Chapter Sixteen
Gdansk, Poland
1000 Hours - Day 7
The early morning storm dumped snow on Moscow but had by-passed Gdansk. Situated at the mouth of the Vistula River on the Baltic Sea, Gdansk's climate was much more favorable than its neighbor to the east.
Aeroflot flight 853 touched down on runway 21, smoke and debris flying outward as the screeching tires hit the concrete runway. It taxied toward the one-story terminal then came to a rolling stop about one hundred feet from the passenger entrance. Maintenance personnel rolled portable steps up to the open door of the aircraft.
Only ten passengers had booked reservations on the flight from East Berlin. A Russian businessman and an East German with two small children would be the last to leave the plane. Grant Stevens and Joe Adler had current passports identifying them as Yuri Borisov and Wilhelm Schwimmer.
A slim, dark haired stewardess dressed in a red jacket with matching skirt, stopped by the tall, handsome man. "I hope you had a pleasant flight," she smiled up at him.
He put on his black leather jacket and returned her smile. "Yes, thank you." He pulled an overnight bag from the shelf above the seat. "Are you from Odessa?" he asked, looking down at her surprised expression.
"Why, yes, well, actually, about eighty kilometers from there. How did you know?"
"Your accent," he smiled, as he started walking away.
She leaned against one of the seats. "Perhaps we'll meet again sometime."
"Perhaps." He took long, slow strides down the aisle toward the front of the plane, eyeing two men putting on their coats near the front row. He stopped next to the fourth row of seats behind the bulkhead. "Can I help you," he asked in broken German as he smiled, watching the man trying to bundle up one of two little blond-headed boys. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the last passengers leave the plane.
"I could use the help," Adler responded in German. He picked up one of the boys and stood him on the seat, the little boy continued to gyrate and sing. He managed to put the boy's red jacket on him then he looked across the aisle as the man tried his hand at playing 'daddy’ with the other twin.
Ha! Welcome to the world of kids, sir! Joe Adler laughed to himself.
Grant lifted the child off the seat and held him in the crook of his arm. "Ready?" Adler nodded, slid across the empty seat and then followed Grant down the remainder of the aisle. His hand gripped the brown handle of a ragged, brown leather satchel.
The Americans passed through security without incident. Adler filled out papers for a 1970 BMW, and fifteen minutes later they were driving through the High Gate, which, for ages, was the main entrance to the city. From Royal Road they turned onto Dluga, the main street of Gdansk. Official buildings of state, as well as apartments and hotels, maintained their late medieval and early Renaissance architecture.
Within minutes, the Americans located the Motlawa Hotel, parked the car in front then went inside to the front desk. The small lobby was decorated simply with two upholstered armchairs and a two-tier end table positioned in front of the plate glass window. On the far wall of the twenty-foot room was a coal-burning fireplace where a young boy knelt, scooping piles of gray ashes into a battered bucket.
Grant and Adler put their suitcases by the base of the desk then put the twins on the floor. Adler sniffed the air, recognizing the aroma of fresh bread and pan-fried breakfast sausage.
The sound of a woman's laugh made them turn, noticing a slender, smartly dressed, middle-aged woman coming down the steps and chatting with her male companion, who appeared to be in his early sixties with snow white hair. They glanced at the two men standing by the front desk, then they both smiled as their eyes fell on the two little blond boys, standing between the two. Josef shyly looked at them then wrapped his arms around Grant's leg as if for protection. She gave a little wave to the twins before leaving the hotel.
The office door behind the desk opened. A balding man, short in stature, came out, raising his head to look up at the two men standing on the other side of the desk. Leo Grobowski gave them a warm smile then asked in Polish, "Gentlemen, may I help you?"
The Americans picked up the twins. The hotel owner showed a brief moment of surprise then he nodded. Except for the young boy by the fireplace, the lobby was unoccupied, but even so, he quietly asked, "Grigori?" as he shifted his eyes between the two men.
Grant acknowledged with a nod. Grobowski reached into one of the slots of a wooden, pigeon-holed shelf that was positioned against the wall. He put a skeleton key on the counter. It had a thin metal ring through the hole at the top. Attached to it was a brass tag with the numbers "203" engraved on it.
Grant palmed the key, gave the gentleman a smile, then looked at Adler. "Ask him if Lampson's in."
Adler complied, and Grobowski responded in German, "Ya."
Grant pointed to the phone on the desk and Grobowski slid it towards him. Grant dialed the room, listening as it rang twice. Lampson barely got a word out, when Grant said softly, "Rick, unlock your door but stay in your room. We're on our way up." He immediately hung up then motioned to Adler. Both of them said "danke" to Grobowski before turning and walking up to the second floor.
Grobowski stood quietly watching, leaning over the counter till the men and children were out of sight. Then he went back into his office and closed the door.
At the top of the stairs, they followed the corridor to the right and stopped in front of the third door. Adler gave a look behind them before Grant opened the door. Lampson nearly lost his breath, not knowing what to expect after Grant's call.
He rushed toward them, scooping up the boys. "My God!" he cried, as he hugged the twins tightly. Grant and Adler stepped back, giving Lampson space. The twins seemed bewildered at first, then their little voices squealed in delight, finally recognizing Lampson. "Papa!" they cried. Lampson sat down on the bed, placing a child on each knee. He hadn't shaved since leaving Marie's. A blond, scruffy beard and mustache failed to hide the gauntness behind them.
Grant and Adler unzipped their jackets. Almost in unison, they sagged down on a two-seat sofa, nestled beneath a double window that faced Nowy Park. They shot a glance at one another and grinned. Both of them were near exhaustion. They'd been running a marathon for days on pure adrenaline, and the finish line still wasn't in sight.
Grant looked back at Lampson through half open eyes, knowing he had to tell him Greta was dead. He hoped that having the twins back would help ease the pain. "Rick, I think we need to get some food into those little guys."
Lampson jerked his head up, looking at Grant through reddened eyes. "What? Oh, yeah. Uh...I can run down to..."
"Think it might be best if Joe makes the food run,” Grant interrupted. “Okay, Joe?"
"Sure," Adler answered as he stood up and stretched his fatigued body. He looked down at Grant. "We're getting too old for this, boss."
Grant nodded with a smile. He stood up and dug his wallet out of his pocket. "When you get back, see if you can get us a room, preferably next to this one. Lampson needs some time with his sons, and we need some rest." He handed Adler some bills. "Maybe Leo can tell you where to find some good chow. I have a feeling these kids need to get some nourishing food into them. And buy some milk, too, and anything else that looks good." Adler kept his hand out, and Grant slapped more bills into his palm.
"Yeah, like big, fat, gooey, double chocolate ice cream sundaes!" Adler laughed seeing Grant lick his lips. He slipped the money into his jacket pocket then reached for the brass door handle. "I'll try and get something for you, too, boss!" He left without waiting for a response.
Grant took off his jacket and dropped it on the back of the couch. He smoothed his hair then rubbed his face vigorously with both palms. He looked at Lampson, thinking he may as well not delay it any longer. "Rick."
Lampson looked up, a sudden expression of sadness showing on his face. "Something's happened to...her, hasn't it?"
Grant nodded. "I'm sorry, Rick. We
...we found her at the flat with your kids." He saw Lampson's eyes fill with moisture. Grant suddenly felt a pang of guilt. If they had reached the flat just a few, short moments sooner, maybe they could have saved her.
He was going to drop the subject, but Lampson asked, "What...how did it happen, Captain?"
Grant lowered his head then folded his arms across his chest before responding. "It looked like one of Steiner's men had been ordered to..." He glanced at the twins then continued. "He’d been ordered to take them all out, Rick." Lampson listened, but nervously occupied himself by taking off the boys' jackets. He kept his eyes on them as Grant kept talking. "She put up a helluva fight; got him with a nail file before..." He didn't have to fill Lampson in with any more details. Enough had been said.
The twins played gleefully in the room. Their little feet patted across the carpet while they looked at the knick-knacks on the dresser and made faces at themselves in the oval, beveled mirror. They spotted the window and ran to the sofa, struggling to climb up on it then pressed their noses and hands against the glass, watching children playing in the park.
Grant stepped closer to Lampson, then leaned back against the dresser. "Listen, Rick, I'm really sorry."
"I know, I know." He stared at Grant, finally noticing the fatigue showing on his face and pronounced dark circles under his eyes. "You got my kids, and I'll be indebted to you forever." He looked across the foot of the bed at the twins, as he asked, "What about Von Wenzel?"
"Don't know. Nobody was at the lab when I got there. I found a note that was addressed to the chief of police. It looked as if it had been scribbled in a hurry. Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but near where I found it there was a stain on the floor that was most likely blood."
Lampson's body shuddered, then he said somberly, "Von Wenzel or Heisen must have written it. What did it say?"
"Steiner has the drug."
"Oh, my God," Lampson muttered.
"I had a...shall we say, run-in with one of his men. All he managed to tell us was that we were too late. That's gotta mean that Steiner is on his way or is already in Moscow." Grant stared at his black shoes that were in desperate need of a spit shine. Blowing a long breath through tight lips, he continued, "All we've got is your description." Once again he looked up at Lampson. "If he wants to get into that meeting tomorrow, he'll probably be wearing a uniform. Christ! I hope Grigori was able to get something more for us."
Both men turned their heads hearing giggles from the little boys. They had pulled Grant's jacket from the back of the sofa and were trying to hide underneath it. "You've gotta be thankful they've come through all this, Rick, and in good shape. They're a couple of tough little guys." Lampson nodded then got up off the bed, went over to the children, and sat on the floor near the sofa.
A sudden tapping at the door made Grant jump and automatically reach for a .45 that wasn't there. They had to leave their firepower with Manfred. The only means of protection they could rely on was the gun Lampson should have brought from Marie’s. Grigori would have to supply them with everything else they'd need.
“It’s me, boss,” Adler whispered.
"You didn't forget anything, did you?" Grant smiled, glancing at the two bulging paper grocery bags filled to the brim.
Adler put the bags on the dresser and called to the boys. "Josef, Franz." They jumped off the sofa, falling on their hands and knees, but immediately got up and ran to Adler. He bent over and handed each of them a large sugar cookie. "Leo said the kitchen's available. I got us a couple of sandwiches."
"Sandwiches?" Grant grunted, his voice obviously lacking enthusiasm. "I was hoping for a sixteen ounce T-bone."
"But wait! Wait'll you see the suckers! I asked the store clerk to load them up."
"Hope you got your Rolaids," Grant grinned. He turned to Lampson. "Rick, do you know how many other guests are staying here?"
"Only people I've seen are a couple who checked in two days ago and a single, elderly gentleman. This isn't exactly tourist season."
"Okay. Why don't you take the boys downstairs and make them a hot meal. Joe, were you able to get us a room?"
"Next door, like you asked."
Adler handed Lampson one of the grocery bags. Lampson stopped at the door. "By the way, Captain...Colonel Moshenko is quite a man. And one helluva chopper pilot!"
"Yeah, I know; told you not to worry."
"Never thought I'd be saying that about a KGB agent. You won't tell my boss, will you?" Rick smiled weakly.
"My lips are sealed," Grant answered.
Lampson called to the boys. They ran to him, licking sugar from their little fingers. "You can lock the door. I've got my key."
"Rick," Grant called, "before you go...you have the firearm secured?"
"The suitcase is on the top shelf of the wardrobe."
"Okay. By the time you get back, we’ll be next door catching some shut-eye."
Once in their room, Adler started removing his food stash from the paper bag. Individually wrapped pastries, overstuffed sandwiches on hard rolls, and bottles of Coke and ginger ale lined the top of the dresser.
"You want Coke? Skipper! Do you want Coke?" Getting no response, he turned. Grant was stretched out on one of the twin beds, sound asleep, his hands resting on his chest. The Coke fizzled as Adler popped the top with the opener. He carried it and a sandwich over to the sofa and sat down heavily, putting the bottle on the floor between his feet. Eat first, sleep later, he told himself. He glanced at the bed, hearing Grant's steady, deep breathing. “Don't worry, boss. I'll save you a morsel or two.”
********
The bedroom was in total darkness. Heavy, blue curtains prevented light from filtering through. Grant began to stir. He cracked open one eye and looked across the foot of the bed toward the window then he turned his head, seeing the dark shape of Adler's body sprawled out across the other twin bed. A muffled sound of voices made him bolt upright. Christ! What the hell time is it? He reached for the lamp on the nightstand.
Adler's body jerked, and he pushed himself up, shaking the cobwebs from his head.
"Reveille, Joe."
"Yeah, right," Adler groggily answered, his voice sounding husky from sleep. He rolled over on his back and rubbed the back of his hands across his eyes, squinting as he tried to focus. "What the hell time is it?"
Grant slid his legs over the edge of the bed. He held his arm up toward the light. "Sixteen hundred hours."
"Yeah, but what day?" Adler groaned.
"Continuation of the same one, I'm afraid," Grant answered as he stood up and stretched his arms overhead. "Think I'll skip sit-ups," he mumbled.
Lampson's room was as quiet as a tomb. There was the sound of a door closing somewhere down the hallway, followed immediately by a set of heavy footsteps pounding across the carpeting, then the distinct sound of those footsteps descending the staircase. Grant whirled around, hearing a piercing double ring of the phone. He shot a glance at Alder and motioned for him to answer.
"Ya?" Adler replied into the handset. He raised his eyes to meet Grant's, mouthing the word ‘Grigori,’ then handed the phone over. He slid off the bed and rubbed his face, feeling the scratchy stubble of beard.
With all the precautions being taken, Grant and Moshenko weren't about to assume their conversation wouldn't somehow be monitored. They’d leave out specific information and would again converse in Russian. Moshenko was in a phone booth that was nothing more than a three-sided glass enclosed box, making the background noises of car horns and clanging tram bells impossible to drown out. Grigori used a sequence of numbers to make the call, eliminating the need for coins.
"I'm here," Grant answered, as he watched Adler leave the room. His leaving wasn’t to give Grant privacy, but to check out the lobby and office. He and Grant had made a sweep of their room before sacking out, and even though it was Leo who put the call through from his office switchboard, it was an extra measure of safety.
"My friend, I have some news."
"Yes and no," Moshenko sighed deeply, turning his back to the traffic and pedestrians. The temperature was dropping. Ice crystals started forming on the thawed, mushy snow. He pulled fur-lined suede gloves from his coat pocket. "I have the name that our expected visitor will be using."
"Outstanding! That should eliminate the need for us to bring 'papa' tomorrow, right?”
"Da."
Grant took slow, deliberate steps back and forth between the beds. "And now... the bad news?"
"Let me ask you a question first," Moshenko said, noticing a reflection in the glass of a woman wearing a long, sable coat passing the phone booth. He followed her with his eyes as he asked, "Did you find the woman?"
A picture of Greta, blood-covered, passed through Grant's mind. "She's out of the picture, my friend." Squeaking springs sagged along the edge of the mattress as he sat down heavily.
"Hmm. I'm afraid all I've been able to confirm is that she was employed at the university, which we already knew."
"Well," Grant said with disappointment in his voice, "at least you got what was really important.”
Moshenko understood, then asked, "What time can I expect you?"
"We're leaving here tonight at eight thirty. I'll call when we get there."
"Safe trip, my friend. Do svidaniya.”
"Do svidaniya," Grant answered, then he put the receiver into the cradle. He walked toward the window, scratching his head. He separated the curtains slightly. The sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving a deep shade of orange to paint the drifting clouds. Street lamps glowed. He hammered his fist against his forehead. "Think, Stevens! What the hell's wrong with this picture?"
There was a tap at the door before Adler walked in, balancing an oval tray on the palm of his hand that held two cups and a silver teapot. "Tea's served," he grinned while putting the tray on the dresser.
"Tea?" Grant asked, his nose wrinkling.
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