MOSCOW
Dimitri, alternately dozing and staring at his clock, was startled when the alarm sounded at six o’clock. He remained in his narrow bed, exhausted after a restless sleep, believing he had been the victim of a bad dream. Actually, it had been an ongoing nightmare. America being obliterated in a firestorm by his native Russia.
Sitting upright, Dimitri surveyed the room, realizing it was not a dream at all. His mind raced as he assembled his toilet articles and walked down the narrow hall to the communal bathhouse.
Shaving and bathing quickly, Dimitri dressed in fresh warm clothes, checked his credentials, buttoned his heavy coat, and walked to the security entrance for lower ranking domestic workers.
The guard was a familiar friend who had been posted to his billet three months after Dimitri arrived at the Kremlin. Dimitri had provided the sentry with sumptuous leftovers on more than one occasion.
“Up early, Dimitri,” the uniformed guard said in a friendly greeting.
“Yes, Comrade Alexei Nikolayevich,” Dimitri responded, “I have many errands to attend to this morning.”
“But the shops are not open for some time, my friend.” The guard was inquisitive at this early hour.
“Yes, but my Svetlana’s door is open at any hour,” Dimitri said, forcing a sly smile.
Dimitri didn’t have time for small talk. He tried to be calm and appear normal, but his heart was pounding. Dimitri placed his shaking hands inside his coat pockets. He was sure the Kremlin guard had seen them trembling.
“You will be busy, my friend,” the guard said, waving Dimitri through. “Have fun shopping.”
“Thank you, Alexei Nikolayevich.”
Dimitri walked across Red Square, passing the eight domes of Saint Basil’s, and turned down the side street leading to Svetlana’s tiny apartment. Along the way, he peered into shop windows, trying to effect a slow, casual stroll down the narrow, rough street. Dimitri passed the small, dingy cafe where he and Svetlana occasionally had a warm beer. They always laughed about having to drink fast before the paper cup soaked through.
Dimitri could almost sense the presence of KGB agents in the vicinity. No one knew where they would appear next. He forced himself to relax, his breath turning to white mist in the cold February air.
The young Russian-American thought about the conversation he had overheard in the general secretary’s quarters.
Would his CIA contact believe the incredible information he possessed? The general secretary planned to strike America with nuclear and chemical weapons.
Could he even make contact at this unusual time of the day? He had no idea the American agents were desperately trying to locate him.
Dimitri rounded a corner and almost walked into his most frequent CIA connection.
“Excuse me. I-I’m sorry,” Dimitri blurted, shocked by the unexpected encounter.
“No harm, Comrade,” the American agent responded in flawless Russian, surprise registering on his face, too.
Steve Wickham, the senior CIA agent in Moscow, stepped off the sidewalk and around Dimitri. He continued down Kuybisheva Street, nonchalant in attitude and casual in his gait. Inside, however, his mind was whirling from the sudden and unexpected meeting.
“Christ Almighty,” the CIA operative said under his breath. “Now what?”
The American agent stopped, apparently gazing at fresh bread being placed in a shop window. Actually, he was staring at Dimitri in the reflection of the glass.
The Kremlin “mole” was slowly strolling by the shop windows, his arms folded, left over right.
“Damn, I’ve gotta go for it,” Wickham said to himself. He had been instructed to contact the plant as quickly as possible. He sensed the urgency in the operative, too. His superiors, he thought quietly, had been correct about the immediacy of establishing contact. There wasn’t time to go through all the steps and take all the usual precautions.
Dimitri, adrenaline surging through his body, slowly continued toward the apartment. He felt weak, fear turning to nausea. Dimitri was sure his connection had seen his arms crossed, left over right. He had a moment of panic. Did I inadvertently reverse the procedure? No, he convinced himself, and repeated the arm crossing.
Dimitri glanced in a window, no matter the dark curtain was drawn, and saw the CIA agent retracing his steps, a loaf of bread tucked under his left arm.
The former Leonid Vochik, on the verge of panic, continued his slow pace. He noted the increase in early morning pedestrian traffic and saw nothing that would indicate a sinister presence.
The CIA agent, nearly abreast of Dimitri, quickened his pace slightly. As he passed the Kremlin mole, the American spoke to him in Russian, his hand covering his mouth as he appeared to inhale from his cigarette. “Meet me at Chlebnikow Restaurant.” The statement, short and clear, was an order.
Dimitri, knowing better, didn’t utter a sound as the American continued down the street, looking very Russian in his heavy coat and fur cap.
LAJES, AZORES
The president, Grant Wilkinson, and the secretary of state, Herbert Kohlhammer, watched as the large Ilyushin 11-76 transport circled over the airfield and turned downwind in preparation for landing.
The powerful Soloviev turbofan engines increased in sound when the flaps and massive landing gear were extended. The president watched the huge Russian jet turn toward the runway, landing lights blazing, and thought how far Russia had come in the past seventy years toward the announced communist goal of global conquest.
The jet touched down, rolled half the length of the runway, then turned toward the flight line. The president watched the aircraft taxi to a stop.
“Let’s be first in line, gentlemen,” the president stated as the three Americans walked to the front of the red carpet being placed beside the Soviet jet.
The powerful engines slowly droned to a halt, leaving a peaceful quiet as the forward passenger door opened on the gleaming Aeroflot transport.
The band played, flags were presented, and cameras clicked as the Russian general secretary deplaned, followed by the Soviet foreign minister, the Central Committee secretary, the military chief of staff, and various aides and functionaries.
As General Secretary Zhilinkhov reached the bottom of the stairs, the American president raised his hand for a perfunctory handshake. The Soviet leader weakly returned the gesture. The atmosphere was definitely cool and restrained at this juncture.
“Secretary Zhilinkhov,” the president confronted the Soviet general secretary, “we need to talk immediately.” The president was calm, matter-of-fact, but demanding.
The general secretary spoke in Russian, then smiled thinly. He understood English well enough to follow what the president was saying, but not well enough to speak the language.
“Mister President,” the Soviet interpreter repeated, “we are scheduled for discussions this afternoon. We have scarcely arrived and our hosts have planned a welcome.”
“Secretary Zhilinkhov, recent events dictate that we dispense with protocol and address the urgent issues at hand,” the president said firmly.
The imposing Soviet head of state, his black suit bedecked with medals, was clearly perplexed and moderately ruffled. He had not anticipated the American being so bold, especially in public.
“Mister President,” the interpreter continued “I will discuss this—”
“We, General Secretary Zhilinkhov, need to discuss this situation now,” the president said slowly and deliberately, clearly enunciating every word.
The Soviet leader looked resigned to the inevitable confrontation as the president continued without pause.
“Many of our fine young military people are dead as a result of Soviet aggression. In recent hours, a Russian submarine heavily damaged one of our ships, and Soviet fighters shot down several of our aircraft, without provocation.”
Tempers flared.
Zhilinkhov spoke forcefully, then waited while the interpreter responded. “The general secretary warns you—”
“You’re not on Soviet soil, Mister Zhilinkhov,” the president said, ignoring the interpreter. “It would serve you well to remember that one fact. You don’t warn, or threaten, anyone here.”
The Russian leader was flustered, off guard, and visibly agitated. The crowd was hushed, tension mounting, as the two world leaders stared intently at one another. No one had anticipated this situation.
The Soviet leader spoke loudly, then listened as the interpreter addressed the American. “Where do you propose we talk?”
The general secretary was openly embarrassed and seething with rage. He had underestimated his adversary in the development of his scheme.
Staff members of both delegations, caught off guard by the unexpected confrontation, were ill at ease. The band had stopped playing and soldiers, scheduled to pass in review, were halted in front of the reviewing stand, bewilderment written on their faces.
“We have arranged a space in the large hangar across the ramp.” The president gestured toward the hangar used for itinerant aircraft. It was already surrounded by security personnel.
“Let’s walk together,” the president suggested, then added, “I’ll have refreshments sent over.”
“That will be greatly appreciated,” the short, thin aide replied. “We have had a long and strenuous flight.”
The general secretary of the Soviet Union knew he had to be conciliatory and not let anger or impatience put his entire plan in jeopardy.
The president didn’t reply, or encourage conversation, as the two leaders walked the short distance to the hangar.
The president stepped close to Wilkinson, talking in a hushed voice. “Let’s turn this into a working lunch. I want to press Zhilinkhov, not let him have time to formulate a new strategy.”
“Yes, sir. I will take care of the arrangements.” The chief of staff was pleased to see the president place the communist leader in a compromising position.
The president turned to the Soviet delegation and motioned them to join him at the center table.
“Secretary Zhilinkhov, let’s sit at the head table, across from each other, with two each of our staff. Six total, plus your interpreter.”
The Russians were clearly confused.
“Secretary Zhilinkhov, my chief of staff, Grant Wilkinson, and our secretary of state, Herb Kohlhammer.”
The general secretary responded in kind.
“Foreign Minister Vladimir Vuyosekiev and Central Committee Secretary Yakov Toporovsky.”
The men awkwardly shook hands around the table, no smiles or small talk.
The Soviet leader was forced to leave his senior military representative, General Bogdonoff, out of the discussions, a step he reluctantly went along with under the circumstances.
Two large sheets had hurriedly been placed over the stained surface of the scarred banquet table. The president, along with Wilkinson and Kohlhammer, sat down. The Soviet contingent hesitated a moment, then slowly sat down with the Americans.
“General Secretary Zhilinkhov, I want to make one statement. All the meetings, arms control negotiations, endless diplomatic conferences, et cetera, aren’t going to accomplish anything if we, you and I, can’t come to some agreement that we can both live with.
“Agreements, Secretary Zhilinkhov, known to the whole world. Agreements we must honor, or be judged by the entire globe as untrustworthy and reprehensible.”
The president sat back, arms folded across his chest.
“Mister President, I am in agreement with you. Totally. As the new leader of the Soviet people, I am prepared to travel a different path from my esteemed predecessors.”
The interpreter waited while Zhilinkhov completed his statement.
“I wish to cooperate with the United States to make this world a better and safer place in which to live, for all humanity.”
Zhilinkhov extended his hand to the president, catching him off guard.
“I’m very pleased, Mister Secretary. Very pleased indeed,” the president said as he extended his hand in return. The two men shook hands warmly, then opened briefs supplied by aides.
A stir of subdued voices quietly discussed the unprecedented event, sounding openly skeptical and suspicious of the agreement.
Zhilinkhov, following the pause, continued his discourse.
“We, the Russian people, Mister President, don’t want a war with the United States, or anyone, for that matter. We are a peaceful country, offering—”
“General Secretary Zhilinkhov,” the president interrupted the interpreter, “I have no doubt the Russian people don’t want a war with anyone. Our dispute is not with the people of Russia, but with its totalitarian, expansionist policies, which violate international law.”
The short honeymoon was over, resentment again invading the conversation.
Zhilinkhov, unprepared for the frontal assault by the tenacious American leader, took the offensive.
“Mister President,” the Russian interpreter hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, “I must remind you that your country has been responsible for sinking two Soviet Union vessels, a submarine and a ship of the Soviet Pacific Fleet.”
The president responded immediately, his neck becoming rigid.
“Unbridled Soviet militarism is bringing the globe closer to catastrophe. Annihilation, Mister Zhilinkhov. You are fully aware, as everyone at this table is aware, that Soviet aggression caused us to respond in kind.”
The president continued, speaking over Zhilinkhov’s attempted rebuttal.
“Secretary Zhilinkhov, your actions have brought us to the brink of war. That is why, Mister General Secretary, we are meeting here.”
The Kremlin leader became distant, not attempting to refute the American president. Zhilinkhov was visibly irritated and gulped his iced tea.
“Mister Zhilinkhov, let me assure you of one thing, a very important point for you to remember. Don’t underestimate the American resolve, our dedication to freedom. We are a civilized nation, but we mean what we say.”
The president hit a nerve and the Kremlin leader’s jaw muscles tightened. Both men stared at each other in silence.
COBRA FLIGHT
DiGennaro looked at his altimeter and then his twenty-four-hour clock. His F-15 was climbing through flight level 470—forty-seven thousand feet—over a cold ocean at eleven o’clock at night.
The flight leader looked over his right shoulder at his wingman, Cobra Two.
Captain Parnam could see DiGennaro’s head turn in the soft, eerie glow of his cockpit lights. The fighter pilot appeared luminescent, floating in a black void of time and space, Parnam thought as he pressed his radio transmission button.
“I’m with you, Major.”
“Roger, we’ll stay high for awhile, then drop down for a drink when the rest of the team is in sight.”
DiGennaro had no intention, without backup fighters, of going in for a close look at the Russian bomber group.
“Two.” Parnam was trying to concentrate on the task at hand, but a picture of his wife and seven-month-old daughter kept creeping into his consciousness. They were home in Tallahassee, Florida, where the sun would rise in less than an hour. The fighter pilot could see them clearly in his mind.
Shelly feeding breakfast to Meredith, laughing as the baby gurgled gleefully, squashed bananas running down her chin.
“Cobra, Pinwheel Seven.”
“Go, Pinwheel.” DiGennaro’s nerves involuntarily twitched when the radio startled him.
“The rest of the players will be with us in twelve minutes.” The E–3 coordinator, relaxed and clear-voiced, knew his job well.
“Roger, Pinwheel. We’d like to gas-up before everyone hits the tankers.” DiGennaro always stacked the odds in his favor, if possible. Airborne refueling would be necessary for the fighters joining the group.
“Stand by, Cobra.”
“Rog.”
These AWACS crews are sharp, DiGennaro thought as the radio crackled to life again.
“Cobra flight, go tact two. The tanker, Nightrider Four, is waiting for you at flight level two-seven-oh, zero-eight-zero for twenty-three.”
The E–3 had told the fighters the tanker would give them fuel at 27,000 feet, almost due east at a distance of twenty-three nautical miles.
“Cobras going tact two,” DiGennaro responded as he simultaneously reduced power, switched radio channels, lowered the nose, and rolled into a left turn.
“Two up,” Parnam checked in as he followed his leader into the descent, remaining in perfect position throughout the transition.
“Rog, Bill,” DiGennaro acknowledged before he contacted the tanker.
“Nightrider Four, Cobra One, flight of two Fox-Fifteens.”
“Bring it on in, Cobras,” the friendly tanker pilot radioed.
“You’re cleared to the stabilized position. One plug first and call stabilized. We have you on radar.”
“Roger, Cobra flight five out, closing from your seven o’clock.” DiGennaro had the big tanker visually at this close range.
“Okay, check nav and form lights, Cobras.”
“Copy.” DiGennaro responded automatically, having practiced this task countless times.
“Pinwheel Seven to all tactical one and two aircraft. Be advised Pinwheel Two will be channel eight controlling the carrier-based fighters, copy?”
“Nightrider Four.”
“Nightrider Five.”
“Cobras.”
“Hawks copy.”
“Leopard flight.”
DiGennaro knew the tankers would be as critical as the AWACS aircraft to the mission. He was surprised the carrier-based fighters weren’t being supported by their own E-2C Hawkeyes.
The Russian bomber group, besides the Bears and Backfires, had a large contingent of tankers including the Tupolev Badger, the Myasishchev Bison, and the recently operational Ilyushin Midas.
The Soviet force would pose a serious threat, especially with their long-range AS-15 cruise missiles. The nuclear armed cruise missiles, traveling at 0.74 Mach, had a range of over 3,000 kilometers. They could easily target all major U.S. West Coast cities and military bases.
The large Soviet fighter escort, DiGennaro decided, would be last in priority. First fighter wave go for the bombers, second for the tankers, and high cover take the Russian fighters.
This would be a real treat at night, DiGennaro thought, his mouth dry from the pure oxygen, as he plugged into the KC–10 tanker.
MOSCOW
The interior of the Chlebnikow Restaurant was warm and somewhat comforting to Dimitri as he sat down at a vacant table, lighted a cigarette, and ordered hot tea.
Dimitri rubbed his shaking hands together, as if to warm them, and stirred his steaming tea, glancing nervously at his watch. He paid the small Russian woman who brought him a refill and waited for his connection to arrive.
The CIA agent walked boldly through the door and announced, in Russian, that he was a KGB officer and wanted to see Dimitri’s papers. A very brash move in the heart of Moscow.
Everyone was shocked into silence, including Dimitri, who looked at the American in wide-eyed disbelief—the exact effect the CIA agent wanted to convey.
Two patrons, an old man and a young woman, left a couple of rubles on their tables and went out the front door with their coats not fully buttoned. The handful of other early morning customers hunkered down, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in the confines of the small restaurant.
The American ordered Dimitri to the kitchen, where the agent told the small Russian woman and her young helper to leave them alone for five minutes. The two women were more than relieved to disappear from the compact room and the dreaded KGB officer.
“Your report. Quickly,” Wickham said, speaking in English.
“Zhilinkhov plans … they plan to launch nuclear missiles on … at the United States!” Dimitri struggled to be articulate.
“WHAT?” The CIA operative blinked twice, grabbed Dimitri by the shoulders, and stared intently into his face. The grip was like a vise, sending an excruciating pain through Dimitri’s upper body.
“Yes. I heard the general secretary talk at length last night with three Politburo members and a former member of the Politburo—”
“When?” the agent asked, stunned.
“Just before he left on—”
“No!” the tall agent said angrily. “When is he planning to initiate the preemptive strike?”
“I’m not sure of the exact time,” Dimitri responded, talking rapidly. “He said very soon.”
“Slow down,” the American said, lowering his voice to where it was almost inaudible. “Exactly what was said?”
“They have planned for the Americans to be off guard … something about an alert being over.”
Dimitri was trying to rush, searching for the best way to explain something unbelievable.
“Go on,” Wickham ordered.
“They talked about survival statistics. I couldn’t hear all of it—the conversation.”
“What exactly did you hear, regarding the missile strike?” The CIA agent was adamant. He also found the disclosure incredulous. Would his superiors think he had lost his faculties?
“He—Secretary Zhilinkhov—used the term ‘first strike’ more than once. He said when the military withdraws, when the alert is over … then the strike will happen.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. They—the six of them, including the defense minister—talked about dominating the world and … acceptable casualties.”
“Then what?”
“They drank a toast … and celebrated,” Dimitri said, more sure of himself.
“Do you recall any other pertinent information?” The agent was insistent.
“No,” Dimitri replied, trying to remember the details of the secret plan. His mind still couldn’t accept the horrible fact.
“Okay, now we’ve—”
Wickham was cut off abruptly when Dimitri remembered an important point. It would have been easier if he had written everything down, but one of his first lessons at the CIA was to never leave a record of anything, ever.
“They talked about a delay or reaction time they needed to test. How long it would take the Americans to react to a missile launch from the Soviet Union. The general secretary said if the Russians have a sixteen-minute period of time before the United States reacts, then they can successfully destroy America.”
“Anything else?” the agent asked, knowing they needed to leave the restaurant.
“Only that they discussed how they would go about occupying America and Europe… and having all the oil they needed.”
Dimitri paused, trying to collect his thoughts.
“Only the six of them know of the plan … plus the chief of the general staff. They intend to sink an American ship, escalate … I believe they said defense conditions to stage two, then withdraw. When the Americans withdraw, Zhilinkhov is going to launch all the Soviet missiles.”
Dimitri waited as the agent glanced through the thin curtain stretched across the door to the kitchen. “Go on.”
“They definitely said ‘first strike’ … on America. I know that for sure,” Dimitri said, sounding exhausted.
“Alright, Dimitri, can you continue in your capacity, or do you want out?”
Wickham could see that Dimitri, the agency’s only Kremlin in-house operative, was on the threshold of breaking. That was the last thing they could afford to have happen to him inside the Russian headquarters. He had done a great job, under constant tension, but this astonishing revelation had fractured his mettle.
“I want out,” Dimitri said in a resigned whisper. “I can’t stay here … knowing what they are going to—”
“This will be tough, understand?” Wickham didn’t have much time for explanations.
“Yes.”
Dimitri thought about Svetlana, his mouth dry, as he tried to grasp the enormity of the task ahead.
“Tell them your mother is worse. Explain that you have to leave now to see her one last time.”
“Yes, sir,” Dimitri responded, openly fidgeting in the small room.
“You must be bold, Dimitri. You understand? You’ve got to keep it together. You must give us a little time to organize your trip out, okay?”
“Yes, sir. I can do it.”
Dimitri saw a flash of Svetlana and the New York City skyline—incongruous under the circumstances—his mind trying to deal with too many changes too quickly.
“Take the train to Yemetsk, see the old woman, and wait to hear from us. We’ll be in touch soon.”
“I will leave this afternoon.”
Dimitri could feel relief surging through him, his fears quelled by the need for clear thinking.
“Make it appear normal. Don’t take anything out of the ordinary. Understand?”
“Yes … but,” Dimitri paused, trying to decide how to approach the subject of Svetlana.
“But what? We don’t have much time.”
The agent nervously looked at the front entrance.
“What about my girl? Svetlana Grishinakov. We plan to marry when my commitment is—”
“Impossible!”
Silence filled the small room before Wickham, in a pleasant voice, spoke again.
“Look, we will be lucky to get you out alive, under the circumstances.” The American gently squeezed Dimitri’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. It’s just too risky. You must understand?”
Dimitri nodded, frightened and dejected. “I understand.”
“We’ve got to get out of here. You walk in front of me to the front door.”
The Central Intelligence expert was pressing his luck. Changing back to fluent Russian, the covert operative gave Dimitri an order.
“You report back to work immediately! You will be contacted soon. Your papers are not in compliance.”
The ruse might have convinced everyone except the beefy, bald-headed man sitting alone in the corner. He didn’t even glance up as the two men passed his table.
“Yes, comrade,” Dimitri replied in a weak voice.
Turning to the two women, the American agent bellowed in Russian. “Your kitchen is a disgrace. Have it cleaned before I send the inspector.”
The women trembled but didn’t utter a sound as they huddled in a corner.
Dimitri walked into the street, trying to sort out his trip to Yemetsk and what he would tell Svetlana. He had to find a way to get her out of Russia. Dimitri knew if he could arrange for his beautiful Svetlana to go to Yemetsk with him, or meet him there, it might work. First, he must tell her the truth.
Dimitri looked over his still-aching shoulder as he crossed the street and saw the CIA agent disappear down a side street next to the restaurant.
The Kremlin operative also saw something else from the corner of his eye.
Panic gripped him when the black Volga, bearing KGB tags, turned down the same side street behind the American.
Dimitri froze, confused, not comprehending the gravity of the situation. The desire to flee almost overpowered his reasoning. He looked around, sensing other KGB agents near. Nothing appeared abnormal.
Dimitri made a snap decision. His contact, his only connection to the outside world, was in jeopardy. He had to do something. Now.
Think, he told himself. The words “be bold” came back to him. That’s what the American agent said he must be in order to survive and escape.
Dimitri hurried back across the street and followed the black car down the side street. Ahead he could see Wickham, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his heavy coat, stepping off the sidewalk to cross the narrow street. Did the American have any idea the KGB officers were following him?
“There must have been an informant in the restaurant,” Dimitri absently said to himself. “Someone who knew the American wasn’t KGB.”
Dimitri slowed his walk. At that very instant the Volga stopped twenty meters from the CIA agent. The two occupants got out of the car and approached the lone man. The American, if he did notice the car, or agents, didn’t react to the KGB pressure. He continued his normal pace, stepping onto the opposite sidewalk as the two Russian agents confronted him.
The three men then stepped into a concealed space between two rusted, peeling buildings. Dimitri moved forward cautiously, trying to suppress the gnawing fear overcoming him. He looked up and down the street. No trace of anything unordinary.
Dimitri could see the three men clearly now. The American presented his credentials to the KGB officers and stepped back. The Soviet agents looked at the papers, then told Wickham to turn around and place his hands over his head, forehead against the rough wall.
The taller of the two Russians then pulled a snub-nosed gun from his coat as his companion placed the American’s credentials in his vest pocket.
Dimitri reacted without thinking. Running at full speed into the narrow space, Dimitri barreled into the two KGB agents. The impact knocked all four men down in a thundering crash of rubbish containers and egg cartons.
The American leaped to his feet, whirled around and solidly kicked the taller Russian under the chin, breaking his neck and crushing his larynx.
Dimitri, struggling to regain his footing, saw only a blur as Wickham slung a rubbish can lid into the skull of the other supine KGB agent, rendering him unconscious.
The American yanked Dimitri to his feet, grabbed the snubnosed revolver, retrieved his credentials, and ushered the frightened young spy into the street.
“Follow me! We’ve got to leave Moscow immediately.”
Dimitri was amazed at the self-control demonstrated by the CIA operative.
“Yessir,” Dimitri responded automatically, so frightened he was shaking uncontrollably.
POW! The backhand caught Dimitri completely by surprise, the result being instantaneous. He stopped shaking and his mind snapped to reality.
“Sorry, but you’ve got to get it together or we’re both dead,” Wickham said in a menacing tone. “Too many people have seen this. The KGB will have our descriptions in minutes.”
“Yes … I’m okay,” Dimitri replied, rubbing his jaw.
“Follow me,” the agent said, breathing heavily. “Stay twenty meters behind and keep your eyes open.”
“Yessir,” Dimitri paused, looking around for signs of more KGB officers.
The two men walked at a steady pace, slightly separated, as a shocked crowd gathered around the inert Soviet agents. No one attacked KGB officers.