*******
Instantly refocusing his thoughts, Lampson resumed his search up and down the embankment, trying to penetrate the night's blackness. Shaking uncontrollably, he pulled the wet, thin woolen blanket tighter around him, for all the good it was doing. He waited anxiously by the river's edge, ignoring the water lapping against his soggy sneakers. His body was chilled through to the bone. He trembled mostly from the cold, but a contributing factor was definitely from one helluva rough evening. Now he could only imagine what was happening beneath the surface of the river on the side of East Berlin.
Then something caught his eye and he began walking quickly along the riverbank. The sparse brown grass was slick and flattened, making him nearly lose his balance as he tried maneuvering down the slope. His eyes fixed on what appeared to be two black, unearthly objects rising languidly from the depths. Two human forms emerged, making their way up the embankment.
Lampson rushed up to both divers, first grabbing Grant’s hand and then Adler's, shaking them vigorously. A shit-eating grin covered his face and he finally let out a relieved laugh. "Christ, I don't know who the hell you two are, but all I can say is thanks! I owe you big time!"
Grant and Adler pulled off their face masks, both of them grinning. Grant spoke up first. "We're Navy, Mr. Lampson. I'm Grant Stevens, and this is Joe Adler. Glad we could help."
"You're SEALs, right?" Lampson nodded his head, as if answering his own question.
"Something like that, sir," Grant responded.
Lampson seemed to be on a high now. "Damn! That was great! Just great! But I've gotta tell you, Grant, you sure as hell have a knack for scaring the living shit out of somebody!"
"Sorry, sir, but it was nec..."
"No, no. No need to apologize, believe me. You got me out like you were supposed to, didn't you? And in one piece!"
"That's why we get paid the big bucks," Adler replied, as he snapped his swim fins into his thigh straps. He looked sideways at Grant who had pulled off his wetsuit hood. "You okay, Skipper?" he asked, seeing a wince cross Grant's face.
"Not a problem, Joe." A knife wielded by one of the Russian’s had sliced through his wetsuit, leaving a two-inch gash in his left forearm, just above his wrist. Blood trickled down the back of his hand.
Joe voiced his concern. "Hey, Skipper, we need to get you to sickbay. That water was pretty nasty."
"Yeah, might need a stitch or two. You want to sew me up?"
"No sweat. I brought a medical kit. It's in the trunk of the limo. I've got some saline but don't have enough sterile dressing."
"Maybe a couple of butterflies and some antiseptic will hold me till we can get back to the Embassy."
Adler nodded. "Roger that, sir."
Grant smoothed back some wet strands of brown hair from his forehead, then with face mask and swim fins in tow, he started up the knoll toward the black limo. "You can do it while we're underway. We've gotta get our special delivery package to the Embassy." He turned to Lampson and winked. "Expect Matt Wharton's real anxious to talk to you."
Lampson followed close behind, hardly hearing Grant, as he thought, Christ! What a night! What a night!
He shot a glance over his shoulder, trying to take a quick count of the Eastern Block guards who continued to stare at him under the perimeter lights above the barbed wire.
Grant and Adler tossed their gear into the trunk, then Adler grabbed the medical kit. Grant smiled as he turned to his good friend. "Are you going to make it your mission in life to keep pulling my 'bacon' out of the fire?"
"Why hell, Captain, I don't have any idea what you're talking about."
As Grant was getting into the car, he looked back at the river and remembered his SEAL training days when Chief Mallory said often, "It's your job to make sure the other poor bastards die for their country." Another mission accomplished! he smiled to himself.
Chapter Three
West Berlin - U.S. Embassy
The CIA’s stocky-framed bureau chief had been pacing back and forth in front of his office window for at least fifteen minutes. His eyes were constantly being drawn to the clock hanging above his door, as he waited and anticipated the exact minute when a Navy diver was scheduled to make his move. Cigarette smoke drifted upward as he nervously rolled the Marlboro between his fingers, a half inch long gray ash hanging precariously from the tip. He did an about-face and took long, slow strides across worn, gray vinyl tiles to the opposite side of the room. Wisps of steam leaked from the spout of a percolator coffeepot sitting on the top of a stainless steel credenza. The coffee smell was strong. He lifted the pot and shook it around hearing only a splatter and decided to pull the plug from the wall socket. Just as well. With five cups in him, he’d have to sleep standing up in front of the head. He chuckled to himself.
He flicked the cigarette ash into his palm, then walked over to his desk and dumped it into the ashtray, trying to ignore an array of papers strewn across the green blotter. A folded copy of the military's newspaper Stars and Stripes laid at an angle across his nameplate, where gold letters spelled out “Matt Wharton.” The in and out plastic desk trays contained sizable stacks of manila folders. He was turning into a goddamn paper pusher. Time to retire, Matt old boy, he told himself.
A combined thirty-five years with the Justice Department and the CIA had taken him on assignments around the world. There'd been good assignments and not-so-good assignments. They'd cost him two marriages, but he'd be the first to admit that he wasn't an easy person to live with. His ex-wives and three kids could attest to that.
He'd just made up his mind to make a quick dash to the men's room when the sound of a car engine distracted him. He stepped close to the window, and using the edge of one hand, rubbed away condensation from one of the panes. A black Lincoln Continental was just coming to a stop in front of the security fence. The driver, Pete Bradley, got out and walked up to the gate. The bureau chief watched the proceedings from his bird's eye view from two stories above. Earlier in the day he had personally talked with the Embassy’s Marine Sergeant Major and explained that four men would be returning later that night, one of whom would not have any identification papers.
The Marine guard on duty unlocked the gate and came around for a one-on-one inspection. Satisfied, he pushed open the iron gate and waved the Lincoln through. Bradley parked parallel to the marble steps leading to the Embassy's main entrance. All four car doors opened as if on cue and four men emerged. After shaking hands all around, they entered the building.
Wharton flicked an ash into the ceramic ashtray on the edge of his desk. He took a final deep drag, then crushed the butt into the bottom of the stained ashtray. There was a solid rapping on the heavy wooden door and he responded, "Come in! Come in!"
Lampson entered alone, his blond hair disheveled from being towel dried. He smiled broadly. "Hi, Matt!"
"Rick! Jesus, it's good to have you back!" He rushed toward Lampson with an outstretched arm.
With a warm, dry blanket now draping his shoulders, Lampson reached for Wharton's hand. "Thanks, Matt. After two years, this'll take some getting used to. Just smack me, though, if I start automatically conversing in German!"
"Don't worry about that," Wharton smiled and patted Lampson's shoulder. He backed up and reached for his pack of cigarettes, extending them toward Lampson, then handed him a matchbook. "We're very anxious to hear what you've got to say, Rick, but you've been through hell tonight. Take some time to shower and change into dry clothes. There’s a fresh set of sweats waiting for you at the Hotel Berliner. I personally reserved a room for you."
"That hot shower sure as hell sounds good." Lampson glanced down momentarily, noticing bits of mud that had fallen from his shoes. He looked up into Wharton’s face, his voice still sounding bewildered. "If it wasn't for Stevens and Adler, we wouldn't be talking now. But you already know that."
Wharton nodded several times, smiling. "They're just about the best we've got in the 'snatch' business. Both of them are sta
tioned at NIS (Naval Investigative Service), working for Admiral Torrinson." He puffed on the cigarette, exhaling a steady stream of white smoke. "I'm just sorry we didn't make this happen sooner, Rick."
"Hey, the extra time gave me a chance to whip myself into shape. The daily exercise did me good. As it was, I had a helluva time trying to keep up with Stevens." Lampson smiled weakly, completely exhausted.
Wharton walked behind his desk, then reached underneath, pressing a black button. Within seconds, Bradley walked in. "Pete, see that Rick gets over to the hotel, then make arrangements to pick him up after he's had some time to unwind. Oh, the room's registered in my name." He shook Lampson's hand again. "Go ahead, Rick." He had second thoughts about dragging Lampson back that night and grabbed the agent's arm. "Look, I really need you back here as soon as possible. We've got some serious discussions ahead of us, and Washington's ready to shit cows. But how about you come in, let's say, at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. You've had a rough night. Okay?"
Lampson nodded. "Sounds good to me." He left with Bradley.
Hotel Berliner
Located around the corner from Kurfurstein Strasse and across from Wittenbergplatz stood the stately Hotel Berliner. The six-story structure had been built shortly after World War II in the Gothic style. It had remained a frequent meeting place for diplomats and dignitaries.
The need for security went beyond the ordinary during the time of the Cold War. Every room was swept for hidden devices on a daily basis, sometimes more often. Security cameras were placed throughout the lobby, around the outside perimeter of the building, and always activated just before and during meetings. Paranoia was the driving force that made fools of many on both sides of the Iron Curtain.
The last thing on Rick Lampson's mind was hidden devices as he dragged his fatigued, aching body into the shower. Twenty minutes later, he emerged from behind the white, rubberized shower curtain. The entire bathroom had been turned into a sauna by the hot steam. He wrapped the thick, white bath towel around his waist then grabbed a face towel from a towel ring and rubbed off the haze that coated the mirror. A pale, tired face looked into the mirror through ice blue eyes. He ran his hand across the dark blond stubble on his chin. He was feeling shitty and look like death warmed over. He rested both hands on the curved rim of the white china pedestal sink.
Staring at himself in the mirror, he reviewed a complicated formula for a new, and potentially deadly, mind-altering drug, something he’d done for what seemed like every waking moment over the past several months. Every calculation was inscribed on his brain, giving him the ability to see it word for word as if reading directly from a technical journal, his own private journal.
Breathing a long, heavy sigh, he opened the cabinet, hoping to find some Listerine. An unpleasant taste of river water lingered in his mouth. Wharton usually saw to it that a military-type ditty bag, fondly known as a "douche kit,” was provided to the agents. Lampson smiled with the thought, but that smile was quickly replaced by a sullen, quizzical stare. His eyes focused on a slip of plain white note paper hanging by a piece of tape from the middle shelf. Curious, he leaned closer, reading the words hand printed in German: "Their lives are in your hands, Herr Brennar."
He ripped the paper from the shelf with a trembling hand, feeling the smooth surface of a photograph taped behind it. He turned the paper over. The black and white photo seemed to come alive in his hand. Staring straight into the camera lens were the frightened faces of twin two-year old boys, his illegitimate sons. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, Christ! No!"
Chapter Four
Hotel Berliner - Day 2
Lampson had been totally immersed in his work and assignment, ignorant for thinking they wouldn’t somehow find out sooner or later about the children, Franz and Josef. He never expected this...but he should have, knowing full well the extent of the powers that were in control and what was at stake. His arms hung by his sides, the photo gripped in his hand.
Walking somewhat unsteadily, he wandered into the bedroom and slumped down on the edge of the bed. His mind slowly cleared and he glanced again at the photo as he wondered, Where’s Greta?
Perspiration formed at his brow, as he feared the worst. He stared at the close-up of the twins with their tousled blond hair and smudged faces. But then he finally noticed someone standing behind them with a hand resting on each of the boys' small shoulders. The tip of the man's right index finger was missing. So who had kidnapped his sons? And who would be looking for him? As he stood, his thirty-five year old body seemed to react like one consumed with pain. He took hesitant steps toward the middle of the bedroom. His temples throbbed. The room felt as if it were closing in around him. He ran a sweating hand over the top of his hair. "What the hell am I gonna do?"
Here was Rick Lampson, holding the life of thousands of Russian strangers in his hands, with the threat of causing all out war. But the overlying factor suddenly had to do with two little boys.
*******
The rain had finally let up. Breaking clouds passed in front of a brilliant moon, casting a pattern of intermittent pale yellow through the hotel window. A chilling silence pervaded the room. Rick lay on the bed, his arms folded behind his head, his eyes wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling. Who could have done this? He bolted upright when he heard the faint sound of the bell tower chiming five o'clock. He slid his legs over the edge of the bed, then stood and walked slowly to the window. There were only five hours left before he was to meet with Wharton, five hours to decide whether to debrief the Company on the formula and the dissidents' plans--or go back to the other side and possibly face death.
His mind kept spinning. But even if he wanted to, how the hell could he get back into East Berlin? And once he did, who could guarantee that he’d be kept alive? They knew who he was now. Shit! But how...how did they find out? Who put the damn note in the bathroom? A mole? An Eastern agent? Who in the hell did it?
He paced in front of the window with his eyes lowered, looking down at his bare feet as he padded across the carpeted floor. He couldn't trust the East Germans, and he suddenly realized...he couldn't trust the CIA. He wondered if his “shadow” was sleeping. There wasn't any doubt Wharton had placed another agent in the hotel to keep tabs on him. If the agent knew he was making a run to the East, he'd probably zap him without a second thought.
He turned quickly and rushed to the nightstand, nearly knocking over the brass lamp as he reached for the phone. He lifted the receiver and dialed the hotel switchboard.
"Guten morgen," a female voice responded pleasantly.
"This is Rick Lampson in Room 312. Could you tell me if there's a Captain Grant Stevens staying at the hotel?" He spoke in English, skipping the formalities.
"Just a moment, please." Sylvia Erdmann switched her response to impeccable English. Several seconds later, she returned. "Yes, there is a Captain Stevens in Room 228. Shall I ring his room for you?"
"Yes, yes, please."
Grant answered on the second ring, sounding slightly out of breath. "Stevens."
"Captain Stevens? This is Rick Lampson. Sorry to ring you this early."
"No problem, sir, just working on some sit-ups. Appreciate the interruption," he laughed. "What can I do for you?"
"Captain, can we talk?"
Grant rubbed a bath towel across his forehead, wiping away beads of sweat, then he sat on the arm of a blue upholstered wing chair. Dark patches of perspiration appeared down the front of his green fatigue T-shirt. "Sure. I'm listening."
"Could we meet for breakfast in the hotel’s roof restaurant? Would that be all right?"
Grant asked with some concern, "Are you okay, sir?”
"Sure. I’m fine. Just need to chat."
Grant glanced at his watch, thinking: Something heavy must be happening.
"The restaurant opens at 0600, sir. Does 0615 sound okay?"
"Meet you then."
Grant hung up, draped the towel over the back of his neck, and then immediat
ely called Adler. "Joe, something's going on with Lampson."
"How so, sir?"
Grant relayed his conversation with Lampson, then added, "Look, maybe you'd better do a 'tail-end Charlie' for me, just in case. Be at the restaurant on the top floor at 0600. I’m supposed to meet up with Lampson about 15 minutes later. And, Joe, bring the ‘puppy.’" He referred to the special issue, silenced Colt .45 used by covert operators. It was known as a “hushpuppy.”
That's all he had to tell Adler, who knew Grant wanted him to hang close and keep his eyes and ears open. By the time Grant and Lampson arrived, Adler would already know every waiter, waitress, busboy, and cook.
The restaurant's maître'd, Ernst Zimmer, drew back the heavy, blue velvet drapes hanging from brass rods, exposing two large doors leading to the balcony. As he glanced down at the lights of West Berlin, he tugged lightly on his coat sleeves then adjusted his black bow tie. With the night's blackness as a backdrop, the glass doors simulated grand mirrors, and he gave himself the once-over before resuming his duties. He scanned the restaurant one more time, ensuring everything was in impeccable order. Seeing an older couple waiting by the reservation station, he nodded then motioned for them to follow him to a table near the window.
Grant stood just outside the restaurant's entrance in his dress blues uniform, his cap tucked under his left arm. He was prepared to fly back to the States with Adler later that morning. Adler was already seated at a table in the corner opposite the entrance. He appeared to pay no mind to anyone entering the restaurant.
Grant extended his hand as Lampson walked up to him. "Morning, sir."
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