Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

  When Manfred first brought him to this safe room, he had fleeting moments of those same memories, those same feelings. Thanks to Manfred's company and all the years that had allowed him to deal with his personal monster, he was able to shake off those feelings--but never completely.

  East Germany

  0700 Hours

  Two figures, with rucksacks slung over their shoulders and running in a zigzag pattern, came down a knoll on the western side of the property. Covering the ground beneath drooping boughs of fir trees, patches of ice crystals from an early morning frost crunched beneath their shoes. Grant and Adler finally lodged themselves in between two rock formations approximately 1,200 yards from the farmhouse.

  The tree line came within one hundred fifty yards of the cottage where Lampson and Greta had stayed. The shingled main house was situated a hundred yards in front of it. Access to the house was provided by an irregular, compacted dirt drive, stretching fifty feet from the house to as far as the eye could see. Firewood was stockpiled the whole length of the house on the southern side.

  Adler had the binoculars pressed against his eyes, watching for any movement in and around the farm. "Don't see any sign of life," he confirmed.

  Manfred told them that if the farmers wanted to make their living off the land, they had to join an agricultural co-op. Grant pointed to a section of land directly ahead of them, on the southern side of the property. "Looks like that area was farmed at one time, but not lately. Any farm equipment?"

  Adler made another sweep with the binoculars. "No barn, no equipment."

  The smell of pine and smoke from distant fireplaces mingled in the air, being carried on a northerly breeze. "On a cold morning like this, wouldn't you expect to see some smoke from that fireplace?" Grant asked.

  "Yeah, I caught a whiff as we came over the rise, but it must've come from the place we passed in the truck."

  "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

  Adler secured the binoculars in the sack. "You bet. You wanna go knock on the door?" he grinned.

  "Let's not get carried away here," Grant responded as he pulled a .45 from his shoulder holster. He ejected the clip, checked it, rammed it back up into the handle, then jacked back the slide. He gave Adler a sideways glance. "Leave the gear here. You go first."

  "Well, shit, I guess your rank still has its privileges," Adler responded. "I'll take the northern route." Grant nodded his acknowledgment.

  Adler took off first, crouching low as he ran toward the north side of the main house. When he reached the building he pressed his back against the wooden planks, holding the Uzi close, its muzzle pointed upward. He watched Grant running across the field and waited till he’d disappeared on the opposite side of the house.

  Grant backed up as close as he could to the pile of firewood, inching closer to a single, shuttered window. He shot a quick glance around the property before peering into the window. Except for basic furnishings, the house appeared to be unoccupied. Still wary, he crept toward the front, seeing Adler poke his head cautiously around the corner.

  Both men edged their way slowly toward the front door. Adler reached for the door handle. As he started to depress the latch with his thumb, he glanced at Grant, who nodded, giving him the go ahead. The latch offered no resistance; the door was unlocked. Adler entered first, stepping in at a forty-five degree angle, scanning the room, sweeping his Uzi side to side. Grant came in directly behind him, moving off to the left. After a brief search, they were satisfied the place was empty.

  "Check the bedrooms," Grant motioned with his firearm. "See if you can find anything with a name on it. Lampson said the uncle's was 'Karl Verner.'" Adler nodded, checking the one bedroom on the first floor, then he cautiously climbed up the narrow wooden stairwell leading to the loft.

  Grant lifted the oven door latch and opened the square iron door. Piles of cold ashes lay on the bottom. He reached for a poker, then sifted through the ashes but found nothing. He turned his attention to the cupboards and began opening and closing doors. In the last cupboard he spotted what looked like the corner of an envelope that had been pushed to the back of a shelf at eye level. He slid it toward him. "Joe!"

  Adler came down the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Find something?"

  “Bingo!” He handed the letter to Adler.

  Adler read the name and address. “So, who do you think this 'Eberhard Weimar’ is? Wait a minute. Son of a bitch!" Adler blurted out. "If this guy owned the property, what the hell do you think they did with him?"

  Grant shrugged his shoulders. "Anything's possible."

  "Maybe Manfred was able to find out something more in town."

  "Maybe. Look, you go scope out the cottage and look for any indication there might be a grave. I'll keep looking in here."

  Fifteen minutes later, Adler came back. "Any luck?" Grant asked as he walked toward the door.

  "Only these." Alder opened his hand, revealing a pair of white baby socks. "Found them under a dresser."

  "That just proves they were here, but we don't know much more than when we walked through the door. Any sign of a grave?"

  “Ground looks like it hasn’t been disturbed for a long time.”

  Grant brushed past Adler. "Come on. Let's get the hell outta here and meet Manfred."

  1930 Hours

  An old flatbed truck sped along the roadway, heading west. Stacks of wooden racks were piled as high as the truck's cab. Fragile blocks of pressed coal (briquettes) were packed tightly inside each two by three foot rack to prevent them from disintegrating if the truck encountered rough terrain. Stretched out like fallen statues in a concealed compartment beneath the bed of the truck, the two Americans felt as if they were in a coffin. Already prepared for any heavy gas fumes that would be invading the confined space, they had their oxygen masks in place.

  The truck began to slow, the sound of the engine winding down as Manfred shifted gears. A sudden backfire jolted the two passengers. They automatically gripped the handles of their .45s on their chests. The vehicle came to a complete stop at the checkpoint. Voices could barely be distinguished above the din of the engine. One of the East German soldiers, part of the German Democratic Republic Border Command, checked Manfred's papers, while the other walked slowly around the truck. The stop and inspection was cursory on their part, since the old German had become a familiar subject to them. Balancing his AK47 against the truck, Private Stoltz hopped up onto the rear of the bed. He bent down and lifted one of the coal racks then yelled to Corporal Voigt, "Here! Take this!" The corporal slung his rifle over his shoulder, and reached up to take the rack, holding it high as another was placed on top.

  Grant and Adler kept their breathing slow and steady, ready to react, until they felt the truck lurch forward and heard the gears grind.

  As Manfred passed through the checkpoint, he broke out in a wide smile, stretching from ear to ear. Maybe tonight he had lost another two racks of coal, but they were certainly the most satisfying loss he'd experienced to date. He whistled a tune from his boyhood years, remembering days of freedom.

  The truck made numerous sharp right- and left-hand turns, traveling at no more than 25 kph, eventually coming to a stop. Manfred parked the truck at the back of the factory where vehicles were being loaded. He opened the door, then slid off the seat, wincing when his feet landed on the hard pavement, the jolt sending a shooting pain up his leg. Taking a final look around, he tapped twice on the truck bed. A side door on the hidden compartment opened then hung from its hinges. Grant and Adler rolled out, and quickly made a dash into the shadows. Manfred, meanwhile, unloaded two coal racks, taking them one at a time into the factory office.

  Once they were clear of the factory, Grant said, "See you at the flat." Adler gave a thumb's up then headed toward the eastern part of the city. Grant tugged on the baseball cap, then slung a burlap sack over his shoulder, his facemask and snorkel hidden inside. He opted not to take his large swim fins. It would be easier and faster without them wh
en it came time to exit the water. His powerful legs would be more than adequate.

  There was still a lot of traffic. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. Grant maneuvered through the crowds, finding his way through the city as if he were reading a map in his mind. He paused momentarily at a bridge overpass, glancing casually up and down the river, trying to visualize the blueprint. Then he proceeded to follow the river in a southeasterly direction. After nearly twenty more minutes of walking, traffic had thinned to practically nil. He hadn't passed another pedestrian for over a half mile. Along the route he noticed that most of the small shops were boarded up. Obviously, this wasn’t a popular place. Not far ahead of him, just beyond the shops, were two apartment buildings. Two to one that was the place. All he had to do was find that pipe and see if it led to the lab. Simple. Right!

  For several blocks the entire area was void of lighting. He scoped out the riverfront, eyeing several tree limbs overhanging close to the water. He circled around and came in from the opposite side of the trees, staying in their shadows. With a final look around, he stripped off his outer clothes, removed the facemask and snorkel from the bag, then shoved his clothes into it. His black wetsuit allowed him to blend into the darkness even more. He looked overhead, then crammed the bag into a crook of the tree, ensuring it was wedged in tightly. It was time to hit the water. He got down on his belly and crawled toward the water, disappearing beneath the surface in an instant.

  Staying close to the shoreline, he went down as deep in the river as he could, anticipating the pipe to be within fifty yards. Squinting through his mask, he pulled up suddenly, seeing the object of his search directly in his path. Still having plenty of air in his lungs, but not knowing how long his swim through the pipe would take, he slowly ascended, until his eyes cleared the surface. Seeing no one, he exhaled sharply, expelling a fine spray of water from the snorkel. Sucking in a fresh lungful of air, he disappeared beneath the surface again.

  At the entrance of the pipe, he pulled a flashlight from a hook on his belt then pointed the light ahead of him, swiveling it side to side. He felt a slight current flowing into the pipe. He reasoned there shouldn’t be any current, unless there was an opening up ahead.

  He would allow himself a round trip swim time of three minutes. Throwing caution aside, and considering what he had to accomplish, he kicked his legs hard. The tiny beam from the flashlight didn't allow him to see too far in the distance, but he'd been in worse circumstances than this. He continued kicking and glanced at his watch. Ninety seconds, he thought. Already past the time he had allotted himself, he was about to stop when he heard a noise in the distance that sounded like rushing water. The sound increased as he continued on. Aiming his flashlight off to the right, he spotted a ladder rising out of the darkness. He grabbed hold of a rung, and looked up to see a metal hatch. He had seen plenty of those. The hatch resembled an escape hatch on a submarine.

  Without wasting any more time, he climbed four rungs, finally able to bring his head out of the water. He grabbed hold of the wheel and gave it a couple of turns. All he could hope was that no one was standing on the opposite side. From what Lampson was able to get out of Steiner, work in the lab was allowed only during daytime hours; but that didn’t mean Steiner told him the truth.

  Gradually raising the heavy cover, he stood on the top rung and poked his head through the opening. Letting the snorkel dangle from its strap, he breathed in, recognizing a faint odor. Chemicals. Scrambling through the hatch, he crouched low, finding himself inside a tunnel made up of the same type of pipe he just swam through. Overhead, bare light bulbs were strung from wire every twenty feet down the tunnel as far as he could see. This had to be one of their escape routes. He sealed the hatch, then started making his way through the pipe, all his senses on full alert. He was grateful that a smooth walkway had specifically been laid inside this portion of the pipe, his bare feet feeling its cool dampness.

  He'd only traveled about fifty feet when another passage broke off to his left, lights strung from it as well. "Shit!" His voice echoed inside the metal casement. He tried to picture in his mind the route he'd been following as if he were above at ground level. It made sense that an escape route would lead under a road then probably exit in another basement. It wasn’t likely they'd take a water route like he just did.

  After another five minutes of half-jogging through the tunnel, he spotted less than twenty-feet ahead of him a plain, steel door with a ball-type doorknob. A steady humming noise somewhere overhead made him direct the flashlight beam along the top curve of the pipe. An exhaust fan was left running, drawing odors out of the room and into the tunnel, explaining why he smelled the chemicals early on.

  He closed his eyes, trying to listen for the sound of any human voices coming from the other side, but all he heard was the steady drone of the fan. He had to take a chance and hope luck was with him. He unzipped his wetsuit then removed a waterproof plastic case containing an electronic lock-opening device. He selected a pick from the carrying case, inserted one end into the device, the other into the lock, then switched on the device. Inside the lock, pins were being bounced around until they were in alignment. Piece of cake, he quipped. The lock clicked. He put the device back inside the case then slipped it into his wetsuit. Cautiously turning the knob, he pulled on the heavy door, cracking it just enough to able to take another listen. The room was pitch black and quiet as a tomb.

  He stepped in, making a quick 360-degree scan with the flashlight's small beam. He guessed it to be barely fifteen feet square, but every inch was jam packed with tables and lab equipment. There weren’t any closed cabinets, only open shelving, leaving everything in full view. He moved the light across the ceiling and focused on a set of collapsible steps. They were encased in a wooden framework that was anchored to the ceiling in the middle of the lab. From what he could figure, the steps led to the basement of the building. He walked over to the counter and began picking up glass canisters, reading each label. "All the right ingredients," he mumbled. He lifted the lids of cardboard boxes, looking for notes but found none. He shone the light on his watch. It was already 2215 hours. It was time to make that call to Grigori then head for the flat.

  Paramount in his mind was the fact that civilian casualties had to be avoided. Then again, from what he could see during his little jaunt to this place, civilians seemed to avoid this end of town like the plague. He already decided on the explosives he’d be using. As soon as he closed the door of the lab, he took a reading on his compass, and then jogged back through the tunnel effortlessly, making mental notes of distance and direction, finally reaching the hatch. The swim back to the Spree and his original point of departure would be a breeze. He could only hope he didn't drip too much water once he had on his civilian clothes.

  He made his way down alleys, around the backs of buildings, trying to stay out of sight as much as possible. Traffic was merely a trickle. Twenty-five minutes after leaving the river, he was in a phone booth on Kruegstrasse. He took a quick glance around before dialing a twelve digit number that would ring a phone in Moscow.

  After three rings, there was a series of beeps. Once they stopped, Grant spoke in impeccable Russian, leaving a coded message made up entirely of a series of numbers. There was no need to expect any voice response from this particular phone call. It was similar to what was known as a 'blind transmission,’ when a person transmits a message without expecting a response. He immediately hung up and left the phone booth, making haste for his rendezvous with Adler.

  Moscow, Russia

  Seated at the mahogany desk in his study, Grigori Moshenko listened to the familiar voice on the tape. He deciphered the message as each number was spoken. There was the sound of the connection breaking, then a steady dial tone. He immediately pressed the erase button on the recorder then pulled the cassette from the machine. He pushed the chair away from the desk, and then walked toward a massive fireplace, built of irregularly shaped brown stones. Pulling a length of the magnetic
tape from inside its protective case, he tore it in half. He felt the warmth on his hands from the intensely burning logs as he tossed in the tape then watched the plastic case melt.

  Dangling from the side of his mouth was a Davidoff Grand Gru cigar, with an inch long charred gray ash hanging precariously from the tip. After flicking the cigar ash into the fireplace, he rested his hand on the rough hewn hardwood mantel, made from the piece of Russian oak he'd brought back from a trip to Odessa. Staring at the burning, orange embers, he seemed mesmerized as he watched them flutter like fireflies, floating upward, finally disappearing in the chimney. Once he had assured himself the tape was entirely destroyed, he took a step away from the fireplace and sat down slowly on a large upholstered chair. A good warm fire, with its crackling and hissing, relaxed his mind and body.

  A light tapping on the door made him turn. "Yes?"

  The door opened and his wife, Alexandra, called quietly, "Grigori?"

  "Come, Alexandra," he smiled and waved her over to him.

  She carried a glass of hot Russian tea then placed it on the table by his chair before leaning over and kissing him lightly. As she did, a wisp of her dark brown hair caressed his cheek. He reached for her hand, feeling the smooth wedding ring, one she'd worn for twenty-six years, twenty-seven next January.

  "You've spent so many hours working and worrying these past months," she said in nearly a whisper. She tenderly ran a hand across his receding hairline, smoothing back jet black hair.