A number of questions ran through Vazov’s mind, mostly worrisome ones. Why would the American traitor suddenly release this photograph? He still had not asked for anything in exchange for the information. Did this person have something to do with the weapons?
Continuing to look at the picture, Vazov said, “Misha, see if there is a dossier on this ‘Stevens.’” Zelesky left for the records room in the basement.
Vazov dropped the picture on the table. It was most imperative he contact the defense minister in Moscow, and Kalinin. He went to his bedroom to dress.
*
Heavy footsteps pounded against the tile, echoing in the long, second floor hallway, as Vazov hurried to the comm room. He wasn’t about to wait until this evening.
Corporal Brusinsky spun around in his chair, as the ambassador burst into the room.
“Send this coded messages immediately,” Vazov said, stepping near the counter holding the comm equipment. Brusinsky grabbed a pad and pen. “To Captain Ivanov aboard the Igor Brobov. ‘Reconfirm package is aboard and you are proceeding as instructed. Immediate response required.’” Without hesitation, he began dictating the second message. “This goes to Defense Minister Andrei Troski. ‘Merchandise being shipped today. Notify receiver.’”
Vazov left the room, then went to the opposite end of the hallway to his office. He unlocked the door, then turned on an overhead florescent light. No matter how early it was, he had to make the call to the FCD. Since he, Vazov, was the only person to know the identity, he’d have to privately communicate with him by phone.
He had his hand on the scrambler, when he decided to call Kalinin, hoping he hadn’t left for Dulles. He dialed.
*
Kalinin was wiping down blinds, when the phone rang. He rushed to the side table, and picked up the receiver with the cloth. “Mr. Ambassador?”
“Nicolai! Good. You are still there.”
“What is it, sir?”
“Misha found an envelope at one of the American’s drop sites.”
“More information or directions?”
“No. A photograph of an American naval officer.”
Kalinin sat on the couch. “Not him, I assume.”
“No, Nicolai, it is someone who looks just like you, except for the color of eyes.”
Kalinin never expected that response. “Like me?! Who is it?!”
“A name on the photograph was ‘Captain Grant Stevens.’ Does that sound familiar?”
Kalinin was quiet, thinking about his time in the Navy and the defense contractor he worked for. “I do not recall that name, nor do I remember seeing anyone who looked like me, sir!”
Vazov leaned back, shaking his head slowly. “Misha is looking through our files to see if we have a dossier on him. I do not understand why the photo was given. . .” A sudden knocking at the office door made Vazov break off the conversation. “Enter!”
Corporal Brusinsky walked to the desk, handed Vazov a paper, then immediately left.
“Sir?” Kalinin said.
“A moment, Nicolai. I have a message from Captain Ivanov.” As he scanned the communication, sweat formed on his brow. His heart thumped against his chest. “No!” he shouted, pounding a fist on the desk.
Kalinin abruptly stood, concerned. “Mr. Ambassador! What is wrong?!”
Vazov didn’t immediately respond as he reread the message. He finally answered Kalinin. “A team of men boarded the Igor Brobov during the night and stole the weapons.”
Kalinin was stunned. “But I received a message from him earlier in the evening saying the weapons were safely onboard!”
“Apparently this happened after midnight.” Both men were quiet, trying to assimilate the incident.
Kalinin finally broke the silence. “Sir?” No response. “Mr. Ambassador! Was there any further information?! Does he have any idea who those men were?!”
Vazov perused the message again. “He said there were six onboard. Two spoke Russian. They left the ship by helicopter. One of the ship’s crew was killed, two injured.”
Kalinin paced the room. “We must get more information from him. What kind of weapons did they use? Were there markings on the helicopter? Anything, sir! It is vital we find out!”
“Yes. Yes. Of course.”
“Should I still prepare to leave for Moscow with the remaining weapons?”
“I have sent a message to Defense Minister Troski, advising him shipment will be today. He should confirm soon. I will phone you.”
Vazov put the phone down, just as there was a knock at the door, and the communication corporal rushed in again. “Mr. Ambassador, a message from Moscow!” Vazov ripped the paper from his hand, then waved him away.
Vazov read the message, and immediately phoned Kalinin. “Nicolai.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Moscow is notifying the base. Do you have everything ready?”
“Not quite. I have just started downstairs. The radio and Morse key are cleaned and secured again. Weapons are in the truck. I will call the pilot to file a flight plan.”
“And what about a flight time?”
“I will wait until I am positive things here are completely cleaned, then I will call.”
“Be sure to give me your exact departure time, Nicolai. I may want to send Comrade Vikulin with you for additional security.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Have you received further information on those six men?”
“Not yet. I will try to contact the Brobov before you depart.”
Kalinin hung up. Six men,he thought. But how? How could they have discovered his plan, and know the exact cargo ship? And what does Stevens have to do with anything? Kalinin slapped the cleaning cloth against his thigh as he paced the room. Then, he abruptly stopped, remembering the men who followed him that day. He closed his eyes, trying to picture them. Were they part of the team that boarded the ship? He could never understand how they knew he’d show up that morning. Unless it was pure luck. Coincidences were always possible, but not this many. Yet, all of them affected him.
*
The door swung open. Zelesky came in carrying a folder. He dropped it in front of Vazov, pointing to a name along the side.
Vazov scanned the papers inside. Certain areas were highlighted, catching his attention: Navy SEAL; Naval Investigative Service; speaks Russian and Japanese. He turned to the next page, but it was blank. The last entry was nearly a year ago, when Ambassador Balicov died.
“Misha, find Petya. The two of you may have work to do.” Zelesky immediately left. Vazov pressed the intercom, calling for the communication corporal. When Brusinsky arrived, Vazov dictated a message to be sent to Kabul, advising weapons would not be delivered. No explanation was given.
Then, holding the dossier, he called Kalinin. “Nicolai, I have very interesting information on ‘Stevens.’ He is fluent in Russian and he is a Navy SEAL. His dossier is. . .” Vazov looked up as Zelesky walked in with Vikulin. “Nicolai, I must go.”
Kalinin wondered about the ambassador’s report. “Navy SEAL,” he said out loud. It had to be. A team of Navy SEALs boarded the cargo ship. And the two men outside the embassy were part of that team.
His worry now was finishing his work at the house, then getting to the airport. Too much had gone wrong in a short expanse of time. And if he was right about the men being SEALs, they were the reason.
*
Russian Embassy
“Has Misha explained the situation, Petya?” the ambassador asked.
“Only briefly.”
“Here. Look at this,” Vazov said, picking up the photograph.
Vikulin walked closer to the desk and reached for the photo. He stared at the face, remembering his meeting with Kalinin. Everything suddenly became clear. Everything explained completely. He threw the photograph on the desk, then turned away. He should have known, with all the specific questions asked of him. How could he have been fooled? He brushed beads of sweat from his forehead as he debated how much, if anything,
he should tell Vazov.
Vazov was obviously curious. “Do you know this man?!” Vikulin didn’t respond. “Petya!”
Vikulin saw Zelesky out of the corner of his eye, watching him closely. He made a mistake in his over-reaction to the photograph. There wasn’t any way to make a denial. “Mr. Ambassador, I had a meeting with someone who I thought was Comrade Kalinin, but. . .”
“You had a meeting with this man?! A private meeting?!”
“I am afraid so.”
Vazov angrily shoved his chair away from the desk, and abruptly stood. “You?! A KGB officer?! Explain!” Vikulin proceeded to relay full details of the meeting. The longer he talked, the redder Vazov’s face became.
He asked Zelesky, “Did you have knowledge of this?”
Zelesky shook his head. “No.”
Vazov turned his attention again to Vikulin. “Confirm you did not discuss anything about the weapons.”
“I did not! They were never brought up.”
Vazov continued staring at the KGB officer. “Do you expect me to believe it is completely coincidental that you talked with this man, then the weapons were taken from the ship, and then we get this photograph?!”
“We did not discuss the weapons!”
“I will have to report this to Director Antolov (Mikhail Antolov, KGB). But I am making the decision to send you back to Moscow. You will report immediately to the director once you arrive. He will be expecting you.”
Vikulin started to leave when Vazov called. “Wait!” He picked up the phone and called Kalinin. “Nicolai, Comrade Vikulin will be joining you on the flight. He has an ‘appointment’ with Director Antolov in Moscow.”
“All right, sir. I will call you and verify a time.” Kalinin had to wonder about the so-called ‘appointment.’ He still did not completely understand the inner workings of the KGB, but he imagined this was out of the ordinary.
After Vikulin and Zelesky left the office, Vazov sat quietly for several moments, then he went to the front window. Street lights were still on. Out of the corner of his eye he saw yellow flashing lights as a street sweeping truck turned the corner on M Street.
Standing there with his arms behind his back, he decided he’d had enough of the foolish game. As soon as Zelesky returned he would have him take a message to a drop site, offering to meet “Primex.” There had to be more explanation why the American turned against his country. Unless he found out why, he would never feel comfortable, wondering if he himself would become a “victim” of this man. Maybe he was being foolish with these thoughts, but traitors were always unpredictable.
*
Eagle 8
Virginia
After all gear had been offloaded from the chopper then put in the SUVs, Grant returned to the cockpit. “You sure you don’t need any more help, Matt?”
“No. I’ve just got a few more items on the checklist.”
“Okay. See you at the house.”
Garrett checked off the last items on his sheet, then secured the chopper. A decision still hadn’t been made when or if the Team would be leaving anytime soon, but the plane would be ready. As he ran to the Gulfstream, in the distance he could see red taillights through a dusty haze.
Adler was driving the first vehicle, with Grant in the passenger seat. The console phone rang. “Stevens.”
“Grant, it’s Scott.”
“What’ve you got for me?”
“My contact at Dulles just called. Your ‘boy’ hasn’t showed up yet but a flight plan was filed--D.C. to Moscow; no refueling location yet.”
“Dammit!” Grant beat a fist against the armrest. “What about a flight time?”
“Nothing.”
“How many passengers?”
“That can change at any time, but for now only one’s been listed. I needn’t tell you his name.”
“‘Kalinin.’”
“To be more specific, ‘Nicolai Kalinin.’ He’s traveling on a diplomatic courier passport.”
“Still no dossier on him?” Grant asked, but not expecting anything.
“Not a damn thing. That guy’s cover must be deeper than the depths of hell.”
Grant glanced at his submariner. “We’re almost home. Call me there if anything changes.”
“Will do.” Call ended.
“Doesn’t sound good,” Adler said, giving a quick glance at Grant.
“A flight plan from D.C. to Moscow’s been filed. Only one passenger registered--Kalinin.”
“Now what?”
“Have to wait for Scott. Don’t know what else we can do.”
“What if we fly the Gulfstream to Dulles, then wait?”
Grant mulled over the suggestion. “Might work, but we’d probably be better off leaving from here, instead of getting caught up in Dulles flight control and air traffic. Besides, we’ve still got prep work to do.”
Adler slowed the SUV as it approached the security gate. Within a couple of seconds, the automatic gate swung back. Both SUVs raced through.
The vehicles parked in front of the three-car garage, and the Zodiac was offloaded. Grant hurried into the house. Adler announced, “Listen up! If you want to clean up now then come back, do it--and fast!”
Slade responded for everyone, “We’ll take care of gear first, LT.”
Working quickly under time constraints, the men hosed down all gear touched by seawater, finally storing everything in a section of the garage. The Zodiac was carried in then lined up directly behind the other rubber boat.
Adler walked into the brightly lit space, then knelt next to a door embedded in the concrete. The metal door was similar to one on an armored truck. He dialed the combination. Underneath the garage was a storage room. “Okay, guys,” he said standing. “Get extra ammo, clips, and anything we need to refresh, then come into the house. We’ll clean weapons inside. Secure this when you’re through.”
Garrett pulled up to the garage, then followed Adler into the house.
*
Coming out of the bedroom carrying his black boots, his “boondockers,” Grant was now wearing black sweater, black pants. He called Bethesda for an update on Diaz. The Team hadn’t had time to wait after getting an initial report from the emergency room doctor. Diaz would be kept overnight, on antibiotics and lactated ringer’s. Stitches would remain for about ten days. Latest patient information reported he was resting and in stable condition.
“How’s he doin’?” Adler asked, pulling a black turtleneck sweater over his head.
Grant sat on the couch and tied his boots. “He’s doing good, Joe. Listen, I’m gonna get stuff from the safe. I’ll start the coffee when I get back.”
“I’ll start breakfast.” Adler opened the refrigerator, and pulled out three dozen eggs, bacon, bread.
“What can I do, Joe?” Garrett asked, leaning on the counter.
Adler handed him the loaf of bread. “Toast.”
Coming back to the kitchen, Grant dropped a zippered black bag on the counter. Cash, passports, credit card. Any extra money needed, they’d have to withdraw from the offshore account. He and Adler had the number memorized.
The garage door slammed. The four men came into the room, laying rucksacks and weapons by the table, then they hustled to the baths and bedrooms.
Grant shouted after them, “Coffee and breakfast ready in under ten!” He made the coffee then went to the table and started spreading layers of newspapers on top, preparing to clean weapons. He picked up individual weapons, laying each on the table as he thought about what was ahead for A.T.
Soon they’d be on the move again. This time possibly Russia, his “home away from home.” A major problem loomed ahead. How the hell would they get to Moscow? They sure as hell couldn’t just fly into the country. The Gulfstream had been modified for parachute drops, but without a second “seat,” it was out of the question. He shook his head, frustrated.
They had to stop the Russian plane before it crossed into Communist territory. Sounded good, but how? A ‘si
dewinder’ would do it, he smiled to himself. The most reasonable would be at a refueling stop. All they had to do was find out which one. He was depending on Mullins and the NSA.
Adler announced, “Breakfast’s served!” as he snatched a crispy piece of bacon off the plate.
Grant took a jar of Jif peanut butter from the cabinet, put it on the counter, then started pouring coffee into mugs as the men lined up, almost like in a Navy chow line. Instead of metal serving trays, they grabbed paper plates, plastic utensils. While they were gathered around the counter eating, Grant relayed the report from the hospital on Diaz’s condition.
Adler asked, “You’re worried about our next trip, aren’t you?” as he slid a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast toward Grant.
“And it’s not just about getting there. What happens if those weapons are ‘distributed’ to different locations? We wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell tracking all of them.”
Grant picked up a piece of toast, then smeared on peanut butter, as he looked at each of his men. Even though there were a couple of fuck-ups before and during the first part of the op, these men were the best he and Adler could’ve chosen. The mission to China proved their worth. He respected them, trusted them. And he had a feeling those fuck-ups would be the last. Lessons learned.
“Chow down quick, guys,” he finally said. “And you might want to put away some extra caffeine. FYI, I’ve got your passports. Matt, you have all official papers in the plane?”
“Yeah. Just need a flight plan. Plus, I need to throw a few extra ‘Lurps’ in my car.” (LRPs: Food Packet, Long Range Patrol, also called “long rats.”)
“And take more of those MREs we’ve been asked to sample,” Adler requested.
Refreshing their coffee, they all carried the coffee mugs to the dining room table. MP5s, .45s, K-bars were spread out on the table. Stalley had his medical bag next to his chair. Once he finished with his weapons, he’d check supplies, sorting, counting, refilling bottles, adding more tape, more battle dressings, and a couple extra syringes.
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