Chapter 16
Washington, D.C.
Russian Embassy
2230 Hours - Local Time
Ambassador Vazov reread the message from Moscow. Twice he ordered the embassy’s communication corporal to confirm that the message was authentic and correct. Twice it was confirmed.
He slumped in his chair, with an arm hanging over the side, his hand gripping the piece of paper. “Nicolai. No. No.”
Defense Minister Andrei Troski’s message stated the aircraft carrying the weapons had been reported missing somewhere off the eastern coast of England, apparently crashing into the sea. The British Navy and Coast Guard had vessels and planes searching. Two Russian ships were headed to the area. Reports were coming in slowly, but so far the plane nor its black box had been found. Hope had diminished for finding any survivors.
A knock at the office door didn’t take Vazov’s attention away from his thoughts. Zelesky came in and went directly to the desk, prepared for business and nothing else.
“Mr. Ambassador.”
Vazov slowly raised his head. “What is it, Misha?”
“Will we be giving the American his money as planned?”
Even with his thoughts on Kalinin, Vazov realized he had to move forward. He still hadn’t been able to “shake” his concern about the traitor, concerned he’d want more money, or perhaps he’d notify the American authorities, or he was a double agent. Vazov decided he couldn’t take the risk. “You will make the drop tomorrow night. But I have decided not to give this American his money. I will prepare a message instead.”
“You are sure this is what you want to do?”
“We do not have weapons that were promised. Our men have died and still we do not have weapons. For all we know, the American could have been involved in taking the weapons from the cargo ship. Are you sure you want to question my motive for denying him, Misha?!” Zelesky remained quiet. Vazov continued, giving Zelesky new orders. “I do not care how long you must wait, but you will follow him. Find out where he lives, if he meets anyone else, what car he drives. Do not harm him, do not approach him, just report your findings to me. . .only me. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“He expects a package by midnight. I will have it ready for you at six.”
Zelesky started to turn then asked, “And what about the Navy SEAL Stevens?”
Vazov hadn’t even thought about him, with his main focus centered on the traitor. “Right now, Misha, concentrate on ‘Primex.’”
Zelesky left the office. As he walked toward his office, he glanced over his shoulder at the ambassador’s door. Once this matter was completed, he would be making a full report to Director Antolov. He was keeping explicit notes.
*
White House
Thursday - Day 4
0900 Hours
Grant rubbed a hand across his clean-shaven face, finally free of stubble. His hair was a bit longer than his usual military cut, but it was neat and squared off across the back. Wearing a dark, charcoal gray business suit, a white, long sleeve shirt, with a diagonally-striped gray and white tie, he stood in front of a bank of tall windows, looking out across the West Colonnade. On his mind was an upcoming meeting with President Carr.
On one hand the mission was a success, but on the other, they hadn’t uncovered the traitor. Clues or trails leading to his identity were non-existent or they’d been covered very well. Maybe it was time for the President to turn the matter over to the FBI or Naval Intelligence.
Grant slid his hands into his trouser pockets as he thought about Nicolai Kalinin. Four special agents had been waiting for him when the Team landed at Andrews. Grant had walked with him down the steps of the Gulfstream. An agent immediately handcuffed him, then led him away. Grant remembered the moment vividly with mixed emotions. But he reminded himself Kalinin was a communist, who stole top secret weapons, was probably responsible for the destruction of a chopper and the men aboard, and somehow, for the deaths of four American Navy men.
A door opened, and he heard a pleasant voice. “Captain Stevens?”
He turned, seeing Claudia Stockwell, one of the President’s office assistants. She was in her mid-thirties, about 5’5”, hazel eyes, chin-length brown hair, and what could only be described as picture-perfect features.
She held the door open. “The President will see you now.”
He paused briefly in front of her. The light fragrance of her perfume drifted into his senses. “See you on my way out, okay?”
“All right,” she smiled, looking up into his handsome face and warm brown eyes.
She closed the door and gave a brief sigh as she walked to her desk. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen one another in the White House, and there were always pleasantries spoken between them. But this time was somewhat different. “See you on my way out,” she repeated quietly, as she sat behind her desk with a smile on her face.
*
“Mr. President,” Grant said walking toward Carr.
Carr dropped a pen on his desk then came around it with an outstretched arm. “Grant! Good to see you!” He held onto Grant’s hand with a firm grip.
“And you, sir.”
“Come on! Have a seat!” Carr lead the way toward the middle of the room. “Sit,” he said pointing to one of two beige-striped couches. An oval silver tray, on a glass-top coffee table, held glasses, a silver ice bucket, and several cans of Coke.
“Before we begin, Grant, mind if I tell you that you look good in that civilian suit?”
“Uh. . .thank you, sir.”
“How’d you like a job on my staff?” Carr had a huge smile on his face.
Grant cleared his throat. “That’s one heck of an offer, Mr. President, and I’m flattered. But. . .”
“I know. I know,” Carr responded, waving a hand. “It wouldn’t compare to your active lifestyle. Right?”
Grant laughed, with his head bobbing up and down. “Something like that.”
“When did you get back?”
“Plane landed at Andrews around 0300. Flight was longer than expected.”
“Guess none of you have had much sleep these past few days,” Carr commented, noticing dark circles under Grant’s eyes.
“Not much.”
Carr handed Grant a can of Coke, then immediately asked, “How’s your man, the one who was injured?”
“Frank’s doing okay. A couple of the men were going to stop by and see him at his apartment.”
“Glad to hear it. Will he be ready when Alpha Tango is needed again?”
“Affirmative, sir.” Grant’s eyebrow raised. “Do you have another job for us?”
“Not as of this moment.”
Carr got up and went to his desk, then returned with a piece of paper, handing it to Grant. “This came in earlier.”
Grant read the report, then handed it back to Carr. “I saw it on the news this morning. That’s gotta be the plane ‘our’ Russians were aboard. They took off just before us. The timeframe looks about right.”
“Straight up, Grant. Did you or any of your Team place any type of device in, under, or on top of that aircraft?”
“Negative, sir! We had nothing to do with that plane going down. I’ll take an oath on that. So will my men.”
Carr folded the paper and laid it on the coffee table, then he popped the top on the can and took a drink. “All right, Grant. You’re on.”
Grant started from the first time Kalinin was spotted at the embassy, to Grant’s meeting with Vikulin, to the op aboard the cargo ship, and finally Shannon Airport.
Carr had very few questions during the entire two and a half hours Grant spoke, managing to down three full cans of Coke.
Grant moved toward the front of the cushion. “Mr. President, I’m sorry we haven’t uncovered our traitor. As I said before, Nick. . .”
“Whoa, Grant! Nick?”
Grant laughed. “Yes, sir. That’s what I called him on the trip home, when he wasn’t being too tal
kative.”
“Well, why not,” Carr responded with a slight shake of his head.
“He didn’t offer up any intel to us.”
“Understandable.”
“I have a feeling that whoever’s questioning him will find he’s got fingerprints on file, along with his American name.”
“I’ve thought along those same lines, Grant, especially after remembering your mission aboard the Bronson.”
Grant nodded, then said, “Mr. President, the Team’s ready to offer its services in finding ‘Primex’ if you need additional assistance. We sure would like to know who the. . . uh, who he is.”
“We all would, Grant. I appreciate your offer, but I think it’s time to turn the investigation over to the FBI.”
“Will NIS still be involved ?”
“They’re moving forward with the chopper incident, trying to determine who those men were, etc.” Carr put the Coke can on the table, then leaned back. “Now, tell me what you think about the Russian.”
Grant had to be careful with his response, and not give away his true thoughts on Kalinin, as in the word ‘friends.’ “Well, he’s intelligent, personable, quick to respond, and even has a sense of humor. Although our conversation was pretty much one-sided, mostly my side, I felt there was a ‘connection’ between us. You know what I mean, sir?”
“Yes, I do, Grant. I’ve had those same feelings during many of my one-on-one meetings with dignitaries and world leaders.”
“I don’t know how long it took him to plan his mission, but there was a helluva lot of work and thought put into it.”
“A helluva lot of work you and your Team tore apart, Grant.”
“Yes, sir. We did.”
“You know, Grant, I’d like to convince him to ‘come over’ to our side.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. President, I’m not sure the odds would be in our favor.”
“Well, look what happened with Colonel Moshenko.”
“That’s true. But Grigori’s older, and he spent his whole life in Russia. He had to face some really harsh times, went through a lot of horrendous conflicts. His final decision was based on what was best for him and Alexandra at this time in their life.
“But Nick grew up here. I guess what he learned about Russia was what his folks told him, being brainwashed with negative remarks about us, and overly positive statements about the ‘Motherland.’ And by the time he learned about his heritage, he was probably at a very impressionable age. That’s not to say he didn’t like living in the States, and didn’t form his own opinions. But I can’t imagine what it’d be like learning that your whole life was preplanned, dictating that you’d be working for a foreign government, and working against the only country you’d ever known.” Grant shook his head slowly. “Hard to imagine.” He went quiet, then said, “Sorry, Mr. President. Hope I didn’t get too carried away.”
“Not at all.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try and convince him, though.”
Carr started to respond when the intercom buzzed. “Excuse me a minute.” Carr went to the desk. “Yes, Theresa?”
“Mr. President, Secretary Williams is here for his appointment.”
“I’ll be with him shortly.”
Grant stood and re-buttoned his suit jacket, as Carr walked toward him. “Well, Grant. It’s been a very interesting meeting.” He extended a hand.
Grant reached for it with a firm grip. “Yes, sir. If we can do anything to help with the remaining investigation, let us know. We’d be more than happy to.”
Continuing to shake Grant’s hand, Carr said, “The Team did a remarkable job on the mission, Grant. I thank you all.”
“Our pleasure, Mr. President. I’ll be sure to tell them.”
As Grant stepped into the outer office, Carr said with a smile, “Keep my offer in mind!”
“I will.”
Carr gave a slight wave, then motioned Treasury Secretary Williams to come into the office.
Grant gave a quick look at his submariner. Then, he started walking, seeing her sitting behind her desk, busily sorting through a stack of file folders.
He stood next to her desk, and said quietly, “Hi.”
She looked up. “Oh! Captain Stevens.”
“No formalities, okay? Just call me ‘Grant.’”
“All right. Grant it is,” she smiled.
“I know this is kind of sudden, but how’d you like to have dinner with me, say, Sunday?”
She couldn’t take her eyes away from his. “That sounds lovely.”
He reached for a pencil and notepad, and handed them to her. “Would you mind giving me a home phone number? I don’t want to bother you here--like I’m doing right now.”
“You aren’t bothering me at all,” she replied, as she wrote down the number, tore the paper from the pad, and handed it to him.
He gave the number a quick glance, then put it in his jacket pocket. “I’ve gotta go. We’re still trying to catch up since we’ve been back. I’ll call you in a couple of days, then we can set up a time for me to pick you up. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds perfect. I’m looking forward to it,” she smiled.
He started backing away. “Yeah. Me, too.” Then, he turned and headed to the main door.
Once he was out of sight, she returned to filing, when another assistant laughed, “Wow! Way to go, Claudia!”
*
State Department
Office of Scott Mullins
1600 Hours
“Permission to come aboard,sir!”
Mullins swung his chair around. “Hey, Grant! Welcome back!”
Grant went to the desk with his arm outstretched, grabbing hold of Mullins’ hand. “As always, it’s good to be back!”
“Sit!” Mullins said. “How about something to drink?”
“No, thanks. Had a Coke with the President earlier.”
“Well, listen to you! ‘Mr. Name Dropper'!”
“Guilty,” Grant laughed.
Mullins rocked back and forth in his swivel chair. “So, what’s he like?”
“Who, the President?”
“You know who I mean.”
“Oh, you mean ‘Nick.’”
“Who the hell’s ‘Nick'? I meant Kalinin.”
“Nick Kalinin. You know. ‘Nicolai'?”
“Oh, fuck. Don’t tell me you two are buddies already?”
“Not exactly.” Grant proceeded to fill Mullins in on the whole op. When he finished he asked, “Do you know where they’re holding him, Scott?”
Mullins shook his head. “Haven’t been able to find out. But the FBI’s most likely got him in one of their ‘hideaways’ which means there’s a good possibility he’ll be moved to another location, and probably soon.”
“Think you could do some investigating for me?”
“You won’t be able to have any contact with him, Grant.”
“I know. I know.” He locked onto Mullins’ brown eyes. “C’mon, Scott. That’s not much to ask for. A few phone calls.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
The phone rang. “Let me get this. Mullins.” The call was one-sided, until Mullins said, “Okay, Phil. Thanks for the info.” He slowly replaced the receiver. “Seems that a Russian private jet went down, not far off the coast of England.”
“Yeah. I heard.”
“Did you have anything to do with it?”
“Excuse me?!”
“You heard me.”
“Jesus, Scott! I’ll tell you the same thing I told the President. No! We didn’t plant any device on that plane. We had nothing to do with it going down. Anything could’ve gone wrong. Listen, those pilots were fuckin’ freaked. Maybe they weren’t paying attention to their instruments. Hell! Why’d you even ask?!”
“Oh, maybe I just like getting your blood boiling once in a while,” Mullins finally laughed.
Grant leaned across desk, shaking a finger in Mullins�
�� face. “Bad agent! No more donuts!” He cracked a smile, then stood. “It’s been fun, but I’ve gotta meet the Team at Eagle 8. We’re still taking inventory.”
Mullins came from behind the desk. “How are the supplies holding up?”
“Off the top of my head, we’ll need jet fuel. Think we can get it today?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“I’ll call after inventory.” Grant reached for Mullins’ hand. “We’ve gotta do this again sometime.”
“Roger that, buddy.”
*
Northeast D.C.
Deanwood Section
2330 Hours
Misha Zelesky parked the Mercedes two blocks from the intended drop site, then shut off the engine and headlights. As long as he left the package by midnight, they would still be in compliance the American’s request.
He removed the envelope from the glovebox. The thickness was about right, as was the weight for large bills that would total fifteen thousand American dollars. The plain pieces of paper, cut to size, were held together with tape, then put inside an envelope and sealed. That envelope was inside a larger one with the note Ambassador Vazov had written.
He got out, and quietly closed the door. Feeling a light rain, he tucked the envelope under his jacket, then pulled up his collar. Taking one more survey of the area, he began walking.
Most of the buildings were abandoned, windows were broken, street lights were few. He swiveled his head occasionally, never knowing if the American--or possibly a second conspirator--could be watching.
He stopped. Up ahead was the drop site at the base of a partially dismantled railroad trestle. Resuming his steady pace, he stayed on alert until reaching the wooden structure. The farther under the structure he walked, the darker it got. Squinting, trying to see the exact location, he edged forward. Taking one last look left then right, he got down on a knee, and shoved the envelope across soft dirt, pushing it as far back as possible.
Hurrying to the Mercedes, he got in and drove away. Only he wasn’t going to the embassy. Driving three blocks past the trestle, he shut off the lights, then turned a corner, and parked again. This time, when he got out, he took his Makarov.
Code Name Antares Page 16