Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

  He took her hand in both of his, caressing her long, slender fingers, then looked up into her gentle, brown eyes. "You go to bed and stay warm," he smiled. "I'll be with you shortly."

  When she reached the door, she turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder, saying demurely, "I'll be waiting." He responded with a smile.

  After the door closed, he picked up the cigar from the ashtray. He stared at the burning cigar with its tawny brown wrapper, rolling it between his fingers as his mind started creating a plan. An inspection tour will do nicely. One of the early Aeroflot flights would get him to East Berlin in plenty of time. His American friend, Grant Stevens, needed his help.

  A familiar aroma from the hot tea drifted into his senses. He breathed in then reached for the glass, picking it up by its gold-plated handle. The rim of the glass was hot against his lips as he sipped the tea. He immediately tasted the Ryabinovka-flavored vodka, steeped with ash berries. He smacked his lips then raised the glass and said softly to himself, "Ahh. Thank you, my dear Alexandra."

  His eyes strayed to the crackling fire as a spark leaped onto the fieldstone base skirting the fireplace. He sipped again on the vodka-laced tea, then let his head fall back against the chair. Appearing in his mind was a visual replay of his first encounter with the then Lieutenant Grant Stevens.

  ********

  The British Navy had requested assistance from the Americans following the crash of its sleek British bomber, the delta-winged Vulcan, in the northern Mediterranean. Remnants of the aircraft began to surface off the coast of Portugal. Initial reports released to the media were sketchy, at best. The crew was presumed dead, but the search was continuing. The U.S. Navy sent in its DSRV (deep submersible rescue vehicle). Grant was the OIC (Officer in Charge) of the dive team.

  The Kalinin, a Soviet Kresta-class cruiser, had been tracking the British and American ships. As expected, the Soviets offered their assistance and were diplomatically turned down by the British. But it was much more than just concern or morbid curiosity that brought the Russians to the scene. The Vulcan was carrying a nuclear bomb, still yet to be recovered.

  At the time, Moshenko was working with the Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU, in their special services unit, the Spetsnaz. He was assigned to intelligence duties aboard the Kalinin, using the cover of a helicopter pilot, in that his background included 1500 hours of flying the KA-25. The chopper was equipped with search-radar in an under nose radome. After lifting off the cruiser, Moshenko hovered the chopper close to the recovery site.

  Grant, dressed out in his wetsuit, was in a rubber boat, directing operations. He glanced up at the chopper for an instant, and shook his head in disgust as if to say, "Back off!"

  His eyes were still glued to the helicopter when a noise like an extremely loud backfire echoed across the sky. Smoke began billowing from the chopper's motor. The KA-25 suddenly started rocking back and forth, nose up and tail down. Moshenko lost total control as it began to gyro-rotate, its body spinning the opposite of the rotor blades. The Mediterranean, ninety feet below, was approaching at what seemed like blinding speed. The engine sputtered and died just as the aircraft hit the water, belly first. An explosion of sea water burst outward. Moshenko felt as if his spine was being rammed up into his skull from the force of the impact. One of the tail fins snapped off, back-spinning across the water, but somehow, the rest of the aircraft remained intact. The lock on the sliding cargo door snapped from the force, sending the door back on its track. Water rushed in through the wide opening, causing the chopper to list to starboard. Moshenko hit the release on his safety belt but it jammed. Pulled in tight against the backrest, he had no way to wriggle out of the harness. The more he struggled, the tighter it got, and water was gurgling all around him.

  As soon as the chopper started going down, Grant ordered the coxswain to fire up the engine and head for it. He shouted to Chief Cole in the other boat to take over operations. As the rubber boat skimmed over the two foot swells, Grant knelt down in the center, steadying himself as he worked quickly to put on his scuba tank, fins and mask. The coxswain pulled back on the throttle. The boat was still fifty feet from the chopper when Grant hit the water.

  By now, the helo was almost totally underwater, only the tip of a red star on its remaining twin tail fin was visible. One rotor blade poked up through the water's surface. Grant stroked like hell, finally coming close to the front starboard side of the chopper. Sunlight filtered through the blue-green sea water, making visibility crystal-clear. He immediately spotted someone in the cockpit. Recognizing the chopper as a KA-25, he knew it would be fruitless to try and open the pilot-side door. He swam directly for the open cargo bay, propelling himself to the forward section, pulling his knife from his thigh strap. The chopper was beginning to sink faster, as if being drawn downward by a powerful magnet.

  Moshenko was still struggling when Grant swam up behind him. He floated in next to Moshenko, sucked in another lungful of air, then pulled the mouthpiece from his mouth and shoved it against Moshenko's. The Soviet breathed in deeply and quickly while Grant slashed at the safety belt with his knife. Moshenko handed the mouthpiece back to Grant as Grant pulled him from the seat. They swam back through the cargo bay toward the open door. They were seconds away from being at the hundred foot depth, when oxygen from the tank would be useless. The bends, every diver’s fear, could soon become reality.

  Grant had just guided Moshenko through the opening when the chopper suddenly listed to port. The motion of the chopper caused the flexible blades to shimmy. A tip sliced through the flesh of Moshenko's right calf. The Soviet's mouth opened in a scream, air bubbles gushed out. Grant pulled him closer, shoving the mouthpiece back into his mouth. He glanced down, seeing the blood being diluted by sea water, pouring from the deep wound. He pointed up, motioning for Moshenko to continue breathing as they ascended. He could only hope the Soviet understood and didn't hold his breath during the ascent. Moshenko nodded, acknowledging Grant's instructions but he was in obvious pain. With one hand hanging onto the Soviets sleeve, Grant did a 'blow and go,’ sending out a steady stream of bubbles, releasing all the air in his lungs as they made their way to the surface.

  Now, in the sanctuary and comfort of his own home, Grigori Moshenko found himself sweating. Whether imaginary or real, he reached down and massaged the ache in his calf. Even Soviets have their own demons to confront every now and then.

  Chapter Nine

  Hufeland Strasse - East Berlin

  A city alive during the day now rested quietly beneath a suspended gray crown of smoke being discharged from fireplaces and factories throughout the city. The top floor of a ten-story, nineteenth century tenement building seemed to vanish within a cloud of smoke. The lower exterior of the concrete mass was still battered and pock-marked, a testimonial to wartime bombings. The state began renovating many of the apartments, although most were still considered to be very under-modernized.

  Grant waited patiently as he hid in the alley across from the building where he and Adler were to meet. Close to midnight, most of the lights in the apartments had already been extinguished. Like a jungle cat, he moved quietly, unseen, making his way to the doorway, then immediately disappeared inside the building. A wooden staircase was directly in front of him, the first of three floors he'd have to encounter. With Lampson's description clear in his mind, he made a dash up the stairs, hanging close to the wall where the steps were more secure, less likely to give him away. In what seemed like seconds, he was at 3C, tapping out a prearranged signal. The lock clicked and he squeezed through the partially open door into a pitch dark room.

  Dampness and a distinct musty odor hit his senses as soon as he stepped into the flat, making it obvious no one had lived there for some time. Adler immediately closed the door, set the lock, then turned on a flashlight. He shoved a throw rug up against the bottom of the door to help prevent any light from being seen from the hallway. He motioned for Grant to follow him into the kitchen, where a
dark blanket had already been draped across the only window. He switched on a dim light hanging above a square wooden table that was covered by a worn piece of red oilcloth.

  Grant stripped off his outer layer of clothes, then his wetsuit. He redressed, and after rolling up the wetsuit, he stuffed it into the burlap bag. Already suspecting the walls were paper thin, he kept his voice low. "Find anything of interest?"

  "Clean as a whistle, almost like somebody wiped it down. No papers, no pictures...zippo." Grant was tying his sneakers when Adler asked, "How about you? Any luck?"

  One side of Grant's mouth curved up into a smile. "Target acquired!"

  "Outstanding! What's next?"

  "Gotta wait till I meet with Grigori."

  "Your usual place?" Adler asked.

  "That's affirmative."

  Adler jokingly asked, "How about a snack before bedtime?" He pushed a paper bag across the table.

  "Assume you've already eaten your share," Grant commented as pulled out bread and a chunk of cheese. His knife sliced through the muenster as if it were softened butter. He popped the cheese into his mouth, when suddenly he and Adler froze.

  They snapped their heads around, staring at the door, hearing a creaking from the wooden steps. Grant took a firm grip on his knife as he slowly pushed himself away from the table. Adler drew his .45 from his shoulder holster. After a series of hand signals, Adler extinguished the overhead light.

  Their eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and in complete silence, they took their positions. Adler concealed himself just beyond the bedroom doorway. Grant flattened himself against a wall next to the door. Using his foot, he slowly drew the throw rug to the side. Immediately, a shaft of light breached the space beneath the door. A moment later, the sound of approaching footsteps suddenly stopped. Grant looked down, waiting, as a shadow appeared underneath the door. He re-gripped the knife, holding the cold steel blade close to his cheek. The unseen stranger tapped on the door. Then, a key was inserted into the lock and the door was slowly pushed open.

  Grant tensed as he watched a head poke around the door, and a stranger called softly, "Greta?" A man walked into the room and closed the door.

  As rapid as the blink of an eye, Grant's hand clasped over the man's mouth, the razor-sharp edge of his knife pressed against the jugular. Adler immediately ran from the bedroom, stopping directly in front of the man, shining a flashlight into his face. A look of absolute terror clearly showed in the stranger's eyes. Grant slid the knife blade to just above the Adam's apple, applying a slight pressure, then he slowly removed his hand from the man's mouth.

  Adler grabbed the front of the man's shirt, dragging him toward the middle of the living room, the whole time Grant kept pressure on the knife. Keeping his voice low and menacing and speaking in German, Adler said, "I want you to keep your voice quiet, do you understand?" The German nodded. "Now," Adler said, "who are you?"

  The only word that escaped from the German's lips was a shaky, "Nein!"

  "We've got all night, friend, but I can guarantee that you don't," Adler gruffly whispered close to the man's face, a smell of beer evident on the German's breath.

  Grant felt the man's body start to go limp. He slid a chair over with his foot, then roughly pushed him into the seat, the knife still lodged in place.

  Adler leaned closer. "One more time...who are you?"

  The man blinked. "Otto...Neus."

  Adler glanced quickly at Grant, who shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he didn't recognize the name. "Good response, Otto. Now, why are you here?"

  "I...I wanted to see if Greta had returned."

  "Did you tell anyone you were coming here?"

  “Nein.”

  "How'd you like my friend to give you some breathing room, Otto?" Adler asked.

  "Ja! Ja!" he pleaded, remembering to talk quietly.

  Grant removed the knife, but kept the cold, flat blade resting on Neus' shoulder. The German felt pressure from a strong hand pressing down on his opposite shoulder, ensuring he remained in the chair.

  "Okay, Otto, you said you wanted to see if Greta had returned. Returned from where?”

  "I don't know. She just disappeared after we..." It was too late to retract his statement.

  "We? Who is 'we'?"

  Neus felt the sharp point of the knife jab at his jugular, making him freeze. Beads of sweat began trickling down his temples. His knuckles turned white as his hands gripped the edges of the seat. "I...I cannot tell you."

  "Sure you can," Adler said with a smirk. "Give it a try."

  Grant ran the point of the knife up and down the side of the German's neck, persuading him to blurt out, "Klaus. Klaus Steiner."

  Adler looked up at Grant who motioned with his head. Still blinded from the harsh light, Neus blinked rapidly, trying to refocus. He could hear only whispers from the two strangers.

  Adler said, "My friend and I are going to have a chat while you stay here." He unrolled a length of cord, tying the prisoner's ankles to the chair legs. Then he ordered, "Hands behind your back." Grant took a strip of cord and tied the German's hands, as Adler shoved part of a small towel into Neus' mouth. The Americans backed up into the kitchen, continuing to keep their voices at a whisper.

  "Looks like you were right about the FSG taking the kids," Adler said.

  "Yeah, but this opens up a whole shitload of questions."

  Adler nodded. "What are we gonna do with him?" he asked as he motioned with his thumb over his shoulder.

  Grant took a step away from the stove. "I think this guy's terrified of Steiner." Deep in thought, he walked over to the window, then went back to Adler. "Somehow we've gotta get him out of here. We still need to extract more information from him.”

  "Same way we came in?"

  Grant nodded. "When Manfred shows up with his load of coal, it'll be you and Otto making the return trip. You'll have to do the interrogation."

  "I can do that," Adler grinned.

  "You still got those syringes with 'knockout drops,’ right?"

  "In the rucksack. Three cc's each; should be enough to keep him quiet for awhile."

  "Once you're underway, I'll head out for my meeting with Grigori. I'll rely on him to help get me out of the city." Both of them turned their heads, looking at the shadowy form of Otto Neus, sitting stone-still. "See if you can find something for a blindfold."

  Grant walked behind the German. Neus' body tensed. His mouth went dry from feeling the presence of his unseen, knife-wielding captor. Adler handed Grant a strip of bed sheet. Neus tried to jerk his head aside as Grant tied the blindfold in place.

  Adler walked around and stood in front of Neus, saying, "Afraid you're going for a little ride, Otto." The bound and gagged German saw his life pass before his eyes, a deep groan rising from his throat.

  Grant glanced at his watch. They still had an hour before Manfred was scheduled to show up. May as well keep the conversation going, he thought. He motioned to Adler, who removed the gag from the German's mouth.

  Neus coughed, then took some short, quick breaths before asking, "Are you going to kill me?"

  Adler ignored the question. "Tell us where the children are."

  "I don't know." He heard Grant move behind him, anticipating the feel of the cold steel. "I swear! I don't know! Klaus didn't tell me."

  "What was Greta to you?"

  "We were...lovers...before Brennar came along." Grant's eyebrow shot up. This is getting very interesting.

  "I want you to think carefully about your next answer, Otto. Is Brennar the father of those children?"

  Neus tilted his head slightly, as if the question were absurd. "Of course. Greta told me they were."

  Grant signaled time was up; they had to prepare to meet Manfred. Neus nearly came off the seat when he suddenly felt the cloth touch his lips before being roughly shoved into his mouth. Adler grabbed hold of Neus’ elbow, assisting him in getting up. His legs were untied, then his wrists retied in front of him. His jacket was bu
ttoned to the top then his collar pulled up, his blond hair hanging over it. The next thing he knew, he was being half dragged, half carried down the stairs, with Grant and Adler each holding onto an arm. When they reached the main landing, Grant kept an iron grip on Neus' arm while Adler scoped out the alley, returning in seconds, saying softly, "Schnell."

  Manfred was ready for them and had opened the hidden compartment door. Even though he was surprised to see the German, he remained quiet and stood aside while the Americans did their work.

  Adler pulled a syringe from the rucksack, snapped his finger against it, then squirted a small amount into the air, ensuring there weren't any bubbles. Grant held Neus' arm in a vice-like grip. Veins in the back of the German's hand made an easy target for Adler, and within seconds, the sodium pentothal took effect. The German's knees buckled from under him. They pulled the gag from his mouth, then rolled him into the compartment. Adler crawled in next to him and quickly adjusted the oxygen masks. He gave a thumb's up and Grant secured the hinged door. Grant patted Manfred on his back and the old man climbed into the cab of the truck, giving Grant a wink as he drove away.

  Once again looking like another East Berliner going off to work, Grant slung the sack over his shoulder and headed for his rendezvous with Grigori Moshenko.

  Chapter Ten

  East Berlin

  Day 5

  Early morning shadows began creeping down the curb outside a cafe, stretching themselves across gutters and into the street. Sputtering motorbikes, popular and inexpensive modes of transportation, passed up and down the narrow road. Puffs of white smoke sputtered from the exhausts, expelling acrid fumes. A sound of clanking bottles and wooden crates echoed from the alley next to the cafe as a delivery truck driver prepared to make early morning rounds.

  Seated at a black wrought iron table beneath the café’s gray and white awning, Grant occasionally glanced across the street at the grocery store. He spread a spoonful of honey on his second breakfast roll, while every once in awhile taking a quick, nonchalant look up and down the street. As he licked drops of honey from his fingers, he glanced in the direction of the chimes of a distant bell tower. Almost at that exact moment, a Soviet military officer appeared from around a corner, stopping momentarily on the curb a few yards from the cafe. Grant signaled for a waiter and asked for the check. The basic German Adler had taught him was more than sufficient to get him by. He handed the money to the waiter then waited for his change. Without being obvious, he leaned slightly, just enough to observe the uniformed officer.