To a man, they agreed without hesitation.
“We do indeed have a dual mission,” he said as he retook his chair and saw the perceptive glances among the men. “It should come as no surprise that we cannot defeat Hitler alone. Only with the help of winter have we stalled the Nazis.” Seeing the mixture of grudging agreement, surprise and concern that crossed their faces he went on in a very low voice as if he were admitting to a secret failure. “You could have no way of knowing it,” he said then paused to take another puff of the cigarette, “but this city is surrounded ... under siege. Hitler has shifted his forces southward.” His voice became even more grave as he added, “Stalingrad is being turned to rubble. It is impossible to fathom the casualties.”
The men exchanged looks that ranged from concern to resigned acceptance of something they may have expected.
“In order to reduce the pressure on our forces, Comrade Stalin has offered something to our allies that will speed an invasion of Europe ... that is what your four element leads will be carrying, Comrades.” He let that sink in a moment then continued. “When that invasion comes, Hitler will be forced to withdraw portions of his armies back to the west.” He paused to see their reactions then added quietly but adamantly, “All they have to do is make him take some of his forces back ... and we will crush what remains!”
Kovpak nodded and after a few seconds said thoughtfully, “The Nazis will have no choice but to defend what they have taken.”
Krylov nodded then glanced again at all of them. “You will save the lives of millions of your comrades.”
After several moments of silence someone finally asked, “But Comrade General, what is it? What is being delivered?”
Krylov tapped on his cigarette and shook his head. “I do not know. Even General Leonov does not know.” He looked at them sternly. “And speculation is more than just useless, Comrades. Just asking such a question outside of this room would put us all in great peril. I have told you this only out of respect for you ... and your oaths. As far as you and I know—as far as you and I will ever know—there is nothing being delivered ... nothing but twelve aircraft and twelve pilots.” He crushed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot as he said instructively, “That is all that will ever be said about it ... even among you.” He let them consider that for a few seconds then added, “Focus instead on your mission ... your duty.”
Other than the noises from the fire inside the stove, the room fell eerily quiet; they were all engaged in their own thoughts until the General continued. “After the morning meal, and our little bit of barter,” he noted dryly with raised eyebrows, “I will see Major Kovpak here at oh-six-hundred for navigation orders.” He brushed a stray bit of cigarette ash off his hand and said, “I wish to congratulate you on your accomplishments thus far. I am proud to have been your commanding officer.” He paused as he shook his head. “Unfortunately, I will never be able to tell anyone of this mission.” His voice became solemn as he added, “Nor will you. Such is our duty.” As he stood he added firmly, “Udachi (good luck) to you all, Comrades.”
As Kovpak called them to attention the General stepped to the table then put on his coat, picked up his gloves and hat and strode out of the briefing room without another word or gesture.
“Take your seats, Comrades,” Kovpak ordered then took a deep breath. “As you heard, our mission continues tomorrow. For now, I suggest we rest and you review your technical operation manuals.” He paused as the pilots reacted with various levels of faint scorn then his voice raised to the level of issuing an order as he added, “Pay special attention to your fuel management ... there is no margin for error.”
Acknowledging the group’s acceptance of that mission imperative Kovpak continued. “The evening meal is at 2000. A film will be shown here at 2045. I am told it brings news that we have not been made aware of while we have been away. Attendance is required.” Over the resulting small chorus of groans and comments he added, “You are dismissed.”
CHAPTER 8
Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997
Catherine Cruz stared at the fax and the black and white image of ‘Professor Michael Kirkland’. She knew from the growing tightness in her throat that her voice wasn’t going to be as steady as it could have been; luckily she sounded genuinely confused instead of distraught. “I don’t get it,” she said as she looked up at Dunlap. “There can’t be anything missing—”
“Not a thing,” Dunlap said at least in part to come to her rescue. “I didn’t think there would be ... not unless this guy is David Copperfield or can move faster than the speed of light.” He set his pen down on the polished surface and leaned inward to see who was paying attention. “Look, folks, let’s get something out on the table here. Like I said, Alex Calder thought he was the real deal.” When no reactions were visible he shook his head. “There’s a simple mistake in here somewhere,” he said pointing at the computer printout as well as the fax.
“I believe we should discuss this with Mr. Calder,” Silayev suggested and looked to Kurtz for support that didn’t materialize.
Dunlap shook his head. “Let’s not make a mountain out of a mole hill.”
Catherine saw the glare he was directing at Silayev and breathed an almost visible sigh of relief.
Silayev was not entirely willing to give up that easily but with the other events of the previous evening he didn’t dare push too far; the man who hadn’t identified himself was in possession of evidence that could jeopardize Silayev’s status in the U.S. But acting out of character wasn’t an option – persistence was required so he tried another angle. “He may have been gathering intelligence about the security arrangements.”
“I don’t think so,” Catherine said without looking up. She knew instinctively all eyes were aimed at her again and she added, “He was extraordinarily knowledgeable.”
Silayev raised his eyebrows slightly. “The best are.” He looked around at the others as if he were lecturing. “They are thorough in their research; meticulous in planning. They have resources.” His next statement was spoken more slowly as if to emphasize his point. “They use assumed identities.”
After a moment Dunlap shook his head dismissively. “The exhibit will open on schedule,” he began, “but we’re changing some procedures, resetting the access cards and codes, just in case.” Everyone but Silayev nodded in agreement and Dunlap added, “And we ...” he paused and scanned the faces before saying, “I think we’re finished here.”
Still unable to get any backing from Kurtz, Silayev thought better of saying anything more and decided a more discrete inquiry with their local Houston Police Department liaison would suffice. Even without you, Ms. Cruz, we will find out who this man really was, he thought as he shrugged in feigned resignation.
Catherine caught a quick ‘are you alright?’ look from Dunlap and she responded with a hint of a forced smile fronting a firmly clamped jaw. As she rose from the chair and moved toward the door she suddenly got the distinctly unpleasant sense her boss felt sorry for her – not for the questioning but for having possibly been taken advantage of.
She managed to get down to her office quickly without seeing any of the museum staff, avoiding the embarrassment of encountering someone who might discern the teeming emotions that would surely be obvious by now. The fear and worry came and went; her determination to believe in the man she thought had been Michael Kirkland cycled back and forth from fragile to resilient.
The first thing she did when she got into her office was place a call to Elanore Calder. When the answering machine at the Calder home picked up and started playing the message she didn’t even try to conceal her frustration. “Mierda!” she hissed forcefully. By the time the recording beep came on she had regained most of her composure and just in case anyone other than El might hear, she tried to sound nonchalant. “El, hey, it’s Cath ... call me as soon as you can, my office, okay? Bye.”
God dammit, El! You’ve gotta get a frickin’ cell p
hone!
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and slowly let it out as she tried not to succumb to the fear of having been a pawn in some elaborate game. I’m not that stupid, she reminded herself then her resolve wavered. Oh, God please, tell me I’m not that stupid.
With her nerves on edge, the ringing cell phone was startling and the number appearing on the display made her hold her breath; before she could decide to answer the call a voice from her office doorway made her jump yet again.
“Hey, you okay?”
She spun to see Elanore Calder standing at the open door. “Jesus, El!” she blurted out then took another deep breath and exhaled loudly. “I just tried to call you,” she said, forcing a quick laugh as she turned and set down the phone, letting the call from the now-mysterious man go to her voice mail.
Elanore leaned forward slightly, tipping her head to get a closer look as she walked further in. “You okay?” she asked again, this time more seriously. “What’s wrong?”
Catherine’s eyes burned and with her lips pursed and her throat tightened she somehow marshaled her resolve and refused to cry. More than anything she wanted to melt down in a puddle of sobs while her dearest friend held and comforted her as she had done more than once over the years. Instead, she sat down and gripped the arms of her chair and leaned back with her eyes closed. “Shit!” she hissed, then repeated it three more times while shaking her head slowly. In plaintive, whining exasperation she asked, “What am I going to do, El?” When no immediate response came from her now-confused friend she added glumly, “I’ve really stepped in it this time.”
Elanore took the moment to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk and look more closely at her friend in anticipation. “What the hell is going on?”
Catherine suddenly snapped out of her reverie and swung her gaze down from the overhead lights. “How come you’re here?” she asked in bewilderment. The expression on her face quickly shifted to one of embarrassment. “Don’t tell me I forgot something ... Dios, yo soy un desastre, (God I am such a mess)—”
“Let’s see,” Elanore thought aloud as she translated slowly. “God ... you are—oh! He’s that good?” she asked teasingly then grinned smugly. “I thought he would be.”
Catherine leaned forward and put her forearms on the desk with her head down, which only encouraged her friend to continue the torture.
“Noche toledana, (a restless night) eh? Is he as good as he looks?”
Catherine’s head popped up with her mouth open and she gave her friend a seriously indignant look despite the fact that she knew it wasn’t going to be convincing. “We had dinner. And I went home ... alone. And we’re having dinner on Friday,” she added resolutely, knowing full well if anything more interesting had happened she would never have been able to conceal it from her best friend for any length of time.
In more ways than one Elanore felt relieved and she decided to let Catherine off the hook, her curiosity shifting the subject to what she had seen a few minutes earlier. “What was all that up in the conference room?” When her friend didn’t seem to switch gears fast enough to keep up, Elanore launched into the rapid-fire commentary she could seemingly turn on or off at will. “I was here to see Matt, we’re going to figure out how to set up a luncheon for some of the new donors after last night – we hit some home runs in your audience, Cath, that discussion thing you and the professor did, they’re serious about sponsoring a PBS production with you two, really, we can get production backing ... then I saw you in the conference room so I hung around, then Ronnie came out and she said it would be a few minutes so I got some coffee and wandered around ‘til I spotted you heading down here at full throttle.”
Catherine blinked a couple of times, rose from her chair, walked over quickly and closed the heavy door. As soon as she sat down again she leaned slightly over the cluttered desk and lowered her voice. “Yo realmente en mal estado esto,” (I’ve really messed this up).
“You’ve ... you’ve, what?”
“Last night ... after we closed—”
“What did you say?”
“What?”
“You said realmente something something—”
“Oh, sorry, I said I really messed up.”
“What?”
“He examined some of the exhibits.”
“The exhibits? So what? Alex—”
“The Russians think he’s some kind of a, a, a jewel thief ... checking the security.”
Faced with an apparent absurdity, Elanore’s mouth opened slightly as she froze in disbelief. “Doctor Kirkland?”
Catherine nodded and couldn’t force her emotions to stay below the surface any longer. Her voice was tight and her chin quivered slightly. “El ... he wasn’t on the invitation list ... he’s not a professor at UCONN ... Ronnie checked with them.”
Elanore could plainly tell her friend was in distress but worse, she wasn’t making any sense. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times then finally found the words. “But he ... he couldn’t have just ... hell ... Hon, he couldn’t have just wandered in off the damn street ... could he?”
Her friend shook her head but was unable to form words.
“Didn’t ... didn’t you just say you were going to have dinner with him?”
A quick grab of a tissue from the nearby box was the only thing that saved Catherine’s tears from ruining the little eye makeup she wore. As she struggled to regain her composure with her eyes closed she felt her desk chair turning. When she looked up through the welling tears she realized Elanore had moved a chair around the desk and was sitting in it leaning toward her. She sniffled, pursed her lips, tossed the tissue and got another one, then leaned back, brushed a few loose hairs away from her face and dropped her hands into her lap as she heaved a sigh.
“Cath ... listen Hon,” Elanore began firmly, “now listen ... for my money he is not Sir Charles Lytton any more than I am.”
Catherine went blank and regarded her friend with confusion. Charles what? She sniffled and managed to ask, “Sir who?”
As if everybody in today’s world should have known the famous actor’s role Elanore said offhandedly, “David Niven.” Seeing the look of misconnection she pushed on. “The Pink Panther movies? The British playboy jewel thief,” she instructed. When her friend still appeared baffled she added, “The thief was Sir Charles Lytton.”
As it had any number of times before, Elanore’s diversion actually made Catherine smile and almost giggle as she recalled snippets of the movies. The world was not really coming to an end and her sense of humor caught up with her in spite of what had gone on that morning. “You know he does sound English ... and good Lord, El, he has expensive taste,” she offered more coherently, recalling the fact that he wore a five-figure watch. But the look of worry returned to her face when she said, “El, I don’t know what to do ... I’m afraid they’ll call the police.”
Elanore scowled slightly. “Oooh, that’s not so wonderful.”
“And you introduced us.”
He did start the conversation, Elanore recalled then kept at the attempt to lighten the situation. “I guess I’m responsible because I introduced you ... okay, so we’ll both get arrested. Al and Mrs. C. will get a kick out of seeing that in the Chronicle. Uh, but ... I know Al’ll bail you out but I’m not sure—”
Catherine interrupted with a raised hand and couldn’t suppress the grin, whispering, “El ... I sort-of lied to them ... no, I flat-out lied to them. I have his business card and cell phone number. They don’t know I’m seeing him again. If they did I know they’ll have the cops talk to him. I don’t want that.” The turmoil on her face was even more obvious after she said it.
Elanore’s voice lowered into a near whisper. “Oh, shit ... he really got to you, didn’t he?”
Catherine nodded and looked down again. “He’s, he’s—”
“Gorgeous,” Elanore interrupted jealously.
Catherine snickered reluctantly and relaxed somew
hat. She lowered her voice and said just above a whisper, “He’s one of most interesting men I’ve ever met ... and a great kisser.”
“I knew it!” Elanore said, leaning back with a smug look. “And that’s all?”
Catherine suddenly fixed her with a serious look. “Like I said, that’s all,” she said firmly.
Elanore saw the pain behind the kidding. “Serious?”
Her friend sniffled and grabbed another tissue. “I’m thirty-five, okay? How many of him am I going to get kissed by ... and asked out again?”
Elanore decided to reinforce a point she had attempted to make more than a few times over the years since the divorce. “Plenty if you’d take a chance,” she admonished honestly.
Admitting to reluctance was something Catherine had wrestled with over the years, particularly each time she had seemingly scuttled a potential relationship for reasons she didn’t want to examine too closely. It was as if the damage from her marriage had been so great that she couldn’t risk having it happen again, no matter how many times Elanore and her other friends tried to convince her she could have another life with another man. And now, barely twelve hours had passed since meeting someone, that for reasons she couldn’t immediately fathom, seemed to invalidate her fears and verify the advice that had been given so often. “He’s not just good looking ... I really, really want to see him again.”
Her friend could only nod in a kind of wary sympathy. She’s toast, Elanore thought then unsuccessfully tried not to smile.
Catherine took a deep breath and sighed as she looked out the window into the still-gray morning. The lack of sunshine in the last several days wasn’t helping her mood at all and she blinked back tears. “They’ve screwed something up, El ... I’m not going to call him and look stupid ... and help them screw this up.”
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