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Entering the city, Kranz slowed near the Hofburg. He glanced at the Lippizaner stallions across the avenue. The beautiful horses turned the cold morning air to steam with their breath.

As he passed the historic imperial palace, Kranz mentally reviewed the CIA code and procedures used to contact RAINDANCE. This type of connection was referred to in the agency as a threearms'-length transaction. Trust and obscurity held the loop together.

Nearing the cable office, Kranz allowed his mind to drift back a few years. He could clearly see his dear friend and mentor, Doctor William G. Keating, former Dean of Medicine at Harvard University. What wonderful years we had, Kranz thought to himself, remembering how Keating had arranged for Kranz to enter the prestigious medical school.

Fritz Hoffmann Kranz had been one of three highly gifted foreign medical students whom Keating had sponsored in 1948.

Keating had respected the young Austrian for his study habits and diligence in pursuing the highest standards of the medical profession. The two men had developed a close relationship — some said like father and son — and Fritz became part of the Keating family.

During the Christmas holidays of 1949, Kranz had married Keating's daughter, Kathryn Lynne, two years his junior. During the spring of 1955, the Kranzes, with their three-year-old daughter, Anna, moved to Austria. Fritz and Kathryn had made it a ritual to return to Cambridge, Massachusetts, every other year for the holiday season.

Kranz had never known about Keating's involvement with the CIA until the day Keating had recruited him. That had been three weeks before Keating died. Fritz and Kathryn had rushed home, accompanied by Anna and her children, to be with the terminally ill doctor. Bill Keating had called his son-in-law into his bedroom, offered him three fingers of Chivas, then laid out his desire for Kranz to accept the responsibility that Keating had been fulfilling for the CIA.

Fritz Kranz had been incredulous initially. The retired Dean of Medicine had explained to Kranz the proposed relationship with the CIA, who the contact would be, the fact that Kranz, with his background, would never be suspected of espionage, and that he would be serving a very worthy cause.

Kranz had resisted politely but firmly until Keating had reminded him of the question he had asked his sponsor upon entering Harvard. Fritz Kranz had remembered the words clearly. "How can I ever repay you, Doctor Keating?" Keating followed the reminder with the disclosure that he could not, under any condition, trust anyone else except his son-in-law. Fritz Kranz had embraced the dying man, then vowed solemnly to continue the service that Keating had been providing for the CIA.

Kranz snapped back to the present as he parked at the cable office. The streets were slowly beginning to fill with people and traffic. The retired surgeon stepped out of his well-worn BMW, shut the door, and walked into the small, unadorned office.

"Good morning," the jovial clerk said.

"Good morning," Kranz replied. "I am Doctor Kranz. You called in regard to a cable."

"Oh, yes," the young man responded. "Have it right here."

Kranz quickly signed for the cable in an unreadable scrawl, then took the envelope and placed it inside his jacket pocket. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Herr Doktor," the clerk replied as Kranz opened the squeaky door and stepped outside.

Well, Fritz, Kranz thought, let us pray no one has been compromised. He returned to his automobile, started the engine, patted his jacket pocket nervously, then drove to the Hotel Sacher at Number 4 Philharmonikerstrasse.

The CIA intermediary, carrying a small overnight bag from his trunk, checked into the elegant hostelry, then hurried to his room on the second floor. He placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob, locked the door, and reached into his jacket for the cable.

Kranz sat down at the wooden desk, opened the envelope, and spread out the paper. He looked only at the first word in each sentence.

TWO CEREMONIES PLANNED STOP

AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT STOP

MISSING YOU STOP

CHARLES

Kranz checked his watch, lifted the phone receiver, and rang the switchboard.

"Hotel operator," the soft female voice responded.

"Yes," Kranz said, looking at the cable. "Please connect me with the international operator."

"One moment."

Kranz waited, running RAINDANCE's phone number through his mind. He had had to memorize a new seven-digit number after Mathias Rust, the West German private pilot, landed his Cessna 172 on Red Square. The upper echelon of the Troops of Air Defense had been shuffled, resulting in a new assignment and relocation for RAINDANCE.

"May I help you?" the international operator asked.