Skirting around buildings, he chose one where he’d have a good view, and one that was close enough if he had to take chase. A second floor window would work.
*
An hour later, Zelesky leaned closer to a window. “There he is,” he whispered, looking through spider web cracks.
A man was walking at the base of the embankment, heading toward the trestle. He turned his head, looking to see if he was being followed, then he kept walking. He stopped, put his back against the embankment, then appeared to be scanning the darkened area across from him. Finally, he ran to the opposite side.
Zelesky lost sight of him for a moment, then he suddenly reappeared, only this time he was running back the way he came. Zelesky hurried down the interior steps of the building, then ran to his vehicle. The American could have only parked in a certain area, and that’s what Zelesky was counting on.
As much as he wanted to hit the gas, Zelesky took it slow with headlights off, until he spotted taillights ahead. He swiveled his head quickly, looking for any other lights but didn’t see any. His hunch was right. He dropped back, continuing to keep the red taillights in sight.
Traffic was sparse, but it was finally safe for him to turn on headlights. The American was still in sight, easy to follow. Inexperienced fool, Zelesky thought.
Twenty minutes later, the vehicle turned off the main road and into a neighborhood. Zelesky shut off the headlights and slowly drove forward, seeing brake lights flash, as the car turned left into a driveway. He immediately pulled to the side of the road, and killed the engine. An overhead light came on in the American’s car, just before the car door slammed. Zelesky had a very limited glimpse, but it didn’t matter at this point. He got out of the Mercedes, closed the door quietly, then cautiously hustled toward the target house, four houses away.
He scurried behind the vehicle, then peered through the car windows. Lights came on in the house. Crouching low, he slid his back along plastic siding, then ducked beneath a large picture window. Hearing the American shouting and swearing, Zelesky slowly stood just enough to peer into the window. The American was on the phone.
Zelesky wasn’t able to pick up every word, but what he did hear was more than enough. As the American slammed down the phone, Zelesky took off for his car.
On his drive to the embassy, he had a thought. What if the person the American was talking to was the man in the photograph? The Navy SEAL. The one who looked like Kalinin. He’d report his idea to Vazov, wishing there was more time to investigate.
Chapter 17
Grant’s Apartment
Washington, D.C.
Friday - Day 5
0530 Hours
Standing by the living room window in his old, blue Navy jogging shorts, Grant opened the blinds, then sipped on his hot, black coffee. It had been awhile since he’d slept a solid eight hours. It sure as hell felt good. Turning his head slightly, he was able to see running lights on a private yacht, heading south along the Potomac. He had to admit there were still moments when he missed the sounds and feels of a ship, the smell of seawater, an overwhelming feeling of wonder when looking at a million stars against a pitch black evening sky from the middle of an ocean. Luckily, those moments didn’t last long.
He turned away from the window, downing the last few mouthfuls of coffee, then went to the kitchen, and rinsed the cup. He started walking to the bathroom, looking forward to a hot shower. Besides driving his Vette, a shower helped him think, sort things out.
Hot water beat against his head and shoulders. He lowered his head, when his thoughts were interrupted by one question that stuck in his craw: Who the hell was ‘Primex’ and would he ever be found?
*
Eagle 8
Noon
Today the Team tasked itself in finding a co-pilot for future flights. They compiled a list of names, the same way Grant and Adler made selections for Alpha Tango.
Adler pushed aside a sheet of paper. “Feels likedeja vu all over again,” he said seriously, stretching his arms overhead.
“Hey! I know that one!” Stalley said, pointing his finger in the air. “Yogi Berra, New York Yankees, right?”
Grant was leaning against the kitchen counter, with one foot crossed over the other. “And you can associate that with what, Doc?”
Stalley swung around. “Huh?”
Grant pressed a finger against his ear. “Come in Yankee Five-Two.”
“Really?! That’s where you came up with our call sign?!”
“Not really,” Grant answered, grinning. “It just sounded good.”
“Shit, boss. You guys are always jerkin’ my chain.”
Novak put an arm around Stalley’s shoulders. “That’s because we love you, Doc!”
Laughs died down just as the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Slade said. “Slade here. Yeah. Hold on. Boss, it’s Scott.” Slade covered the mouthpiece. “He sounds hyper.”
“Scott?”
“Grant! I just got word! Kalinin got away!”
Grant jerked to attention. “What?! How?!”
“He was being transferred to another holding facility. The van got T-boned!”
“Oh Christ! Anybody hurt?”
“Word was a couple of agents had broken bones but that van’s ‘toast.’ A witness on scene said he ran to help. Two men in the back were unconscious, but a third was crawling around, trying to get out. He seemed disoriented.
“Two witnesses helped that guy out of the van, then turned their attention to the driver and a passenger. By the time cops and rescue vehicles arrived, Kalinin was gone.”
“Where’d it happen?!”
“They were heading south outta D.C., somewhere along Glebe Road. I think that’s 120.”
Grant was pacing. “I think I know where he’s headed! If you’ve got updates, call Joe’s car phone!”
“Where’s he go. . .?!” Too late. Connection broken.
“What happened, Skipper?” Adler asked with concern.
“There was a car accident. Nick got away.”
“Holy shit!” was voiced by more than one of the men.
“Everybody hang here. Joe and I are gonna try and find him. He may be headed to the safe house. C’mon, Joe! You drive!”
*
Twenty-five minutes later, Adler turned his red ’67 Mustang off the main road leading into the neighborhood. “You realize we’ll be in a world of shit if anybody finds out what we’re doing, don’t you?”
“Take the next left,” Grant said. He folded a map and shoved it under the seat. “The next street on the left should be Aless. Drive past it so I can get a look.” Grant raised binoculars, turning in the seat, trying to get a better view. “Don’t see any cars in the first two driveways. Think ‘our’ house is the second one, left side of the street, if I’m reading the numbers on the mailbox correctly. Go to the street behind it.”
Adler made a K-turn, then headed back. “You really think he’s here?”
“Closest place to where the accident happened, Joe, but it’s still just a guess. Don’t even know how he would’ve gotten here, unless he hitched. The agents would’ve taken all his personal stuff, so he wouldn’t have any money on him.”
Adler turned the Mustang at the next street. “Okay. Guess this is good enough,” Grant said.
They tucked the weapons into their front waistbands, zipped up their jackets, then got out.
“Joe, get that emergency medical bag. He could’ve gotten pretty banged up in the accident.” Adler got the bag from the trunk, hooking the strap on his left shoulder.
They perused the neighborhood. So far, not much activity, except for a gray-haired older man across the street digging flower beds behind a chain link fence. A small black poodle yapped and jumped at every shovel of dirt tossed. Most driveways were clear of vehicles. Who and how many were inside the homes was a different story. But at least homes were few, spread out, with enough property between them.
“Let’s go,” Grant said as he started
walking.
Adler continued watching their backs, scanning the whole area, until Grant said, “This is it.”
They were behind a rundown, single car garage. Getting as close as they could to the structure, then easing toward the corner, Grant slowly leaned his head forward until he saw the house. Windows were closed, shades and blinds were drawn. No one was in sight.
“Looks clear. You take the door’s port side. Ready?”
“Go!” Adler whispered.
Crouching low, they hustled across the property, taking positions next to the door. They waited and listened, but it was quiet. Grant eased closer to the door. It was closed but not secured. Part of the framework was splintered.
He slowly pushed it open, just enough so he could get close. “Nick! It’s Grant!” Nothing. “C’mon, Nick! Open up. Joe and I are here to help you.” They waited. There was a possibility Kalinin had passed out from a head injury, or he was very suspicious, or he wasn’t here. Grant was ready to enter, when the door opened.
Kalinin had obvious surprise on his face. “What the hell are you doing here?” A S&W .38, taken from an agent, was gripped in his hand.
Grant pushed his way past him. “I told you. We’re here to help.”
Small cuts from broken glass, bruises and scrapes were on his face and hands. Blood from a cut above his eyebrow had dripped on his shirt. Spots of blood had already dried on his clothes. He rubbed a shoulder as he went into the living room, walking past both men. He continued holding the gun. “How’d you know about this place? I mean, its location?”
“Uh, information was turned over to me by a certain party member.” Grant unzipped his jacket, making sure Kalinin knew he was armed, too.
Kalinin’s eyes narrowed. “Comrade Vikulin, right?”
“He’s the one.”
Now Kalinin understood the KGB officer’s line of questioning and suspicions toward him. “But how’d you know I was here?”
“Part guess,” Grant answered. “C’mon. Sit down. Let Joe take a look at those cuts.”
Adler knelt next to the couch and opened the bag. “Guess there aren’t any broken bones, right?” he asked as he dabbed antiseptic on the cuts.
Kalinin shook his head. “Doesn’t feel like it, mostly muscle soreness.”
Grant sat at the opposite end of the couch. “How’d you get here?”
“Hitched a ride on trucks.”
“Nobody questioned your injuries?!”
Kalinin managed a brief smile. “I wasn’t always riding in the cab.” He turned his head to look at Grant. “I can’t believe you’re taking the risk in coming here. Why?”
“Don’t know. Just felt we had to.” It was the only answer he could think of. “Weren’t you in cuffs?”
“Found the key in one of their pockets.”
Adler put the last of the Band-Aids on Kalinin. “Okay. That’ll have to do.” He closed the bag then stood.
Kalinin touched above his eye. “Thanks.” He got up and went to the front window, with Grant watching him. He finally turned around. “You don’t expect me to ‘come over,’ do you?”
“That’d be your decision.”
“So, you’re going to turn me in.”
“No.”
Kalinin was shocked, confused, but asking for a reason hardly mattered for now. “Then, what happens next?” He put the gun in his front waistband.
Grant finally stood. “There’s probably a shitload of folks looking for you. The best we can do is take you to the embassy.”
“Which one?” Kalinin asked with somewhat of a smile.
“Don’t think you wanna come to ours.” Grant started walking the room with his head down, hands thrust into his pockets. “We can’t hold off until dark. We’ve gotta get you to the embassy, without your being seen.”
“Or us,” Adler quipped.
“Right, Joe.” He swiveled his head, searching the room with his eyes. “Is there a scrambler installed?”
“There was, but that was the first thing I looked for. The phone’s been disconnected. Everything was removed.”
“Everything?” Grant said with a slight smile.
“Everything, but I can’t figure out why.”
Grant turned away, rubbing his chin. “The parking garage on L Street.”
“You know about that, too?!”
Grant continued his train of thought. “We’ll take you there, then you can call the embassy to have someone pick you up.”
“Uh, Skipper. What about the plane? You know?”
Grant looked directly at Kalinin. “Hate to tell you, but there was some kind of accident. The Antonov went down in the North Sea.”
Kalinin sucked in a lungful of air, shocked. “Any survivors?”
“Last we heard, no.”
The Russian ran his hands over his disheveled hair. “They think I’m dead, don’t they?”
“Afraid so.”
He looked around the room. “That’s why the equipment was removed.” He was quiet for a brief moment. “Guess when I make that call it’ll have to be brief.” He planned on using his code name: Antares.
“And you’ll probably want to use your code name,” Grant said.
“I’d like to know you better, Grant Stevens!”
“Wish we had the time. Are you ready?”
“Let’s go.”
“Joe, get the car, bring it behind the garage.” Adler left.
*
Twenty-five minutes later they were in the parking garage, on the top level. Cars were coming and going, doors were slamming, people were rushing to and from elevators. Exhaust fumes permeated the air.
Adler drove slowly down the outer aisle. “There,” Grant pointed. “A phone booth.”
Adler pulled behind a parked vehicle. Grant got out then Kalinin. Grant reached into his pocket and pulled out some change. Sorting through the coins, he gave Kalinin a quarter. “I know it’s not secured, but you’ve got no choice. We’ll wait.”
Grant leaned against the car, with a hand resting on the handle of his .45. Keeping an eye on Kalinin, he questioned what he and Adler had just done. Aiding and abetting a foreign spy. A Russian. “Christ!” he whispered between clenched teeth. His motives were unclear. Maybe this was finally the time when his instincts would be his demise.
“Someone will be here shortly,” Kalinin said.
Everyone turned as a white Pontiac LeMans drove past them, heading for the down ramp.
“We’ll pull over there until you’re safe.” Grant pointed toward a darkened area at the end of the aisle.
Kalinin leaned toward the open window, giving a slight wave to Adler. “Thanks.”
Then he extended a hand to Grant, who latched onto it firmly. The two just looked at one another.
Kalinin said, “This sure is . . .”
“Strange?” Grant asked.
“Yeah. Strange. Listen, saying thanks just doesn’t seem to be enough,” Kalinin finally said.
“It’s enough. Do svidaniya, Nick.”
“Do svidaniya, Grant.”
Grant got in the car, and Adler drove to the far end of the aisle, then pulled into a hatch-marked, no-parking space. They both turned sideways, watching out the rearview window.
Headlights appeared, and a black Mercedes pulled in front of Kalinin. He got in the front seat, closed the door, and the Mercedes immediately headed for the exit.
“Well, Skipper, another fine ending, except, I wonder what Leavenworth’s like this time of year?” He backed the Mustang up, then shifted into first.
As Adler turned left onto L Street, he asked, “What about Nick? Do you think he’ll let the ‘cat outta the bag’ that it was us who helped him?”
“My gut?”
“What else?”
“Don’t think so. C’mon. Let’s head back to Eagle 8. We’ve gotta report to the guys, and I’ll have to call Scott.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t ask, but what about the President? Think he should know?”
�
�That’s the tough one, Joe. Really tough.”
Chapter 18
Russian Embassy
1530 Hours
Friday - Day 5
Ambassador Vazov stood by the desk in the lobby, still unbelieving Kalinin was alive. He was more than curious, though, to hear the entire story.
Zelesky drove the Mercedes close to the entrance, trying to give Kalinin some cover, allowing him to stay in the shadow of trees. A black van was parked across the street, undoubtedly FBI.
Kalinin walked into the lobby, looking tired and obviously injured. Vazov reached for Kalinin’s extended hand, but immediately put a finger to his own lips, then pointed to the elevator.
Once the elevator motor started, Vazov said, “Nicolai, we thought you were dead!”
“I am sorry that I was unable to contact you.”
“You are hurt.”
“Nothing serious, sir.”
“We will go to my residence. I will give you food and drink.”
As they rode the elevator, Kalinin felt it strange to be inside the Russian Embassy. The closest he’d been was the morning he left the newspaper, the start of his mission, a mission that ended in failure. It was not easy for him to face the ambassador now, a man who had expressed such confidence in him, depended on him to get the weapons to their intended destinations. But Grant Stevens and his team of specialists derailed the entire plan.
Vazov interrupted Kalinin’s thoughts as he opened the door to the residence. “Go in, Nicolai.” Kalinin entered the apartment. The lavishness of the decor surprised him. Red velvet-covered sofas, chairs, expensive mirrors, paintings, crystal chandeliers, heavy red drapes. He remembered his parents telling him about the harsh conditions most Russians had to deal with, then seeing this. . . But perhaps that was part of what made Russians such a strong, proud people. . . the little they did have.
Code Name Antares Page 17