Code Name Antares

by Jamie Fredric

  Hurrying up the side street, he ducked into the basement entrance, two steps below street level. He’d be less exposed from this spot, and in a good position to move quickly.

  Five minutes later, Petya Vikulin came out of the restaurant and stood briefly by the door, putting on his black leather coat. He made frequent visits to the restaurant since he’d been assigned to the embassy a year ago. The food was traditional Russian fare. Tonight he treated himself to Sevruga black caviar, topped off with Rublevka Gold Vodka.

  He breathed in deeply then started walking toward the corner. As he made the turn, he heard the restaurant door open. Continuing to walk uphill, he became leery as he heard footsteps. He turned around, and walked backwards. The street lamp didn’t illuminate the person’s face totally, but he recognized the man as the one who had been sitting at the bar.

  Adler stopped, lit a cigarette with a lighter, then hurried across the street, pretending to wave to someone as he ran.

  Satisfied he wasn’t being followed, Vikulin shoved his hands into his coat pockets, then began taking long strides, heading for the used Mercedes parked three blocks away. Only the ambassador had the privilege of being driven in a newer vehicle, another Mercedes.

  Adler ducked into a side alley, spit a piece of tobacco from his mouth, then flicked the cigarette against the building. Slowly he eased his way toward the corner, staying in the shadows.

  Vikulin was about ten feet from where Grant was waiting. Grant clicked on the miniature recorder attached to his belt, then he suddenly came out of the shadows, and stopped. Vikulin reacted quickly, moving his hand to his weapon in the shoulder holster.

  “There’s no need for that, Comrade,” Grant immediately said in Russian, raising his hands to show he didn’t have a weapon.

  Vikulin hesitated a brief moment. “Comrade Kalinin!” he said in a loud whisper, as he slowly moved his hand away from the holster. “What are you doing here? Is the ambassador aware you are talking with me?” He swiveled his head, looking to see if they were alone.

  “Do not worry. We are completely alone, but I must talk with you. Come over here,” Grant indicated, as he moved back into the shadows.

  Vikulin followed, but cautiously. He kept a slight distance from Grant as he asked, “This is serious, Comrade?”

  “Yes. What we are about to discuss is state secret.” (State secret is Soviet term for ‘top secret.’)

  “I understand,” Vikulin nodded.

  “I am here under the direction of the First Chief Directorate.”

  Even in the shadows, Vikulin’s face couldn’t hide his surprise. “The First Chief Directorate?! You know who he is?!” Grant simply nodded because in fact, he didn’t have a damn clue. The FCD’s real identity was known only to the ambassador.

  The position of FCD was well known throughout the intelligence community. Russia’s First Chief Directorate was the equivalent of the CIA's Chief of Station. He was a so-called legal resident but who, in fact, was a spy, operating under diplomatic cover, with full immunity from prosecution. While the FCD was responsible for the collection of political, scientific and technical intelligence, Vazov was put in charge of managing covert agents.

  Grant’s pulse raced. He had to pull this off. “Can we continue now?” he asked, trying to sound annoyed.

  “Yes. Of course, Comrade.”

  They both turned, hearing the restaurant door open, and then a sound of voices, belonging to a man and a woman. “Perhaps we should walk,” Grant said, looking over his shoulder at a couple crossing the street. He continued the conversation. “You know my position here, and that I have a mission to complete.”

  “Yes, an important mission.”

  “First of all, in case we must meet again in secrecy, we will meet at the safe house. I want you to verify the location.”

  “I know where it is.”

  “When I said verify, I meant verify! That means confirm the address!” Grant spoke just above a loud, gruff whisper.

  “It is 6289 Aless Court in Alexandria. I have been there. I installed the scrambler and shortwave.”

  “Good. Then you are very familiar with it. Now, I assume you realize the importance of my request?” Vikulin merely nodded. Grant took a deep breath. Under any other circumstances KGB Vikulin would never let anyone get away with this line of questioning and in this tone of voice. “My reason for meeting you tonight is evidence has revealed a possible traitor within the embassy.”

  Vikulin stopped short, unbelieving. “This cannot be true. I would surely know!”

  “Not necessarily, Comrade. That is why I have been brought in by the FCD. I might add that you had also been under surveillance for. . .”

  “No! I am loyal to the Soviet Union!”

  “Yes, I realize you are. That is why you are here tonight.” As they walked past the Ford, Grant noticed Stalley had ducked out of view.

  “Can you tell me what evidence you have or who the traitor is?” Vikulin was still overwhelmed by the news because as a KGB officer, he should have known.

  “No. The investigation is ongoing at this time. Everyone is under suspicion. I need your help.”

  “Can you at least tell me what this person is being accused of?”

  Headlights from an approaching vehicle made Grant step farther away from the street, trying to keep himself in the shadows. Once the car turned at the next street, he continued. “I assume you know about the American who has supplied us information.”

  “Yes. The man who calls himself ‘Primex.’”

  “That is correct,” Grant answered, but his brain was saying, Holy shit!

  “But I am sure I don’t know any more about him than you.”

  “Have you personally seen or talked with him?”

  “I have not, but Comrade Zelesky met him very briefly when information was handed over.”

  “Describe him.” Vikulin gave Grant a description that Zelesky had relayed to the ambassador. It wasn’t much help. The guy sounded pretty average looking. “It is believed our Russian comrade is making his own deal with this ‘Primex.’”

  Grant was a couple of paces ahead, when he turned to see the Russian standing stone still, finally getting the words out, “I cannot, I will not believe this!”

  Grant maintained his distance, as he slowly reached behind his back. “Perhaps it will help you believe when I tell you I have full authority to send you back to Moscow, tonight if necessary, because you now have knowledge about the investigation.”

  Vikulin’s broad shoulders went slack. “You have my word, I will not reveal what you have told me. What can I do to assist?”

  Grant brought his hand from around his back, motioning to Vikulin to continue walking. Grant spoke with authority. “Do your job. Keep your eyes open, listen for anything out of the ordinary. I still have a difficult task ahead.”

  “You mean with your mission? The weapons?”

  Grant merely nodded. “I have had difficulty communicating with my contact.”

  “Yes. I understand. Ambassador Vazov often has problems contacting Major Zubarev. Kabul has seen increased rebel activity lately.”

  Grant couldn’t believe Vikulin was giving up information so easily, so unknowingly. Maybe it was time to end this meeting. He couldn’t push his luck. “I think we have discussed enough, Comrade.”

  Vikulin stepped near a Mercedes, digging his keys from his pocket. “Where or how should I contact you if I find anything of significance?”

  “Use one of the drop sites, whichever is convenient for you.”

  Vikulin thought briefly. “That will be the garage off L Street. It is close enough to the embassy and busy enough to avoid attracting attention.”

  Grant quickly rethought that. “That may not be good, in case someone else from the embassy checks. I will find a way to contact you in a couple of days. As a reminder, just be sure to go about your daily routine normally. That is most important.”

  Grant backed farther away from the car, indicatin
g to Vikulin the meeting had ended.

  As soon as the Mercedes was out of sight, Grant let out a long, relieved breath. He turned off the recorder, then hustled to the Ford. Withdrawing the .45 from his waistband, he stretched out in the back seat, staying out of sight as a precaution.

  Adler, who’d been across the street in an alley watching the whole scene, ensured the area was clear, then hurried to the car, getting into the front passenger seat. He rested an arm on the backrest and turned slightly. “Well? Any luck?”

  Grant unhooked the recorder from his belt. “For KGB, he sure was a chatty bastard!”

  “Lucky for us!” Adler said.

  “Grigori probably would’ve shot him on the spot!”

  Stalley checked for cars and pedestrians in the mirrors. “Think we’re in the clear, boss. Wanna head for Eagle 8?”

  “Go,” Grant answered. He sat up and scooted near the edge of the seat. He started playing the tape, then laid the recorder on the center console in order for Adler and Stalley to listen.

  When it finished, Adler said, “So, now we know half the weapons are going to Moscow. And I’ll bet you’re still thinking about the cargo ship.”

  “Affirmative, Joe. Hope Scott gets some news from NSA.”

  Adler asked, “Does the name ‘Kalinin’ ring any bells?”

  Grant flopped back against the seat. “Complete blank. Dial Grigori’s number for me, Joe.” Adler complied then handed the phone to Grant.

  “Hey, Grigori!”

  Moshenko blew out a stream of cigar smoke. “Yes, my friend!”

  “Listen, I had a meeting with ‘Comrade Vikulin.’”

  Moshenko couldn’t stifle a laugh. “And did he cooperate?”

  “More than he realized. Just like I’d hoped, he thought I was the guy in the photo and called me ‘Comrade Kalinin.’ Sound familiar?”

  “‘Kalinin,’” Moshenko repeated. He laid his cigar on the edge of the sink then reached for a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka and poured a shot glass full.

  “Think about it, Grigori, then call me at the house. Oh, I got an address for the safe house, so let your mind relax on that one.”

  Moshenko downed the vodka. “Very good news, Grant! I assume you will be making a visit soon?”

  “Thinking about it.”

  “Be careful, my friend.”

  “Talk to you later.” Grant started to put the phone down, when he decided to call Mullins. “Scott, it’s Grant.”

  “Whatcha need?” Mullins laughed, sticking his fork in a container of Chinese pork fried rice.

  “I’ll explain later how I got this info, but see if you can find the name ‘Kalinin’ anywhere in our intel.”

  “Assume that’s a last name?”

  “Yeah. Also got a code name for our DoD guy. He’s calling himself ‘Primex.’ That could stand for ‘primary explosive,’ or a shitload of other stuff. See what you can find.”

  “Will do.”

  “Have you heard from NSA or anything about a cargo ship?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Damn! Listen, we got an address for the safe house. It’s 6289 Aless Court, Alexandria, but keep it ‘under your hat.’”

  “Jesus, Grant! You’re really gonna have to fill me in on how the hell you. . .”

  “Hate to cut you off, but gotta go.”

  *

  Grant disconnected the call, then continued holding the phone, tapping it against the center console. Adler turned in his seat. “You’ve got something running around in that brain of yours, don’t ya?”

  Without responding, Grant said to Stalley, “Doc, pull into that gas station for a minute. I want to run something by you both before we’re outta D.C.”

  “Sure, boss.” Stalley glanced quickly at the gas gauge as he made a right-hand turn into the station. Close to the sidewalk, set atop a fifteen foot pole, was a lighted, round orange and white sign with blue letters: “Gulf.”

  Grant pointed. “Back into the space on the far side of the garage.”

  Headlights from another vehicle showed in the rearview mirror as it pulled into the station right behind them. Stalley and Adler glanced in the side mirrors, watching as the driver parked a Plymouth station wagon alongside one of the pumps in the second island. A sign on the overhead awning showed: Full-Service. The driver, an older gentleman, rolled down his window and waited for the attendant.

  Stalley backed the Ford up then killed the headlights and engine. He and Adler turned in their seats.

  Adler finally said, “We’re all ears.”

  Grant leaned back, linking his fingers behind his head. “You’ve got your weapons, right?”

  “Primed and ready,” Adler responded. “Wait a minute! The safe house?! You wanna go now, without the rest of the Team?!”

  “Look, Joe, I don’t think we’ve got a helluva lot of time before this guy moves the weapons. We’ve gotta take the chance, without prior surveillance, without knowing anything about that . . .”

  “Well, I’m in!” Adler interrupted. “How about you, Doc?” Stalley gave a thumb’s up.

  Grant picked up his weapon from the floorboard. “Anybody got extra ammo?”

  “Got my rucksack, boss,” Stalley answered, as he opened his door. Within a minute, he’d brought his rucksack back, then handed it to Grant.

  The phone rang. “What’ve you got for me, Scott?” Grant asked.

  “You are one lucky s.o.b., Grant!”

  “So I’ve been told. What’s up?”

  “NSA picked up a Morse Code. It hasn’t been decoded yet, because whoever was sending had ‘inserted’ another code. But what I can tell you is it originated from Alexandria. Sounds like it could be your ‘boy.’ It was signed with a code name ‘Antares.’”

  “‘Antares,’” Grant said, with a mocking tone. “Seems appropriate--bright star, red supergiant.”

  “Where the hell do you pull that shit from?!”

  Grant ignored the question. “Okay, now tell me they got the destination point.”

  “The ship they tracked it to was traveling along the azimuth of one of NSA’s intercepting stations. It was about a hundred miles off the coast.”

  “And that ship was . . .”

  “A cargo ship, Grant, out of Cuba. Just like you suspected.”

  “That’s gotta be it,” Grant finally said.

  “Wait! There’s more! One of NSA’s geeks remembered intercepting a message just before the weapons were snatched. It went to the same ship, only that one came outta D.C. Care to venture a guess where that point was?”

  “The Russian Embassy.”

  “Bingo!”

  “Do you have any info on the ship?”

  Mullins gave a brief description, then said, “She’s the Igor Brobov, and she’s fully loaded.”

  “What about crew? How many?” Grant tapped Adler’s shoulder, motioning for a pen.

  “Hold on.” Mullins searched the paper. “Here it is. When she left Russia she had fifteen plus the captain. She could’ve picked up more in Cuba, so don’t hold me to that number.”

  “Coordinates?” Mullins rattled off the numbers, as Grant wrote them in the palm of his hand. “Scott, fax me all you’ve got on that ship. We should be at Eagle 8 in about twenty minutes.”

  “What about the President? Should I update him?”

  “Told him I would, even though there aren’t any definitive answers yet.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “I know this is all preliminary, Scott, but you might want to keep your Coast Guard contact’s number handy. Depending on what happens, we’ll try and reach you if we have an emergency.”

  “Will do. But don’t let that emergency happen, Grant.”

  “Assume you’ll call if that message is decoded.”

  “You’re first on my list.”

  “Listen, Scott, we’ve got a shitload of work to do. Appreciate all you’ve done, buddy. Owe you big time.”

  “Stay safe, Grant.” End of conversation.


  “Well, Skipper, sounds like we’ll be traveling.”

  Grant nodded. “Take us home, Doc. . . and step on it.”

  Traffic passing in front of the gas station was sporadic. As the light on the corner turned red, Stalley stomped on the gas, sending the Ford fishtailing.

  “Joe, call the house. Tell the guys to start getting gear ready.”

  “What about the list you gave me?”

  “Especially that. I wanna be outta there by twenty-three hundred--if not sooner.”

  While Adler made the call, Grant leaned back and closed his eyes, as he tried to think things out. He didn’t have any proof the weapons were aboard the cargo ship, but it sure as hell seemed the most logical. He hoped NSA could decode the message before the Team departed.

  Then there was the matter of the safe house. Was the mole still there, especially after sending the message? Or was he on his way to Moscow? He ruled that out. Mullins would’ve known.

  The only guarantee about this whole op? There wasn’t any. He made his decision, relying once again on his ‘gut.’

  Chapter 12

  Over the Atlantic Ocean

  175 Miles off East Coast

  Wednesday - Day 3

  0010 Hours

  Prevailing twelve knot winds were blowing from the southeast, driving three foot waves with intermittent whitecaps. Weather forecasters predicted an increase in winds to possibly twenty knots by noon. The water temperature was forty-two degrees.

  The Seasprite was flying close to maximum speed, staying two hundred feet above the Atlantic. Secured to the chopper’s undercarriage was a Zodiac. The modifications to the chopper made it possible. Carrying it this distance and speed was risky, but a risk that had to be taken. Rappelling onto the ship would have been even riskier.

  Matt Garrett kept the chopper on course, heading for the coordinates given by Mullins. Somewhere in the distance was the their target--the Russian cargo ship.

  Grant scanned the blackness ahead. “Are we getting close, Matt?”

  “Within twenty miles. You should be able to see her lights just about now. We still haven’t been hailed.”