Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

  Grant and Adler heard the shot, giving each other a grim look. All they had going for them was the element of surprise.

  Steiner pulled Natasha's hair, making her come to an abrupt stop about ten feet from a door. Her arms flailed out, trying to grab his arm to prevent herself from falling. He snapped his head to the right, seeing the maintenance tunnel. There was a small shaft of light casting down onto the pavement. "Your colonel," he whispered to Natasha as he pointed the gun towards the steel door, "was perhaps sending me into a trap." He took off running into the maintenance tunnel, dragging her alongside.

  Moshenko knew he had to be getting close to the end of the tunnel, and within seconds the steel door came into view. He stepped over to the wall, cautiously edging his way closer to the end. Hearing footsteps coming from the maintenance tunnel, he could make his move safely.

  Grant and Adler froze, as the steel bar slid back and the door started opening. Then they heard Moshenko's voice, "It is me!"

  Adler pulled the door open. Moshenko nearly went sprawling until Grant caught him. "Hurry!" Moshenko said loudly. "He's going down the maintenance tunnel."

  Grant noticed the blood dripping from Moshenko's hand. "Are you okay?"

  "Yes! Yes!"

  "Joe, take the tunnel! I'll go this way and try and head him off!"

  "Wait!" Moshenko yelled, grabbing Grant's arm. "The woman is alive. He is holding her hostage. She is one of us!"

  "What?!" Grant shouted.

  Moshenko pushed him away. "Go after them! Save her!"

  Grant motioned to Adler, "Go!" Adler disappeared around the corner, as Grant raced toward the ladder.

  Moshenko yelled after him, "I have the vials!"

  Something's gone right! Grant thought, as he lunged for an upper rung on the ladder. With a grunt, he pushed the grate up, moving it from the lip, and then shoved it across the snow. Scrambling through the opening, he stayed low, scooting close to the wall before standing up fully. There was little activity around the cathedral. Vehicles still had on their headlights.

  Moshenko was dragging himself through the opening. "To the right! To the right! Go around the cathedral! There's an exit from the tunnel there!"

  Grant started running, trying to keep his balance on the slippery surface. The wind drove snow into his face, stinging his cheeks and eyes. As he started for open ground, getting closer to the Kremlin wall, he saw a man and woman running toward the river. Adler scrambled up through the opening and caught up to him just as they were halfway to the end of the south wall where it turned right onto Kremlyovskaya. That’s when Steiner and Natasha disappeared.

  The Americans couldn't run any faster. When they finally got to the corner, their feet skidded across the compacted snow. They reached for the wall, trying to slow their forward progress. Making the turn, they strained their eyes, with Adler finally grabbing Grant's arm. He pointed to a parked taxi. A checkered pattern on its sides made it easily identifiable.

  Steiner flung open the taxi door and yanked the surprised driver from the vehicle before pushing Natasha onto the front seat. He jumped in, landing on her ankles. She screamed, and pulled them from under him. He gunned the engine, but the wheels just spun wildly. He threw the gearshift into reverse, then immediately back into first. Somehow, the tires found a patch of pavement and dug in. The car leapt forward.

  Grant and Adler ran down the sidewalk next to the four-lane road. Their weapons, grasped tightly in their hands, hung close to their parkas but were nearly out of sight, tucked up inside the sleeves. A horn suddenly blared behind them. They snapped around and saw Moshenko behind the wheel of a commandeered taxi, its windshield wipers swishing back and forth, trying to brush aside snow. First Adler, then Grant jumped into the front seat without even allowing Moshenko to completely stop.

  It was all Steiner could do to keep the car from heading into oncoming traffic. A set of headlights, blurry in the falling snow, appeared in his rearview mirror. He knew he was being followed.

  Natasha pressed herself against the passenger door, trying to steady herself, while her eyes stayed fixed on Steiner. She eased her hand into her left pants pocket, feeling the metal case. Gingerly, she worked off the cap with her fingers.

  "He's straight ahead!" Adler shouted, pointing toward the windshield. Moshenko's fingers curled around the steering wheel as he pressed down on the accelerator, noticeably gaining on the taxi. The rear tires spun, whirring across sporadic patches of ice.

  To the left and twenty-five yards ahead of Steiner’s vehicle, a bridge crossed the Moskva River. He jerked the wheel, trying to make the turn, but the car started to fishtail. Seeing her opportunity and realizing it may be her last chance for survival, Natasha whipped the small purse weapon from her pocket, aimed it at Steiner's temple, and fired. The 4.5mm bullet struck him just above the ear. The involuntary blink of his eyes coincided with the slamming of his head against the side window. The muscles in his face started relaxing as his head slid along the glass, finally slumping toward his chest. Blood smeared the window.

  Natasha flung herself toward the steering wheel, grabbed it, but was unable to regain control. The side of the car rammed into the concrete bridge abutment, crushing in the passenger door, the force of the impact hurling her back against it. The battered vehicle careened back across the opposite side of the bridge and directly into the path of an oncoming city bus. The taxi spun around like a toy top, its front end jumping the low guard rail just as the braking bus slammed into its trunk. The taxi was launched airborne, high above the river. It began a slow arc toward the water, as the weight of the engine could no longer resist the pull of gravity.

  Tumbling downward, hood first, it ultimately smashed against the ice. Steiner's lifeless body catapulted over the steering wheel and jammed into the area between the windshield and dashboard. With only seconds to react, Natasha had tried to take refuge under the dash as the impending crash loomed before her. The car collided with the ice before she could get all the way down. Her head smashed against the bottom edge of the dash, instantly breaking her neck. Cold water hit the hot engine, causing billows of steam to erupt under the fender wells, escaping around the jagged edges of ice.

  Grant, Adler, and Moshenko jumped from their vehicle and ran to the corner where the bridge joined the road. Quickly spotting the black and white checkered cab, it was evident that the river’s current and car's weight were taking their toll. Right before their eyes, the frozen river was consuming the battered vehicle.

  Water rushed through the cracked windshield, dash, and floorboard. The hole in the ice widened as a large piece of the fractured edge broke free, enlarging the opening. The vehicle began to disappear as the cab started into a slow roll. As the trunk submerged, large bubbles, caused by rushing air, erupted from its sealed edge. The vehicle became dead weight, slipping below the surface of the frigid, murky water.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Moshenko saw Grant's movement forward. He reached out and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back. "It's too late. She's dead, I'm sure."

  Sounds around the three men faded into the background, as they stared at the empty, bubbling space for what seemed like several long minutes. It was Moshenko who spoke first after finally hearing the hi-low pitch of the two-toned police sirens. "We'd better go, my friends." He placed a hand on Grant's snow-covered shoulder. "There's nothing left for us to do here."

  Grant glanced over his shoulder one more time before following Moshenko and Adler back across the road. More and more curious onlookers were rushing toward the bridge. Sirens became louder.

  Grant spoke softly. “Who was she, Grigori?”

  "You and Joe were right all along. She wasn't who she pretended to be." For several minutes Moshenko repeated the story Natasha Ostrova had told to him.

  "And Lampson never knew," Adler said, surprised.

  "She was very good at her job, Joe,” Moshenko responded. "Although she didn't tell me, I am sure she loved him."

  Grant thought out loud
. "The uncle's farm."

  "What about it, Skipper?"

  "Russian setup, Joe. That's why we didn't find anything. Antolov was taking care of her."

  They walked along the south Kremlin wall with the Moskva River in full view to their right. The ribbon of frozen water, stretching through the city, seemed oblivious to the fact that it had just become an icy grave. Grant stopped suddenly and looked squarely at his Russian friend through compassionate eyes. "There must be something you can do for her, Grigori."

  "I will see to it that her body is recovered. She will receive the recognition she fully deserves."

  Grant shoved his gloved hands into his coat pockets, as he walked with his head down, finally saying to Moshenko, "You're going back to the meeting, aren't you?"

  "It would be best if I did. I'll have to confront Antolov and explain my position." He reached into his pocket, withdrew the eyeglass case then handed it to Grant.

  Adler leaned closer, remarking, "So that's the stuff that dreams are made of."

  Moshenko answered quietly in English, quickly assessing that no others would hear. "Yes, Joe."

  Grant snapped the case closed and handed it back to Moshenko. "You're gonna need this in case there are questions. We've got Lampson and his brain."

  Moshenko glanced at the case in his palm, slipping it back into his pocket before continuing his original thought. "Of course, after seeing me leave with Natasha and Steiner, Antolov probably has put everything together. And, if he had Stoyakova’s office bugged..."

  "If he did? Hell! You know he did, Grigori,” Grant responded emphatically. “When you went through the proper channels, everybody knew. You guys aren't any different than us in that regard. And in the end, you were the one who prevented Steiner from carrying out murder."

  Moshenko gave a wry smile, as he brushed a snowflake from his dark eyelashes. "And shall I tell him about the minor role you and Joe played?"

  "Your discretion," Grant laughed. As they rounded the south corner, heading back toward Red Square, he asked with concern, "You think the powers that be will pull the plug on the project?"

  Moshenko spread his hands out in front of him. "Only time will tell, Grant. We were very lucky this time. I will do my best to drive that point home. But even if they decide to pull it out from under the East Germans, that is not to say the project won't continue here."

  "And pretty soon," Grant said, shaking his head with disgust, "the CIA will have Lampson. Jesus! We're back to the old standoff routine, aren't we?"

  "With any luck, my friend, maybe it will go away and we won't have any more secrets."

  Grant answered, "That’d work for me." He glanced up ahead, seeing Spasskaya Tower and the guards at Lenin's Tomb. "Let's go over there," he pointed to an area to the side of the cathedral. "We'll take a taxi back to the hotel when we're finished. Then we'll try and get a flight out of here." He looked up as his eyes tried to penetrate the blur of snow, hoping to spot a patch of blue sky.

  "Russian planes fly in all weather!" Moshenko boasted with a grin.

  "Yeah, but do they stay up?" Adler mumbled.

  Once out of the path of traffic and away from curious guards, Grant reached into his pocket, withdrawing the firearm. Adler followed with his, and they inconspicuously handed them to Moshenko.

  "If it weren't for you, my friend,” Grant said, “many of your comrades wouldn't be around to enjoy the remainder of your white winter. It could have been a red one."

  Moshenko acknowledged with his head slowly bobbing up and down. "You are the ones who deserve the credit."

  The three men looked at each other, knowing that true professionals have no ideological stamps on their hearts. This was their true reward--success, and nothing less than victory. It's their "warm and fuzzy,” their reason for being who they are. When the warning order comes, it's men like these--the Stevens', Adlers and, Moshenkos--who can quietly and quickly close the book.

  Moshenko extended his hand toward Grant who grasped it firmly. He stepped closer to Moshenko. "Spaseeba, my friend." They threw their arms around each other, slapping one another on the back.

  Adler reached out for Moshenko's hand. "Take care of yourself, sir. Thanks for your help."

  "Joe, maybe one day you will be able to tour my country freely."

  "I'd like that, sir."

  Moshenko turned away. His large bulk trodded through the snow as he headed for the Kremlin grounds.

  "Let's go, Joe," Grant immediately said, as he glanced out of the corner of his eye, seeing Moshenko walk into the alcove and disappear under Spasskaya Tower.

  Motlawa Hotel

  Gdansk, Poland

  Grant and Adler walked away from the parked rental BMW. As they reached the steps to the hotel, Adler touched Grant's arm. "Are you gonna tell Lampson about Greta?"

  Grant looked down momentarily at the scuffed and cracked ground before responding, "Yeah, Joe. He has a right to know who she was and what she did for her country, maybe even the world. I'm sure he'll want to tell the kids one day." He stepped toward the door, reached for the handle, then said quietly, "The kids are Lampson's, right, Joe?"

  Adler studied Grant's eyes, noticing a sadness in them, as he responded, "Yes, sir. They are."

  They checked in with Leo at the front desk, who informed them that Lampson and the twins were in the park behind the hotel. After dropping their luggage in the room, they walked to the park.

  "I’ve gotta say, Skipper, that it’ll sure be good to step back onto good old U.S. soil."

  "Roger that, Joe."

  Their flight from Gdansk would take them to Tegel in West Berlin, where Torrinson had booked all of them on a Pan Am flight to Dulles in Washington, D.C. Two special agents would be waiting to pick up Lampson and the boys.

  As they rounded the corner of the hotel, there was a sound of children's laughter. Grant and Adler stepped onto dirt and coarse, brown grass at the edge of the park grounds. They spotted Lampson, sitting on a black wrought iron bench beneath a bronze statue of a horse with rider. Lampson leaned back then stretched his arms across the backrest. Playing in front of him were Josef and Franz, who laughed in delight as they kicked a red, rubber ball.

  Adler glanced at Grant, detected the setting of the square jaw. "I'm with you, Skipper." They stood quietly, seeing a father reveling in the pleasures of being with his sons.

  Feeling someone watching him, Lampson turned. He spotted the two men, and without saying a word, the most heart-filled "thank you" passed between the trio.

  Grant looked at Adler and gave a half smile. "Time to fill in Lampson's 'dance card,’ Joe. This one's over."

  Adler attempted to lighten the moment. His face erupted into a grin as wide as a Halloween pumpkin's, and, propping his hands on his hips, he laughed, "Don't you just love this happy ending shit?"