"Yeah. The East German Infantry."
"Right, only..."
"Only what?" Lampson asked, dabbing the white napkin on his forehead, leaning closer to Grant.
"Look, who would you say has more at stake in this?"
"In my opinion? I'd say it's a toss up. And you?"
"Keep in mind the Russian's have got something to say about how these'll be used. But I'll put my money on the FSG."
Lampson responded as if asking a question. "But the uniform in the picture..."
"Anybody could be wearing that, Rick. And don't forget there are discontented East Germans everywhere who are siding with the FSG. They don't much like being under Mother Russia's big thumb."
"What happens now?"
Grant turned sideways in the chair and rested his arms on his knees, his hands balled up into fists. It was the first time Lampson noticed old scars on the back of what he knew to be very strong hands. "You've got to proceed with the debriefing this morning. Matt Wharton's a good man and he can be trusted, but I suggest you insist that he be the only one in the room. Better still, maybe suggest that you meet outside someplace. Make up some excuse...but not the truth."
There was a slight nod from Lampson, then he asked incredulously, "You think an Embassy employee's involved?"
"For now it's just speculation, but we've gotta take precautions and not take any chances. As soon as we're through here, I'll contact my boss. It'll be his call if he wants you out of the country or kept here in a safe place."
Lampson's face showed obvious surprise. "But, I have to go back to East..."
"Listen to me," Grant said firmly. "What's in your head is too important. We can't take that chance. You're trained. You've heard of the truth serum, right?" Lampson's head bobbed up and down. Grant glanced at his watch. "It's nearly 0745. Time to move and get outta here. Look, when you're finished with Wharton, come back to your room. Tell him you're feeling sick from swallowing half the Spree and you need some rest." Grant pointed his index finger at Lampson. "A word of caution...don't call me when you return."
"But how...?"
"Don't worry about that," Grant smiled. "We have our ways." He stood up, noticing that Adler was already walking out. "Let's put the wheels in motion, Rick." He extended his hand.
"Thanks, Captain...again!"
Chapter Five
West Berlin
Morning traffic was heavy, with cars and double-decker buses constantly on the move. Trams heading in opposite directions clanged their bells as they glided along smoothly on worn, steel rails. Rods, extending from the trams yellow steel roofs, cracked and hissed as they made contact with electric wires that provided their main source of power.
Two American Navy officers, in dress blues uniforms, stood on the curb at the busy intersection, waiting for the light to change. Grant Stevens stared straight ahead, his square jaw tightening as he clamped down on his teeth. He focused on the building one block away. A twenty-five foot American flag, hoisted to the top of a fifty-foot pole, snapped in a fifteen knot wind, its red and white stripes twisting then unfurling rhythmically. With long strides, Grant and Adler hurried across the street.
Adler looked at Grant. "You think the Admiral will still be at NIS?"
Grant nodded. "You know him. He said he'd hang around till I confirmed we were leaving."
"Do you think he'll go along with your plan and let us go pay a visit on our Commie friends, sir?" The excitement in Joe Adler’s voice was unmistakable. His clear, blue eyes twinkled. He screwed his cap down tighter against the gusts of wind.
"Don't know, Joe. Getting Lampson back was the immediate objective. But nobody considered everything else that's going on. I don't just mean the kids, but we've gotta worry about what the FSG has in its hands, and...."
"And who the hell's sneaking around hotel rooms leaving threatening messages," Adler finished.
"Roger that, Joe."
"Jesus, Skipper! Another possible goddamn mole! Is this shit ever gonna end?"
"Hope not! We'll be out of work," Grant laughed, giving Adler a slap on the back.
A ten-foot high, black wrought iron fence encircled the Embassy grounds. At the top of each iron bar was a spear-like finial. A Marine guard, in full dress uniform, stood rigidly at attention just inside the gate. He stepped forward and scrutinized the ID cards being held by the two Navy officers. Satisfied, he saluted sharply, but quickly scanned the area behind both officers before opening the gate.
Grant and Adler returned the salute then proceeded up the plant-lined walk leading to the front steps of the Embassy, entering through eight-foot high, brass-edged double doors. Their footsteps echoed in the long hallway as they walked along the white marble floor. A crystal and brass chandelier hung from a twenty foot high ceiling embossed with the Seal of the United States. These surroundings were all too familiar for the two men.
Located at the center of the building was one elevator with highly polished brass doors. The doors parted with a slight 'hiss' almost as soon as Grant pressed the black button. He reached into his pocket and removed a small silver key as he and Adler stepped in. Once the doors closed, he inserted the key and opened a small panel located just below the floor selection buttons. Then he fit the same key into a half-round slot. By turning the key to the left, the direction of the elevator was reversed. Instead of going up, it went down two levels. When it came to rest, a panel on the rear elevator wall automatically slid to the left. Using the same key, Grant then unlocked a steel door leading to the cryptology room. Once they were inside the room, he pressed another button next to the door, sending the elevator back up to the main floor.
The room was soundproof, and had ten inch thick walls that were painted stark white. Dull gray linoleum covered the concrete floor and a double row of fluorescent lights blazed overhead. A tall, gray metal fireproof cabinet was propped next to the door. Locked inside were extra batteries, throat mikes, special weapons, and cases resembling briefcases containing Delco 5300 radios for field agents. Small but powerful, the radio could send voice or Morse code transmissions. Messages were transmitted and received on separate frequencies.
The only decoration in the stark room was a foldout color picture of Miss April from Playboy magazine. Making an L-shape along the opposite walls was a long, stainless steel table. Every inch of space was covered with sophisticated equipment consisting of scrambler communication gear, internal walkie-talkies, a short-wave radio system, radio directional finders and receivers. At the smaller end of the table were two recorders that were automatically activated when someone wearing a “wire” energized his unit or when a "bug" in a room picked up sounds.
Tucked away behind the file cabinet was a small safe, containing code books for secure communication. Normally, codes in the Embassy were changed weekly. The bureau chief, security chief, and the men working in the crypto lab are usually the ones the government spends the most money on, specifically for training, salaries and equipment. For intelligence purposes, they're the individuals who have the capability of making the Embassy the most vulnerable with all they know.
Two men, dressed in casual clothes, with the sleeves of their white shirts rolled up, sat at the table. George Canetti and Blake Kelley had been partners for just over two years, with nearly thirty years between them at the Company.
Not quite thirty, the short, heavy set, Brooklyn-born Kelley was the younger of the two. He'd joined the Company after a six year stint with the Navy as a CT (communication's technician). His last two years of military service were spent hidden away at a remote communication's intelligence site in Alaska.
Finishing up a coffee break, Canetti had a set of headphones draped around his neck. His curly salt and pepper hair and goatee were both neatly trimmed. Contrary to the belief that Southerner's speak with long, slow drawls, Canetti's words flowed as fast as a runaway train. He looked up from the September issue of Sports Illustrated Magazine as Grant and Adler approached. "Hey, Captain, Lieutenant! Ya'all back so
soon? We thought you'd be on the big silver bird winging your way back to the States?"
Grant tossed his cap on the edge of the table. "Not yet, George; may have a change of plans."
Adler spotted leftover breakfast pastries sitting on a tray in the corner. Motioning in their direction with his thumb, he asked, "Say, George, have those been assigned to anybody specific?"
"Nah. Take what you want, Joe."
Grant just shook his head. All the years he'd known Joe Adler, the man's weight never varied more than a couple of pounds either side of 180 and was solidly dispersed over a 5'10" frame. His best description of Adler was that he was built like a brick shithouse.
Kelley reached for the logbook on an upper shelf then made a notation, recording the time and names of the two visitors who just arrived. He put his ball-point pen next to the log, then rubbed a blotch of black ink off his finger. "Is there something we can do for you, Captain?"
Grant pulled a chair closer to the table, then straddled it backwards, crossing his arms on top of the backrest. "Hope so, Blake. I need to use the scrambler phone to call Admiral Torrinson again."
"Something tells me you want us to make an exit this time," Canetti commented as he stood up. He noticed a surprised look on his partner's face. "It's okay, Blake. It's been real quiet around here; I think we can give them a few minutes. You know the recorders will kick in even if a mouse farts."
"Appreciate your understanding, George," Grant smiled, "but there's no need for you to leave. We'll just close the door, if that's okay with you."
"It's all yours, Navy," replied Canetti. At the same time Kelly frowned. "Hey, Blake, relax. It's Uncle Sam's equipment, remember? The Captain won't break it." He reached over and pressed the buzzer, unlocking the door that led to a small room, not much bigger than a walk-in closet.
Once behind the secure door, Grant placed his call to Rear Admiral John Torrinson at NIS (Naval Investigative Service) located outside Washington, D.C. When Grant made the initial recommendation to the Secretary of Defense for Torrinson to be assigned the job, the forty-seven year old admiral was stationed in Coronado, California at SPECWARCOM. The Special Warfare Command was the western headquarters for SEAL teams.
"Admiral Torrinson's office. Petty Officer Phillips."
"Zach, this is Captain Stevens. Is the Admiral in?"
"Wait one, sir. I'll buzz his desk." Yeoman Phillips pressed the intercom button. "Captain Stevens on the Red 1, sir."
"Patch him through, Zach." Torrinson put his fork down on a plate with half-eaten scrambled eggs, then washed down a mouthful of toast with strong black coffee.
Thank God Trish is an understanding wife, he thought as he glanced at the desk clock that showed 0400 hours. On top of the rectangular timepiece rested a bronze "Budweiser,” the emblem of the SEALs. He dabbed at his mouth with a white cloth napkin before picking up the scrambler phone.
"Grant, good to hear from you."
"Thanks, Admiral."
"Thought you'd be on your way to the airport by now."
"Sir, we've got a problem."
"Does it have to do with Agent Lampson?" Torrinson asked through tight lips. He leaned forward in anticipation of the reply.
"Yes, sir," Grant replied as he was removing his jacket. A screeching noise as annoying as fingernails on a blackboard made him glance over his shoulder. Adler had spun a metal chair around, scraping the legs on the linoleum floor. He sat down, wiping the last remnants of powdered sugar from his mouth with the back of his hand.
Torrinson listened as Grant gave him a quick and dirty concerning the situation with Lampson, then he responded, "That's too bad about the kids, Grant, but you did what you were sent in to do. Lampson's safe, along with the formulas."
Grant pushed the chair out from under him, then stood up and leaned back against the metal table. "Sir, I'd like your permission for Joe and me to go back to East Berlin."
"Not if it means trying to find those kids, Grant," Torrinson replied adamantly.
"It's more than just them, sir. Lampson's life is in danger, too."
"I realize that, and that's why you need to get him the hell out of harm's way. Has any of his information been recorded or put on paper?"
"Not that I know of, sir. He confirmed that he's got it all stashed in his brain." Grant breathed in deeply, rubbing a hand over the top of his head, then pressed further. "Sir, we've got to destroy the FSG’s lab and maybe the East German lab. We've got to act soon to at least try and set them back. As Lampson said, the FSG already has enough of the formula to piece together the last sequence of catalysts, sir. They could be done in two weeks."
"Look, Grant, you know that project is being funded by the Russkies. Your extra curricular activity might be like shoving a hot poker up their butts. I know you realize that the political ramifications could trash all of us. Hell, they'll blame us in a heartbeat. God only knows what the consequences would be. Besides, how can you be certain they're not being kept up to speed by the Germans?"
"I've considered that, sir, but I'm betting the Germans haven't let them in on the whole scenario. I'm also ninety-nine percent sure the Russians won't retaliate against us if we destroy the dissidents' lab. When word leaks out to the rest of the world, not only about the drug, but that the Russians were the ones behind the project from day one, they'll have to think twice. I can get proof of that through Lampson. Besides, sir, I think they'll be grateful for our help, since they're the intended victims scheduled to take the brunt of this."
Torrinson pressed his back against the leather swivel chair, propping a foot against the desk. He noticed a crumb clinging to his black tie and flicked it off. He was quiet for a moment, absorbing what Grant had said. Since he'd been at NIS, Torrinson had learned that Grant didn't ‘stick it out’ without a pretty good chance that he could bring home the bacon. "You're only ninety-nine percent sure, Captain?" he asked with a smile in his voice.
"Yes, sir. Ninety-nine percent. Joe's figured in the other one percent."
"Ahh, I see. Well, with you two, how could I have thought otherwise?" The clear glass jar filled with a supply of Tootsie Roll Pops caught his eye, and he leaned forward and removed its cover. "Have you thought about the Russians maybe having their own agenda on how to make use of these particular items?"
"Yes, sir, I have. Right now it's pure guess, but with them being embroiled in the Mongolian situation, that could be a remote possibility."
Torrinson had read the intelligence reports on the Mongolian border flare-ups. "Like you said, Grant, it's a remote possibility. I'd better run it by SECDEF (Secretary of Defense) anyway." He unwrapped a cherry pop and tossed the paper onto the dirty dish. "Say, do you still have that friend of yours on the other side of the fence?"
Grant winked at Adler, realizing they were about to get the Admiral's verbal authorization. Adler responded with a grin and gave a thumb's up as Grant answered, "Yes, sir. Grigori Moshenko is still active. We've kept in touch. I know I can depend on him and use him as the pivot man. He's helped our intelligence community in the past, sir...along with other things."
"It's the other things you have to tell me about some day." Torrinson smiled, as he rolled the Tootsie Pop over his tongue. "You snake-eaters sure stick together, don't you?"
"Not all of us, sir, only a select few." Trying to ease some of Torrinson's concern, Grant added, "Tell you what, sir. I won't make a decision about the East German lab until I've discussed the situation with Grigori."
Torrinson pulled the pop from his mouth. "Fair enough, Grant. Now, listen, I'll give you carte blanche," he stated while he shook the pop in the air. "But you'd better find a way to keep me in the loop. I want to know what the hell's going on at all times, you understand?"
"Yes, sir. Understood. I'll have Wharton cranked in and he'll keep you on course, sir."
Torrinson was well aware that he was putting his own ass on the line, hoping it all didn't blow up in their faces. He trusted the SecDef and decided at that moment t
o use a little CYA (cover your ass) and would brief the secretary. But as Grant pointed out, too much was at stake in this game to bring in the National Security Agency folks right now.
Torrinson had put his trust in the thirty-six year old Grant Stevens numerous times over the past couple of years, as had his predecessor, Admiral Morelli. Grant Stevens' instincts under duress were simply uncanny. He was a "steely-eyed" natural born jungle fighter. Torrinson knew that whether God-given or SEAL training endowed, Grant would always have the "mission first mentality." The mission always came first, followed by the safety of his men, with his own safety coming in last place. That attitude had become common knowledge in the small group of exceptional black operators. Grant’s men were aware that his decisions would always be mission- and survival-oriented, so whenever he asked for volunteers, there was always a long line. The men knew their jobs and Grant never failed to ensure their safety. There simply wasn't a better team commander when it came to the planning and execution of difficult missions. Grant's favorite saying to his men was, "I'll bring you back for another attack."
"Okay, Grant. What kind of logistics are we talking about here?"
"Well, sir, at least 10,000 Deutsche Marks and 5,000 East German Marks for bribes and ‘haul ass’ money. We've already got most of our gear, but I'd like to have an Uzi with silencer, extra chemical pencils, two pounds of C4 (plastic explosive) and two MK6 (Mark Six) CS vials (tear gas). If you can put 'em on a helo out of Bremerhaven, we should have them in a couple of hours. I'll pick them up at MILOPS (Military Operations) tower at Tegel Airport." Torrinson nodded to himself, jotting down Grant's request on a pad of yellow legal paper. "We'll put together an ingress and egress plan then schedule to pick up Lampson around 1930 tonight. Joe and I will phone our contacts and set up our 'back doors' in case it goes bad. All things considered, Admiral, I should have a 'dance card' coming to you within two hours of finishing this entire op." A dance card is an after action report, an AAR.
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