Russian tank with syringes of the supposed antidote stashed inside. The Pentagon chiefs had been elated with the discovery and were now reconstructing their entire defense system around it. Now Moscow was getting ready to put the next step—whatever it was—into operation.
He was so damn close to finding out the critical details. Yet, at the same time, he felt as though a noose were being lowered around his neck and slowly tightened. Sometimes in the middle of the night he could feel the rough hemp choking off his windpipe. The hunters were closing in, and his survival instinct urged him to abandon the search and defect. But the very reasons why he had begun this double life kept him coming back to the deafening clatter of the communications room every morning. If he could hold on till he got one more break, he’d really earn the welcome he knew the Falcon had waiting for him.
Of course, he did have something. On a trumped-up trip back to Moscow, he’d photographed an initial planning memorandum that should stir up a bit of doubt in the Pentagon. That film was now sitting innocently with the other photographic equipment in his apartment. It would have been in the Falcon’s hands by now except for the tragedy at the San Jeronimo. The fact that they’d identified his contact made his situation even more desperate. The only stroke of luck was that he hadn’t actually been seen with the dead man.
So how was he going to get that film to the Falcon now? And what if it came to a choice between getting the proof out or saving himself?
He had reached the bottom of the pile of classified messages and was about to signal the guard to let him out when a piece of informal traffic addressed to General Dwayne Brewster at Torrejon Air Force Base caught his eye. It was from one of the general’s colleagues at the Pentagon and advised him of a surprise upcoming visit by the inspector general’s staff. There was nothing of particular importance in the communiqué except that it used the caution “Don’t put this one in your file.”
That was one of the phrases he and the Falcon had used for identity verification back when his every action hadn’t been subject to examination under a microscope.
He looked down at the white fanfold paper in his hand. The choice of words could be coincidental. Yet somehow he didn’t think so. This was coming in on the line that he had warned the Falcon his government was reading. Using the Soviet’s tap to send a message back to him was a form of poetic justice that would appeal to the director of the Peregrine Connection.
After taking a precautionary glance at the door, he turned his back to it and pulled out a standard-issue KGB pen that contained a miniature camera. First he pulled the pocket clip forward to activate the hidden mechanism. Then he held the instrument over the communiqué and clicked the point return button twice before returning the pen to the breast pocket of his suit.
The Raven picked up the stack of routine output he retrieved daily from the room and glanced around once more, assuring himself that everything was in order. Then he ran the buzzer alerting the guard that he was ready to return to his desk job.
* * *
T HERE WAS SO MUCH KGB work to take care of that Aleksei often came to the office on Saturdays to deal with the normal duties of his cover job as cultural attaché. But he wasn’t the only one. A fair number of staffers had to put in weekend time. He was just going over the schedule of a Ukrainian folk dance troupe which would be arriving in Barcelona next month, when the phone rang. He wasn’t surprised that it was a summons from Bogolubov. When Aleksei entered the upstairs office, the general was sitting forward glaring at Feliks Gorlov and Georgi Krasin. “Well, Aleksei Iliyanovich, you seem to be the only one capable of following orders,” he observed.
Aleksei took his seat without comment. A compliment from the general was like a two-edged blade. You
He was so damn close to finding out the critical details. Yet, at the same time, he felt as though a noose were being lowered around his neck and slowly tightened. Sometimes in the middle of the night he could feel the rough hemp choking off his windpipe. The hunters were closing in, and his survival instinct urged him to abandon the search and defect. But the very reasons why he had begun this double life kept him coming back to the deafening clatter of the communications room every morning. If he could hold on till he got one more break, he’d really earn the welcome he knew the Falcon had waiting for him.
Of course, he did have something. On a trumped-up trip back to Moscow, he’d photographed an initial planning memorandum that should stir up a bit of doubt in the Pentagon. That film was now sitting innocently with the other photographic equipment in his apartment. It would have been in the Falcon’s hands by now except for the tragedy at the San Jeronimo. The fact that they’d identified his contact made his situation even more desperate. The only stroke of luck was that he hadn’t actually been seen with the dead man.
So how was he going to get that film to the Falcon now? And what if it came to a choice between getting the proof out or saving himself?
He had reached the bottom of the pile of classified messages and was about to signal the guard to let him out when a piece of informal traffic addressed to General Dwayne Brewster at Torrejon Air Force Base caught his eye. It was from one of the general’s colleagues at the Pentagon and advised him of a surprise upcoming visit by the inspector general’s staff. There was nothing of particular importance in the communiqué except that it used the caution “Don’t put this one in your file.”
That was one of the phrases he and the Falcon had used for identity verification back when his every action hadn’t been subject to examination under a microscope.
He looked down at the white fanfold paper in his hand. The choice of words could be coincidental. Yet somehow he didn’t think so. This was coming in on the line that he had warned the Falcon his government was reading. Using the Soviet’s tap to send a message back to him was a form of poetic justice that would appeal to the director of the Peregrine Connection.
After taking a precautionary glance at the door, he turned his back to it and pulled out a standard-issue KGB pen that contained a miniature camera. First he pulled the pocket clip forward to activate the hidden mechanism. Then he held the instrument over the communiqué and clicked the point return button twice before returning the pen to the breast pocket of his suit.
The Raven picked up the stack of routine output he retrieved daily from the room and glanced around once more, assuring himself that everything was in order. Then he ran the buzzer alerting the guard that he was ready to return to his desk job.
* * *
T HERE WAS SO MUCH KGB work to take care of that Aleksei often came to the office on Saturdays to deal with the normal duties of his cover job as cultural attaché. But he wasn’t the only one. A fair number of staffers had to put in weekend time. He was just going over the schedule of a Ukrainian folk dance troupe which would be arriving in Barcelona next month, when the phone rang. He wasn’t surprised that it was a summons from Bogolubov. When Aleksei entered the upstairs office, the general was sitting forward glaring at Feliks Gorlov and Georgi Krasin. “Well, Aleksei Iliyanovich, you seem to be the only one capable of following orders,” he observed.
Aleksei took his seat without comment. A compliment from the general was like a two-edged blade. You
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