Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

  The Russian was just about 5'10", with a solid, muscular body and short, black hair. Checking the traffic, he looked up the street. Then, turning back, his eyes made split-second contact with Grant's. Taking a puff from a cigar, Grigori Moshenko stepped off the curb and walked towards the grocery store.

  Once on the other side, he paced up and down in front of the store, examining the food products meticulously displayed in the window. He intentionally fixed his eyes on a reflection in the glass watching Grant Stevens cross the street then continue walking toward an alley, eventually disappearing from view. Moshenko entered the grocery store, nodding his head to a store clerk, and then walked towards the refrigerated glass case, pausing to look at a lavish array of meats and sausages.

  Located near Alexanderplatz, the small but well-stocked grocery store catered to Soviet and East German government officials and military personnel. Already in business before the city was divided, the owner, Fritz Baumann, persuaded the new government to allow him to continue running the shop, even offering a monthly payoff to a designated party member. A simple, common man with vision and forethought, he devised a concealed room in the basement behind shelves stocked with goods. His intention was to eventually begin the construction of a tunnel for escapees. Baumann was easily recruited to become an operative for West Germany.

  "Colonel Moshenko," Fritz Baumann called as he came from behind the counter. “It’s so good to see you again." Moshenko merely nodded in acknowledgment. Baumann followed close behind, finally asking, "Is there anything special you are looking for?"

  The Russian continued walking down the aisle, glancing at shelves stocked with colorful cans of tomatoes, imported olives and kippers. A steady stream of smoke rose from the cigar he now pointed at Baumann. "My wife has asked that I bring her some of those pickled eggs I purchased last time."

  "Ahh, soleier," Baumann answered. "A new shipment is still packed in the basement. I haven't had time to stock the shelves. Would you like to come down with me? Perhaps you will see something else to bring home."

  "Perhaps," Moshenko answered curtly.

  Baumann led the way toward the back of the store. "If I remember correctly, you like Riesling, don't you?" Moshenko nodded. "You may want to look through the wine shelves, also. I purchased a new label recently." He called to his store clerk, as he reached for a notebook. "Freda, I'm taking the colonel downstairs to look through the new supplies. I'll take a quick inventory of the caviar while I'm down there. Take care of any customers." The gray-haired woman adjusted her white apron and nodded.

  A strong, pungent smell of sausage drifted up the stairwell as the two men made their way to the basement. Once the basement door had been closed, Moshenko shook Baumann's hand. "Your help is once again appreciated, Herr Baumann."

  "It is my pleasure, Colonel." He gestured toward the secret panel. "Take as long as you wish."

  Grant was sitting on the corner of a small table, swinging one leg back and forth, a wide grin spreading across his face when Moshenko came in. "It's about time you showed up," he laughed as he stood then walked toward the Soviet.

  Moshenko dropped the cigar butt on the irregular cement floor, grinding it with the heel of his boot. He threw his arms around Grant, slapping him on the back. "It's been a long time, my friend." Stepping back, he eyed the tall, good looking American up and down. "You are looking well." He poked a finger into Grant's rock-hard stomach muscles. "Still working out, I see."

  "Have to keep up to Uncle Sam's standards," Grant grinned. "How's Alexandra?"

  Moshenko put his cap on the table. "She is well; still keeps me in line, as you say," he laughed.

  "Why don't you sit down, Grigori." Grant motioned to a wooden chair.

  As he sat in the chair, Moshenko adjusted the position of a side holster holding his firearm, a 9mm Makarov automatic pistol. He immediately noticed Grant's expression change. "There's a serious problem?"

  Grant nodded. "Yeah, you might say that. You know that project your country is presently funding here?"

  "You are well informed. But then, I wouldn't have expected anything less," Moshenko responded trying to disguise a smile.

  Kneading the muscles in the back of his neck, Grant continued. "I'm afraid your project's been compromised." Moshenko leaned forward, hanging on Grant's words. "We found out that the FSG has gotten its hands on a sizable portion of the formula."

  The Russian's face turned grim. "My God."

  "I'm afraid that's just the beginning." Grant got up and slowly walked across the room, glancing up at the single, glaring light bulb. He turned around to look at Moshenko, as he anchored his thumbs in his back pockets. "I've gotta apologize first, Grigori."

  "You? For what?"

  Grant expelled a breath of air through clenched teeth, then said almost apologetically, "It was one of our agents who passed some of the recipe to them."

  "I'm assuming that what you are about to say is classified." Grant nodded. "Has your Admiral Torrinson been informed of your intentions to tell me?"

  "Yes."

  "Then, continue."

  "Part of the agent's assignment was to find out what the FSG planned on doing with the drug. In order to do that, he had to get their full confidence, and by passing bits and pieces of the formula, he did just that. I might add that not all the information he gave them was accurate, but unfortunately, what he did give them was more than enough to put them close to bringing it together."

  With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Moshenko questioned, "You said 'part of his assignment'?"

  "He'd been working for the East Germans for over a year, Grigori, helping with the formula."

  Moshenko gritted his teeth. "Were you aware of all this?"

  Grant shook his head, as he leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. "Had no idea. Without any explanation, we got orders to extract him. It was only after we completed the mission that we found out."

  "And you know what the FSG's plans are, don't you?"

  Grant nodded. "They're going to use it on you, Grigori, the Russian people, starting with the Kremlin during an upcoming conference."

  Moshenko sucked in a lungful of air, stunned by the news. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "No one would listen to me. From the beginning I warned my superiors that this project was too dangerous to put entirely in the hands of the East Germans." He stood up, pacing the room a few times before stopping and looking up into Grant's concerned face. "But, knowing you, my friend, you already have something in mind to resolve the situation, don't you?"

  "Do you have any extra time on your hands today?"

  "They believe I'm here on an inspection tour. I'm not expected to be back in Moscow for a couple of days."

  "Good. How'd you like to take a trip to the country? I hear it's beautiful this time of year."

  Moshenko trusted Grant to the utmost, not even questioning why. "I take it you are looking for me to, how do you say, ‘take a ride’?"

  "Hitch a ride," Grant laughed. "I've got a couple of friends and one unexpected guest waiting."

  "Would one of the friends be Joe Adler?"

  "You got it."

  Moshenko picked up his cap. Sliding his fingers along its brim, his lighthearted attitude quickly changed. "These are very serious times, Grant, very serious. It is best we handle this ourselves and explain later."

  "I agree. The fewer involved, the better."

  Moshenko put on his cap. "I'll be back in one hour. Be in the alley. We'll talk further during our ride."

  Making his way through the basement storeroom, Moshenko remembered to select a bottle of good Riesling and two jars of pickled eggs. He met Baumann on the way and they left the storeroom together.

  East Berlin Military Headquarters

  Colonel Helmut Durer felt the beads of perspiration spreading across his brow. He shifted nervously in the chair, his gray eyes staring at the general.

  General Hermann Stauffenberg sat in his leather, hi
gh-backed armchair, with his fingers pressed together, tapping against his lips. "You still haven't found Eric Brennar. You still haven't found Greta Verner. Do you have any idea where they could be?" the general asked as he tugged on the cuffs of his shirt.

  "Sir, we have watched all the airports and ports of call. No one has seen him. We believe he is still somewhere in Germany."

  "'Somewhere'? Can you narrow that down?"

  "Not at this time, sir."

  Stauffenberg pushed himself away from the desk. He walked around to the front, stopping next to Durer's chair. "And the woman?"

  "There are rumors that she's been disposed of, but that hasn't been confirmed."

  The short, balding general walked toward the window. He spread apart two of the window blind slats and glanced across the parade field. Two rows of tanks and jeeps were lined up inside the perimeter of a high chain-link fence that had concertina barbed wire strung across the upper edge. Every vehicle bore the red star of Russia.

  Stauffenberg pulled on the cord, raising the blind to the top of the window. "How many people are working this?" he asked while staring at a platoon of East German soldiers standing at attention for daily inspection. Their AK47s were held at arm's length in front of their bodies.

  "We have ten people in West Berlin, another ten in the Soviet Sector."

  "Hmm." Stauffenberg picked at his lower teeth, peculiarly exposed from a jutting jawline. "I assume that money was the main motivating factor," he said as he looked at a piece of leftover sauerkraut he'd pulled from his tooth, now stuck to the tip of his index finger.

  "As it usually is these days."

  "You need to put more pressure on these people. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Stauffenberg gestured for Durer to leave. The officer immediately jumped to attention then saluted crisply. He turned on his heel and left.

  Stauffenberg went behind his desk, glancing at the calendar. In a couple of days he was to attend a meeting at the Kremlin, one of several where he and his East German counterparts were invited. All members participated in discussing special interests. Questions would surely be raised by his Russian superiors concerning how the project for the virus was proceeding. The Russians knew Brennar was a vital link in seeing that the project was a success. In Stauffenberg's estimation it would take perhaps four to five weeks longer to complete the formula. His superiors might not be happy with that, but he was confident he could convince them the scientists were proceeding more slowly at this point just to ensure complete success.

  He sat in his chair and picked up a ball-point pen, idly scribbling doodles on a folder. He'd been fortunate, so far, in keeping Brennar's escape under wraps. But what troubled him was that no word had come out of the West about Brennar's defection. In this day and age, defections were always front page news. It was as if Eric Brennar no longer existed.

  *******

  A radiant sun was not quite directly overhead as a four-door, 1976 Mercedes Benz was waved through the last East Berlin checkpoint without incident. Once it had traveled two miles beyond it, Moshenko pulled over to a secluded spot. He unlocked the trunk and Grant scrambled out. Within seconds, they continued on their way. The silver vehicle raced along a two-lane country road, heading east. Tires squealed on black pavement as the auto took the sharp curves at extraordinary speeds. Moshenko handled the wheel like a natural-born race car driver, one of the pleasures of his life.

  With a cigar dangling from the side of his mouth, he said to Grant, "Now, my friend, tell me the rest of the story."

  Twenty-five minutes later, and close to their destination, Grant leaned forward, his eyes scanning the road ahead. "Think you'd better slow down, Grigori. There's supposed to be a dirt road coming up on the right." Moshenko slowed the vehicle. "There. Twenty yards ahead."

  The tires rolled over rocks and depressions. Heavy brush rubbed against the undercarriage as Moshenko guided the Mercedes along what was little more than a cow path. They had traveled nearly a mile when Grant said, "We'll have to ditch the car here, then hoof it for about a mile and a half."

  "'Hoof it'?" Moshenko asked in his thick Russian accent. He laughed as he drove the car off the path, steering it toward a tall, thick growth of brush.

  "Yeah, you know, 'hike,’ 'take a walk,’" Grant replied with a grin.

  They both got out of the car and Moshenko looked at Grant over the roof, shielding his eyes from the sun's glare. "I like your American expressions! But I find I have to be careful during conversations with my Russian comrades. One day I may slip, and the consequences will be on your shoulders!"

  Keeping up a pretty good pace, the two men made their way toward Manfred's farm, traveling across mostly open ground. After they had walked for close to fifteen minutes, Grant patted his friend's shoulder. "How ya doing?"

  "Piece of cake!"

  Manfred’s Farm

  Day 5

  Responding to a tap at the door, Manfred lifted the latch, and immediately stepped back, a stupefied expression covering his aged face. Never would he have expected to have a Russian military officer show up at his home. An image of his son, Hans, flashed in his mind and his heart pounded. Finally, he directed his eyes to Grant, who was standing next to the Soviet.

  "It's okay," Grant said reassuringly, catching the unmistakable look of anger on the old man's pale face. Manfred nodded slowly, keeping his eyes riveted on Moshenko. Grant eliminated any introductions, keeping Moshenko's identity classified. "We'll talk later." Grant chastised himself for having subjected Manfred to a face-to-face with Moshenko, knowing his feelings toward Russians: Shit! Stupid mistake, Stevens. Never should've let him see Grigori.

  Leading Moshenko to the shed, Grant signaled for him to stay quiet. Adler slid the bolt back then pushed up on the trapdoor. Grant peered down, seeing the dark form of Otto Neus sitting in a corner of the underground room, with his hands tied in front of him, his body lashed to the chair, a blindfold in place. Grant motioned for Adler to climb up the ladder, then they stepped outside and went around the back, surrounded by nothing but deserted, open fields.

  "Colonel Moshenko," Adler said, still keeping his voice low, "it's good to see you, sir."

  "And you, Joe," Moshenko responded with a smile, extending a hand.

  "How's our friend?" Grant inquired.

  "He was pretty groggy for awhile. Manfred gave him something to eat and drink. I can tell you one thing for certain. He's scared shitless."

  "Steiner?"

  "Steiner and his henchman, but he's not looking forward to meeting up with you again either."

  Grant acknowledged the remark with a half smile. "I'll keep that in mind. Have you been able to get any more out of him?"

  "You'll enjoy this one. With a little extra persuasiveness provided by yours truly and an added shot of 'truth juice,’ he said Steiner told him the kids were safe at the uncle's place."

  Grant frowned, as he ground his fist into his palm. Moshenko had remained quietly in the background but then asked, "You know this not to be true?"

  "Like I mentioned before, the only evidence we found of any kids having been there were the socks. I doubt he disposed of the kids this early in the game." He rubbed his hand along his chin. "I've got a bad feeling. If my hunch is right, both Steiner and the East Germans are going on a hunt for Lampson."

  "I agree," Adler nodded. "According to Otto, Steiner's a vengeful son of a bitch."

  Grant turned toward the window, drawing question marks with his finger on the dirt-covered glass panes. Adler took a step closer to him. "What's wrong, boss?"

  "I've been thinking about this since I talked with Lampson that day in the restaurant. It's gotta be somebody in the Embassy, Joe."

  "Sir?"

  Grant turned and faced the two men, then walked past them, thinking out loud. "Somebody from the Embassy passed information about Lampson."

  "Not another goddamn spy!" Adler blurted out, referring to an incident two years prior that he and Grant had p
layed a major role in.

  Moshenko raised an index finger, moving it side to side at both men. "Ahh, but this time we are not responsible for this spy!"

  Grant smiled. "I know, Grigori. Two to one the FSG got to him with either money or by blackmail."

  Moshenko pulled a cigar from inside his dark green uniform jacket pocket. A gust of wind swirled around the shed. He turned around, shielding the match flame. "You know the backgrounds of these men in your Embassy?" he asked, facing Grant again.

  Grant glanced in the direction of the main house, but didn't expect to see Manfred. The man knew when to stay in the background. "I don't have complete histories on all of them, but we can eliminate Matt Wharton right off the top."

  The three men stood in silence, Adler and Moshenko anticipating Grant had something else on his mind. "This is gonna sound crazy, but I think I know how to keep Lampson safe, considering we can't trust a goddamn soul. And that's where you come in, Grigori."

  "What can I do?" Moshenko asked, blowing out a stream of cigar smoke that immediately vanished in the swirling air.

  "Take him to Poland."

  Adler's jaw dropped. "Poland? You've gotta be shittin' me!"

  "Think about it, Joe. If we flew him back to the States, word would get out, sure as shootin’. Poland's gotta be the last place anyone would look for him."