Shadow Flight

Voronoteev gazed at the Kremlin Corner Arsenal Tower as his driver accelerated in the flow of traffic. The anguish and hatred swelled in his stomach again, as it always had, when he thought about Larissa's miserably incompetent doctor.

Voronoteev had doggedly pursued a clear explanation of how and why his wife had died. Weeks after his beautiful Larissa had been laid to rest, the young lieutenant had discovered the awful truth. The relatively inexperienced physician had had a record of substandard performance, coupled with a history of frequent transfers and a known drinking problem. The sad part, Voronoteev thought angrily, was the fact that the marginally qualified doctor was still practicing.

Sergeant Ogorkhov eased the Moskvich 412 to a smooth stop in front of the large government department store, better known to Muscovites as GUM. The driver stepped out and hurried around to open his general's door.

"I'll only be a few minutes," Voronoteev said, stepping into the cold air.

The driver acknowledged Voronoteev, then quickly returned to the driver's seat to stay warm.

Lieutenant General Yuliy Voronoteev, ramrod straight, shoulders squared, entered the mammoth department store and walked to a bank of public telephones. He unbuttoned his jacket, reached into his shirt pocket, and glanced around the cavernous building before extracting the piece of paper.

He placed the call, then waited for his contact to answer. Voronoteev could feel his pulse quickening as he continued to scan the interior of the building. No one appeared to be taking any interest in the handsome officer.

HOTEL SACHER

Fritz Kranz sat quietly at the small birch desk, tapping his fingers absently on the smooth top. He looked at the telephone, took a deep breath, then stood and started toward the shuttered window.

Kranz flinched when the phone rang. He hurried back to the desk and lifted the receiver. "Peter Wipplinger," Kranz answered, using the fictitious code name.

"Hello, Peter," Lieutenant General Voronoteev said cheerfully. "Alexei Arbatov, returning your call. It has been a long time."

"Yes, my friend," Kranz responded evenly. "Good to hear your voice again."

"Thank you, professor," Voronoteev replied, carefully scrutinizing the dirigible hangar — shaped building. "What news have you heard?"

"My colleagues at the university," Kranz answered uncomfortably, "have reported that a B-2 Stealth bomber is missing. The speculation is that it did not crash."

"That is very interesting," Voronoteev replied, placing the small strip of paper back in his shirt pocket. He knew what Kranz was alluding to. Some Soviet faction apparently had their hands on the top secret bomber.

"Peter, I have a call on another line," Voronoteev said, seemingly surprised by the news. "I'll contact you when I am not so busy."

"That will be fine, Alexei. I look forward to hearing from you," Kranz replied, then acknowledged Voronoteev's salutation and replaced the receiver in the cradle.

The Austrian physician felt somewhat relieved, knowing that his contact would not call again until the next day. The follow-up calls were always between three and five o'clock in the afternoon, allowing Kranz to return home while he retained the room. He always left toilet articles strewn in the bathroom, and he rumpled the bed, as if it had been slept on.

Kranz walked into the well-appointed bathroom, then stared at his puffy face in the oval mirror. "Fritz, you're too old and you get too nervous for this kind of nonsense."

PORT DOUGLAS, QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA

The captain of the power catamaran Quicksilver II waited patiently, along with his thirteen scuba diving enthusiasts, for one of their companions to complete his telephone conversation. The noisy group, anxious to reach the outer regions of the Great Barrier Reef, had been delayed already by a faulty fuel line.

After receiving a new fuel hose, Quicksilver II had cast off scant seconds before the Sheraton Mirages courtesy van had slid to a grinding halt at the dock. The ensemble had watched curiously as the tanned American had leaped from the catamaran to the pier and run the short distance to the shouting messenger. Most of the passengers had noticed the two large scars on their American diving companion, one on the right shoulder, the other across his lower back.

"I'll go see what the problem is," Rebecca Marchand offered, stepping onto the wooden dock.

"Thanks, mate," the leathery-skinned captain responded, admiring the beautiful, blond-haired young woman. He could clearly see the skimpy blue and white bikini under her thin cover-up.

The Pan American Airlines flight attendant was only twenty feet from the small passenger shelter when her fiance, Stephen Wickham, raced out the door. "Becky, we have to cancel — I'll explain later."

"What's wrong, Steve?"

"I'm not exactly sure," he answered, darting a look at the catamaran. "Let's grab our gear."

Steve turned to the hotel driver. "Hang on, we'll be just a couple of seconds."