“Should we still check out this address, boss?” James asked, pointing to the paper.
“That’s the first one on your list, DJ. I have my doubts you’ll find anybody home. So. . .”
“We’ll do a thorough search, boss,” Diaz said, motioning with his hand as if he was unlocking a door. Both he and James headed for the garage.
“Wait!” Grant called. “Leave the shotgun mike. You two have enough on your ‘plate.’”
“Roger that!” James responded, with obvious relief in his voice.
Grant picked up one of the photo’s, then folded it. As he slipped it in his pocket, he started having one of his “go quiet, ignore everything” moments. He grabbed a pen and notepad from the table and started writing.
Adler stood by, waiting. Finally, Grant handed him the paper. “Joe, contact Matt and the other guys. Give them this.”
Adler read it quickly. His expression showed he was in complete agreement. “I like it!”
“Yeah. We’ll talk later.” Grant dug his keys out of his Levis’ pocket. “Scott may call, and when the guys get back, you’ll need to fill them in.” He walked to the hall closet for his jacket. “I’m assuming the Gulfstream and chopper are ready to go.”
Adler gave a thumb’s up. “Fueled and ‘froggy.’” As Grant slung his jacket over his shoulder, Adler asked, “Do you want Ken and Mike to cover the embassy?”
“Yeah. I know there’s a car phone, but make sure they have a radio just in case they end up ‘hoofing’ it. Oh, and check the money in the safe. There should be enough.”
“Any particular ‘brand'?”
“Pounds, deutsche marks, rubles for now.” He turned toward the door, waving a hand overhead. “I’m outta here.”
*
As he drove through D.C., Grant couldn’t get the picture of the Russian out of his mind. Who the hell was he? Why couldn’t he remember where he saw him? Even though the photo hadn’t been completely in focus, he couldn’t deny the fact the two of them appeared to be similar in looks, height, close in age. Come on, Stevens! Think! He was positive it wasn’t at the Academy. And more than positive the guy wasn’t with the Teams. So where? One of the many ships he’d been aboard? The encounter had to have been brief. And probably from a distance. Time for direction change, he told himself, preparing to meet Moshenko.
A half hour later he turned into Moshenko’s neighborhood, drove to the dead end then turned around, parking on the shoulder. Looking out the passenger side window, he spotted his good friend standing on the steps of the gazebo, a white, wooden octagonal structure.
At 5’10” Moshenko was easy to spot, with his muscular build, short, jet black hair that had some grey streaks at the temples, and the ever present cigar.
Once Grant locked the car, he took off jogging across the grass, noticing several small children playing in a sandbox at the opposite end of the park. Two women sat on a bench, keeping a close watch on them.
As Grant got closer to the gazebo, Moshenko blew cigar smoke from the side of his mouth just as he stepped on the pebble walkway. “My friend!”
“Hey, Grigori!” Grant said with a wide smile. The two friends grabbed each other’s hand, then slapped each other on the back.
“Come,” Moshenko said, as he walked up the three steps and motioned to the curved bench seat. “You are looking well,” he said as he sat down.
“You just saw me last week!”
“And you are still looking well!”
“How’s Alexandra?”
“She is fine, and hoping you will share some food with us. She is preparing beef stroganoff.”
“Wish I could.”
Moshenko noticed Grant’s expression had changed. He watched him briefly before laying a hand on his shoulder. “You are troubled. What is it?”
“The Team’s involved in another mission. It’s been classified top secret.”
Moshenko nodded. “I understand.”
“No, no! It’s okay. The President gave me the go-ahead to discuss this with you, so don’t worry.”
“All right, Grant. Is there something you want me to do?”
Grant gave somewhat of a grin. “No flying choppers this time, but I’m hoping you can reach into your brain and pull out some information that might help us.”
“I will try,” Moshenko responded, flicking an ash over the railing, before scooting forward on the seat.
Grant unfolded the photo. “This is a photo Frank and DJ took in front of the Russian Embassy.” He handed it to Moshenko.
“You could be brothers!” Moshenko said with surprise, as he stared at the photo.
“That seems to be the consensus.”
“Who is he?!”
“Don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
Moshenko studied the man’s face more closely, but then shook his head. “I would surely remember him, my friend. I am sorry.” He handed the photo to Grant. “But why did they take his picture?”
“My suspicion is he may be a ‘sleeper,’ Grigori,” Grant responded, smacking the paper against his hand.
Moshenko stood, walked a couple steps away, then turned around. “So he has been in your country since he was a child?”
“Yeah, if I’m right. Why?”
“I had access to files at KGB that listed all such people.”
Grant leaned back against the railing. “Something tells me that list was several pages long.”
Moshenko sat down. “Yes. I am afraid it was. The names were listed according to the country they were assigned to. I just cannot remember right now.”
“Well, it was worth a shot,” Grant responded, folding the paper, then putting it in his jacket pocket.
“I will continue to. . . what did you say? ‘Reach into my brain.’”
“In the meantime, let’s try this. Do you know where the safe house is located, either in D.C. or at least someplace close? Or if there’s more than one?”
Moshenko rubbed his chin in thought. “There was one only. But the location . . .”
“Wait one,” Grant said. “I’ve got a map.” He hurried to his car.
While he did, Moshenko got up and walked the inside perimeter of the gazebo, trying to remember. He wondered if the KGB had the forethought to make changes since he defected. For Grant’s sake, he hoped not. He would help his friend in any way possible.
“Okay, here’s a map of the metropolitan area,” Grant said, spreading the map open on the bench. He remained quiet as Moshenko leaned over, looking at town and city names.
“Here!” he finally said, jabbing his thick index finger on Alexandria, Virginia.
“You sure, Grigori?!”
“Yes. I remember associating ‘Alexandria’ with Alexandra’s name. Yes. I am sure!”
“Good. That’s a start.” As Grant folded the map, he asked, “Any street address to go along with that by any chance?”
“You must give me some time, my friend. It has been awhile. You have never needed the information before. But. . . I can tell you something about those at the embassy.”
“I’m listening.”
“Before I left Russia, I assigned two KGB officers to the embassy. It is more than likely they are still there.”
“Do I hug you now or later?!”
“You can hug Alexandra!”
“And you know I’ll take you up on it! Now, who are they?”
“Misha Zelesky and Petya Vikulin.” For the next several minutes, Moshenko revealed descriptions, and all he could remember concerning the two KGB men. As grateful as Grant was for Moshenko’s help, he couldn’t help but worry. As he stood, he held a hand toward Moshenko, helped him up, then continued to grasp his friend’s hand. “Listen, Grigori, you need to be extra careful, now more than ever.”
“But nothing has changed, Grant. Our conversation will not go beyond your men. . . and the President.”
“I know. But now that you’ve told me you knew the KGB ‘boys’. . .”
“Do not wor
ry. I will be cautious.”
“Keep an eye on Alexandra, and without arousing her suspicion, okay? I don’t want her to worry.” Moshenko nodded. “Once this is over, maybe the President can come up with some way to have those two sent home.”
“That might be difficult, Grant, although proving them guilty of espionage or threatening your government might work.”
Grant gave him a shit-eatin’ grin through perfect white teeth. “You’re scaring me, Grigori! Sounds like something I’d say!”
“Yes. Your way of thinking is smoothing off on me!”
Grant’s brow wrinkled before he laughed. “I think you mean ‘rubbing off.’”
“I will mark that off my list of sayings to learn!”
Grant put a hand on Moshenko’s back. “C’mon. Walk with me to my car.”
*
Grant was ten minutes out from Eagle 8, when the car phone rang. “Speak.”
“Skipper! Are you anywhere close?”
“Ten minutes, Joe. What’s up?” He turned on the windshield wipers as a car in front plowed through a puddle.
“Ken and Mike are on the move!”
“What the hell are you talking about?!”
“They called in when they saw someone driving out of the embassy in an older Mercedes. I gave them the go-ahead to pursue.”
“It wasn’t our suspect, was it?”
“No. Older guy.”
“Did they give you a description?” When Adler finished, Grant said, “Sounds like Vikulin, KGB.”
“What should I tell Ken and Mike?”
“Stick with him. Grigori said when Vikulin worked for him at KGB Moscow, he was someone who always stuck to a schedule and had favorite ‘haunts’ in town.” Grant glanced quickly at his submariner. “Have them report to you every time that guy makes a stop. And warn them they’d better not fuckin’ lose him!”
“Be happy to!”
“Any word from Frank and DJ?”
“They found the Camaro locked up in a garage, but not much else in the house.”
“See you in five, Joe. I’ve got an idea.” Connection broken.
“Why does that not surprise me?” Adler said laughing, as he hung up.
*
Safe House
2120 Hours
Kalinin tucked his Makarov in his back waistband, shut off the living room light, then went out the back door. Once he was inside the garage, he closed the doors, waiting briefly until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Then he went to the passenger side and removed the cardboard box and a small flashlight from under the seat.
He lowered the truck’s tailgate, lifted the camper’s window, then crawled inside the bed. Kneeling alongside the crate, he turned on the flashlight, and hung it from a hook directly overhead, before pulling the canvas pouches closer.
He ran a hand over the wooden crate, then touched a strip of thin, but strong aluminum, one of three. Spaced ten inches apart, they were wrapped around the crate then secured underneath. The wood cover was screwed on.
By the time he’d cut through the strips and removed screws, sweat covered his body. He swiped a hand across his forehead. Then he lifted the top and slid it toward the back. He checked the time. Depending on how long his task would take, he might have an opportunity to examine one of the weapons.
He started digging through foam packing peanuts, grabbing onto a section of heavy plastic. Pulling it out, he held the weapon with both hands, but the plastic was opaque and he couldn’t get a good view. He laid the weapon down, then continued digging through foam, until the five wrapped, top secret weapons were laying next to him.
He began filling each of three pouches with the foam, then slid in one weapon at a time, ensuring they were protected from touching or hitting one another. He checked his watch again. He decided against an inspection and would have to wait until he was in Moscow.
Once the weapons were secured inside the pouches, he removed the special seal and rubber stamp from the cardboard box, preparing to classify each pouch as “diplomatic.” The metal seal, with a hammer and sickle on both sides, would act as the official signature for the Russian Embassy.
With the truck and garage locked, he rushed back to the house, grabbed a glass of water, then hurried upstairs.
The evening hours were the best time to broadcast. The “E region”--the Heaviside layer-- is one of several layers in the Earth’s ionosphere. Medium-frequency radio waves reflect off it and can be propagated beyond the horizon. During evening hours the solar wind drags the ionosphere further away from the Earth, increasing the range radio waves can travel.
He had to work fast, knowing the U.S. had “ears” listening, especially now. Once he opened the panel, he set a wooden chair in front of the shelf, then sat down. He now regretted not having a shortwave in the leased house, but it was a chance he couldn’t take. And he should have asked the ambassador to contact the cargo ship the night the weapons were stolen, instead of relying on the word of mercenaries. Another bump in the road, but not significant enough to compromise the mission.
It was impossible to use his one-time pad. He’d have to rely on sending the message in Morse Code, except he’d add another code within it. The ship’s radioman and the captain would have knowledge of the code.
With his thoughts in order, knowing exactly the wording he would use, he began sending Morse Code. He authenticated the message with his code name: Antares.
*
Aboard the Igor Brobov
The cargo ship Igor Brobov was making her return trip to Russia, having picked up cargo in Cuba. She was a small ship with only four cargo holds. All four holds were filled to capacity with sugar, corn, coffee, rice. With a heavy load, she was riding low in the water, her deck a mere thirty feet above the waterline.
Nearly one month ago, Captain Sergei Ivanov received a coded message from the Russian Embassy in Washington, D.C. Once he left Cuba with his cargo, he was directed to travel up the coast of the U.S. He would stay within a hundred miles off the coast of Virginia, reduce speed to twelve knots (thirteen mph), then wait to be contacted.
The ship had been “steaming” within the designated range, when he finally received another message. He was to give the ship’s coordinates to a man going by the name of “Python,” who would deliver special cargo by chopper.
One more message would arrive, requesting final confirmation the special cargo was onboard, showing no evidence of tampering.
His involvement in this operation would cost him valuable time. His schedule was completely screwed up. With over fifteen years experience in the shipping trade, this “incident” was a first for him. Hopefully, the ship’s owners would not question the reason. He assumed the embassy in Washington would notify them of his involvement.
*
Ivanov stood near the magnetic compass, peering out across the bow. All activity on deck had ceased, returning to normal after the delivery. He brushed a hand over his short, salt and pepper hair.
The door of the radar room opened and Radioman Gremesky hurried to the bridge with a message in his hand. “Captain!”
Ivanov adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and reached for the paper. He read the brief, decoded message, and confirmed the code name. He handed the paper back to the radioman. “Send reply the cargo is onboard, intact. Proceeding on course designated.” Ivanov breathed a heavy sigh, relieved he finally had permission to continue the voyage.
Chapter 11
Washington, D.C.
2115 Hours
Glare of headlights from light traffic reflected off wet blacktop along D Street. Every forty-five minutes a city bus traveled the route. Pedestrians were few.
At the corner was a two-story, white brick building. On the lower level was a restaurant, serving traditional Russian food. Patrons entered through a wooden door, with a half moon-shaped canvas awning above.
The car phone rang in the dark blue, four door Ford Torino. “Yeah, Mike,” Grant answered.
“Boss
, we just saw you go by. We’re parked at the top of the street at the corner.”
“Is he still inside?”
“Affirmative. His Mercedes is parked our side of street, one block behind us.”
“Be there in a minute.”
Stalley drove slowly past the building, then stopped briefly as Adler got out of the back seat then hurried across the street.
Grant waited until Adler was at the corner. “Okay, Doc, get movin’.”
Stalley continued driving to the next street, then turned left. He rolled through the stop sign, then made another left. As he got to the next corner, brake lights flashed from a parked Chevelle. He hit the brakes, then flashed his lights. Mike Novak raised his hand out the Chevelle passenger window, as Slade pulled out of the parking space. Stalley parked the Ford.
Grant set the overhead light to “off.” Leaning toward the window, he finally spotted Adler near the street lamp. Stalley flashed the headlights twice. Adler disappeared around the corner and went inside the restaurant.
No matter how long it took, and if everything played out as they anticipated, this might be their best chance, their only chance to get some answers.
Grant picked up his .45, released the clip, then shoved it back in. He put on his baseball cap, and as he got out, he slid the weapon into his back waistband, then closed the door. He leaned toward the open window. “Doc, I’m gonna check the main road in front of the restaurant, then take up a position near that basement entrance,” he pointed. “Stay here and be prepared if it ‘goes south.’”
“Okay, boss,” Stalley nodded.
Grant started walking toward the corner, when he heard voices. Cigarette smoke drifted toward him. He turned the corner and kept walking. Three men glanced at him but continued talking and smoking. When he passed the restaurant, he glanced over his shoulder, seeing they had crossed the street. He hurried back to the corner, then heard three car doors slamming simultaneously, immediately followed by an engine starting. He glanced at his watch again. So far so good, he thought.
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