In 1975 the two of them had been instrumental in preventing the most advanced destroyer in existence, the USS Bronson, from falling into Russian hands.
"Ahh," Wharton smirked, "the Bronson." He flicked an ash on the floor, then shifted his eyes to Grant. "If I'm not mistaken, one of our boys worked with you on that one. Tony Mullins, right?" Grant held back any reaction. "And you say it was all on instincts?"
"Pretty much!" Adler sheepishly looked in Grant's direction, giving him a 'see...no problem' wink.
"It's still gonna take a fuckin' lot more than that to convince me," Wharton added. "Gimme some names."
Grant stared intently into Wharton's round, full face, watching for a reaction. "Bradley, Canetti, Kelley."
Wharton barely blinked. His face remained like a mask. He leaned back against the chair, intertwined his fingers, then rested his hands on his midsection. Grant gave him a chance to roll the names around in his mind.
"In my estimation, you're picking the three most obvious, maybe too obvious," Wharton finally responded.
"Don't think so. Look, confirm for me that they were the only individuals who knew Lampson was coming back that night, and only just before extraction."
Wharton sighed deeply, reaching for his beer, but refrained from drinking. "I informed Bradley two hours prior to his taking Joe to the Spree, and Canetti and Kelley were put on alert to wait in the crypto lab for any transmissions from you. So that would've been around 2000 hours for all parties."
"Were they informed Lampson was being stashed at the Hotel Berliner?" Grant asked as he sipped on the cold coffee.
Wharton glanced up at the ceiling, thinking back to his conversations with the three men. He moved his eyes from Adler then back to Grant. "Yeah, I did tell them."
Adler asked, "What about the two agents assigned to guarding Lampson at the hotel?"
"They were that obvious, huh?" Wharton chuckled. Adler just shrugged his shoulders as Wharton responded, "No, they knew nothing until Bradley took Lampson over there."
"Would you say that the two hours was more than enough time to put a note in Lampson's room?" Grant asked.
"Note? What the hell are you talking about?"
"A note was taped to the inside of the medicine cabinet. It addressed Lampson by his German name, Eric Brennar, and threatened his twin sons. As a nice touch," Grant said with a note of sarcasm, "a photo of the kids was included."
"Torrinson mentioned the kids," Wharton nodded. "And getting back to your question, yeah, two hours would've given someone time to get the note to the hotel, or at least contact someone else to do it. My guess is it was probably the latter."
Grant pushed the coffee cup away, then rested his arms on the table. "Would you be willing to run some interference for us?"
"Like what?"
"Joe and I came up with a way to put our cast of characters through a test."
"I'm listening."
Grant outlined the plan. Wharton listened intently, sipping on his beer, every once in a while nodding his head, but he refrained from asking any questions. The plan was simple enough. Only the three men under suspicion would be involved. No one in the Embassy or West Berlin civilian community would be put in any danger.
The CIA bureau chief raised the beer stein to his lips and downed the last mouthful of warm beer. He held onto the stein momentarily, turning it around, letting his eyes wander across the colorful, intricate carvings covering the outer shell. Finally, he said, "I told the Admiral I'd help you two and this definitely falls into that category."
Grant's face broke into a grin. "Thanks."
Wharton stood up, with Grant and Adler following. "Speaking of help,” Wharton said, “John, I mean Admiral Torrinson, said you might need additional supplies."
"We're covered, but thanks anyway." As they shook hands, Grant said, "Sorry it had to be this way, sir."
Wharton then offered a hand to Adler as he said, "Listen, all we need to do is identify the son of a bitch then hope he didn't cause any irreparable damage." He started to turn away, then looked back at Grant. "You sure Rick's in good hands?"
"As safe as a baby in its mother's arms," Grant answered reassuringly.
Wharton nodded. "You know I'm not looking forward to talking with any of you tonight."
"Understood, sir," Grant nodded. The bureau chief sighed deeply and lowered his head before turning and heading for the front door. As soon as he'd gone, Grant said, "Come on, Joe. Let's go make that call to Grigori."
U.S. Embassy - 1310 Hours
Wharton climbed the winding marble staircase leading to the second floor offices. He by-passed the elevator because he wanted the few additional minutes to think. As he reached the top step, he noticed Pete Bradley standing by a secretary's desk, thumbing through a manila folder. "Pete, I need to see you."
"Sure, Matt," Bradley answered, as he dropped the folder on the corner of the desk.
Wharton leaned toward his secretary. "Margaret, hold all calls, okay?" She nodded with a smile. He walked ahead of Bradley into his office, and hung his suede jacket on the clothes pole. Walking to his desk, he flopped down in the chair, opened the top drawer and pulled out a new pack of cigarettes, stripping away the cellophane wrapper. "Sit down, Pete." Bradley pulled a red leather upholstered chair closer to the front of the desk, then sat down. He waited while Wharton lit a cigarette. Wharton took a long drag from the Marlboro, then let out the smoke through a corner of his mouth. "Pete, what I'm going to tell you stays in this room. Understand?"
"Of course."
"I've been in contact with the Navy boys."
"Did you find out what they did with Lampson?"
"Yes and no."
"What's that supposed to mean? You were ‘ready for bear’ earlier."
"Just listen to me, okay?" Bradley shrugged his shoulders then sat back. Wharton thought about his response, then added, "I've been assured Lampson is safe. That's all you need to know. Now, Navy's going back into East Berlin tonight."
"What the..."
"I told you to listen! When I spoke with Admiral Torrinson he asked for our assistance. They've got some business to finish over there. At 2230 hours they'll be making their drop. Once they're safely in, they'll be contacting us." He got up and went over to a five-drawer file cabinet.
As he did Bradley asked, "Where's the designated drop zone?"
While he was unlocking the cabinet, Wharton informed him of the site, its coordinates, and code name. He then lifted his Delco portable radio from the top drawer. "Here. I want you to take this to your office when we're through." He put the black case on the floor next to Bradley's chair, then sat on the corner of his desk and picked up a pen and piece of note paper. He scribbled something then handed the paper to Bradley. "That's the frequency they'll be calling on. You've gotta start monitoring at 2100 hours. As soon as you hear from them, you get your ass back in here. I've gotta stay here and wait for Torrinson, you know, hold his hand while his boys are out playing their dangerous little games."
"Right," Bradley snickered.
"Remember, Pete...no one, I repeat, no one else is to know about this. Their mission is critical."
"You've got my word, Matt." He picked up the case containing the radio. "Listen, Matt, I know I haven't lived up to your expectations, so, well, I guess I'm surprised at your letting me help with this."
Wharton slid off the corner of the desk and a placed a hand on the attaché's back, gently showing him to the door. "It's time you got involved around here with more than just paperwork. Now, go lock up that radio." Bradley left. Wharton turned and walked over to the window. If it's you, you little shit, I'll break off your goddamn head and shit in the hole personally!
The clock above the door showed 1315. He went to the outer office. "Margaret, do you know if George and Blake are in the crypto lab now?"
"I know Blake is. When George left for lunch, he said he had an errand to run and would probably be back by two," she answered as she curled a strand of
chin-length black hair behind her ear.
"Okay. Think I'll go take a walk around the building. Whatever I ate for lunch is sitting pretty heavy on my stomach," he said as he patted his belly.
"Hope you feel better, Matt." She turned toward the IBM Selectric typewriter and started filling out the daily report.
Instead of going outside, Wharton made a detour and went to the crypto lab, giving the same instructions to Blake Kelley as he'd given to Bradley, except the drop zone was different. Fifteen minutes later he was outside smoking a cigarette, waiting for George Canetti to return. Canetti would be given the third drop site.
All three sites were in secluded areas in the southeastern section of East Berlin where there was plenty of tree coverage. Grant, Joe and Manfred would be close enough in proximity to one another in order to pair up quickly when it was time to head out for the lab. Afterwards, Manfred would drive to a designated site and wait for Grant and Adler to bring the children.
After his discussion with Canetti, Wharton walked over to the iron gate. The Marine guard snapped to attention. "At ease, son," Wharton smiled. The guard relaxed to a stiff parade rest. Wharton leaned against the gate, staring across the busy four-lane road. Business as usual. He blew a mouthful of smoke between the iron bars while he mentally reviewed the intended plans for that night. All three men--Bradley, Canetti, Kelley--would be waiting for a confirmation call from the Navy boys, but that call would never come. Instead, he'd be getting that call, a verification that one of his men had turned. Whatever site the FSG showed up at would point the finger directly at one of them. Christ!
Stevens was leaving it up to him to decide what to do next. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Stevens and Adler were going after the FSG's lab to destroy the formula. He flicked the cigarette through the bars. What the hell was it that Torrinson said? Save the Kremlin? "Holy shit!" he shouted. The Marine jumped to attention as Wharton flew past him. He started running up the stairs, then nearly stumbled when he tried to stop on a dime. Now wasn't the time to draw attention or raise suspicion. He ran his palms along the sides of his head, smoothing down disheveled strands of hair.
"How are you feeling?" Margaret asked before popping a peppermint candy into her mouth.
He reached into the cellophane bag and pulled out one of the wrapped candies. "Better, thanks."
"That should help," she smiled. "Peppermint's supposed to be good for the tummy."
He grabbed another one, then went into his office, closing the door behind him. Standing near the desk, he dialed a number then sat down. Torrinson's yeoman answered and Wharton responded, "Matt Wharton here. Let me speak to the Admiral."
"Wait one, sir."
Within a matter of seconds, Wharton heard, "Hey, Matt!" Torrinson scooted closer to the edge of his leather swivel chair, bracing his arms on the desk. "What's happening?"
"Do you remember our conversation a couple nights ago?"
"Yeah," Torrinson replied, drawing the word out slowly.
"More specifically, about a certain place in the world that's near and dear to our hearts?"
Torrinson knew the place was Moscow but didn't know where the conversation was going. He wanted to clear up one point immediately. "Lay it on me, Matt. Are the boys okay?"
"Sure, sure. Now, tell me, John, the info they got from my boy has something to do with how the group plans on using the new 'candy,’ right?"
There was a brief moment of silence before Torrinson answered, "Affirmative." Before Wharton could reply, he added, "As a favor, Matt, leave them to their game, okay? They'll handle it."
Wharton pressed his back against the chair, rocking it back and forth. "From what I know of them, I'm sure they will, John. But if things start to turn to shit, you've gotta pull me in on it. Deal?"
The game was too far along. Torrinson didn't expect to hear from Grant till it was over, one way or other. If it went wrong, they'd all be up shitcreek. "Yeah, Matt, it's a deal."
"Good. Thanks. Hate to end our cheery little talk, but I've got a busy day and probably a busier evening. I'm sure we'll be talking again soon."
"For all of our sakes, I hope not real soon, Matt."
Chapter Fourteen
Hurstengarten, outside East Berlin
2120 Hours
Closing time for the park was seven o'clock. A heavy chain had been pulled across the road then attached to a five-foot high concrete pillar on the opposite side, prohibiting entry. A gravel road traveled approximately one mile from the entrance then made a loop and returned. This was the only way in and out.
Within ten minutes after hitting the ground, Grant had buried his jump gear and chute deep within the woods. He was outfitted completely in black with a black watch cap pulled low on his head. He retrieved the rucksack, then crouching low, he ran halfway down a knoll, weaving in and out of pine trees, finally taking up a position about a hundred yards from the park’s entrance. A fifty foot pine was broken seven feet above its base, a recent victim of a lightning strike. A few lower branches close to the stump still had their needles intact. Good cover, he thought as he scooted behind the stump, dragging the rucksack as he went. Resting on one knee, he unzipped the sack. He took a quick look around the tree trunk, then removed a standard issue, drab green walkie-talkie. The thin band of its antenna flopped back and forth. "Panther calling Timberwolf. Come in Timberwolf."
"Timberwolf. Go 'head, Panther," Adler replied.
"Confirm contact with Silverfox."
"Confirmed and secure." Once Adler had secured his own position, he made contact with Manfred. The old man had instructions to contact Adler if anyone appeared at his location. If not, he was to wait until 2345 hours then drive to a predetermined location and wait.
"Roger," Grant answered, keeping his voice to just above a loud whisper. "Over and out."
It was understood that unless they encountered a problem, their next transmission would be at 2330 hours. He put the walkie-talkie back into the rucksack, pulled out his "hushpuppy" and screwed on a silencer. He slipped it into his front waistband. Taking the rucksack with him, he crept across the grass until he was in the thick of some branches still covered with long needles, then he maneuvered himself in between two large boughs, crawling close to the main trunk. He felt the prick of sharp needles poking through his sweater. The branches gave him enough coverage, even from a kneeling position. Again he opened the rucksack and removed the Starlighter scope. Looking through a Starlighter was like looking at a negative, only instead of black and white, objects showed in light and dark green. He knelt close to the tree and put the scope to his eye, slowly making a hundred eighty degree sweep of his surroundings. Then, he turned around and checked his back.
After nearly twenty minutes of continuous listening and watching, he lowered the scope then pushed his shoulders back, trying to ease the tightness. He glanced overhead, looking up between the surrounding trees through the space left by the fallen pine. It was a moonless, starless sky. How many missions had he found himself looking up into this same type of sky, under the same conditions, in the middle of some goddamn ocean, desert, or jungle. He thought to himself: Christ! Fourteen years of my life. Hold it! This isn't the time to get into one of your philosophical bullshit sessions, Stevens.
He continued waiting. It was 2230 hours. A faint noise off in the distance made him quickly raise the scope as he leaned forward and rested on the downed tree. It was so very quiet, almost too quiet, making it difficult to pinpoint the right direction as the noise echoed. He focused the scope on the entrance and then beyond.
There were three roads. Two ran parallel to the park, and one head-on. Each had two lanes and intersected just outside the entrance. They joined at a roundabout, a circle. Grant slowly moved his head, training the scope up and down on the far right road, then continued moving left. Nothing was happening on the middle road. He had just scanned the grassy area to the left, when something caught his eye. Wait one! He steadied his elbows on the trunk.
Two subjects came briefly into view then disappeared behind a ten foot section of a brick wall that had been all but destroyed during World War II. The noise must have been car doors. They parked far enough away. That's why it took five minutes before he spotted them. Odds weren't exactly in his favor. With final confirmation that an Embassy employee was a traitor, he could haul ass now then contact Wharton. But Grant Stevens was going to play the game until its conclusion. The two pursuers were about to become the pursued.
They ran across the street, quickly stepping over the chain at the entrance. Both men were wearing dark slacks, heavy sweaters and loose fitting jackets. Only one, the taller of the two, wore a cap, similar to a golfer's cap.
Grant zeroed in with the scope, noticing a weapon in each man's hand, complete with silencers. He laid the Starlighter in front of him, then reached down and touched the handle of his knife. Instead, he opted for the .45 and drew it from his waistband. "Oh, shit," he said under his breath, seeing the taller man giving directions to his partner as he pointed in Grant’s direction. The shorter man started running up the hill straight for him. Grant took a quick glance at the taller man running up the opposite side, then, he immediately flattened his body under a needle-covered branch, with his arms slightly bent. The gun handle was gripped in his hand in front of his face. He listened to twigs snapping under running feet.
There was a rustling sound as the man crawled around behind the stump. He was less than fifteen feet from Grant when a sound suddenly made Grant flinch. The man was trying to imitate a birdcall as a signal. Grant waited. Then a second later there was a response somewhere off to his left. He heard a 'click.’ A gun hammer? The man was on his knees now, allowing Grant a clearer view through the branches. He was about 5'7", maybe in his late twenties and stocky. By the way he was breathing, it was obvious he wasn't in good, physical shape.
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