Code Name Antares

by Jamie Fredric

  “Like a boat?”

  Grant nodded, with his words coming slowly. “Right. Like a boat.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking that, are you?!”

  “With both Russian carriers operational in the Med, yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “But they still have to get the weapons. . .”

  Grant waved a hand. “I know. I know. Give me time to work that out.” He got up abruptly. “I’ve gotta go. Hope you can get something on that Camaro.”

  “I’ll let you know asap. Hey, do you have enough cash on hand?”

  “Should be plenty in the safe, but I’ll verify there’s a good ‘mix.’” Grant put on his baseball cap. “You can reach me on the car phone or at the house.”

  “Here,” Mullins said, as he put the cover on the thermos. “And take the donuts.”

  “I’ll take the coffee. You keep the donuts.”

  “What about Joe and the guys?”

  “I’ve got another three dozen in the Vette.”

  Grant extended his hand, and Mullins grasped it firmly. “Talk to you soon.”

  Chapter 8

  Building of the First Directorate

  Darulaman Road

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  1400 Hours Local Time

  The KhAD, the Afghan secret police, officially known as the State Intelligence Agency, was headquartered in one of the most well protected areas in Kabul. Work never stopped, whether inside or outside the building.

  Under the firm control of the KGB, the KhAD was used by the Soviets to gather intelligence, infiltrate the Mujahideen, spread false information, and bribe tribal militias into fighting. KhAD’s system of informers and operatives extended into virtually every aspect of Afghan life. It assumed responsibility for training young Afghans to be loyal to the Soviet Union, but a good deal of money and the promise of better weapons to recruit new members was a necessity.

  Farhad Hashimi, head of the KhAD, a graduate of Colgate University in New York, was considered to be very intelligent and very powerful in all aspects of the organization. His close association with the KGB was purely political, enabling him to bolster his own self image, remain in power, and obtain modern day weapons--weapons he might one day use against the Soviet Union.

  *

  Hashimi’s footsteps echoed as he walked along a passageway in the headquarters building. This day he wore a typical outfit known as a perahon tunban, consisting of a knee length light-colored shirt and dark, baggy trousers, along with a vest. As a government official, he also wore a cap made of sheepskin.

  Stopping just outside the doorway of the main entrance, he looked toward the mountains where snow had already begun to melt, but along with spring rain, many roads were washed out, making passage difficult. He put his arms behind his back, as he perused the inner courtyard. Guards walked the perimeter and meandered through the entire grounds, either carrying AK47s or RPG launchers.

  A sound of far-off gunfire and explosions made him retreat further from the doorway, just as an MI-24 attack helicopter flew overhead, called in by a Russian patrol coming under fire outside a small village. Fighting between Soviets, Afghans, Mujahideen had not improved; if anything, it had worsened. Hashimi needed weapons desperately, and not used or weapons confiscated from other wars. He wanted modern weapons.

  An all-terrain vehicle, a UAZ-469, similar to a Jeep, drove into the courtyard then stopped close to the building. Two men got out, both wearing Soviet Union army uniforms. Major Viktor Zubarev, KGB, and his security guard and interpreter, Sergeant Tresinsky.

  Zubarev was about 5’11” and slim. His uniform, shoes, cap were impeccable. The way he carried himself and his dark brooding eyes evoked authority. He took long, slow strides as he walked toward Hashimi.

  Today the Afghan was to learn whether the Soviets would deliver the weapons as promised. No one, including the Soviets, seemed to have complete knowledge or details of the weapons, just that they were developed by the Americans and considered top secret.

  What he suspected, though, was the Soviets weren’t going to hand them over without some form of payment. He assumed that was one reason why Zubarev was meeting with him. It would be interesting to learn what kind of price Russia would put on five top secret American weapons.

  As the Russians approached Hashimi, two Afghan guards took their places closer to the entrance. Hashimi motioned for Zubarev to follow him. They would conduct their business as they walked along the passageway, staying out of perimeter rooms as a precaution in case of attack.

  Hashimi wanted to keep the meeting as short as possible and got right to the point. “Do you have word on the weapons?”

  A low-flying chopper made them go quiet, while they followed the sound with their eyes.

  Zubarev rested a hand on his Makarov in his side holster. “I am expecting them in several days.”

  “What about the type of weapons? What makes them top secret?”

  Zubarev shook his head. “That I still do not know. But with that classification, you can be assured they will be like nothing either one of us has ever seen.”

  “And when will you tell me the price, Major?”

  “As soon as we receive word they are safely aboard our ship. The weapons must be inspected and tested before we turn them over to you. You understand, of course.”

  Hashimi’s distrust in the Russians had steadily increased, but he was willing to do anything necessary to obtain the weapons. All he could do was wait, and not cause a rift between himself and Zubarev.

  Chapter 9

  Somewhere in D.C.

  0750 Hours

  Driving around for nearly thirty minutes, trying to ensure he wasn’t being followed, Nicolai Kalinin had time to reflect on the incident. Where the hell did he go wrong? What mistake did he make? How’d the Americans find him? Maybe he shouldn’t have left the message in the newspaper. But that had been the plan, confirmed by Vazov. When it came to options for leaving messages, there weren’t many. And he sure as hell couldn’t just walk into the embassy.

  He had to put his thoughts in order. His first task was to wipe down everything inside the house and Camaro, removing any evidence that could lead to him--or the embassy. He wasn’t concerned about the name on the car’s registration. But fingerprints were a different matter altogether.

  Once the task was accomplished, he’d park the car in the garage, then take the truck and head to the safe house. The safe house. He gritted his teeth. Having to use the place was something he hadn’t planned on. It was too soon for his strategy to turn to shit.

  He pounded the steering wheel in anger, until a sudden thought flashed through his mind. Was it possible? Could it have been the American, the traitor, who had turned against the U.S. and now Russia? Was he a double agent?

  Very little was known about him--only what he wanted Russia to know. He told them just enough to confirm he had legitimate top secret information. Kalinin surmised he must be working somewhere in the Pentagon for the Department of the Navy, considering the document had a DoD logo.

  If the American was a double agent, would it mean plans had to be altered? Would flying the weapons to Moscow be out of the question? He couldn’t think of how the American would know about the plane, but assumptions were always possible.

  Working under diplomatic cover, Kalinin felt confident he could handle it. Moscow was anxious for those weapons to arrive.

  He glanced at his watch. He’d stalled enough. Whether it was daylight or not, he had work to do. He made a snap decision and decided to hold off on moving the last of the weapons for at least another day or two. Even though the Americans didn’t know who he was, they’d be watching airports and probably the embassy.

  Weaving in and out of traffic, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Calming down, he eased off the accelerator, chastising himself for losing control. He couldn’t afford to call attention to himself.

  Thinking clearly again, a picture of the American traitor came to mind. But wh
at if it wasn’t him? What if there was someone else who had the ability to process information, no matter how little there might be? Someone who, like himself, had the intelligence, natural instinct. . . He cut himself off. The idea was remote. The odds were pointing toward the traitor.

  *

  He turned down the alley behind his house, then parked by the garage. As he unlocked the garage door, he glanced down the alleyway. All clear. He got in the truck and backed up close to the house.

  Once the Camaro had been parked inside the garage, he tucked his Makarov in his waistband, removed all papers, then wiped down everything, inside and out, then locked it, taking the keys with him. With the car and garage locked, he hurried to the house.

  Ever since he met with the ambassador, he was ready to evacuate hastily. Two suitcases were always packed. Clothes he needed for a week were in drawers and hanging in the closet.

  He put the suitcases and clothes by the kitchen door, then started a wipe-down of light switches, light bulbs, faucets, door knobs, toilet seat cover--everything he could have touched. He was thorough. He had to be.

  After everything was loaded in the truck, he did one more walk-through of each room, letting his eyes settle on every object, confirming each had been cleaned.

  Stepping slowly backwards out of the living room, he continued looking around, until he was in the kitchen. Using a corner of his jacket to grab the door knob, he went outside, locked the door then wiped the knob. He kept the key. His rent was paid for the month. He’d contact the landlord to let him know he was leaving the area. A new job offer in Houston seemed as good a reason as any. ZXR would confirm he had resigned.

  Driving back downtown, he remained vigilant of his speed and all traffic laws. Every once in a while he’d glance in the rearview mirror, not looking for vehicles that might be following, but at one crate stashed in the bed containing top secret weapons. His misstep this morning was a thing of the past, a mere blip in the road.

  Driving along Nineteenth, he slowed then turned on L Street. About five blocks later he was at the parking garage, had a ticket stamped, and drove to the second level. Spotting the silver Pontiac at the end of the row, he pulled behind the car, ensured no one was around, then got out. As he dug a key from his pocket, he confirmed there was a black check mark on the pillar.

  As he raised the trunk lid, he saw a tag hanging from the rearview mirror. Ambassador Vazov paid a monthly parking fee.

  Not wasting any time, he grabbed the cardboard box from the trunk, slammed the lid, then wiped the edge with the bottom of his jacket. A second later he was driving out.

  *

  Safe House

  Alexandria

  The two-story house, barely twelve hundred square feet, was in need of maintenance, inside and out. Paint was peeling off clapboard siding, shingles were old, tree roots had lifted and cracked a section of sidewalk. The house was perfect for a Russian mole to lie low.

  Kalinin drove the truck along the grass- and dirt-covered driveway, then stopped in front of the single car garage at the back of the lot. Unkempt boxwood shrubs were growing on three sides, two small windows had been blacked out. The structure was in worse shape than the house.

  He got out of the truck, unlocked the padlock, then pulled the doors open. As he returned to the truck, he stopped momentarily, listening for any unusual sounds. All he heard was the heavy traffic on the main road, and a commercial jet flying low, making its approach to Washington National Airport.

  Once he parked in the garage, he checked the contents inside the cardboard box: official documents, an official seal, a rubber stamp and ink pad. Under cover of darkness, he’d come back and prepare the pouches. Each pouch was made of heavy, plain canvas, with two leather handles and two zippers that met in the middle. The zipper pulls and handles would be secured together with a length of wire. A metal seal would then be crimped around the ends of the wire.

  Securing the garage doors, he carried one suitcase and his jacket to the house, trying to absorb everything about the building and property. He didn’t plan on staying long, but being familiar with his surroundings could be critical to his survival if it came down to that.

  He unlocked the back door with a skeleton key, then shoved the suitcase across the worn, gray vinyl kitchen floor. Once he was inside, he relocked the door, then left the key in the lock. He laid his jacket on the small wooden table, as he scanned the room. Plain white cabinets, older white appliances, and a white enamel sink made him wonder how many times this place had been used.

  He didn’t expect to find much food, if any. He was right. The fridge was empty, but some canned and packaged goods were in a small pantry. Enough to sustain life, but not very appetizing.

  Wood floors creaked as he walked through the living room to the front window. Spreading the blinds apart with his fingers, he took a moment to look across the property. Seeing nothing of immediate concern, he turned and finally spotted the telephone on a small table by a dark brown upholstered couch. The KGB was efficient at installing scrambler equipment. Behind the couch a connector cord went from a block on the baseboard to the scrambler, with a similar cord going from the box to the phone. He picked up the receiver. Dial tone.

  Now he had to find the other important piece of equipment. Stairs opposite the front door led to the second level. Taking two steps at a time, he hurried up the narrow staircase.

  Straight ahead was a small bathroom. To the right was an unfurnished bedroom. He went to the main bedroom. It had simple furnishings: a single bed, dresser, nightstand with a lamp. Blinds were closed on both windows. He opened a closet nearest the room’s entry door. A single light bulb, with a cord hanging from its base, was overhead. He turned on the light.

  The back wall was covered in thin, six-inch vertical wood planks. Running his fingers down the middle section, he felt an indentation. Hooking his fingers in it, he pulled carefully. A panel swung open. On a shelf was a shortwave radio. He had the frequency memorized, and was an expert at Morse Code, but more importantly, he had the one-time pad. He removed the small book from his trouser pocket. Tapping it against his hand, he debated whether to keep it with him or conceal it in the house. If the Americans found this place. . . He put it back in his pocket, then closed the panel.

  As he started to leave the room, he hesitated by the bed. As much as he needed sleep, he needed food more. There was no telling when he’d get another opportunity. He decided to pass on the canned goods. A rundown diner he drove by would have to do. Besides, the fewer objects he touched, the fewer he’d have to worry about wiping down.

  He had one more task before leaving. Notify the ambassador he was at the safe house. And since he now had access to the radio, he’d assume responsibility for contacting the cargo ship, confirming weapons were onboard. Vazov would notify Kabul the weapons were on their way.

  With the scrambler activated, he dialed the embassy.

  Chapter 10

  Eagle 8

  Virginia

  0930 Hours

  Diaz stood by the large picture window with one hand resting on the wood frame, the other holding a can of Pepsi. Any minute now Grant should be arriving, driving his black Vette. Diaz thought as menacing as that Vette looked, it wouldn’t compare to Grant’s expression. The meeting wasn’t going to be pretty.

  “Hey, Frank!” Adler called from the kitchen.

  Diaz turned around, took a gulp of his drink, then walked to the kitchen. “Yeah, LT?”

  Adler rested his elbows on the counter, as he balled up a wad of napkins. “You’ve been worried shitless since you walked in the door.” Diaz sucked on more Pepsi, then just shrugged his shoulders. “Hey!” Adler called, as he threw the crumpled napkins, hitting Diaz square in the face. “C’mon! Get your mind on track and remember every minute detail from this morning. Did you have glasses on that newspaper? Was there anything that made that car stand out?”

  Diaz’s head started bobbing up and down. “I got ya, LT.” He hustled over the the
table. Sliding a pad and pencil toward him, he grabbed the pencil and started jotting down notes.

  “Need some help?” James asked dragging a chair closer.

  “You’re in this just as deep as me!” Diaz replied, jabbing James’ ribs with an elbow.

  Ten minutes later, they heard the deep rumble of the Vette’s engine. Within seconds, the door leading from the garage slammed. Grant ignored the two men and went right to the kitchen, dropping three boxes of donuts on the counter, then the thermos.

  “You look like you need some fresh, hot java,” Adler said, reaching for the coffee pot. Grant slid a mug toward him, as Adler asked quietly, “You still pissed?”

  “I can’t believe they lost him, Joe.” He picked up the mug and blew some breath into the hot brew, as he noticed Diaz and James hunched over the table. “What’s with them?”

  “Besides trying to avoid you? They’re scrounging through their brains, trying to dig out details from this morning.” He leaned over the white boxes, opened all three, and finally selected a jelly donut with powdered sugar. “Speaking of this morning. . . let me show you something.” He headed for the dining room.

  Grant followed him. “Have you heard from Mike?”

  “He should be back by thirteen hundred. Sounded pretty giddy,” Adler laughed.

  “I’ll bet.” Grant swiveled his head. “Seems like we’re missing three more.”

  “Oh, that reminds me! Doc, Matt and Ken are at the airfield checking out our most recently acquired piece of equipment.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’re gonna love it. A Seasprite chopper.”

  Grant nearly choked on his coffee. “Where the. . .?”