Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

  Adler and Grant were taking the children to Gdansk, then flying to Moscow, making contact with him once they did. The meeting at the Kremlin was scheduled for the following day. Klaus Steiner was on his way to Moscow or perhaps he was already in the city. Moshenko knew it was time to discuss Steiner's plan with Alexei Stoyakova. This was something he had to do. He questioned out loud, “What is it you say, my friend? To cover my ass? Yes! To cover my ass!"

  ********

  Darkness still engulfed the city. The early winter storm began to subside, but not before covering Moscow’s streets, sidewalks and rooftops with a thick layer of wet, heavy snow. Even though the roads were slippery, few Muscovites were observing the sixty kph speed limit. The storm did little to deter them from driving in the normal, haphazard manner through the city as was evidenced by patterns of long figure-eights created by tires losing traction.

  A black Russian-made Volga, its windshield wipers brushing away snow and road grime, traveled along the circular Dzerzhinsky Square, named in honor of the founder of the Cheka, the Soviet Union's original secret police. Moshenko glanced out the side window. A vast seven story yellow building faced the Square. Metal bars covered the ground floor windows of the infamous Lubyanka Prison, while the floors above conveniently housed KGB Headquarters. Ahead of him, encircled by a 7,300 foot long red brick wall and perched atop the sixty-five acres of Borovitsky Hill sat the very heart of Russia--the Kremlin.

  Traffic slowed as he approached the entrance. He rolled down the window and leaned his head out, trying to determine the cause of the delay. Two spotlights, placed high on either side of the curved archway, shown down on the passing cars. The guards seem to be checking identifications this morning. He assumed they must be getting ready for the meeting. He rested his wrist on top of the steering wheel, moving it back and forth as the car inched forward slowly. He glanced off to his right at the snow-covered Mavzolei Lenina (Lenin Mausoleum) and Krasnaya Ploshchad (Red Square).

  Following tracks in the snow gouged out by dozens of previous cars, Moshenko pulled close to the entrance. A guard waved him forward then motioned for him to stop. Moshenko rolled down his window, held up his identification card. He was waved through Spasskaya Tower. Spasskaya Tower (Tower of the Savior) is the main entrance of the Kremlin located on the eastern side. Its steeple holds intricate clockwork and chimes, while below the structure there is a network of secret passages.

  Even though he maneuvered the vehicle cautiously along the snow-covered road, the rear of the car fishtailed as he made a right. He drove past the Presidium, finally pulling into a parking area between it and another building that housed the Oval Hall, Sverdlov Hall, and Council of Ministers. A reflection of the Presidium appeared in his rearview mirror as he parked. He turned off the engine but lingered briefly, drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel. With his thoughts finally in order, he got out and locked the door.

  The wind was blowing steadily at fifteen knots. He glanced overhead as he adjusted his fur hat. Breaks in the fast moving clouds allowed brief glimpses of a black sky and sparkling stars. He brushed snow from his eyelashes then started heading toward the building's entrance.

  Walking through a long corridor on the first floor, he passed several offices before going through a set of large double doors, where the words "Offices of the Politburo" were spelled out in solid block gold letters. He entered a large, open office space then made his way to the third door to his right. He rapped his knuckles against the door housing the office of Alexei Stoyakova, Minister of Internal Security. As minister, Stoyakova reports to the Russian president, the same manner in which the National Security Advisor reports to the U.S. president.

  After waiting several seconds for a response, Moshenko was about to knock again, when he heard Stoyakova’s bellowing voice. "Come in!"

  Moshenko entered and said cheerfully, "Good morning, Alexei.” As he closed the door, he spotted someone standing in the corner of the room who was lowering a projection screen.

  Stoyakova waved Moshenko over to a chair in front of the desk. "Ahh, Grigori. Come. Sit down."

  Moshenko stepped closer to the desk. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

  "You're not. We were finished." Stoyakova walked from behind his desk, then went over to a small table holding a projector. A spool of 8mm film had just finished rewinding, the end of it flapping continuously against the lower reel. Stoyakova lightly rested his hand on the spinning reel, bringing it to a stop. "Grigori, do you know Major Boris Zuyeva?" Moshenko shook his head. "The major is one of my...interpreters."

  Moshenko removed his full-length black leather coat and then his hat, dropping them over the back of a chair. He stood at a corner of the desk, eyeing the frail-looking Zuyeva, trying to associate the name with files and records.

  Stoyakova remained by the small table, watching Zuyeva as he pulled the movie reel from the projector then secured the loose end of film on the reel with a rubber band, finally putting it in his briefcase.

  Moshenko, always the inquisitive KGB officer that he was, noticed a manila folder on the edge of the desk. He tilted his head ever so slightly, reading the name typed in block letters on the top edge of the folder. The snap of the briefcase locks drew his attention away from the folder, and he immediately pulled up a chair then sat down.

  "Will there be anything else, Minister Stoyakova?" Zuyeva turned his head, seeing KGB officer Moshenko watching him with intimidating eyes. Moshenko's very presence was enough to send a nervous chill up Zuyeva's spine.

  Stoyakova answered as he flicked his hand away from him, "No. I'll contact you later."

  The door closed. Moshenko wouldn't inquire about Zuyeva at the present time. There had been something, though, in the way Stoyakova introduced him as being an “interpreter.” That statement Moshenko would keep in the recesses of his mind. His eyes shifted to the credenza.

  "Would you like some fresh hot tea, Grigori?"

  "Please," Moshenko smiled, rubbing his hands together. "The winters get colder every year, Alexei."

  "Ahh, Grigori, every year our bodies get older. That is why the winters seem colder. No?"

  "You don't have to remind me."

  Stoyakova swung his chair around. A small double charcoal burner, called a samovar, sat on the credenza. One burner had a teapot with a very concentrated infusion of tea, while the other pot held plain hot water. He poured tea from the teapot into a traditional tulip-shaped glass then diluted it slightly with plain water.

  Moshenko studied the features he knew by heart. Stoyakova seemed the typical politician, short, stocky, and stuffed into a badly fitting suit. The sleeves of his suit coat hung loosely over his knuckles. Moshenko grinned to himself as Stoyakova asked, "Sugar?"

  "Da," Moshenko answered, raising an index finger.

  Stoyakova handed the glass to Moshenko then leaned back in his chair, rocking it back and forth. He tapped a finger against his lips. "What do you wish to discuss, Grigori?"

  Moshenko placed the glass on the edge of the desk. His eyes met the minister's. "I've been made privy to information concerning an event that could affect our government's security and well-being."

  Stoyakova didn't blink. "Can you give me more than that?"

  Moshenko sat back. "At this time? No."

  Stoyakova breathed deeply, his barrel chest expanding. "Not even who supplied you with the information?"

  "All I can tell you, Alexei, is that it was a friend, who is a very reliable source. We have worked together before." Moshenko could tell the wheels were turning inside Stoyakova's razor sharp mind. A list of names and faces were undoubtedly in the spotlight. "This is of a most urgent matter," Moshenko emphasized. He sipped at his tea then smacked his lips. "The lives of many of our comrades could be at stake."

  Stoyakova sat forward in his chair, then picked up a letter opener resembling a miniature sword. He jabbed the tip repeatedly into a thick manila folder on top of his desk. Trying to appear inconspicuous, he slid the folder closer t
o him with the tip of the opener. Moshenko pretended not to notice.

  Stoyakova asked, "Then wouldn't that be all the more reason for me to be involved?"

  "Believe me," Moshenko quietly said through tight lips, "the fewer who know, the better. There could be players that still have yet to be identified."

  Stoyakova rolled his chair back, then stood up and turned away from Moshenko's stare. Red velvet curtains partially covered the plate glass window. He pulled one of the curtains aside. A glow of early morning sunlight broke through the clouds, casting a golden glow on the building surrounding the courtyard. He put his hands behind his back, quietly slapping the back of one hand against the other palm. Keeping his eyes on the snow-covered courtyard, he asked, "Soon?"

  Moshenko replied solemnly, "Da."

  Stoyakova sat down heavily and sighed deeply. "I will give you three days, Grigori, after which I will have to report our conversation to the president. Would you be prepared for that?"

  Moshenko maintained his composure, confident he and his American friends would have the matter resolved before that event occurred. "You must trust me, Alexei."

  Stoyakova laughed. "I have on your past escapades, have I not?"

  "This is true. But I know you are also just trying to cover your ...." Moshenko cut himself short.

  "Excuse me?" Stoyakova asked, his gray, bushy eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Was there something else you wanted to add?”

  "No. Nothing, nothing," Moshenko answered, side-stepping his remark. I knew it would happen one of these days! he thought.

  "Now," the minister said, "what do you need? Money, I suppose."

  Moshenko laughed, "Not too much, but enough."

  "Go to any of the usual banks and draw what you need," Stoyakova said while he wrote a note on letterhead paper and affixed his signature to the bottom. He folded it precisely into thirds and handed it across the desk to Moshenko.

  It wasn't necessary for Moshenko to read it. He simply slipped it inside his suit jacket pocket. "It's time for me to begin my work," he said at the same time he was standing up and putting on his coat.

  Stoyakova leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against his palm. "Remember, Grigori...three days."

  Moshenko stopped by the door. Without looking back, he repeated, "Three days." He left.

  Stoyakova rose from his chair, taking slow deliberate steps across the room, pausing by the rolled up projection screen. “So, Grigori, where will this adventure be taking you? Is it possible that our paths will soon be crossing?” He turned and hurried to the desk, lifting the phone from its cradle as he dialed a four-digit number. "Zuyeva? Have you had the report transcribed? Good. Bring it to me right away." He dropped the phone into its cradle before walking behind his desk and pouring another glass of tea.

  KGB Headquarters

  Moshenko stood at his office window with the phone pressed to his ear. From his fourth floor location he had a view of Zerzhinsky's monument. He swiveled his head back and forth, watching all that was going on in the streets below, looking for anything unusual. Before he had even picked up the phone, he made a thorough sweep of his office, looking for any hidden listening devices. This was a trademark of his training as a spy and KGB officer. He sat down, waiting for a response at the other end of the line.

  Finally, he heard, "Comrade Moshenko!" It was East German General Stauffenberg.

  Moshenko skipped all formalities. "General, I'll get right to the point. It's my understanding that you have misplaced something of importance to both of us."

  Beads of sweat appeared along the general's brow. His back stiffened. "I'm not sure what you're referring to, Comrade."

  So, it's a game you want to play, Moshenko thought. "Does the name 'Eric Brennar' mean anything to you?" Moshenko heard something of a groan then quickly turned the screw tighter. "You were in charge of all the people working on the project, if I'm not mistaken, General. He was your responsibility. You allowed him to escape. I'm sure you have already given a similar speech to your subordinates."

  Stauffenberg had to try and salvage whatever he could out of the situation. "We have nearly twenty people looking for him, Comrade. I anticipate that at any time I will receive a report that he has been found."

  "General, I do not think that will happen."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Stauffenberg asked indignantly, realizing too late how his response sounded.

  "What I mean is I want you to call off your search for Brennar."

  Stauffenberg slowly rose out of his chair, bracing himself against his desk. "Do you realize what you're asking? Do you realize the implications if we don't find him?"

  "You should have thought about that before you let him escape, General. And lest you forget, you take orders from me, and I'm ordering you to stop your search." A streak of sunlight glinted off one of Moshenko's most cherished possessions, his father's ceremonial sword, worn during the reign of Tzar Nicholas. Moshenko's eyes lingered on the sword momentarily then he continued the conversation. "Now," he said, as he reached for a sheet of paper on his desk, "I have a list that your staff forwarded to my office showing who will be attending tomorrow's meeting."

  "Yes," Stauffenberg responded, with defeat in his voice.

  "Do you have your copy?"

  “I will get it, Comrade.”

  As he waited, Moshenko let his eyes scan the list of names. In the background he heard what was probably Stauffenberg's office door slamming.

  "I have it," the general said, as he slumped into his chair.

  "Do you recognize all the names? Do you know all of the officers listed?" Moshenko could only hope that luck would turn his way.

  "This is a waste of time, Comrade. I personally signed the orders for these men."

  "Appease me, please, General. Look at the list."

  Stauffenberg ran his finger down the list, silently pronouncing each name as if in confirmation. He wiped his upper lip with an index finger. "They're all familiar to me, Comrade." Moshenko threw the paper on the desk then he heard Stauffenberg say, "I signed the orders for each of the nine men."

  Moshenko's heart jumped and he grabbed the paper, his eyes zeroing in on the number of names listed. "General, did you say 'nine'?"

  "Yes, nine," Stauffenberg repeated. "Nine names, nine sets of orders."

  "Do you have the name 'Zeigler' on your list?"

  Stauffenberg frantically scanned his list. "Uh, no. Should I?"

  "Well, it's the tenth name on my list, General Stauffenberg...the tenth name. And your signature is at the bottom." Dead silence. "General, I'm waiting for an explanation."

  "Comrade Moshenko, sir, I will make inquiries immediately and find out how this happened." Stauffenberg's face went from pale to beet red. Fear and anger consumed him at the same time. His left eyelid started twitching.

  That's him, Moshenko thought. That was the name Steiner was using. He cleared his throat and eased back in his chair. "I have another inquiry, General." Stauffenberg groaned, bringing a brief smile to Moshenko's lips. "Tell me about Greta Verner? I believe you've misplaced her, also."

  "I only know she worked at the university. Once the project began we had an order issued that we be notified when anyone was hired. Her papers were in order, and she had the experience."

  Moshenko's voice boomed, "Are you trying to tell me you didn't know she and Brennar were lovers?!"

  Stauffenberg blurted out, "No! I mean, not in the beginning. We only found out several months ago."

  "Were you aware of the children?"

  "Yes."

  Again dead silence, only this time it was on the KGB agent's side of the phone. "Did you have them followed?"

  "We didn't put a separate tail on the woman, but I saw to it that Brennar was always watched."

  "You mean like the night he escaped?" Moshenko taunted.

  Stauffenberg swallowed hard. It took all the willpower he could muster to prevent the contents of his stomach from spewing out onto his desk. The
re's no fucking with the KGB--and he'd just fucked up big time.

  Moshenko leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his eyes becoming mere slits. "And what about the FSG, General? Do you watch them as closely as you watched Brennar?" Moshenko wasn't expecting a reply. "I'm sure we'll see each other at tomorrow's meeting, General Stauffenberg. In the meantime, you will not--I repeat--you will not discuss our conversation with anyone. Am I understood?"

  "Yes, Comr..." The phone went dead in Stauffenberg's ear.

  Moshenko immediately dialed another number, this one to an office inside KGB headquarters located on the first floor and directly above Lubyanka Prison. "This is Colonel Moshenko. I want information on a Major Boris Zuyeva. Specifically, I want to know any unusual skills he may have." He reminded himself not to make his inquiry too obvious. "Oh, let's say, something that might help further his career. Also, see if you have anything on someone named ‘Heisen.’” Moshenko spelled the name then added, "I'll expect the information in fifteen minutes." He hung up.

  The KGB officer slowly rubbed his fingertips back and forth over the handset. He swiveled his chair around, then got up and went to the window behind his desk. He leaned toward the glass, tilting his head to see overhead. A scattering of clouds drifted across the sky. The sun's rays glared off the snow. Constant traffic along the roadway turned the once pure white snow into dirty black piles.

  Was Stauffenberg being truthful? How could he not know more than what he admitted? Moshenko was rerunning the tape of the conversation he'd just had with the East German when he noticed the time. Grant and Joe should be on their way. That will give him some time to think this through. He was prepared to place a call to Grant in Gdansk later that day. The phone booth on the corner of Teatralny would have to be used. Talking to his East German comrades from his office was one thing, but talking to his American friend was quite a different matter.

  He glanced at the horizon, a slight smile crossing his lips as he thought, Stauffenberg! A genuine sour Kraut! But his smile quickly faded. Something nagged at his brain, actually, two things--a movie projector and a folder with the name “Heisen.”