Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

Chapter Six

  U.S. Embassy

  0700 Hours - Day 3

  "Matt, can I see you for a minute?" Blake Kelley asked as he poked his head around the office door.

  "Sure, Blake, come on in. We're just going over today's schedule. I’ve got a few extra minutes to spare before I meet with Rick. What's going on?"

  Pete Bradley was sitting on the corner of the desk with an open notebook in his lap. Kelley acknowledged Bradley with a contemptuous nod. "Matt, are you aware that Stevens and Adler used the scrambler phone?"

  "Sure. They probably called Admiral Torrinson confirming Lampson was safe. Why?" Wharton scratched his chin as he leaned back in his swivel chair.

  Kelley placed the logbook on the desk, pointing to his notation. "I don't mean that time. They came back yesterday morning and asked to use it again."

  Wharton's shoulders went back, as he straightened in the chair. "They call Torrinson?"

  "That's what they said."

  Bradley stood and walked toward the window, then turned back to Kelley as he picked a piece of lint from his new pinstriped blue suit. "What do you mean 'that's what they said'? You're supposed to keep your ears open."

  "I know what I'm supposed to do, Pete!" Kelley lifted a pencil from behind his ear and pointed it at Wharton. "Look, they asked to go behind closed doors. George okayed it."

  Wharton frowned, with his eyebrows knitting together, nearly becoming one strip of dark, thick hair. "So why wasn't this brought to my attention yesterday?"

  "Believe me, Matt, I wanted to but George said it was all right and not to worry. It kept me awake most of the night. That's why I'm here."

  Bradley stared at Kelley, thinking: You fuckin' weasel.

  “Look, Blake,” Wharton, said, “why don't you get back to work. We'll check into this." Kelley left. Wharton swiveled his chair around slowly, completing a 360 degree circle. "Pete, we had Lampson shadowed, didn't we?"

  Bradley nodded. "Cummings and Hastings. They were instructed to cover the lobby until this morning, then Hastings was to follow Lampson back here for his meeting with you."

  "He's due in any time now," Wharton said under his breath. He went over to the credenza, rolling up his white shirt sleeves as he walked. He poured a fresh cup of coffee. "Why don't you give him a call?" Bradley was headed for the outer office when Wharton stopped him. "And check Tegel base ops and see if Navy turned in their orders." Wharton watched Bradley as he left, thinking that the attaché's close cropped haircut made it seem as though his head was covered by a permanent shadow.

  As soon as the door closed, Wharton went over to the window, sipping the hot coffee. Something's going on here. He tried remembering everything he and Lampson had spoken about at the park, trying to recall anything significant. During that earlier meeting, his gut kept trying to tell him something. He was getting the feeling now that he should have listened. He never should have let Lampson out of his sight, but he weakened after knowing how much the agent had been through.

  Wharton worried that the Agency was going to have his ass. Retirement was suddenly looking better and better. Maybe he’d better call...

  The door burst open and Bradley rushed in. "Lampson doesn't answer. Hastings was going to check his room and the restaurant, then call you."

  Wharton took a deep breath between clenched teeth, resisting an urge to throw the cup against the wall. "And what about Navy?"

  "Never got on the flight."

  "Christ!" He slammed the cup on the desk. A stream of black coffee shot upward, then splattered across the ink-stained blotter. The phone rang and he grabbed the receiver. "What!" he shouted. "Hastings? You'd better tell me you know where he is." He sank into the swivel chair, resting his elbows on the desk as he listened to the agent's report. "Get your ass back here!" Bradley thought the phone was going to split in half when Wharton slammed down the receiver. "They lost him. They fuckin' lost him!"

  "But...how? Neither one of them reported seeing him anywhere near the lobby. That hotel's been covered since Lampson got there."

  Wharton stood then leaned forward, resting on knuckles of balled up clenched fists. "Remember the storm last night? Well, according to Hastings, there was a sixty second loss of power in the hotel."

  "Yeah, the storm must have..."

  "No, Pete. Not the storm. I'll bet my ass it was Navy...Stevens more precisely." He straightened up, folded his arms across his chest, and with a cold stare said, "Let's see. We've got two Navy NIS officers and one snatched agent who still hasn't been thoroughly debriefed, and who's now missing. Can you add two and two, Pete?"

  Bradley rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the perspiration, and tried hard to ignore Wharton's sarcasm. "But why the hell would NIS take Lampson?"

  "I guess we'd better find that out, shouldn't we?"

  "Where do you want to start?"

  "Oh, for Christ's sake! Forget it! I'll get the answers myself," Wharton snapped as he headed for the office door. "You may as well go back to bed, Pete! You've been asleep for the last seven months, anyway."

  Bradley jerked his head back, narrowly escaping from having his medically-altered nose battered by the slamming door. "You blew it, you asshole! Shit! Shit!"

  While Wharton waited to call Torrinson, he had Cummings and Hastings search the hotel rooms of Lampson, Grant, and Adler. He told them to make general inquiries with the hotel staff, trying not to raise any suspicion. No one had seen the three, except the restaurant staff the morning before.

  He got off his personal office elevator, walking briskly towards the crypto room door, his mind going a mile a minute as he mentally replayed the conversation he'd had with Bradley. He couldn’t believe the asshole made it through the diplomatic selection board. He made a mental note to contact Henry Parker at State and get Bradley out from under his shoes. "What a jerk!" he mumbled.

  He nodded at Kelley and Canetti as he approached their desk. "I need the hot phone." He walked straight for the door as Canetti rolled his chair around and flashed an inquiring look toward Kelley as the bureau chief passed them.

  Kelley asked, "Something hot, sir?"

  "The buzzer! The buzzer!" Wharton impatiently demanded, snapping his fingers.

  While he waited for the call to go through to Torrinson, he thought back to 1967 in Vietnam where he first met Lieutenant Commander Torrinson. Wharton had recruited him out of Camp Tien Shah in Da Nang to run some 'sneak and peek' ops for the CIA in Laos. The Teams were in Vietnam without an official mission statement. They were always open to running any operation they could get their hands on. Usually, it was some shit mission that no other SOF (Special Operations Force) would touch. A warning order would be written and given to the platoon that would carry it out.

  Considering Torrinson's background, Wharton felt that a little camera work would introduce the young lieutenant commander to his world. He was right. Torrinson was hooked and it wasn't long before his career took on a new look--black.

  The static stopped as he heard Torrinson's yeoman answer, "NIS. Admiral Torrinson's office. Petty Officer Phillips."

  "Petty Officer, I need to talk with Admiral Torrinson. Tell him it’s Matt Wharton.”

  A few seconds later, Torrinson answered the scrambler with a distinct smile in his voice. "Hey, Matt!"

  "Admiral, how the hell are ya?"

  "Can't complain," Torrinson responded. Already having a pretty good idea on the reason behind the call, he asked, "I have a feeling this is more than just a social call. Right?"

  Getting right to the point, Wharton responded, "You might say that. What's the scoop on Captain Stevens and his buddy?"

  Torrinson paused for a second and extracted the Tootsie Roll Pop from his cheek, his early morning sugar kick. "Who wants to know?" he laughed.

  "Come on, Admiral, you've got a couple of your boys over here and it appears they have an agenda that I just might be interested in. Can you get me up to speed on it?"

  "Not a problem, Matt, but on one condition. You've got
to keep Bradley out of the loop. That guy has some friends at Defense who can't keep their mouths shut, especially to the Post reporters. That's not a problem, is it?"

  "Understood, John, not a problem. As a matter of fact, I want to address that in just a moment. Am I in on this?"

  "Affirmative.” The Admiral paused. “Got a few things to clean up in the East concerning Lampson. Now, what I need is a blank check from the black money bank from the boys in the basement for Grant and his partner. It seems the Company's 'professor' has some offspring roaming the back woods somewhere."

  Wharton's eyebrows shot up. "He's got what? How many?"

  "Two, Matt. Twin boys."

  Wharton chuckled. "Busy little agent, isn't he?" Then he queried suspiciously, "Is there anything further I need to know about?"

  "I've got a chemical problem I need to clean up at the lab level, as well as get Stevens and Adler over the wall and then back again."

  "Okay. Let's see if I got this right: We've got kids, we've got a lab, we’ve got safe houses and 'do it' money to arrange. Right?"

  Admiral Torrinson responded, "It's not that easy. There's also the little issue where I have to make sure that we save the Kremlin."

  Wharton's jaw dropped. "Excuse me? You're gonna have to what? Never mind! Never mind! I don't want to know. What the hell am I talking about? Yes, I do. I'm a player! Wait a minute. I am in the loop, aren't I?"

  "Of course you are. I couldn't do it without you. Hell, you know more about that area than any three agents, aside from Stevens, of course."

  "I think I'm getting a hard-on! I like this one!"

  Torrinson chuckled. "Can you do the money for me?"

  Wharton shot back, "Is a fresh fucked fox in a forest fire hot?"

  Torrinson nearly choked on his laughter from Wharton's retort. "I gotta remember that one! Just confirm in English, please."

  "Of course you'll get your money. How much?"

  As Torrinson composed himself, he filled Wharton in on Grant's request. Then he said, "I'm going to have Grant run the plan by you and leave it in your hands to fill in the blanks. Okay by you?"

  "You bet your ass, John. Do you want me to run this as a black op?"

  "You bet your ass. I'd better not hear a peep from anywhere in this crazy town of D.C."

  "You've got it."

  "By the way, are you still seeing Heidi?" Torrinson asked.

  "Oh, yeah," Wharton answered.

  "Give her my best," Torrinson said with sincerity.

  Wharton realized this was all the information he'd get at this time. "Can I call you back, John?"

  "No problem." Torrinson flipped open his schedule book, running his finger down the next day's events. "Twenty hundred hours tomorrow, my time."

  "Roger that. Oh, by the way, can you get in touch with Henry Parker at State and ask him to shit in Bradley's mess kit?"

  Torrinson broke into a hearty laugh and while nodding his head to the affirmative, said, "No problem. Do it as soon as we hang up. He's scheduled to be over with the SecDef this morning, briefing him on this op."

  "Thanks, John. Give my best to the family."

  Chapter Seven

  East Berlin

  2130 hours

  Shabby, yellowing net curtains hung motionless from a wooden rod covering the lower half of the grimy, plate glass window of the pub. Cigarette and cigar smoke hung heavy in the air, mingling with the pungent smell of beer. A once boisterous, rowdy gathering place, the dingy pub had become a place of temporary diversion ever since the city was divided. Patrons, mostly men from the local neighborhood, gathered at their regular tables, some playing skat, a popular card game. The pub was their home-away-from-home, a meeting point. Cautious mumbles filtered throughout as the patrons were always leery of who might be listening or watching. An old German saying, "quiet obedience is a citizen's first duty,” still rang true.

  One by one, and staggering their arrival over a fifteen minute period, three men entered the establishment, trying to avoid direct eye contact with the other patrons. They sat together at a back table, away from dim, overhead hanging lights, and close to a back door.

  Klaus Steiner rolled a cold beer mug between his hands. Thick, bushy eyebrows framed deep-set eyes that were totally emotionless. "Has there been any word where he is?"

  "No," answered Otto Neus, nervously tugging at his dark blond, straggly hair that hung over his shirt collar. "Our contact hasn't been able to find out anything. One minute he was in the hotel, and the next he was gone. It's like he's disappeared off the face of the earth without leaving a trace." Neus sipped at his beer, anticipating an ass-reaming from Steiner, but Steiner just leaned back in the wooden chair, balancing it on the two back legs. Neus decided to try and persuade Steiner to change his plans. "Why bother trying to bring him back? We've got most of the formula. The drug is nearly ready for use. Why jeopardize our plans? We're so close to completing what we've set out to do, Klaus." He glanced briefly at Horst Schinkel seated across from him but knew he couldn't expect support from the man known as a humanoid.

  Schinkel rested his hands on his hips, his biceps muscles bulging under a dark brown woolen sweater. Tilting his head side to side, he attempted to stretch muscles in a very thick, stubby neck. He was never one to participate in conversation. If he responded at all, the responses were usually in the form of “grunts.” For Horst Schinkel his sole purpose in life was to be a ruthless killer.

  Steiner eased the chair forward and drank the last mouthful of dark beer. He wiped foam from his mouth and mustache with the back of his hand, then leaned his arms on the worn table surface. He spoke with a low gravely voice that commanded attention. "It's not just a matter of the formula now."

  Neus realized what Steiner was saying. Eleven months earlier, two other members broke away from the group. Steiner waited several weeks, letting the two men drop their guard, trying to make them feel they no longer had anything to fear, unaware they were being watched. On Steiner's orders, Horst Schinkel killed both men, slitting their throats with a straight razor. Now it was Brennar who'd betrayed him and made a fool of him. To make it even more humiliating, he was an American spy.

  "But we have the children. Maybe he'll come back on his own,” Neus tried to reason.

  “Do really believe he will return to the East? Even if he wanted to, do you think his superiors would allow that, Otto? Do you think I’m that stupid to believe that?”

  “No, Klaus, I...” Neus cut himself off, deciding to take a different tack. "You're right, you’re right. What do you plan on doing with the two boys?"

  Steiner shrugged indifferently, as he slowly ran the tips of his fingers back and forth across an unkempt mustache. Straggly hairs rubbed against his lower lip. "That remains to be seen. In the meantime, stay in touch with our contact. Keep the pressure on for more information."

  "And what about Greta?"

  "She was nothing but a whore. A mother would not give up her children without a fight like she did. She's probably glad to be rid of them anyway. Enough about her; right now our concern is Brennar."

  Chapter Eight

  West Berlin

  0300 Hours - Day 4

  A U.S. Navy helicopter lifted off the deserted end of a runway at West Berlin's Tegel Airport. The pilot rotated it ninety degrees, then headed in a southeasterly direction. In the cargo area, Grant and Adler were checking each other's gauges and hoses of their oxygen equipment.

  "I don't know, sir," Adler shouted above the chopper's engine, "two vacations to East Berlin in less than a week...you must really love the place!"

  "Near and dear to my heart, Joe." He checked his watch, signaled Adler, then they both slipped the straps of the oxygen masks over their heads, letting them hang from their necks.

  The co-pilot, Lieutenant Samuels, with his head half turned, shouted from the cockpit, "We’re passing fifteen thousand now! Time to go to oxygen! Twelve minutes to DZ!"

  Grant gave a thumb's up. He and Adler put on their rubb
er aviator masks, adjusted the straps and turned on the O2. The last thing they did was secure their rucksacks to the D-rings attached to their reserve chutes. Minutes later they were standing by the open door. The weather was on their side, bringing in heavy cloud coverage that would prevent the possibility of moonlight giving them away as they made their drop. They looked out into the night, unable to see above or below as the chopper passed through a thick cloud bank. They grabbed hold of the overhead as the chopper was buffeted by air turbulence.

  "Get ready for my signal!" Samuels yelled and held his fist in the air, ready to count down.

  Grant quickly glanced at his wrist altimeter. His eyes shot back to Samuels' hand, anticipating the ‘go’ sign. The light went green just as Samuels pointed toward the door and shouted, "Go!"

  Adler and Grant left the door in unison, diving head first into nothing but space, arching their backs to attain a good tracking position. With their arms and legs out slightly, they shot through the cold, damp clouds, traveling at nearly 130 miles an hour.

  Grant eyed the backup altimeter on the top of his reserve chute. He maneuvered farther away from Adler, getting ready for chute deployment. At 13,000 feet he took another bearing on Adler. As they broke through the clouds at nine thousand feet, they popped their chutes simultaneously. Glancing over his shoulder, Grant spotted Adler swinging in his harness no more than fifty yards away. The ram air chutes floated them gently into the wind as both men checked their coordinates to make the LZ.

  Grant tried focusing on the ground as he pulled on the toggles. Come on, come on! Where the hell are you? Somewhere in the surrounding area was supposed to be the signal light. His altimeter showed 5,000 feet. They had gone almost two horizontal miles when he began to pick up three faint white lights showing up off to his right, a little between him and Adler. Joe signaled that he'd seen them, too.

  Thanks again, old friend, Grant smiled as he watched the lights on Manfred's farm guiding them in. It was the same as last time--three lights in the shape of the letter L.