been treated and released at the clinic in Izabelin. As he was leaving his office, word had come through that the alert on Gregor Borodin had been rescinded at the Prime Minister's order, and along with that news had come confirmation that the Good Friday service would be held at Castle Square. "We, however, are not providing any security assistance, which I find odd."
"Perhaps not, General. Consider this: less security means more opportunity for trouble, and if the Russians want an excuse to clamp down, trouble on Good Friday would do that." Francine nodded toward Stefan. "We still don't know who's behind the assassination attempt, but don't you think that Friday would be the logical time to try?"
Wroebel thought briefly. "Yes, it would. Especially since Glemp and Walesa will both be there. Probably Jaruzelski, too."
Ian and Kevin exchanged looks before the general's son spoke. "It really doesn't matter who gets the bullet, if it goes down on Friday. Any of the three of them shot would be enough reason for a repeat of the Prague Spring."
"We know who the shooter is, right? I mean, Lee was pretty convinced that our Olympic medallist is the man." Stefan waved his arms as he warmed to his theme. "Can we find a way to tell Cardinal Glemp so that he pulls Father Milowanowicz out of circulation?"
"It doesn't work that way, unfortunately," Amanda counseled. "We aren't the KGB. We aren't even the CIA."
Castle Square, Warsaw, Poland * March 23, 1989 * 7:15 a.m. (GMT+1)
Jaruslav Milowanowicz felt slightly guilty as he sat on a bench near the statue of Zygmunt III watching the early morning bustle of Warsaw's old town area. Mass at the Chancery would start in 15 minutes, and for the first time since he entered seminary almost 9 years ago, he wouldn't be there – or at any mass. It was a violation of his vows, but to his thinking, the vows were pretty much meaningless at this point, anyway. He was, after all, in the square to pick a sniper's nest so he could murder a man in cold blood – after which, if he succeeded, he planned to find a woman who would be willing to "haul his ashes" for the first time ever. Neither of those exactly fit within the bounds of his vows, either.
The young priest had been privy to the final plans for the Service of Tenebrae and had, in fact, been the one to suggest the final placement of the platform that would soon be under construction along one side of the ancient market and gathering place. He knew the security plans – or as much of them as anyone at the Chancery did – and he could predict where the weaknesses in those plans would be. That made his site survey a little bit easier; he could eliminate areas in direct line of sight with guard posts and crowd control checkpoints, concentrating on spaces that would afford him good seclusion yet clear views of the staging.
Jaruslav spent an hour wandering Castle Square before he found his nest. He envisioned the service, unfolding it in his mind to the point at which a curtain would be ripped in two – just as the curtain in the Temple ripped at the moment of Christ's death. The sound effect would cover the single shot he would need to end the life of the most menacing threat to Catholicism in Poland: Josef Cardinal Glemp.
And, if luck and God were on his side, he'd have time for a second shot to eliminate another menace to his country. He just hadn't decided which menace.
Council of State Office, Warsaw, Poland * 8:30 a.m. (GMT+1)
Wojciech Jaruzelski listened without enthusiasm to the report of his delegation to the Round Table talks. Contrary to the wishes of his Soviet masters, Jaruzelski had found himself early on in the position of conceding to the Solidarity delegates far more often than he received concessions in return, and the results of the previous day's session were no different. Solidarity wanted a bicameral parliament – one which would have veto power and some teeth for making legislation; his Polish Worker's Union Party (PWUP) delegates were asking him now for permission to counter with a unicameral legislature holding advise and consent authority over an executive council headed by a hand-picked Prime Minister.
The Soviet General Secretary had been very clear earlier in the morning: "Not too far, certainly not this fast. You need to slow this down." The architect of glastnost and perestroika also hedged his bets with, "Just keep the peace without giving away the store."
Easier said than done, Mikhail, the Pole thought as his chief advisor driveled on about the merits of the counter proposal. "Run with it," he said a moment later, cutting off the conversation in the middle of someone's sentence. "And remind them that the talks end at 11:30 tomorrow morning because we are all expected at Castle Square at noon."
The reaction was about what the Polish leader expected from a group of reasonably dedicated Communists – a long-suffering sigh with a barely disguised grimace of distaste. It mirrored his own feelings precisely, so he let the group go without reprimand. And if he was going to make them go, he knew he needed to let go of his inner machinations to avoid the Good Friday service, even if those machinations were far more interesting than anything that would cross his desk in the next 24 hours.
Central Army Command Hospital, Warsaw, Poland * 9:10 a.m. (GMT+1)
The chief surgeon of the Polish Army shook his head in disgust at the gathering of Americans around his patient's bed. "You Americans are so impetuous," he declared in good but heavily accented English. "Herr Volkmeister needs at least another three days rest before he's released, yet you all support his decision to leave now."
Alexander Reese smiled with sympathy, if not empathy. "Doctor, we appreciate your concern, but I know from personal experience that West German medical care is better than anything you can do here – and so do you."
When the surgeon looked to Leszek Wroebel, the Polish general merely shrugged. "He's right, Jan."
Acquiescing to the majority, the doctor sighed and signed the dismissal order with a scowl directed at his patient in the bed. "But you stay in the wheelchair until a German surgeon tells you otherwise, understood?"
Lee Stetson grinned at the caregiver. "Nein."
Francine translated in rapid fire German; when Lee nodded to the doctor, the man left with a final glare at each person in the room.
"That wasn't what he said, Francine," Lee declared as he motioned for Amanda to help him get out of the bed and into the wheelchair to which he was consigned by the surgeon.
"No literally," the blonde admitted with a leer, "but it got the point across."
Amanda looked from her husband to her fellow agent. "Do I want to know?"
"No," four voices said at once. Kevin Reese and Ian Marlowe smiled at her with red faces, while the two generals pointedly avoided eye contact.
"Francine…" Amanda warned, her voice trailing off.
"Never mind, honey. I'll tell you later."
Reading the look on Lee's face, she got the point and blushed a little. But she was all business in the next moment. "Now that Lee is a free man, we should get moving on this. I'd say we have less than 30 hours at this point."
Kevin seconded her thought from the one chair in the room. "Yeah, the traditional Tenebrae service is usually 3 hours, so figure it's all said and done by 3 tomorrow afternoon."
"Refresh my memory," Wroebel demanded. "This is the reading of the seven last words of Christ?"
"Primarily. Sometimes there's more – one chaplain we had for a while in Spain liked to rip a piece of fabric when he read the passage about the curtain tearing in two in the Temple." Kevin looked up at his father on the other side of the bed. "You don't suppose…"
"We could probably ask," Alex followed his son's train of thought. "Lee, does Stefan have a reliable contact in the priesthood who might be able to ask some questions without arousing suspicion?"
"It's better with the leg rest up, Amanda," Lee said before he turned his attention to the inquiry. "He might."
"I can ask him when I see him later. What do we want to know?"
Ten minutes of brainstorming left Amanda with a list of twelve questions for Stefan to pass to any contact he might have within the Church. Those questions prompted another twenty minutes of haggling about who would do what for the rest of the day before the group broke up.
"So, my lovely bedside bluebell, where are we going first?" Lee asked his wife as the room emptied.
"My room." Amanda stepped behind the wheelchair and started to push the apparatus out of the room and down the long corridor toward the main entrance to the hospital.
"Really?" he asked hopefully, turning toward her with his best smile.
The tall brunette returned the smile with a sway of her hips and a sly gleam in her eyes. "Really. And I don't have to leave for an hour and a half."
Lee sat up a little straighter in his chariot. "Faster, faster."
Amanda didn't stop laughing until five minutes later behind the closed door of her room, when laughing was the last thing on her mind.
Near the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR * 12:20 p.m. (GMT+3)
"Nastrovyia, Georg Alexeivich," the superannuated spymaster said, lifting his vodka glass in a toast. "We are doing very well."
"Feodor Petrovich, don't get ahead of yourself. There is still much that could go wrong." Tolstoy's optimism had been fading since Saturday, when C.I. Scholk's operation to recover information from Sandra Reese failed. News of Scholk's capture of Lee Stetson briefly lifted his spirits, but the hope crashed even harder after his injury and Stetson's escape. More disturbing yet was the fact that Stetson was no where to be found; the Soviet lockout from the Polish military intelligence network did not bode well for finding the American before he left Poland, either – under his alias of Rainer Volkmeister or under his real name.
"That is true," the older man conceded, setting his glass down. "But we've come farther than we believed possible – and you will be pleased to know that there are certain highly placed men in the Party who have given us their approval."
Tolstoy's Buddha-like face cracked into a broad smile at that. "Really? Well, that is something to appreciate." The smile vanished as he realized that he now sat squarely under the Sword of Damocles instead of off to the side of it. "Unless we fail."
"Then make sure we don't."
Lunch, however decadently Western the spread, suddenly didn't seem as appetizing.
Castle Square, Warsaw, Poland * 10:35 a.m. (GMT+1)
Jaruslav Milowanowicz sat back from the edge of his sniper's nest with a satisfied smile on his face. The nest sat on the balcony of a small apartment above a shoe repair shop; the proprietor of the shop – no owners in Communist Poland, the young priest thought with a derisive snort – had been thrilled to have his shop chosen as the location of an official photographer for the service. Jaruslav even had camera paraphernalia with him to complete his cover.
Yes, the site was perfect. He had an unobstructed view of the square, and, more importantly, a clear sightline to the podium from which Josef Cardinal Glemp would preside over the service. He could, at the invitation of the proprietor, come and go as he pleased for the rest of the day and all day tomorrow – meaning he could further enhance his cover during the day. The internal excitement threatened to overcome his equilibrium, so he opted to leave his nest for a while, to stroll the square, have lunch, gather equipment after he met one last time with Gregor Borodin.
Father Milowanowicz decided that it was a good day to collect his payment. Perhaps he would not wait until after the assassination to break the vow of chastity.
St. Maria's Roman Catholic Church, Warsaw, Poland * 1:10 p.m. (GMT+1)
Stefan paced in the small prayer garden within the church grounds as he waited for the parish priest to finish his counseling session with another communicant. As he walked, he pondered the series of questions for the priest Amanda Stetson had given him when they met for lunch. Who besides the Cardinal is going to be on the platform? What besides reading and music will take place during the service? What security arrangements have been made by the Chancery in addition to those made by the State? When the service is over, where is the Cardinal going? Will he be with Jaruzelski and Walesa at any time other than at the beginning of the service? The Polish dissident thought that the questions themselves might tip his friend off, but Amanda had given him permission to tell the priest the whole story as they knew it so he would understand the importance of the answers.
"You look as though you bear the weight of the world on your shoulders, my friend," the parish priest said from behind Stefan as he entered the garden. "This must be why you need to see me."
Stefan turned and greeted his pastor with a shrug. "You're very perceptive, although it may only be the crossbeam of the world's cross."
"That's why I'm a priest rather than a state functionary," he returned. "And even the crossbeam is too heavy for one man, my friend. Remember Simon the Cyrene."
Stefan frowned. "But he couldn't save Christ in the end."
"No – but he was there to help ease the load along the way, and sometimes that's just as important. Now, tell me what's on your mind." He ushered Stefan to a bench and the two men sat down in the bright sunlit warmth of mid afternoon.
Most of the story gushed from Stefan as though the priest had speared him in the side. The pastor of St. Maria's sat and listened without interruption for 25 minutes as the pieces fell into place and Amanda's questions were laid out before him.
"I know the young Father Milowanowicz," the priest said after a long silence when Stefan was finished. "If there is a conspiracy to assassinate someone, he'd be a good candidate. He was extremely unhappy when the Cardinal began to show his willingness to accommodate the regime."
"How unhappy?"
"Unhappy enough to go looking for trouble, I think. He used to come over here for the underground university classes, but he stopped about two months before the edict came down to stop the program."
Stefan nodded. "Well, that helps. Can you make the inquiries without causing too much of a stir?"
"Leave it to me." The priest stood and extended his hand to his parishioner. "Where can I reach you after 9:30 tonight?"
"At home, Father." He rose and shook the priest's hand. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He watched as Stefan turned and made his way toward the garden gate. "Stefan," he called, and waited until the man had turned back to face him. "You are doing a good thing. Trust God in this."
Stefan grimaced. "I have no choice, Father." Lee, Amanda, and the others on the erstwhile team had not been part of the story he told his pastor. There were certain secrets better hid even from God's representatives on earth, if not exactly from God Himself.
The Agency * 9:05 a.m. (GMT-5)/Central Army Command, Warsaw, Poland * 3:05 p.m. (GMT+1)
"Francine, slow down. You're not going to have to pay for the call out of your own pocket," Billy admonished his agent with a chuckle as he listened to the latest from Poland.
"Sorry," she replied, a bit of relief creeping into her voice. "From the top. Lee has been discharged from the hospital – against medical advice, of course, but persuasively. General Reese has offered the Polish authorities his protection and a travel escort for Herr Rainer Volkmeister when he leaves, which mollified the surgeon just a little bit. We're working on a fairly solid theory of the assassination plot at this point, but we won't know anything more until after the masses tonight, so we're laying low."
"What about General Reese's hunt for Scholk?"
Francine hedged a little bit; Alex and Kevin were out together in Castle Square hoping rather in vain that Scholk would make an appearance so they could follow him. "He may have decided that it's more important to stop the assassination just at the moment."
"Then don't tell him that Sandra is still deep in a coma."
"He already knows, Billy. He's got someone there around the clock."
Billy sighed. "A lovesick young man by the name of James Johnston who happens to be his adjutant. If she weren't clearly a potential witness in a federal case, someone would probably be blowing a very loud whistle about a general officer using staff for personal gain."
"Probably."
"Anything else?"
Francine bit her lip to keep from telling her section chief about General Wroebel's identity as Ludwig. He wasn't in the "need to know" loop for that. Technically, neither was she, and neither were Ian, Lee, Amanda, nor Kevin. They just happened to be there at the revelation. "No. One of us will call in for the status meeting, but I don't know who."
"Okay. Pass a message on to Colonel Marlowe, if you would, Francine. The promotion board results are due to be released at the end of the Washington business day tomorrow."
"Before the weekend? That's either really nice for Easter and Passover or really lousy, depending on the results." She was hoping for really nice, of course.
Billy laughed. "Too true. At the status meeting, then." He set the handset back into the phone and leaned back in his chair. The headache had been with him all week, but now, at least, it was roaring at a tolerable volume at the base of his neck. Jeannie was coming for lunch; he hoped she would have the time to massage the knot a bit before the afternoon began. He had the feeling it was going to be a long time before he got home again.
Castle Square, Warsaw, Poland * 3:20 p.m. (GMT+1)
"Dad, are you ready to go back to the base yet?" Kevin Reese asked, distracting his father from his intent survey of the people going about their business in the area.
Alex Reese sighed and sipped at the cold coffee in his nearly empty cup. "I guess, Kev. I just wish we had a lead on that god-awful man." He waved away a waiter bearing a fresh pot of java and turned back to the crowd.
"I know. But there's only so much we can do. And speaking of wishes, I wish we had a current picture of Milowanowicz. His official team picture is practically unusable."
"Yeah. Let me see it again, anyway. You got Borodin's picture with you?"
Kevin snorted. "It's the only recent and decent one we have. You bet I brought it." The young man reached into his knapsack and extracted a manila envelope, from which he pulled two photos. One was obviously the result of surveillance rather than a voluntary pose – Scholk was not known in any circles as a photogenic subject. Borodin's photo, on the other hand, was a very good official photo taken when he assumed his most recent post at the Interior Ministry. Wroebel's influence went a long way within the Polish government.
The American general studied the pictures for a few minutes, then handed them back to his son. "Let's go." They paid for their coffee and pastries, then left the busy café and headed back across Castle Square toward the car and driver awaiting them.
Kevin saw it first. "Dad, your two o'clock. Two men – Borodin and an unknown." His low voice only just came through the buzz of the horde of Poles on their way home early to prepare for the Holy Thursday observances.
Alex glanced with studied casualness in the direction Kevin indicated. "It looks like Borodin is giving him something."
"The 30 pieces of silver for Judas Iscarowicz?" Kevin's play on words earned him a sour smile from his father. "The other man is the right height and looks to be about the right general build, though much thinner than the Olympic picture."
"I'd really like a picture of the statue, son." This the older man said at full voice.
Kevin understood, and spent just long enough to set his father up in the foreground of a photo with Borodin and the other man in the middle distance to the right of Zygmunt III's stone memorial. Kevin continued to snap pictures of the meet as he maneuvered his father verbally toward another interesting backdrop, getting closer to Borodin and his associate.
"Who do I follow, Dad?" he asked as the Interior Ministry functionary began to move away from the other man.
"Borodin," Alex groused, resigned to the possibility that in doing so, they might lose the more important quarry. But in intelligence work, the rule was to go with what you know is a bad thing over what you think might possibly be a bad thing.
His decision paid off. While Kevin followed Borodin on foot, Alex went to the car and had the driver follow as closely as he could behind his son. When Borodin got into an official Interior Ministry car, Alex restrained his exultation with difficulty: Scholk was in the backseat. "Driver, follow them," he said in Polish as Kevin slid into the backseat of Wroebel's personal Yugo.
"Yes, sir," the driver replied, and with that, he took off in hot pursuit of the sedan as the lead car wound its way through Warsaw.
Chapter 8 * Castle Square, Warsaw, Poland * 8:00 p.m. (GMT+1)
Stefan's notes at each drop earlier in the day had specifically asked for the Scarecrow's wife to be the contact for an evening meeting. Only that request – and Lee's insistence that she go – brought Amanda to the front table of a little café, feeling exposed and vulnerable as she tried to look inconspicuous in the light crowd of a Wednesday evening. The Polish dissident had left no instructions for identification other than for her to sit at a specific table; he would initiate the encounter.
"Amanda," Lee had said before she left the hospital, "Stefan will be pretty obvious. He has a nasty scar on his face and limps terribly." His description of Stefan didn't really settle Amanda's nerves, but she didn't bother to remind her injured husband that a scar could be hidden and a limp evened out reasonably easily. His final words just made her smile. "And he's a real player with the ladies, so be prepared."
She was still musing when a voice above her interrupted her thoughts. "It really is a shame that the Scarecrow has already had his Dorothy."
Startled, Amanda jumped. "Oh, hi," she covered, hoping that she didn't sound as flustered as she felt. "Please, have a seat."
The man had neither a limp nor a noticeable scar, but as Amanda looked at the man across the table, she saw the evidence of an old, ill-healed injury along his jaw and into his shorn scalp. His smile was crooked, she noted, probably as a result of the marred tissue. But his eyes had a fire that she could understand, so she settled a little in her chair and waited for him to begin.
"Your husband, as much as he tried, didn't do you justice," the man said after a moment of equally intense scrutiny toward her. "You are even more beautiful than the picture he painted in my mind."
This was Stefan, no question. "Thank you. What do you need?"
"Your husband," he said. "He's missing."
Amanda sagged in relief. "We found him earlier today. He's alive but in the hospital."
Now Stefan's relief showed in his face and posture. "Thank God. Has he told you anything?"
"Everything," the American woman confirmed. "The rifle, the priest, the remnants of the network, Lee's visit to the Interior Ministry and to the Chancery, your role in getting us the microdot…"
"So, what do we do now?"
This was the delicate part. "Well, Stefan, there's another party in this who may have the other half of the picture. And there are at least two bad guys out there loose, one of whom we are sure knows Lee's identity and the other of whom we think knows."
"A mixed bag." He sat across the table from Amanda in silence except to order a coffee for each of them. Finally, when his cup was drained and refilled the second time, he turned his focus back to his companion. "So, how do we tape this picture together?"
Amanda smiled and reached out to grasp his hand. "Trust me like you would Scarecrow, and come with me."
Stefan squeezed her hand. "If he trusts you, then I trust you. Lead on, Mrs. Scarecrow."
Near the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR * 11:10 p.m. (GMT+3)
G.A. Tolstoy paced the length of the hallway as he waited for Feodor Petrovich Kaminsky to open his flat door. The information he had to share was far too important to trust to the Moscow telephone system.
The older man pulled the portal back and heaved Tolstoy in without ceremony. Kaminsky shuffled back to his immense dining room table, inviting his guest to follow with the wave of a clawed hand. He sat down and motioned Tolstoy to join him, pouring out four shots of vodka from a bottle the size of a magnum of champagne. "Did you want some?" he asked with a wry smile toward the active KGB agent.
Tolstoy laughed and nodded. "Just two."
"You didn't come just for the alcohol," Kaminsky observed when the two men had toasted their health. "You have urgent news?"
"Disturbing news more than urgent. Leon Ivanich has been injured."
"How badly?" Bushy eyebrows furrowed in concern.
"He dislocated his left shoulder and tore some muscles in the process. He's resting now in a secret location. And Gregor Borodin is apparently persona non grata at the Interior Ministry. Another operative reported in that there is a full-scale alert out for him."
"So he's a liability now. Have Scholk deal with him."
"As you wish. There's more."
"Do I really want to know?"
"Probably not, but I'm going to tell you anyway. You already know that General Alexander Reese is in Poland with Leszek Wroebel. Now, we believe that he has at least two regular operatives with him – probably including Stetson's partner – as well as an auxiliary agent and another military man."
Kaminsky rubbed his face with one gnarled hand. "Why now? And do we have any reason to think that they know anything new about our plans?"
Tolstoy sighed. "Not at the moment, but I agree that the timing leaves something to be desired. Do you want me to pressure our friends to put another one of our men on the case rather than someone whose loyalty is less than solid?"
"If you can. I want to know if they get any closer."
Guest Officers' Quarters, Central Army Command, Warsaw, Poland * 9:30 p.m. (GMT+1)
The collection of people sitting in Amanda's room awed Stefan. He knew of Wroebel, who was something of a hero in Poland, but did not know he was a less-than-Communist. He knew none of the Americans other than Amanda, but he could sense that the men and women gathered were dedicated to the same ideals of freedom that motivated him to run the risk of death every day.
"So, Stefan, you are a Polish patriot as well?" the general asked, inviting the civilian to join him on the settee at the window.
"Yes, yes, sir, General Wroebel." He moved to sit with the other man, who was just slightly older.
Alex Reese cleared his throat. "Okay, we need to lay all the cards out on the table and see just what puzzle we actually have. Leszek, you've gotten the update on your side, so why don't you go first?"
With a tight smile, the mole began to explain the most recent events, including the fact that Scholk had been treated and released at the clinic in Izabelin. As he was leaving his office, word had come through that the alert on Gregor Borodin had been rescinded at the Prime Minister's order, and along with that news had come confirmation that the Good Friday service would be held at Castle Square. "We, however, are not providing any security assistance, which I find odd."
"Perhaps not, General. Consider this: less security means more opportunity for trouble, and if the Russians want an excuse to clamp down, trouble on Good Friday would do that." Francine nodded toward Stefan. "We still don't know who's behind the assassination attempt, but don't you think that Friday would be the logical time to try?"
Wroebel thought briefly. "Yes, it would. Especially since Glemp and Walesa will both be there. Probably Jaruzelski, too."
Ian and Kevin exchanged looks before the general's son spoke. "It really doesn't matter who gets the bullet, if it goes down on Friday. Any of the three of them shot would be enough reason for a repeat of the Prague Spring."
"We know who the shooter is, right? I mean, Lee was pretty convinced that our Olympic medallist is the man." Stefan waved his arms as he warmed to his theme. "Can we find a way to tell Cardinal Glemp so that he pulls Father Milowanowicz out of circulation?"
"It doesn't work that way, unfortunately," Amanda counseled. "We aren't the KGB. We aren't even the CIA."
Castle Square, Warsaw, Poland * March 23, 1989 * 7:15 a.m. (GMT+1)
Jaruslav Milowanowicz felt slightly guilty as he sat on a bench near the statue of Zygmunt III watching the early morning bustle of Warsaw's old town area. Mass at the Chancery would start in 15 minutes, and for the first time since he entered seminary almost 9 years ago, he wouldn't be there – or at any mass. It was a violation of his vows, but to his thinking, the vows were pretty much meaningless at this point, anyway. He was, after all, in the square to pick a sniper's nest so he could murder a man in cold blood – after which, if he succeeded, he planned to find a woman who would be willing to "haul his ashes" for the first time ever. Neither of those exactly fit within the bounds of his vows, either.
The young priest had been privy to the final plans for the Service of Tenebrae and had, in fact, been the one to suggest the final placement of the platform that would soon be under construction along one side of the ancient market and gathering place. He knew the security plans – or as much of them as anyone at the Chancery did – and he could predict where the weaknesses in those plans would be. That made his site survey a little bit easier; he could eliminate areas in direct line of sight with guard posts and crowd control checkpoints, concentrating on spaces that would afford him good seclusion yet clear views of the staging.
Jaruslav spent an hour wandering Castle Square before he found his nest. He envisioned the service, unfolding it in his mind to the point at which a curtain would be ripped in two – just as the curtain in the Temple ripped at the moment of Christ's death. The sound effect would cover the single shot he would need to end the life of the most menacing threat to Catholicism in Poland: Josef Cardinal Glemp.
And, if luck and God were on his side, he'd have time for a second shot to eliminate another menace to his country. He just hadn't decided which menace.
Council of State Office, Warsaw, Poland * 8:30 a.m. (GMT+1)
Wojciech Jaruzelski listened without enthusiasm to the report of his delegation to the Round Table talks. Contrary to the wishes of his Soviet masters, Jaruzelski had found himself early on in the position of conceding to the Solidarity delegates far more often than he received concessions in return, and the results of the previous day's session were no different. Solidarity wanted a bicameral parliament – one which would have veto power and some teeth for making legislation; his Polish Worker's Union Party (PWUP) delegates were asking him now for permission to counter with a unicameral legislature holding advise and consent authority over an executive council headed by a hand-picked Prime Minister.
The Soviet General Secretary had been very clear earlier in the morning: "Not too far, certainly not this fast. You need to slow this down." The architect of glastnost and perestroika also hedged his bets with, "Just keep the peace without giving away the store."
Easier said than done, Mikhail, the Pole thought as his chief advisor driveled on about the merits of the counter proposal. "Run with it," he said a moment later, cutting off the conversation in the middle of someone's sentence. "And remind them that the talks end at 11:30 tomorrow morning because we are all expected at Castle Square at noon."
The reaction was about what the Polish leader expected from a group of reasonably dedicated Communists – a long-suffering sigh with a barely disguised grimace of distaste. It mirrored his own feelings precisely, so he let the group go without reprimand. And if he was going to make them go, he knew he needed to let go of his inner machinations to avoid the Good Friday service, even if those machinations were far more interesting than anything that would cross his desk in the next 24 hours.
Central Army Command Hospital, Warsaw, Poland * 9:10 a.m. (GMT+1)
The chief surgeon of the Polish Army shook his head in disgust at the gathering of Americans around his patient's bed. "You Americans are so impetuous," he declared in good but heavily accented English. "Herr Volkmeister needs at least another three days rest before he's released, yet you all support his decision to leave now."
Alexander Reese smiled with sympathy, if not empathy. "Doctor, we appreciate your concern, but I know from personal experience that West German medical care is better than anything you can do here – and so do you."
When the surgeon looked to Leszek Wroebel, the Polish general merely shrugged. "He's right, Jan."
Acquiescing to the majority, the doctor sighed and signed the dismissal order with a scowl directed at his patient in the bed. "But you stay in the wheelchair until a German surgeon tells you otherwise, understood?"
Lee Stetson grinned at the caregiver. "Nein."
Francine translated in rapid fire German; when Lee nodded to the doctor, the man left with a final glare at each person in the room.
"That wasn't what he said, Francine," Lee declared as he motioned for Amanda to help him get out of the bed and into the wheelchair to which he was consigned by the surgeon.
"No literally," the blonde admitted with a leer, "but it got the point across."
Amanda looked from her husband to her fellow agent. "Do I want to know?"
"No," four voices said at once. Kevin Reese and Ian Marlowe smiled at her with red faces, while the two generals pointedly avoided eye contact.
"Francine…" Amanda warned, her voice trailing off.
"Never mind, honey. I'll tell you later."
Reading the look on Lee's face, she got the point and blushed a little. But she was all business in the next moment. "Now that Lee is a free man, we should get moving on this. I'd say we have less than 30 hours at this point."
Kevin seconded her thought from the one chair in the room. "Yeah, the traditional Tenebrae service is usually 3 hours, so figure it's all said and done by 3 tomorrow afternoon."
"Refresh my memory," Wroebel demanded. "This is the reading of the seven last words of Christ?"
"Primarily. Sometimes there's more – one chaplain we had for a while in Spain liked to rip a piece of fabric when he read the passage about the curtain tearing in two in the Temple." Kevin looked up at his father on the other side of the bed. "You don't suppose…"
"We could probably ask," Alex followed his son's train of thought. "Lee, does Stefan have a reliable contact in the priesthood who might be able to ask some questions without arousing suspicion?"
"It's better with the leg rest up, Amanda," Lee said before he turned his attention to the inquiry. "He might."
"I can ask him when I see him later. What do we want to know?"
Ten minutes of brainstorming left Amanda with a list of twelve questions for Stefan to pass to any contact he might have within the Church. Those questions prompted another twenty minutes of haggling about who would do what for the rest of the day before the group broke up.
"So, my lovely bedside bluebell, where are we going first?" Lee asked his wife as the room emptied.
"My room." Amanda stepped behind the wheelchair and started to push the apparatus out of the room and down the long corridor toward the main entrance to the hospital.
"Really?" he asked hopefully, turning toward her with his best smile.
The tall brunette returned the smile with a sway of her hips and a sly gleam in her eyes. "Really. And I don't have to leave for an hour and a half."
Lee sat up a little straighter in his chariot. "Faster, faster."
Amanda didn't stop laughing until five minutes later behind the closed door of her room, when laughing was the last thing on her mind.
Near the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR * 12:20 p.m. (GMT+3)
"Nastrovyia, Georg Alexeivich," the superannuated spymaster said, lifting his vodka glass in a toast. "We are doing very well."
"Feodor Petrovich, don't get ahead of yourself. There is still much that could go wrong." Tolstoy's optimism had been fading since Saturday, when C.I. Scholk's operation to recover information from Sandra Reese failed. News of Scholk's capture of Lee Stetson briefly lifted his spirits, but the hope crashed even harder after his injury and Stetson's escape. More disturbing yet was the fact that Stetson was no where to be found; the Soviet lockout from the Polish military intelligence network did not bode well for finding the American before he left Poland, either – under his alias of Rainer Volkmeister or under his real name.
"That is true," the older man conceded, setting his glass down. "But we've come farther than we believed possible – and you will be pleased to know that there are certain highly placed men in the Party who have given us their approval."
Tolstoy's Buddha-like face cracked into a broad smile at that. "Really? Well, that is something to appreciate." The smile vanished as he realized that he now sat squarely under the Sword of Damocles instead of off to the side of it. "Unless we fail."
"Then make sure we don't."
Lunch, however decadently Western the spread, suddenly didn't seem as appetizing.
Castle Square, Warsaw, Poland * 10:35 a.m. (GMT+1)
Jaruslav Milowanowicz sat back from the edge of his sniper's nest with a satisfied smile on his face. The nest sat on the balcony of a small apartment above a shoe repair shop; the proprietor of the shop – no owners in Communist Poland, the young priest thought with a derisive snort – had been thrilled to have his shop chosen as the location of an official photographer for the service. Jaruslav even had camera paraphernalia with him to complete his cover.
Yes, the site was perfect. He had an unobstructed view of the square, and, more importantly, a clear sightline to the podium from which Josef Cardinal Glemp would preside over the service. He could, at the invitation of the proprietor, come and go as he pleased for the rest of the day and all day tomorrow – meaning he could further enhance his cover during the day. The internal excitement threatened to overcome his equilibrium, so he opted to leave his nest for a while, to stroll the square, have lunch, gather equipment after he met one last time with Gregor Borodin.
Father Milowanowicz decided that it was a good day to collect his payment. Perhaps he would not wait until after the assassination to break the vow of chastity.
St. Maria's Roman Catholic Church, Warsaw, Poland * 1:10 p.m. (GMT+1)
Stefan paced in the small prayer garden within the church grounds as he waited for the parish priest to finish his counseling session with another communicant. As he walked, he pondered the series of questions for the priest Amanda Stetson had given him when they met for lunch. Who besides the Cardinal is going to be on the platform? What besides reading and music will take place during the service? What security arrangements have been made by the Chancery in addition to those made by the State? When the service is over, where is the Cardinal going? Will he be with Jaruzelski and Walesa at any time other than at the beginning of the service? The Polish dissident thought that the questions themselves might tip his friend off, but Amanda had given him permission to tell the priest the whole story as they knew it so he would understand the importance of the answers.
"You look as though you bear the weight of the world on your shoulders, my friend," the parish priest said from behind Stefan as he entered the garden. "This must be why you need to see me."
Stefan turned and greeted his pastor with a shrug. "You're very perceptive, although it may only be the crossbeam of the world's cross."
"That's why I'm a priest rather than a state functionary," he returned. "And even the crossbeam is too heavy for one man, my friend. Remember Simon the Cyrene."
Stefan frowned. "But he couldn't save Christ in the end."
"No – but he was there to help ease the load along the way, and sometimes that's just as important. Now, tell me what's on your mind." He ushered Stefan to a bench and the two men sat down in the bright sunlit warmth of mid afternoon.
Most of the story gushed from Stefan as though the priest had speared him in the side. The pastor of St. Maria's sat and listened without interruption for 25 minutes as the pieces fell into place and Amanda's questions were laid out before him.
"I know the young Father Milowanowicz," the priest said after a long silence when Stefan was finished. "If there is a conspiracy to assassinate someone, he'd be a good candidate. He was extremely unhappy when the Cardinal began to show his willingness to accommodate the regime."
"How unhappy?"
"Unhappy enough to go looking for trouble, I think. He used to come over here for the underground university classes, but he stopped about two months before the edict came down to stop the program."
Stefan nodded. "Well, that helps. Can you make the inquiries without causing too much of a stir?"
"Leave it to me." The priest stood and extended his hand to his parishioner. "Where can I reach you after 9:30 tonight?"
"At home, Father." He rose and shook the priest's hand. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He watched as Stefan turned and made his way toward the garden gate. "Stefan," he called, and waited until the man had turned back to face him. "You are doing a good thing. Trust God in this."
Stefan grimaced. "I have no choice, Father." Lee, Amanda, and the others on the erstwhile team had not been part of the story he told his pastor. There were certain secrets better hid even from God's representatives on earth, if not exactly from God Himself.
The Agency * 9:05 a.m. (GMT-5)/Central Army Command, Warsaw, Poland * 3:05 p.m. (GMT+1)
"Francine, slow down. You're not going to have to pay for the call out of your own pocket," Billy admonished his agent with a chuckle as he listened to the latest from Poland.
"Sorry," she replied, a bit of relief creeping into her voice. "From the top. Lee has been discharged from the hospital – against medical advice, of course, but persuasively. General Reese has offered the Polish authorities his protection and a travel escort for Herr Rainer Volkmeister when he leaves, which mollified the surgeon just a little bit. We're working on a fairly solid theory of the assassination plot at this point, but we won't know anything more until after the masses tonight, so we're laying low."
"What about General Reese's hunt for Scholk?"
Francine hedged a little bit; Alex and Kevin were out together in Castle Square hoping rather in vain that Scholk would make an appearance so they could follow him. "He may have decided that it's more important to stop the assassination just at the moment."
"Then don't tell him that Sandra is still deep in a coma."
"He already knows, Billy. He's got someone there around the clock."
Billy sighed. "A lovesick young man by the name of James Johnston who happens to be his adjutant. If she weren't clearly a potential witness in a federal case, someone would probably be blowing a very loud whistle about a general officer using staff for personal gain."
"Probably."
"Anything else?"
Francine bit her lip to keep from telling her section chief about General Wroebel's identity as Ludwig. He wasn't in the "need to know" loop for that. Technically, neither was she, and neither were Ian, Lee, Amanda, nor Kevin. They just happened to be there at the revelation. "No. One of us will call in for the status meeting, but I don't know who."
"Okay. Pass a message on to Colonel Marlowe, if you would, Francine. The promotion board results are due to be released at the end of the Washington business day tomorrow."
"Before the weekend? That's either really nice for Easter and Passover or really lousy, depending on the results." She was hoping for really nice, of course.
Billy laughed. "Too true. At the status meeting, then." He set the handset back into the phone and leaned back in his chair. The headache had been with him all week, but now, at least, it was roaring at a tolerable volume at the base of his neck. Jeannie was coming for lunch; he hoped she would have the time to massage the knot a bit before the afternoon began. He had the feeling it was going to be a long time before he got home again.
Castle Square, Warsaw, Poland * 3:20 p.m. (GMT+1)
"Dad, are you ready to go back to the base yet?" Kevin Reese asked, distracting his father from his intent survey of the people going about their business in the area.
Alex Reese sighed and sipped at the cold coffee in his nearly empty cup. "I guess, Kev. I just wish we had a lead on that god-awful man." He waved away a waiter bearing a fresh pot of java and turned back to the crowd.
"I know. But there's only so much we can do. And speaking of wishes, I wish we had a current picture of Milowanowicz. His official team picture is practically unusable."
"Yeah. Let me see it again, anyway. You got Borodin's picture with you?"
Kevin snorted. "It's the only recent and decent one we have. You bet I brought it." The young man reached into his knapsack and extracted a manila envelope, from which he pulled two photos. One was obviously the result of surveillance rather than a voluntary pose – Scholk was not known in any circles as a photogenic subject. Borodin's photo, on the other hand, was a very good official photo taken when he assumed his most recent post at the Interior Ministry. Wroebel's influence went a long way within the Polish government.
The American general studied the pictures for a few minutes, then handed them back to his son. "Let's go." They paid for their coffee and pastries, then left the busy café and headed back across Castle Square toward the car and driver awaiting them.
Kevin saw it first. "Dad, your two o'clock. Two men – Borodin and an unknown." His low voice only just came through the buzz of the horde of Poles on their way home early to prepare for the Holy Thursday observances.
Alex glanced with studied casualness in the direction Kevin indicated. "It looks like Borodin is giving him something."
"The 30 pieces of silver for Judas Iscarowicz?" Kevin's play on words earned him a sour smile from his father. "The other man is the right height and looks to be about the right general build, though much thinner than the Olympic picture."
"I'd really like a picture of the statue, son." This the older man said at full voice.
Kevin understood, and spent just long enough to set his father up in the foreground of a photo with Borodin and the other man in the middle distance to the right of Zygmunt III's stone memorial. Kevin continued to snap pictures of the meet as he maneuvered his father verbally toward another interesting backdrop, getting closer to Borodin and his associate.
"Who do I follow, Dad?" he asked as the Interior Ministry functionary began to move away from the other man.
"Borodin," Alex groused, resigned to the possibility that in doing so, they might lose the more important quarry. But in intelligence work, the rule was to go with what you know is a bad thing over what you think might possibly be a bad thing.
His decision paid off. While Kevin followed Borodin on foot, Alex went to the car and had the driver follow as closely as he could behind his son. When Borodin got into an official Interior Ministry car, Alex restrained his exultation with difficulty: Scholk was in the backseat. "Driver, follow them," he said in Polish as Kevin slid into the backseat of Wroebel's personal Yugo.
"Yes, sir," the driver replied, and with that, he took off in hot pursuit of the sedan as the lead car wound its way through Warsaw.