Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

  "Wait one," Grant said, as he stuffed the light into his pocket then opened the door leading to the vacant lot. He scanned the darkness before exiting, then quickly went to the alley and checked it out. Returning to Adler, he pulled off his throat mike and earpiece. "Battery's dead." He shoved the unit into his vest then quickly removed the rucksack from Adler's back as he said, "Manfred should be at the designated site." When the old German offered his services to the West, he had been given instructions to locate sites throughout the city that could be used as possible safe places. He found a garage, once used for repairing electric trams and located just one block from the lot. Two large, rickety wooden doors swung outward, allowing easy access. Since the garage was completely empty, the doors were left unlocked.

  Grant shined the flashlight on his watch. "It's 0205. If I'm not there by 0230, you haul ass."

  Adler immediately started to protest. "I won't..."

  "That's an order!"

  "Aye, aye, sir." He took a few steps then turned back to Grant. "Don't you go waitin' around for the BWF, ya hear?" Adler referred to the blinding white flash that's caused by an explosive device.

  "Roger that. Now, go." As soon as Adler was out of the building, Grant closed the door only part way, planning his escape route. It was time to do it. He slung the rucksack over his shoulder and turned on the flashlight, hurrying over to the stairs leading to the lab. He bent over and flipped the small switch. The bottom rung had barely touched the floor when Grant was already climbing down, the flashlight casting a narrow beam of light. He hesitated halfway down, moving the flashlight beam slowly, checking for any obstacles in his path. He stopped his hand motion as the light fell on a discoloration on the floor by a counter. Making his way across the concrete floor, he got down on one knee, inspecting the irregularly shaped stain, touching it with his fingertips. Dried blood. He moved the light to the right where the blood had trickled under the counter. His eyes caught sight of a crumpled envelope. He reached for it then held it in front of the flashlight, reading the addressee's name. The note inside gave the location of the lab and also read: Klaus Steiner in possession of drug SD-7. "Jesus Christ! Get your ass in gear, Stevens!” It was imperative he contact Moshenko.

  He immediately reached up and balanced the flashlight on the countertop, facing the beam toward the middle of the room. There wasn’t any more time to play detective, he cautioned himself.

  There was barely enough light for him to work, but he'd opted to not turn on the overhead lights, just in case any visitors stopped by. He opened the rucksack and removed a quarter pound block of C4 and a roll of det cord. At one time when he was planning this operation he was concerned about civilian casualties. Concussion grenades were to have been the explosives of choice. At least everything in the lab would be destroyed. But the buildings and entire neighborhood were civilian-free. The C4 would do a very thorough job in sealing the lab and tunnel.

  Working quickly, he made a slash across the C4 with his knife. He tied a stiff knot in the end of the det cord, then pushed the cord into the slash with his thumbs, finally pressing the C4 against it, sealing it inside. He squeezed the explosive around the metal framework supporting the counters. Unwinding the det cord as he scooted farther across the floor, and following the length of counter, he repeated the process around the room until three more blocks of C4 and det cord were in place. He stood by the flashlight, positioning his arm to see his watch. It was nearly 0211 hours. Unrolling the det cord as he walked, he quickly made his way over to the steel door and unlocked it. He jerked the door open and stepped out into the tunnel. Glancing down, he tried to find more evidence that a body had been disposed of through the tunnel system. Dark spots, spaced apart every few feet, led away from where he was standing and toward the river. Whoever he was, he was carried out of here.

  Getting back to his task at hand, he glanced at the overhead. All he could do was guess how thick it was and hoped the explosives would cause enough damage to seal off the lab. He prepared the C4 with the det cord exactly as he did in the lab, then reaching as high as he could, attached the explosive to a conduit running vertically near the door. Quickly unrolling the det cord, he took long steps to the opposite side of the tunnel. And last but not least... He opened his vest and grabbed a chemical pencil with a three minute timed delay. Holding it and the end of the det cord together, he carefully molded the C4 around both. At the end of the pencil was an ampoule of acetone which he left protruding out of the upper part of the explosive. He reached up and bent the chemical pencil until he heard the ampoule break. He jumped back through the doorway, when he froze in place. Oh, shit! A board on one of the basement steps creaked. He pulled the .45 from the shoulder holster, cocking the hammer. The flashlight! He was on the opposite side of the room but he had to chance it. Keeping low, he hustled across the floor and grabbed the flashlight from the counter. Just as he shut off the light, a shot rang out, a bullet striking the countertop next to his head. Shards of metal slivers struck his face. The bullet careened off the countertop and slammed into the wall to his right. He leaned slightly forward and returned fire, getting off three rapid shots, aiming at the ceiling opening. He fell back, hitting the wall, as he brought the gun close to his cheek. He waited. But there was only silence. No return fire. Whether or not his bullets found their target was immaterial at this point. He had to get the hell out of the lab now or else he was going to become a permanent fixture.

  Crouching, he ran to the steps and stared up toward the opening but saw only blackness and silence. He calculated he had less than ninety seconds to escape. Taking one step at a time, he kept the gun pointed up, swiveling his head, trying to cover every overhead angle. Instinctively, he held his breath as he reached the last step. Keeping low, he slowly brought his head through the opening then scrambled out and immediately flattened his body against the basement floor. The silhouette of the open back door came into his line of sight. A hundred thoughts ran through his mind in one split second. Could the shooter be outside waiting for him? Or was he hiding somewhere in the basement? He didn't remember hearing footsteps after the shot.

  Whatever, he was outta there. Time was up. He jumped to his feet and made a beeline for the open door, his mind clicking off the seconds as he ran. A sound of gunfire erupted behind him just as he reached the doorway. He dove for open ground and rolled across the hard-packed dirt. He brought himself to a kneeling position and fired off a round at the dark form of a man rushing toward him. Grant fired again just as the first explosion in the tunnel went off, then a millisecond later, a horrific noise from the explosives in the lab ripped into the night. An orange-white glow spread through the basement, flames quickly engulfing wooden timbers and stairs. The concussion from the explosion sent the man careening forward, a painful groan escaping from his mouth from a burst eardrum. He came through the doorway off balance, his hands pressed against his ears.

  Grant shot off another round. Victor Engels stumbled, fighting to retain his balance but his legs buckled. He fell to his knees then crumbled on the ground in a heap, landing about six feet from the door and moaning in pain.

  Rapidly ejecting the empty clip from the .45, Grant reached into his vest then rammed a fresh one up into the handle, slowly raising himself up, keeping the gun gripped in both hands. He took side steps, cautiously approaching the body from the back. He kicked at the Luger, sending it spinning across the dirt. He stood over Engels momentarily, when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a small object just under the door sill that resembled a large gun casing. As he picked it up, a noise off to his left made him freeze. He spun around, with his gun poised, nearly falling back on his butt. "Christ! When the hell are you gonna start following orders?!"

  Adler came running up to him with gun drawn, briefly glancing down at the German. "It's good to see you, too.”

  Fire leapt through the lab's ceiling that had been blown out, flames licking at pieces of furniture on the floor above. Window glass cracked and popped.
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  Stuffing the object he found inside his vest, Grant searched Engles' pockets for identification. He withdrew folded papers from a pants pocket, then rolled Engles over on his back. The German's eyelids fluttered, but he was too weak to keep them open. A blood stain on his chest was spreading. Grant handed the papers to Adler.

  Alder illuminated them with his penlight, then knelt down on one knee, leaned close and asked in German, "Where's Steiner, Victor?" Engles coughed, a trickle of blood dripped out of the corner of his mouth. His voice was barely a whisper, making Adler lower his head even closer. Engles' body went limp.

  Grant and Adler stood simultaneously, as Adler said, "According to him, we're too late."

  "Shit! He's on his way to Moscow."

  "You sure?"

  "I'll explain later.”

  An unmistakable sound of sirens punctuated their urgency as Adler grinned, “Polizia!”

  “Let’s get our asses outtta here."

  They ran full bore across the vacant field, hurdling obstacles in their path, racing to make their rendezvous with Manfred and the children.

  NIS Headquarters

  Torrinson sat at his desk with his back pressed against his chair as he swiveled it back and forth. His fingers formed a teepee and he tapped them against his lips. He was worried and pissed at the same time. No word had come out of West Berlin. It was all too quiet. What the hell's going on over there? He said quietly, “Where the hell are you, Captain?” There was a knock at his door. "Come!"

  "Sir," Zach Phillips said as he stuck his head around the door, "there's a call on the scrambler, from the West Berlin Embassy."

  Torrinson all but lunged for the phone. "Matt!"

  "Sounds like you missed me," Wharton laughed.

  "No time for jokes, Matt. What the fuck's happening over there? Are Stevens and Adler okay?"

  "The last time I talked with them, they were."

  Torrinson's voice was rising with each question. "What the hell's that supposed to mean? And where are they?"

  "Look, John, cut me some slack, will ya? It hasn't exactly been easy for me lately."

  "Okay, okay. Point taken. What's the straight skinny?"

  Wharton stood by his office window then pulled his chair around, finally flopping down into it. "Your Captain Stevens is quite the detective, John. He put a little scheme together that trapped our... Jesus, it still doesn't seem possible!"

  "He found your mole, didn't he, Matt?"

  "Yeah, he sure as hell did. It was Kelley, Blake Kelley, one of my crypto guys."

  "Christ, Matt, I'm really sorry." He realized the pressure Wharton was under, and for the next several minutes let him detail, uninterrupted, the plan that Grant had devised to flush Kelley out. When Wharton finished, neither of them spoke until Torrinson asked, "Why, Matt? Did you find out why he did it?"

  "The bastards were blackmailing him, John."

  "Blackmail? What the hell did he do?"

  "Not what he did, but what he was. They found out he was a homosexual."

  Torrinson's head dropped back and he stared blankly up at the ceiling. "Christ," he mumbled softly.

  "Ya know, when I confronted him that night, I wanted to rip his goddamn head off. I don't remember ever, ever, being so pissed in my whole life."

  "Any indication he passed any other information, Matt, like your codes?"

  "He hasn't admitted to it. He said all the group wanted was info on Lampson." He reached for a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out with his lips, then flung the pack across the desk. "Ya know, John, it makes you wonder how something like this could happen right under your nose. Goddammit!"

  "How'd he pass all this info to begin with?"

  "A driver that picks up dinners for the train station in the East was Kelley's drop man. Kelley would leave a message in a paper bag in the trash at the corner of Steinstrasse. It was always in a movie house popcorn bag. Horst Rhinehart would make the pickup and deliver it to Steiner."

  "What's gonna happen to him now?"

  "He's on a MAC (Military Airlift Command) flight to Andrews. I'm sure the 'plumbers' will get what they're looking for to hook his ass. From there, further investigation, then trial." He pulled open his middle drawer, shoving aside papers till he found a book of matches. He folded back the cover and bent one of the matches over half way, flicking it against the striker with his thumb. A spark of sulfur flew against his tie. Another burn hole! Shit! He took a deep drag from his cigarette, then with smoke pouring from his nostrils, he finally said, "Getting back to your boys--we got word from their contact in the East that they'd succeeded in rescuing Lampson's kids and set off the explosives in the lab and tunnel."

  Torrinson let out a deep sigh, his body going slack in the padded leather chair, then his brain registered and he sat up. "Where are they, Matt?"

  "Don't know."

  "Shit!"

  "Don't get your ass in a twitter. You know they had to get the kids to Lampson."

  "And where's Lampson?"

  "Uh, don't know that either."

  "You're sure a goddamn wealth of knowledge!" Torrinson roared back.

  "Well, here's something else for you! The contact said that the group's leader, Klaus Steiner, had the drug. All indications are he's on his way to Moscow."

  Torrinson groaned. "They're going after the bastard!"

  "You can't be certain of that, John."

  "Oh, no? Would you like a side bet?"

  Wharton laughed, one of the few times since the shit started. "Listen, if I hear from them, I'll let you know, if you'll do the same. Deal?"

  "Yeah, sure, sure."

  "Good talking to you, John. Listen, you know your boys better than I do. But from what I've seen, you shouldn't worry."

  Torrinson knew Wharton was right. He just didn't like being out of the loop.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Moscow, Russia - 0430 Hours

  Blasts of bitter cold wind whipped heavy, wet snow against a window in the study. The storm had descended on the city with the same ferocity as a pride of lions attacking prey. Inside the apartment, a black mesh folding screen was balanced against the stone hearth, stretched across the opening. Behind it a scattering of white hot nuggets of oak were among the pile of ashes in the fireplace, the simmering wood sporadically letting out pops and cracks as the fire slowly died.

  Asleep in the second floor bedroom, Grigori Moshenko lay on his back in the overstuffed bed, a sheet and three heavy blankets pulled up tightly under his chin. In a quiet, peaceful slumber, a steady sound of snoring streamed from his open mouth. But a familiar noise was trying to reach into his subconscious mind and he began to awaken.

  "Grigori," Alexandra said quietly, as she shook his shoulder. "Your phone, Grigori."

  "Yes, yes. You go back to sleep," he said as he threw the covers from his body. He shivered as he got up then reached for his wool robe hanging on the bedpost. Fully awake now, he hurried down the staircase. The double ring of the phone was annoyingly persistent. He rushed into the study directly across from the stairs, fumbled with the lamp on the corner of the desk and finally lifted the receiver. "Moshenko!"

  A familiar voice responded in Russian, "Grigori, it's me. Sorry to call at this hour." The entire conversation would be in Russian and in a form of code. Phones were known to be bugged even within the homes of Russian military officers and the KGB themselves.

  Moshenko walked around the desk, stretching the phone cord as he sat down. "Do not worry about the time. It is good to hear from you. Is everything going well?"

  "We've been working very hard on the apartment. Most of the demolition work has been completed."

  "And what about the children? How are they?"

  "They're fine. We're going to bring them to their Uncle Leo's for a short visit while we finish our work."

  "Ahh, Leo will be delighted to see all of you."

  "Once the children are settled, we’ve decided to make a short side trip to attend a family gathering."

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sp; "That sounds like a fine idea. But I hope your weather is better than it is here," Moshenko responded as he stood then walked closer to the window. "We're having a snowstorm, but as we are speaking, it appears to be lessening somewhat. What time did you plan on leaving?"

  "The earliest flight we could get is nine o'clock this morning," Grant answered, purposely using civilian time. "I understand one of the guests has already left ahead of us. He's bringing the gift he's been working on so diligently these past months."

  Moshenko lowered his head, shaking it slowly from side to side. "I must ask you one question. Is it time for me to discuss plans for the party with the others?"

  "Your discretion," Grant answered, "but you should still try and limit the number of people who know about it if it's going to be a surprise."

  "I agree."

  "We need to get some rest before the trip. We'll talk again soon. Give our best to Alexandra. Do svidaniya."

  "Do svidaniya," Moshenko replied before hanging up. He stepped around to the front of the desk, turned off the light, then went over to the fireplace. There was still some warmth coming from the embers, even the stone facing was warm.

  There's no sense in going back to bed now, he reasoned. He left the study and went to the kitchen to make some tea. He reached for the kettle on the back gas burner, then went to the sink and filled it, planning to have enough hot water ready for Alexandra when she got up. He turned the burner up high, the flames leaping up the sides of the copper kettle. While he spooned the loose tea into the teapot, he reviewed his phone conversation with Grant. So, my friend, you have found Lampson's children and destroyed the laboratory. Well done! Well done!