Erin McKenna moved with the throngs, pretending to window-shop while she kept her eyes peeled for Valentin Soloviev. She was growing edgy, conscious of the time flashing past. The Russian officer was late, and if he didn’t show up in the next couple of minutes, she would have to abort this rendezvous. Where the hell was he? Simply caught in traffic? Or under arrest for treason? Uncertainty gnawed at her, only partially allayed by the knowledge that Alex Banich was somewhere reasonably close by, keeping watch over her.
She moved to the next window, simulating an interest in a display of beautifully carved chessmen. Other pedestrians brushed past without a second glance, intent on their own errands or pleasure. How odd, Erin thought, to feel so alone surrounded by so many other people. Alex had been right when he said that crowds conferred their own special measure of anonymity.
A familiar reflection appeared over her shoulder, this time in full uniform. Her gaze flickered toward the man standing at her side and then back to the chess pieces. “Nice of you to show up, Colonel.”
“My apologies, Miss McKenna.” Soloviev sounded just the slightest bit out of breath. He explained, “The conference dragged on longer than I had anticipated. As it was, I had to leave before the session ended.”
“Was that wise?”
He shrugged uncertainly. “Perhaps not. But I had no time to contact you to arrange a new meeting.”
Erin nodded her understanding. If Soloviev had missed this rendezvous, she doubted that Banich and Len Kutner would ever have allowed her to schedule another. The risk that the Russian had been caught and turned would have would have been too high for them to accept. When you were engaged in espionage in a hostile capital, paranoia was a survival trait.
They moved down the Arbat to stand in front of another shop, close enough to speak softly and fairly privately but far enough apart to seem separate — two chance passersby animated only by similar tastes and interests.
“What’s happening out there?” Erin asked bluntly. They didn’t have time for small talk. Two strangers could companionably converse for a few minutes. Anything longer might draw unwanted attention.
Soloviev was equally blunt. “Nothing good. Despite their bickering, Kaminov and the Frenchman are very close to reaching an agreement. And our military buildup is well under way. We already have eight divisions massed inside Belarus, with another three en route to the border. Several more are on alert — ready to move once the roads and railroads are clear.” He frowned. “In fact, I think the marshal is only waiting for this latest EurCon attack to bog down before making a firm commitment to intervene. He’s a hard bargainer, that one. He knows the less certain the French are of victory, the more they will pay for our help.”
Erin nodded again. From what she knew of Kaminov’s character, Soloviev’s assessment made sense. She moved on to the next item on Alex Banich’s list. “And what about the hard evidence we need, Colonel? Do you have anything for me?” She glanced down at the open shopping bag resting on the ground between them. She had brought the bag with her as a cover and also as a means of carrying away any documents the Russian could provide.
Soloviev shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”
“Colonel, you know how important…”
He held up a hand to stop her. “My dear Miss McKenna, I am a man of many talents. But I am not a miracle worker.” The Russian officer grimaced. “My countrymen may not be able to build a decent automobile or grow enough food to feed themselves, but they are masters of the art of secrecy.”
Still frowning, he elaborated. “Every document used in these talks is numbered and can only be signed out by the most senior members of each delegation.
“All right.” Erin heard the strain in his voice and realized the pressure the Russian must be under. If
“Do you?”
She looked up at him. “Yes, I do.”
He smiled, showing a brief flash of the devil-may-care attitude she’d found so attractive when they’d first met at the embassy dance. “Then that is enough for me.” His smile turned wistful. “For now, though, I think we must go our separate ways.”
Erin nodded. They were out of time and in public. “When can I expect your next call?”
“Tomorrow.”
“That soon?”
Soloviev nodded grimly. “Events are moving faster, Miss McKenna. By tomorrow or the next day, your country and mine could very easily be at war.”
Neither spotted the small, rat-faced man just a hundred meters further up Arbat Street, quietly taking pictures of them using a telephoto lens.
CHAPTER 31
Gdansk Is the Key
The improvised convoy carrying the eight hundred men of the “3rd of the 187th” pulled up outside brigade headquarters in the rural town. Captain Mike Reynolds shifted in his cramped seat, glad the trip was finally over. He stood gratefully, gathered his gear, and stepped off the hastily camouflaged school bus.
They’d left from Gdansk at six that morning, despite the risks of daylight travel. Speed was more urgent than anything else, and headquarters had reassured them that there would be continuous fighter patrols over the convoy. Well, Reynolds hadn’t seen any aircraft from either side, but at least they’d arrived intact. Part of his relief over the end of the journey was his joy at getting out of what his trained eye told him was a conspicuous, barely mobile, and horribly vulnerable four-wheeled target. As an infantryman in a combat zone full of tanks, artillery pieces, and laser-guided munitions, Reynolds was only really comfortable in cover and on his own two feet.
It had taken them four hours to cover the 125 kilometers between Gdansk and the small town of Swiecie. He was sure many tourists had taken the same trip. Highway 5 paralleled the Vistula River, past historic buildings and hundreds of small farms. It would have been a scenic drive if not for the bedraggled refugees clogging the road. Although Gdansk had shown all the signs of war, the morning’s trip had given Reynolds a real sense of the struggle. Those people on the road had not left their homes because of some abstract threat. Armies were on the move.
All along the route, bombed-out buildings had provided evidence of EurCon power. Polish demolition teams were also busy. At first, Reynolds had thought the wrecked bridges and cratered roads were more results of EurCon air raids, but then they had driven past a party of engineers actually blowing the bridge over the Vistula at Grudziadz.
“They don’t have a lot of confidence in us, do they?” he thought, but he remembered Thompson’s speech. The Poles were realists. He and his troops were all too likely to be coming back over this road again, heading in the other direction.
The relatively short trip also brought home to Reynolds just how close the French and German divisions were to their goal. Even at twenty-mph convoy speeds, he and his troops had covered the distance in a single morning. If the 101st didn’t slow EurCon down, and quickly, Gdansk would fall.
The closer they got to Swiecie, the fewer civilians they saw, and the more military activity. He was relieved to see a group of AH-64 Apache attack helicopters half-hidden in a copse of woods, and, as they drove into the town itself, he spotted a battery of Hawk missiles guarding the gunships.
