Текст книги "Snow Wolf"

Автор книги: Glenn Meade

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"By air, the peninsula is over ten kilometers from Bylandet Island," Saarinen explained. "But the Soviet base has never caused me any problems-it's strictly out of bounds to Finns and the Russians keep to themselves. And if we go from Bylandet the crossing shouldn't take more than thirty minutes. Maybe forty at most if there's a headwind."

"You think the weather will be a problem?"

Saarinen smiled, a rakish smile. "It's always a problem up here. But if it's bad it can work to our advantage in a situation like this. We can use cloud cover most of the way in. Stick right in it almost until the drop."

"Isn't that taking a big risk?"

Saarinen laughed. "Not as big a risk as getting blown out of the sky by the latest Mig fighter. There's a squadron of the latest all-weather model stationed south of Leningrad that covers Baltic coastal patrols. Those machines are pretty damned good-the fastest thing around right now, even faster than your latest American fighters. And the Russians have got radar on board.

"What if they pick you up on their radar?"

"The news is the Soviet pilots are not that familiar with the new equipment, so they won't stay in the cloud too long at the kind of speeds they cruise at. They prefer to be able to see where they're going. And if it's really bad, like heavy snow, they'll stay safely on land getting drunk in the mess."

"Can your plane stand the kind of buffeting you'll get if the weather's bad?"

Saarinen grinned. "The little Norseman I've got could come through a blizzard of shit in one piece."

It was almost eight that evening when Saarinen dropped Massey off at the Palace Hotel in Helsinki.

They had one drink in the bar together before the Finn bade him goodbye. When Massey went up to his room there was a message waiting. Henri Lebel had called from Paris. Massey made the return call after waiting twenty minutes for the Helsinki operator to patch him through to Paris on a crackling line.

"Jake'? I'm going to be in Helsinki the day after tomorrow and -I thought we could meet to discuss our business arrangement further."

Massey knew Lebel meant to show him the hidden compartment in the private goods train the Frenchman leased from the Finns, before Lebel traveled on for a brief visit to Moscow.

"What about the other information I require?"

"I'm working on it, but it hasn't been easy, mon ami. A matter of greasing the right greedy palm. But I hope to have something for you soon."

"Good, Henri. Give me a call when you get here."

When Massey replaced the receiver he crossed to the window that overlooked the harbor. If Lebel got the information he wanted he knew what he had to do next, despite what Branigan had warned.

In the moonlit winter's darkness the entire Baltic seemed frozen white as far as the eye could see. As he stood there looking out at the scene, Massey couldn't help thinking of Anna Khorev. Two weeks from now she'd be flying out over that frozen gulf with Stanski, taking the biggest risk taken in her life. she had in New Hampshire.

February 11th Anna was standing at the window when she saw the old black Ford pull up outside the house.

The man who climbed out was big and powerfully built. His dark bushy beard and greasy black hair gave him the appearance of a wild-looking mountain man. When he and Stanski came up the veranda and stepped inside the cabin, the big man saw her and grinned, broken teeth showing behind his beard.

"So this is the woman," the man said to Stanski.

Stanski said, "Popov, this is Anna."

The man held out a huge bearlike paw. Anna didn't offer to shake it but said to Stanski, "When you want me I'll be outside," then walked past the Ukrainian and down the steps of the veranda.

Popov watched her retreating figure appreciatively as she walked toward the woods.

He grinned and stroked his beard. "A good one to have beside you in a bed on a cold night, I'll say that much. But did I say something wrong?"

"I don't think former Ukrainian SS are among her favorite types, Dimitri." Popov grunted. "Massey said she was Russian. Russians and Ukrainians have always fought like cat and dog. The Russkis have tried to grind us to dust for centuries." A brief smile flashed on his face. "Still, I'd call a truce as far as that one's concerned. Nice ass on her, I'll say that."

"You're here to do the job, Diniitri. Get fresh with her and I'll take it personally."

Popov frowned as Stanski glared at him. There was a flash of anger in Popov's bearded face as he went to say something, but then he seemed to think better of' it and broke into a wide grin.

"You know me, Alex, always willing to keep the peace for the sake of' training."

"Let's go down to the lake. I want to talk."

Popov left his things in the car, and as they walked down to the water Stanski said, "You think you can cover everything in ten days?"

"You I know about. The girl I don't. It depends on her."

"Massey thinks she should be OK."

"And what do you think?"

Stanski smiled. "Much as I hate to admit it, she's good. The last week she's Put her heart into getting fit."

"Better let me be the judge of that. But if anyone can do it, Popov can."

When Popov had settled in he met them downstairs in the dining room. Stanski had poured coffee and the three of them sat at the table.

The Ukrainian looked across at Anna and Stanski. "First things first. The program. You wake every morning at four-thirty. We take a five-mile run, even if there's snow,@then back here for more exercises. After breakfast we do some selfdefense training, how to defend yourself, and also how to kill."

He looked at Stanski. @"You too, Alex. The day you think you know nothing more you're dead. The woman here, I know about her background, so I'll have to assume she knows nothing and go on from there." He looked directly at Anna. "What kind of experience have you had of this kind of thing?"

Stanski interrupted. "She's had some, Dimitri."

Popov raised his eyebrows and grunted. "I asked the girl, Alex. So let her answer." He looked at Anna. "Show me your hands."

"What?"

"Your hands. Give them to me."

Anna held out her hands and Popov studied them. Then he reached over and gripped them painfully hard. He seemed to take pleasure as his big strong fingers pressed cruelly into her flesh, as if he was trying to hurt her, but Anna only winced and didn't cry out.

Popov grinned, then released his grip. "Good. You've known pain before. So what's your background?" Stanski said, "Massey said no questions, Dimitri."

Popov turned to stare at him and spoke gruffly. "I'm not asking her life history. But I need to know how much training she's had. How much pain she can take."

"I've had military training, if that's what you mean," Anna answered sharply.

Popov's bushy eyebrows rose. "Which army?"

"Dimitri ..." Stanski went to interrupt.

Popov stared back at him. "You realize as well as I do it's important I know something of her background, considering what she might have to face when the time comes. I need to know what I'm working with." He looked back at Anna. "Which army?"

"The Red Army."

Popov frowned, an unpleasant look crossing his face before he grinned again and stroked his beard. "I guessed as much. So, we were once enemies. This should make for an interesting time. But I can tell you that such military experience will hardly help you. The Red Army are a rabble. Undisciplined. Unruly."

Anger flared on Anna's face. "Even at Stalin-rad?"

Popov grinned. "First blood to you. Stalingrad is the exception."

"And no doubt the SS were better?"

Popov heard the bitterness in Anna's voice and glanced at Stanski before looking back at her.

"So, you know something of me? As fighting men, the Ss were infinitely better, believe me."

"Except the Ukrainian SS. They were rapists and scum."

Stanski looked at Popov, whose face turned red with fury Stanski stood up to break the tension.

"Let's get this under way. Whenever you're ready, Dimitri."

Popov stood and pushed back his chair. "There's still light outside. Let's start with ways to kill." He looked at Anna. "We'll see who was scum. Go change." He grinned at Stanski "You know, I think I'm going to enjoy this."

They were out behind the house, their breaths fogging in the freezing air, but the cold didn't seem to bother Popov, who hac removed his parka and sweater, and stood there in his dirty vest. The smell from the man's body was unpleasant, a mixture of stale sweat and wood smoke.

He faced them, his feet spread apart as he hitched up his trousers.

"OK. Basics first. To kill properly you need two things. Determination and skill. Forget anger. It makes for mistakes and distracts you. You must be clear-headed about your purpose. OK, without weapons first. Let's start with you, Alex.

Step forward." Stanski stepped forward.

"Give up your hands. Palms up," commanded Popov.

Stanski offered his hands. Popov grasped one, held it up and splayed the fingers.

He looked at Anna. "Five fingers. Five simple but deadly weapons on each hand. You use them to gouge and poke out eyes. To strangle and choke. Then there's your feet. And Your head, but use that for anything other than thinking it can be both painful and dangerous. Better to stick with the other parts-legs, hands and feet. OK, Alex, tell me how you can kill with your hand@;."

Stanski's hand touched a point behind Popov's left ear and pressed.

"Pressure points left and right sides of the neck where the veins Carry blood to the brain. Depending on the amount of pressure applied, you can knock a man unconscious or kill him in five to ten seconds."

"That's assuming of course," said Popov, "you've (, got time. What if you haven't'? What if it must be done instantly'?

A sentry, perhaps ' Someone you wish to silence without a sound @and at once?"

Stanski showed him. With the edge of His hand, he gestured like it was a blade. "Side cut to the throat shatters the Adam's apple."

"And if You're coming from behind?"

"The right way is to side cut or punch to the pressure Points."

"But if it doesn't kill him?"

"Stamp on his throat."

"But if he's still standing?"

"You get him down on the ground as quickly as possible. Crush his throat with your hand or foot."

"Which part of the foot?"

"The heel is the strongest."

"OK, do it to . me."

Popov turned, offering his back. Stanski came up behind him and went to attack. As his hand came cutting through the air, Popov turned quick as lightning and grasped Stanski's arm and twisted. Stanski didn't scream even though the bone almost cracked. Popov released his grip and grinned. "First mistake. I'm surprised at you, Alex. You've grown rusty. Always and always be ready for the unexpected. Anticipate that the guard is going to turn and look or have a piss," He looked at Anna. "If the guard sees you, it can cost you your life, and worse, the lives of the others with you. Never expect things to happen as you plan them. In short, expect fucking anything to happen. And when you're making that kill, every sense must be alert. Not only the ones you're using right now."

He stepped back a little. "Now try it again." He turned, offering his back again. Stanski came at him. As he was about to strike, Popov turned once again, but this time Stanski was ready. As Popov's hand came around, Stanski grabbed it and twisted, at the same time bringing his knee up and halting it an inch from smashing Popov's face, then his hand It stunned the man but he was power-fully built, and as Stanski's hand came down sharply to strike again Popov grunted and wrenched free, his hand grabbing Stanski's hair, wrenching it back painfully from the scalp.

"Better. But not quite good enough. You would have killed me, but not silently. We'll improve on it. Remember, always anticipate. The SS trained their men to expect everything." He looked at Anna and grinned. "And now you. Step forward please, madam."

There was something in the way Popov said madam that was almost goading. Anna took two steps forward. The grin behind the Ukrainian's beard widened.

"With women," Popov said dismissively, "it's even more difficult. They haven't got the natural strength a man has. But even nature's weaklings can be taught technique. Remember, always anticipate and react. And it must be quickly, or your life gets snuffed out. Got it?"

"I think so."

"We'll see. OK, the same again. Try and remember what you saw Alex do. Come at me from behind."

Popov turned again, showing Anna his back.

There was a swishing sound and Popov felt the force of the kick as a foot slammed hard between his legs. He vomited as he went down, his face turning purple as his hands went to cover his genitals.

At the same time Anna came around in front of him. Her hand sliced through the air and hit Popov a glancing blow to the side of the neck as he pitched forward.

As Popov writhed in pain, Stanski saw the barely concealed smile on Anna's face, and then it was gone, her face deathly serious as she looked back at him.

"His first mistake. He didn't heed his own advice to anticipate. That's the sign of a poor instructor," Stanski grinned, "I'd have to agree. What's the idea, are you trying to kill him?"

"There are many ways to stop a bear. The Mongolian troops I served with at Stalingrad taught me that. That's how they've silenced a sentry since the time of (Christ. A hard, sharp kick between the legs to a man's most vulnerable spot. The pain is so intense he can't scream or cry out even if he wants to. He goes dumb with shock. Then you kill him."

Stanski smiled over at Popov squirming on the ground. "I think you've made your point."

"Then tell him for me I hope the rest of the training is better. And remind him a good instructor should always practice what he preaches. Tell him that. I'll be inside when your friend has recovered."

Stanski watched as she turned and went back up to the house. He saw Popov try to struggle to his feet, cross-eyed with pain as he tenderly massaged his genitals and moaned.

Stanski laughed and lit a cigarette. "I guess she's better than you thought, Dimitri."

Moscow. February 12th It was almost noon when the Finnish DC-3 carrying Henri Lebe] landed at Vnukovo airport. Situated ten kilometers southwest of Moscow, Vnukovo served as the city's main civilian airport, but it was also a military airbase, ringed by a highsecurity fence and guarded by a battalion of crack paratroops.

Lebel remained quietly in his seat long after the aircraft had taxied to a halt. There were only a dozen passengers on board that Thursday morning, and among them Lebel recognized several faces he had seen before on Moscow flights-two prominent Dutch diamond merchants, a German oil magnate, and a minor Finnish embassy official. They all waited patiently in their seats, frequent visitors to Moscow who knew the drill that was to follow.

Lebel glanced out of the window and saw an Enika car drive the short distance across the snowy tarmac to the plane. He noticed that, as always, there were few Western aircraft on the aprons.

The Enika halted below on the apron and the two passengers climbed out and came up the metal stairway. The procedure was always the same, The two men were KGB, and they came on board but remained at the door. Before the passengers were allowed to disembark, the Finnish stewardesses went through the cabin removing any Western newspapers and magazines and storing them away in a locked cabinet in case anyone was tempted to take one.

Lebel and the passengers were finally led across the snowy tarmac to the terminal by one of the KGB men. Inside, two more men were waiting, standing beside a long metal table, where the passengers' bags would be examined.

Lebel identified his bag from a trolley and the man opened it and thoroughly examined the contents. When he had finished, he indicated for Lebel to move to another official sitting nearby, waiting to check passports. The man, whom Lebel knew from previous visits, was KGB. He examined the passport along with the official document declaring Lebel an honorary Soviet citizen, then stamped the passport and handed it back without a flicker of recognition.

There was a Zil and a driver waiting, as usual, for since his outburst years before the Ministry of Foreign Trade had treated Lebel royally. When he stepped inside it drew away from the curb.

Lebel liked the cosmopolitan, noisy atmosphere of Moscow there were Russians, Slavs, Mongolians, lots of Chinese, and a hundred other ethnic faces. It reminded him a little of New York, except that it was slower, colder, there were no really excellent restaurants, and it was much more drab.

But nothing could have been drabber than Moscow's hotels. There were only four in the capital which were used for foreign visitors, and the best by far was the Moskva on Marx Prospect, with a grand frontage and a summer cafe terrace that overlooked the Kremlin. The Moskva was the chief hotel assigned to important visiting foreigners and dignitaries. Lebel used it as his office, although he already had an official bureau assigned to him with a staff of three Ministry of Foreign Trade employees, situated near the Arbat. It was a drab two-room place he avoided as much as possible.

As the Zil pulled up outside the hotel, there was a uniformed militiainan on duty at the entrance, wearing a long blue overcoat with red and white tabs. Lebel told the man from the Ministry he wouldn't need him or the car until the next morning at nine-he had a meeting to discuss his next shipment-and the Zil drove off.

Whenever Lebel stepped into the Moskva it reminded him of a magnificent, if somewhat dismal, palace. Vast, with miles of deserted polished marble halls and glittering chandeliers, it still gave a bleak impression-there was no flower shop or newspaper stand, no concierge, and not a uniformed bellboy in sight. Guests were expected to carry their own bags.

Lebel went to check in. The clerk was busy talking with two men in civilian clothes at the far end of the desk, who were riffling through some index cards. One of them had a gloved false hand, and the other was a squat Mongol with slit eyes. The two men glanced briefly at Lebel, then went back to their discussion with the clerk. When the clerk finally came to attend to him after a long delay, he handed over his room key always for the same suite on the fourth floor-but did not ask to see a passport. That was up to the office known as the Service Bureau, across the hall, which was in reality the KGB's office in the hotel.

When he had finished checking in, Lebel carried his bag across to a glass-fronted door.

He saw a woman seated behind a desk smile and gesture for him to enter.

"Back for more sable or just the sinful delights of Moscow, Henri?"

Lebel knew the woman well. She had once worked at the Trade Ministry and spoke six languages, all fluently. Lebel smiled. "Wild horses can't keep me away."

The woman took out a batch of forms and began filling them in. "How long's your stay?"

"Two nights."

"Tickets for the opera, the ballet?"

"Not this time, Larissa. I've a busy schedule." Lebel handed over his passport and document of citizenship, and the woman placed them in a metal tray that would go in the office safe. Both passport and document would be kept until his departure.

"Any foreign currency'? Valuables?" the woman inquired.

"No valuables, but I've got five hundred dollars in cash. The same in Finnish marks."

Like all visitors and citizens, Lebel was not allowed to carry foreign currency, only rubles. He removed the money from his wallet, handed it across, and said playfully, "All for you, my sweet Larissa, if you'd let me take you out to dinner." The woman frowned and Lebel said, "It's only a joke, Larissa."

."Don't joke, Henri. "The duty officer's around, doing his usual check on arriving visitors.

Lebel had come to@know most of the Service Bureau personnel but had never got used to Russian paranoia and their fear of authority. "Who's on duty this time?"

"A Major Lukin. You haven't met him before and he's only filling in. But he shouldn't keep you long. He and a comrade "Just left the office to check the re ister."

Every foreign visitor had to have his passport checked and registered by the KGB 2nd Directorate officer on duty in the Service Bureau. Performing such duties, the KGB men always wore civilian clothes. All guests from abroad, important or not, were– their responsibility. Lebel knew he had nothing to fear. His document of honorary citizenship meant it would be merely a perfunctory check. But this time, knowing what he had to discuss with lrena, he felt a little nervous. He watched as the woman counted out the dollars and marks, filled in a form, then put the bills in the tray alongside the passport and had Lebel sign for both.

The door opened and the two men Lebel had seen chatting with the desk clerk came in.

"M. Lebel? My name is Lukin, and this is Comrade Kokui)ko." The man with the leather glove extended his good hand and shook Lebel's. The Mongol said nothing, just stared at him through slit eyes, which made Lebel feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"How do You do." Lebel answered.

"Just a short visit this time, I believe?" Lukin said.

"I'm meeting with the Ministry of Foreign Trade tomorrow morning,. I think you'll find everything is in order."

"i'm sure it is." Lukin held out his hand to the woman. "May I see Mr. Lebel's passport, Lari.@sa?"

The woman handed it across, along with the document of citizenship. The major studied both, then held up Lebel's document. "You have honorary citizenship, I see. We don't come across too many of these."

"I do a lot of important business in Moscow. I'm a fur dealer and have an office here. I'm here to arrange a shipment of sable."

For some odd reason, even though the major seemed polite enough, the man made Lebel feel uneasy. He put it down to his own conscience, knowing what he was really in Moscow to do. and he tried hard to appear calm. In another two hours he would hopefully be out on the streets of Moscow, going through his well-rehearsed routine of checking to make sure he had not been followed, before he carefully made his way to ]rena's dacha. He was desperately looking forward to seeing her again, and excited by the prospect of their future freedom together. But out of nervousness, he seemed to be explaining too much to Lukin.

The major was watching his face. He seemed an intelligent sort, with eyes that looked at you intently, as if pressing you to fill the void and talk. His Mongol colleague also just stood there, staring silently across. Lebel had the feeling that the major was suspicious of something, but he tried to put it down to his own heightened sense of' anxiety on this trip. He checked himself, stared back at Lukin, and said nothing more.

Finally, the major handed back the passport and document to the woman, and said politely, "Enjoy your stay in Moscow, Mr. Lebel. I hope your business goes well."

"I'm certain it will."

New York.

February 19th, 5 Pm.

In the tenth-floor office of the Soviet Mission in the United Nations building in Manhattan that late afternoon, Feliks Akashin stood hunched over the half-dozen black-and-white photographs and frowned as he scratched the mole on his jaw.

He turned to the man standing beside him and said, "You're certain about this, Yegem?"

Yegem Orainov was small and thin and wore thick black spectacles. He had the look of a distracted professor about him, wild tufts of wiry black hair sprouting from his head, but despite his appearance he held the rank of KGB captain in the New York Soviet Mission.

"Certain as we can be. I had the photo prints checked out with our people here and in Europe. It definitely looks like the man named Massey."

"Tell me about him."

"He runs the Munich CIA operations office. Apparently, he's been a thorn in our side for a long time. The question is, what do we do about it?"

Akashin shook his head. "The question is, surely, what's he doing with the woman, Anna Khorev?"

I went through the file you gave me, the one on the woman. Then I had some copies of these photographs sent to Helsinki in one of our diplomatic bags. We think Massey was present when our people interviewed her, although as you'd expect he used a different name. Colonel Romulka's aide remembers him, and the description would seem to fit. Also, our man who watched her at Helsinki airport saw the photographs and thinks Massey was with the Americans who escorted her to the plane."

"What about the second man?"

Orainov smiled. "Now that's where it gets even more interesting. We're not a hundred percent sure, but we're pretty certain it's a man named Alex Stanski." Akashin said, "The Alex Stanski'? The one they call the Wolf?"

Oraiiiov nodded. "The same. Moscow has a price on his head, as you know. We've wanted him a long time. Remember Grenady Kraskin who got hit in East Berlin over two months ago'? We think Stanski did it."

Feliks Akashin stepped toward the window and rubbed his fleshy face. Beyond the glass lay East 67th Street with its cluttered chaos of traffic, and to the west, Central Park. He always considered the situation in America's commercial capital to be ridiculous, and the Americans tolerant fools. Under cover of the Soviet trade mission, consulate, or Soviet news agencies, and sealed off' from the other parts of the UN mission and with their own independent communications to Moscow, their files immune from search and with reasonable ability to move freely about New York, KGB branch chiefs and their officers went about their daily business as if they were working in Moscow Headquarters itself. Crazy, but it worked to their advantage.

For several moments Akashin was deep in thought, then turned to his visitor and said, "You can go now, Yegeni. Leave the photographs. Well done."

The man left and Akashin lit a cigarette. Yegeni Oramov had supplied him with the confirmation he needed of Braun's latest report. He stood there a moment before he crossed back to his desk. He picked up the internal telephone and dialed a three-digit number to his superior's office. As he waited for the other end to answer he glanced over at the portrait of Joseph Stalin on the wall above his desk. The face stared down at him, a wry smile on the lips. Akashin shivered. The line clicked.

"Leonid'@ Akashin here. Can I come up'? This won't take a minute. Something's come up I think is important and I'd like your opinion."

Leonid Kislov was a stout man in his late fifties who chainsmoked four packs of American cigarettes a day.

As senior KGB station officer in the New York Mission, with the rank of colonel, he had a lot of worries, not least of which were a duodenal ulcer and a fiery Georgian wife who harried him constantly. That morning he was in a foul mood, his ulcer playing up, and as he gestured for Akashin to sit he said, "Make it quick, Feliks, I've got a meeting with the Ambassador in half an hour."

"Problems?" Akashin asked sympathetically.

Kislov burped and rubbed his chest before he slipped a couple of tablets from a glass bottle and reached for a glass of water on his desk.

"There are always fucking problems." He swallowed the ulcer tablets and sipped the water. "Washington is up the Ambassador's ass again over the matter of the Jewish doctors. They want to know what's going on."

"What will he tell them?"

"That it's none of their fucking business." Kislov grinned. "But politely of course. That's what diplomacy is all about. Just as well they don't know what else is going on. They'd have a fucking fit. But fuck them, I say. Their day's going to come, and sooner than we all think."

"Anything you'd care to tell me?"

Kislov looked across sternly. "It's none of your business, comrade. But I'll slip you a little hint. If things go according to plan we won't be here in another six months. This hydrogen project of ours is almost complete. There's a plan to evacuate us before the trouble starts. And start it will, you can be sure of that," Akashin went slightly pale. "You mean Stalin's almost ready to start a war?" Kislov grinned. "Like I said, it's not your business." He tapped a cigarette from the pack on his desk and lit it, glanced at his watch and said gruffly, "What did you want to see me about?"

Akashin explained about the photographs and the woman as he lay the shots on the table and Kislov examined them.

The photographs were taken from a distance and rather clumsily too. The images were grainy and of poor quality.

"These photographs are crap," commented Kislov.

Akashin half smiled. "True. But Lombardi's men are not trained photographers and they couldn't risk getting too close in case they were spotted. Still, we're as sure as we can be that the two men in the shots are Massey and Stanski."

Kislov knew about the woman, but up to now hadn't been interested in the details and preferred to let Akashin get on with it. But now he leaned forward and drew on his cigarette.

"Interesting."

"That's what I thought."

"But it hardly matters in the overall scheme of things, does it'? Why Moscow wastes its time on pitiful matters such as this is beyond me."

"So what do you propose?"

" Something tells me Massey is up to something. And with this Stanski in the picture it might suggest Massey perhaps has an agent drop in mind. Maybe even using the girl. She'd be an ideal choice, considering she knows our country."

Kislov shrugged his bulky shoulders. "Possible, but speculative. So why come to me?"

"We have three choices. One, take out the woman, as we intended. Two, take her out and kill Massey and Stanski in the process as a bonus. Or three, we keep tailing them and see what they're up to. If it's a drop Massey intends, we could try to find out where and when and take them when they land on Soviet soil."

Kislov sat farther back in his chair and thought for a moment, then drew on his cigarette.

Finally he shook his head. "The second option is not the best way to go and the third is risky and speculative. We may not be able to discover when or where they're going to drop, if that's what's happening. The first seems the best choice, and besides, it's what Moscow ordered." He frowned. "You never told me how you know where these people are? Massey, Stanski, the woman?"