The cart strolled past and moved through the crowd in the terminal. Caldwell’s eyes followed it. Not the old man, but something about him? Something . . . not about him, but about his uniform. Not his uniform, but a uniform. An airline pilot’s uniform. The image was clear to him now. Nikolai entered the bathroom and disappeared. During those fifteen minutes, several Aeroflot Airline pilots came and left, as well. That’s how he eluded them. The uniform of an airline pilot and perhaps some type of wig or facial disguise.
Hank Fielding approached Caldwell, his dark hat cocked to one side, his long overcoat opened in front. He looked more like a cop out of a 1930’s gangster movie than a CIA agent.
“Take off the hat, Hank,” Caldwell said, “There’s nothing like being in Moscow and your clothes saying, look at me, I’m a spy.”
Hank stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Sorry sir. We’ve searched all over and came up empty. We’ve checked everything . . . twice. I don’t know where to look anymore.”
“Where were you positioned during the tail?” Caldwell walked toward the front entrance of the terminal. Hank followed him and scanned the crowd, checking their faces, their movements.
“I shadowed him from the time he entered the terminal until he went into the bathroom. At that point, he was passed off, and I watched from a distance.”
“Were there any back doors to the bathroom? Any way out other than the one entrance? An air-conditioning duct, anything?”
Hank shook his head. “No way, sir. Tom checked the inside of the place. It’s sealed tighter than a tin can.”
“So, he just walked right past us, just like that?” Caldwell said, snapping his fingers as they left the terminal. The cold Moscow air reddened his cheeks. Caldwell reached into his pocket and turned off his comm-radio.
“Not just like that,” Hank said. “We were too alert. We knew what we were looking for.”
“That’s the problem.”
Hank nodded. He understood what the senior agent meant. “And we overlooked the obvious. He pulled a switch on us. He had to. What are you thinking, sir?”
Caldwell hurried to the dark sedan they drove to the terminal. When they approached, the driver jumped out, tipped his hat, and walked to the back of the car.
“What did you notice going in and out of the bathroom during the time Nikolai was supposed to be in there?”
“A bunch of passengers and several pilots.”
“And you checked out the passengers?”
“Yes. He wasn’t one of them.”
Caldwell stood back as the driver opened the trunk of the dark sedan and pulled out two suitcases and a diplomatic pouch.
“What about the pilots?” Caldwell glanced at his younger companion. Hank had little experience, but he was good. No one expected Nikolai to pull a switch on them like that. How would he know he was being tailed? Caldwell was aware that all good spies, especially the old-timers like Nikolai, always assumed the worst.
Hank’s face turned red. “That son of a bitch! He went in the bathroom, changed into an Aeroflot uniform, and walked out.”
“Yes,” Caldwell said, “it’s the only answer.” He pulled the comm-radio out, removed the miniature earpiece and tie-tack microphone, and placed them in the diplomatic pouch.
“So, what are we going to do now?”
Caldwell placed his pistol, capped with silencer, in the pouch, also. He closed the clasp, locked it, and secured the open handcuff around his left wrist.
“You and the rest of the men go back to the embassy. Stand by for contact from Palovich. Spread some men out within a few blocks of the embassy. Maybe he’s trying to reach us. We know they’re after him. They tried a hit and nailed his wife instead. All the traffic we’ve intercepted indicates he’s still on the run. If we can find Palovich, we can find out where Nikolai is going. And who he plans to activate.”
“Where are you going?”
Caldwell picked up his bags and grinned at Hank.
“To America, of course.”
PALOVICH HAD SEARCHED FOR THIRTY MINUTES and grew frustrated, unable to find anyone selling guns. Caution was paramount. He couldn’t ask just anyone where to buy a gun. Did he even need one? He hadn’t fired a weapon since his time in Afghanistan all those years ago. The time he spent to search for a gun, could be used to escape. Was the tradeoff worthwhile? Yes, he decided, if for no other reason than it gave him a sense of security.
Time grew short. Palovich quickened his pace as his search became more frantic. The numerous vendors around him offered everything imaginable, but not what he needed. He needed a contact; someone to point him in the right direction. Someone familiar with the dark streets. Someone who lived on the other side of the law. Someone like . . . like the man standing in front of him.
Not even thirty yards away, a guardian in front of his tent. Medium build—not thin, not fat. He stood in front of his table with a diverse selection of knives and cutlery. Palovich studied the vendor carefully as he approached. The eyes said it all. They were crafty, but hollow; they showed no soul. Then the eyes fell upon him. The vendor smiled.
“Are you looking for a particular knife, my friend?”
“I wish to make a purchase, but I do not desire knives.”
The crafty vendor understood and nodded as he walked back toward his table.
“Zhehnshchyeenah,” he said into the open tent. Come out here. A heavy-set woman of an indeterminate age came out from the back to stand in front of the table. “Follow me,” he said to Palovich.
The two disappeared into the tent, where the vendor turned on a radio at a high volume. He was used to being monitored by someone, either the government or his competitors in the Russian mafia. Most likely, both.
They sat at a small table lit by a kerosene lamp. Isolated shafts of sunlight pierced the heavy canvas tent. The vendor reached to the floor and pulled up a half-empty bottle of vodka and two glasses.
“So, you do not seek knives today. What is it you want?” He handed Palovich a glass; Palovich raised the vodka to his lips and took a long sip.
“I need a gun,” Palovich said. “I need it now. No fuss, no names. I’ll pay cash.”
“Rubles, francs, marks, how?”
“Dollars. American dollars.”
The vendor’s eyes lit up. “American dollars are always welcome. I can work with this.” He downed the vodka in his glass and poured himself more. “Just what type of gun did you have in mind?”
“Nothing too large. A pistol of some sort. Strictly for self-defense, I assure you.”
The vendor waved a finger at his nervous client.
“Do not worry, my friend. You wish to purchase a gun. What you do with it is your own business. I believe I can help you.”
He walked to the far side of the tent and returned with a case smaller than a briefcase. With the case on the table, he opened it so Palovich couldn’t see the contents.
“Revolver or automatic?”
“Preferably an automatic,” Palovich said.
The crafty vendor reached into his case and came out with a German Luger in excellent shape. Palovich took it from him and studied the weapon. He ejected the magazine, inspected the slides, lined up the sights, tested the trigger and hammer, and re-inserted the magazine.
“This will do. How much?”
For the first time, the vendor seemed unsure of himself. He grew agitated.
“S-Seven hundred American dollars.”
Palovich could tell that was his high price, and the vender usually was talked down. That explained the nervousness. He had no time to bargain, however. He reached in his pocket and pulled out seven one hundred-dollar bills.
“I expect two extra magazines and a box of bullets to go with it,” he said, as he set the money on the table.
The crafty vendor was overjoyed. “Yes! Yes!” He leaped from the table and darted across the room. The vendor returned with the requested items. Palovich stuck them in his pocket as he rose from the table. He stopped at the entrance and
turned back to the vendor who eagerly counted his money.
“And, my friend,” Palovich said, “if anyone should inquire, I’ve never been here.”
“But of course, as I am sure I will never see you again.”
Palovich eased out of the merchant’s tent and marketplace, back into the chilly streets of Moscow. He must make it to the train station, then to Kiev. There, he could lie low for a few weeks with friends, and eventually cross the border into Germany. Perhaps he could reach the American consulate there. He pulled out his wallet to make sure he had enough rubles for a ticket. He did. Palovich realized an attempt to pay for a train ticket in American currency would raise suspicions.
Once in the dark, empty alley, Palovich pulled the pistol out of his pocket. He ejected the empty magazine and began to fill it with bullets. The magazine slid perfectly back into the pistol grip; he chambered a round and stuck the weapon back into his pocket. Next, he loaded the two spare magazines and stuck them in his left coat pocket. Cautiously, he exited the alley, and left the chaos of the marketplace behind him.
A hundred meters outside the marketplace he saw them. Not that he recognized any specific individual; he recognized the style. The way these “killers for the cause” carried themselves. It was an image, and these men fit it exactly. His eyes darted from face to face, to identify any potential threat.
The first one, he noticed, stood next to a light post on the sidewalk. Cigarette smoke curled up around his face as his eyes danced back and forth at every passerby, the open newspaper merely a prop held in his hands.
It was too late for Palovich to turn around. That would draw suspicion to him. He continued forward, focused on the ground, much like the rest of the people who entered and left the marketplace. The second one sat in a mahogany brown sedan parked at the four-way intersection up ahead. Then he saw, as he glimpsed across the street, another on foot. Palovich slowed his pace. He was about to be cornered. His mind raced; he needed a way out. There was no escape on his side of the street. He could either go straight ahead, past the two men in the car, return to the marketplace past the first sentinel, or enter the small alley across the street. The choice for Palovich was clear. To go to the market, he would pass not twenty feet in front of the second sentinel. Palovich was certain they had orders to kill him.
He pulled his collar around his neck and pushed his hat lower on his forehead, Palovich scurried to the other side of the street, toward the alleyway. As he moved closer, the sentinel brought Palovich into his crosscheck the closer he got. Once at the alleyway, Palovich felt relief. The alley led to another street as opposed to a blank wall. A loud noise caught Palovich’s attention, and he jerked his head toward the sedan. Its tires skidded in the slush as it started moving. He stared at the sentinel who looked at the sedan, then back to Palovich. For one split second, their eyes locked before Palovich refocused on the ground in front of him and ducked into the alley.
He knew. The sentinel knew.
Palovich pulled the gun out as he walked at the same pace, his hands folded in front of him, and gripped the weapon tightly. The garbage and slush of the alley crunched under his feet. Another twenty meters and he would be out of the alleyway.
“Palovich Merlov,” a voice cried behind him. The sentinel. Palovich did not slow, pretending not to recognize the name.
BAM! BAM!
Two shots rang out, informing Palovich he needed to stop. Just another ten meters.
“Palovich Merlov, you should listen when you are spoken to.”
Frozen in his tracks, Palovich heard the footsteps behind him. Slowly, he turned toward the sentinel.
“Young man, I’m sorry, I have no money on me,” he said as he turned. The sentinel, somewhat confused by the strange response, lowered his gun for a brief second. Palovich didn’t wait for another opportunity. He whipped his weapon into view and fired three rounds at the sentinel’s chest. The man’s eyes went wide with shock as the shots echoed through the alleyway, the bullets ripped through the sentinels’ fabric and flesh. As the man fell to the ground, a sedan screeched to a halt and blocked the alley entrance. He turned and ran as one of the men leaped out of the car while the other spoke commands over a radio.
More shots fired as Palovich reached the end of the alley. He felt a stinging sensation in his left arm. After a quick investigation, he found a hole in his overcoat. He rounded the corner to his right and hugged the wall. Palovich silently counted to three, dropped to a crouch, and pointed his weapon back into the alley. With his new pursuer in his sights, he squeezed off two rounds, and the new attacker fell to the slushy pavement.
Palovich turned and bolted down the street, took the next left, and then his next right. He ran for five minutes, and changed directions, left, right, every chance he had, as he moved farther and farther away from the scene of the gunfight.
He stumbled now—breathing heavy, his face pale with fear, and his left arm almost numb. A small amount of blood trickled down his arm, highlighted on the snow-covered ground. The blood did not show on his black overcoat and wouldn’t immediately draw attention to himself. One thing was for certain—if he could not escape, he needed to warn the Americans.
33
September 7, 1995
* * *
VINCE HUNG HIS PARACHUTE on his rack in the life-support building and walked to the mirror to comb his hair. It had been a long two days. He glanced at his watch. 1530. Thank god the day was over. His back hurt from wearing his parachute; his shoulder still sore from being jumped in the parking lot last Friday night. The life-support shack sat empty due to the grounding of the T-37 fleet after Lenny’s crash.
He was tired. The last two days seemed like a lifetime. It took the maintenance crew more than five hours to swap out the engine on the T-37 at Tinker. Halfway through the engine change, they realized they were missing a tool. When they finished, severe weather rolled in and brought the field down below minimums. The IP didn’t feel good about taking the jet off into the soup right after it had been fixed. They sat for another hour and a half until the weather cleared. At least the flight back was quick. Vince sat on his hands the entire way and responded to checklist items. Not an unpleasant situation considering he didn’t get any sleep.
Vince stuck the comb in his pocket and headed toward the squadron. Someone painted the solo tank overnight with a tribute to Lenny.
Lenny.
Vince hardly thought of him since earlier that morning. Lenny was a putz. Only a fool would kill himself in an airplane. Vince walked into the squadron and passed by the TOC desk toward his flight room. As he entered the sparsely populated room, one of the schedulers greeted him.
“Welcome back, Lieutenant Andrews, I hope you had a nice vacation.”
Vince nodded with a grin.
“I talked to the flight commander. He said you’re cleared to press on home for crew rest. You can make up the stan test tomorrow.”
“Thanks, that’s wonderful news,” Vince said with a touch of sarcasm, as he turned toward the exit. Stan test? Lenny’s tests. The money. Vince quickened his pace to a jog and bumped into a lieutenant colonel on the way out the door. Suddenly, Lenny’s death created a whole new set of problems.
“Hey! Slow it down, Lieutenant,” snapped the older officer. Outside the building, Vince burst in to a full sprint, straight for the dormitories. Dozens of images flashed through his mind. He felt that Lenny had lied about getting one test at a time. Could he have stolen all the tests? If so, where did he place them? Could anybody find them? Could he find them? If he didn’t, how the hell would he make it through the program?
By the time he reached the dorm, his lungs burned from the cool air pulled in with each breath. As he approached Lenny’s room, he saw the door open. He cautiously peered inside.
“Jason . . . what the hell are you doing here?” he said as he walked through the doorway. Vince breathed heavily, his sweat pushed through the green Nomex flight suit, despite the chilly air. The room was barren, ex
cept for the government-issued furniture and the boxes stacked at various spots on the floor.
Jason looked up from the box he just finished packing.
“When did you get back? Did you hear what happened to Lenny?”
“Yeah, I heard yesterday when I was in the city. It was all over TV and the SOF called my instructor. We almost didn’t fly the plane back since they grounded them all. It’s only a thirty-minute flight and my instructor was a stan/eval guy, so they let us fly home once the waiver was approved. Do you know any details?”
“No more than you probably do. He was on a solo ride and crashed in the MOA.”
“Did he try to eject?”
“Apparently not. Rumor has it, he never ejected. The safety guys are still up there with the FAA investigators. I guess they’re flying in other safety guys from the NTSB to investigate.”
Vince nodded. He didn’t concern himself with small talk. He wanted his tests. He paid for them; they were his.
“What’s with all the boxes?” Vince said.
“Gus asked me to box up Lenny’s things. He’s too busy and you were stuck at Tinker. Thanks a lot, by the way.”
“So, you boxed up all this since last night?”
“Yeah, I guess Lenny’s parents are coming tomorrow morning in time for the afternoon service at the chapel.”
“Service?” Vince mumbled, his mind elsewhere.
“Yeah, the memorial service. It’s scheduled for fifteen hundred tomorrow.”
“Thanks, I . . . I-uh, didn’t realize.” Vince’s mind wandered, lost in thoughts of his own. Jason continued to tape and move boxes around. “Hey, you didn’t happen to find anything unusual in here, did you?”
Jason paused in the middle of the barren room, box in his hands, his head tilted to the side. “What do you mean ‘unusual’?”
“Well, you know, anything unusual. Skeletons in the closet. Smut books, women’s clothing, whatever.” Stolen tests, excessive amounts of cash; things a UPT student shouldn’t have.
Jason paused. “No. I didn’t find anything. Are those types of things lying around your place?”
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