Zelesky commented, “The Americans are just as devious as KGB when it comes to imaginative stories.”
“I have asked Comrade Yudin to bring the newspapers as soon as they are delivered,” Vazov said, “but it is probably still too soon for there to be any published article.”
Kalinin stood. “I will go see if any have arrived.” He left the office. Riding in the elevator, he could only wonder if he made the call in time. One injured, two dead. Whatever the outcome, he had done his best, and what he thought was the right decision at the time.
The elevator lurched to a stop, and he rushed off, walking toward the front desk. “Comrade Yudin! I see the newspapers have arrived. I will take them to the ambassador.” He started to walk away, then turned. “Thank you for buying the clothes, Comrade.” She smiled then sat down behind her desk.
He got in the elevator, let the doors close automatically, then pressed the button. He quickly scanned the front page of three of the five papers, reading the top half, then flipped them over and read the bottom. But he didn’t see anything about the incident. He got off the elevator, and looked at the last two papers. Still nothing. But the ambassador was probably correct in saying it was too early.
*
“Put the papers here,” Vazov said, pointing to the corner of his desk. “We will look at them later. He sipped his hot tea, before saying, “Well, Nicolai, it looks as if Stevens survived the assassination attempt.”
“It appears to be the case.”
Zelesky picked up a folder. “Comrade, do you believe it was Stevens who led those teams on the ship and at Shannon?”
Kalinin kept his eyes straight ahead, watching Vazov. “It was very possible, Comrade Zelesky. As I told the ambassador, the men were very efficient, very organized, the same way Captain Ivanov described their actions.”
Zelesky handed the photo to Kalinin, then walked behind his chair. “Can you identify that man, Comrade?”
Kalinin briefly looked at the photo, then handed it back to Zelesky. “The men at Shannon wore black masks the entire time.”
“Even during the long flight to the U.S.?”
“Not entirely. But the interior lights on the plane were kept low. I was made to sit at the rear of the plane, and they usually kept their backs to me.” Kalinin stood, and moved the chair aside. Keeping his eyes on Zelesky, he asked Vazov, “Mr. Ambassador, would it be possible to speak with you. . . alone, sir?”
Vazov motioned with a hand. “Leave us, Misha.”
Zelesky kept his eyes locked on Kalinin’s, until he heard Vazov again. “Leave us.”
Once the two men were alone, Kalinin stood in front of the desk. “Mr. Ambassador, Comrade Zelesky seemed to imply that I am withholding information, that I am being deceptive. . .”
Vazov interrupted. “That is his job, Nicolai. He is KGB. You do not yet fully understand the inner workings of that organization.”
“That is true, sir, but. . .”
“Do not let it concern you. Now, is there anything else?”
“I apologize for disappointing you and our comrades in Russia.”
“I would be lying if I said we were not disappointed. I am waiting for Defense Minister Troski to contact me.” Vazov stood and turned toward the credenza, refreshing his tea. “If you are directed to Moscow, Nicolai, it will not be for punishment. Moscow wants you to explain in your own words how you prepared your mission and possibly why it went wrong.” He sat down, then looked over the top of his glass. “Do you know why it went wrong?”
“Because of an experienced, intelligent team of men, sir.”
Vazov gave an almost indiscernible smile. “But how did they learn of your plan?”
“I think we must look again at the traitor. While he never knew directly what was planned, he could have notified the Americans--anonymously, of course. That should have put the NSA, CIA, and FBI on alert, and any other ‘alphabet’ agency the Americans have. They may have intercepted one or more of our transmissions.” He cleared his throat. “That is my opinion.”
“I will tell you, Nicolai, that I never trusted him. I still believe he was a double agent, in a loose sense of the word.” A knock at the door. “Enter.”
The communications corporal walked in, barely acknowledging Kalinin, then passed a sheet of paper to Vazov. He immediately left the office.
Vazov read the message, then held it toward Kalinin. “It is from the defense minister.”
*
Grant’s Apartment
Monday - Day 7
1330 Hours
Grant unlocked the apartment door, and swung it open, with Alder following him. He flipped on a wall switch, then turned on an overhead light. As he tossed his key on a small side table, he caught his reflection in the mirror hanging above it. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were bloodshot, he still hadn’t gotten all his color back. He leaned closer, touching the bandage near his left temple, then he turned his head. “Well, at least they match,” he said under his breath, referring to another scar.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing, Joe. But you were right.”
“About what?!”
“I’m a mess.”
“Would I lie?” Adler laughed. “Listen, maybe I’d better stay overnight, just in case you need anything or if you want to make a return trip to the hospital since you can’t drive.”
“That’s not gonna happen, but, sure, stay if you want. You know where everything is, including the fridge. I’ll get you sheets and a pillow.” He turned down the hallway. “I’m gonna go wash off and put on some clean clothes. Then I want you to fill in all the blanks from the other night.”
Adler went to the fridge and called after him, “Want anything to drink?”
“Just water.”
“I believe I’ll have a root beer.” He dumped ice cubes in a tall glass, then filled it with fresh water. As he carried both to the living room, he said over his shoulder, “I left a message with the President’s secretary, confirming our meeting with him tomorrow morning at 1030 hours.” No answer. The water in the bathroom sink was running full blast.
Several minutes later, and wearing gray sweatpants, Grant walked barefoot into the living room. He dropped the sheets and pillow on the couch. “Thanks,” he said taking the glass, just as the phone rang. “Stevens.”
“My friend, you are home!”
“Hey, Grigori. Yeah, Joe and I just got here.”
“How are you feeling, Grant?”
“I’ll live.”
“Alexandra and I would like to see you tomorrow, if you are up to it.”
“Sure. You wanna come here?”
“No. You and Joe come for lunch. Alexandra insists.”
“We’ll be there! I’ll call you before we leave.”
“All right, my friend.”
“See ya, Grigori.” He turned to Adler. “Lunch with the Moshenkos tomorrow.”
“No problem here! Hey, you realize we still keep calling them by their real names?”
“Yeah, I know. Just can’t get used to ‘Leonov.’ As long as we don’t slip up around anybody else, they should be okay.” ("Leonov" was the cover name given to the Moshenkos when they defected.)
Adler opened the root beer, took a gulp, then noticed blood trickling from under Grant’s bandage. “Whoa! You need that dressing changed. Come into the bathroom and I’ll take care of it.”
Grant leaned back against the edge of the sink, as Adler started removing the old bandage. “My brain’s still not working right, Joe.”
“Do you think maybe it’s because you’ve been bashed in the head one too many times these past couple of years?” He opened the medicine cabinet door, took out a bottle of antiseptic, then dabbed the wound with a piece of gauze. “Doc did a good job with the stitches. You’ll be pretty as new in no time.” He taped a new dressing in place. “You’ve got one thing going in your favor.”
Grant looked up through squinted eyes. “What’s that?”
&nbs
p; “Well, it could be worse. You could still be in la-la-land.”
Grant finally smiled. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“I can only do so much.”
“Guess I had my ‘head up my ass’ thinking this shit would be over once we left the Navy.”
“It’ll never be over until we’re rocking on a porch somewhere, and keeping our teeth in a bedside glass.”
“Remind me about that next time! C’mon,” he said, leading the way into the living room. “Fill me in.”
“I was hoping you could fill me in. You must’ve had a conversation with Jack. I’d like to hear about it.”
Grant sat on the couch, with Adler opposite him. “It’s starting to come back, Joe. But my question to you is how the hell did you find me?”
“You don’t remember me telling you?” Grant shook his head. “After I discovered you weren’t in your apartment, I got on a conference call with the guys and Scott. We hashed out ever possible scenario, every location. I ruled out you were with Grigori. So, I hung out at my place while Scott made inquiries. Everybody but Mike took off in their cars, trying to pick up a trail, hoping they’d find. . .”
“What? My body?”
Adler shook his head. “No, but we didn’t have squat to go on, Skipper. I had Mike come to my apartment just in case we got a lead, so I’d have backup.”
“Then you found me, but how, Joe?”
“Your new friend. Nick.”
“Nick?! But, how? That doesn’t make sense! I mean. . . Jesus! He was at the embassy! What. . .”
Adler held up his hand. “Will you let me answer?!”
“Sure. Sure.”
“For obvious reasons, he couldn’t give me complete details, and was talking kinda fast, but the other KGB guy at the embassy followed Jack home, overheard a very heated phone conversation with someone. Jack said he was planning to kidnap you the following night, take you to his house, and then. . .” He pointed two fingers at Grant. “Boom.”
“How’d he do it, Joe? How’d Nick contact you?”
“He let his ‘fingers do the walking’ and looked me up in the phone book.”
“No shit?!”
“No shit. Plus, he used an embassy phone. And in case you’re wondering why it took so long for us to get to you, he’d fallen asleep.”
Grant massaged his arm. “Understandable. He probably hadn’t slept since well before we got him in Shannon. Plus the interrogation. Plus the accident.”
Adler continued. “Again, he didn’t relay complete details, he only said when he woke up, it was already past 0430. He took a chance in staying on the phone as long as he did.”
Grant finally smiled. “Guess I was lucky this time.”
“You’re damn straight you were lucky! And if all that surprised the shit out of you, you’ll love this. When he called, he said--and these were his exact words--‘This is James Broyce.’”
“He told you?!”
“Swear on ‘Sammy’s’ nose!” (Sammy the SEAL, the SEALs’ mascot.)
Grant took another drink of water, then stared into the glass, as he swirled around the liquid. “Why the hell would he give it up?”
“Don’t know. Does it ring any bells?”
“No. That’s why I think the first time I saw him was just in passing, aboard ship.” He put his glass on the coffee table. “Christ, Joe! He saved my life! How can I just let that go?”
“You aren’t planning on trying to make contact, are you? Hell! That was two days ago. For all we know, they could’ve put him on another diplomatic flight.”
“But he could still be in the embassy.”
“Hold it! Just hold it! We can hash out whatever it is you have in mind while we eat.” He went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “All you’ve got is roast beef.” He took out the platter and sniffed the meat. “Smells okay. Want some?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” Grant reached into the fridge for a jar of dill pickles, sliced Swiss cheese and horseradish, and put them near Adler. He leaned back against the counter. “Joe, we’ve talked about fate, and whether or not it plays any part in life.”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Think about this. If we hadn’t brought Nick back to the States, if he hadn’t escaped from the agents, if we never got him to the embassy--I’d be dead.”
“That’s pretty damn deep--but probably true. So, let me see if I understand this,” Adler said, shaking a knife in Grant’s direction. “What you’re saying is, it was you, who helped you, save your life?!”
Grant smiled. “Well, I can’t take all the credit, but, yeah. Something like that.”
“Makes about as much sense as any other explanation, I guess.” Adler spread horseradish on the bread, then slapped a couple slices of cheese on the meat.
A knock at the door, and Grant opened it. “Hey, Scott! C’mon in.”
“Called the hospital and they said you’d checked out.” He saw Adler. “Joe, how are ya?”
“Good to see you, Scott. We’re just getting ready to eat. How about a roast beef sandwich?” Adler asked, already taking two more slices of bread from the wrapper.
“Sure. Never turn down food.”
“Now you’re sounding like Joe,” Grant said, slapping his friend’s arm. “Help yourself to something to drink.”
Mullins got a beer, then pulled out a chair. “So, how’s that shoulder, and your head?”
“Both improving. Thanks.”
The three sat at the table, eating and discussing the incident at Henley’s. Mullins asked, “You’re not seriously thinking about contacting him, are you?”
“See. I’m not the only one who thinks that’s a bad idea,” Adler said, before drinking some root beer.
“So, he’s still there?” Grant asked.
“Last we knew.” Mullins’ beeper went off. “Can I use your phone?”
“You know where it is,” Grant said, crumbling up his napkin, then tossing it toward the trash can with his left hand. Adler went and picked it up.
“Well,” Mullins said, walking back to the table, “that Russian replacement plane. . .”
“It left,” Grant interrupted.
“Twenty minutes ago, and . . .”
“Nick was onboard.”
“Why the hell do you do that?!” Mullins laughed, smacking the table with his palm.
“Well, Skipper, guess a decision’s been made for you,” Adler commented, with relief in his voice.
Chapter 20
White House
Tuesday - Day 8
1015 Hours
President Carr’s secretary, Rachel, stood in front of her desk with an open calendar day book, going over the afternoon schedule with the secretaries and assistants. Her attention shifted and she glanced past the women. “Claudia, look behind you,” she whispered.
Everyone turned around, seeing Grant and Adler walking into the room, both dressed in dark blue business suits.
“Oh, no,” Claudia whispered. She laid her steno pad and her pen on the edge of the desk, then started toward the two men.
“I’ll be over there, Skipper,” Adler said, pointing to a couch near the Oval Office door. He nodded and smiled as Claudia passed him.
She stood in front of Grant, reached to touch the bandage on his head, then pulled her hand away. “What happened?”
“Uh, sorry, but it’s classified,” he winked, but she realized it was the truth. He moved closer to her, looking down into her hazel eyes. “Listen, I want to apologize for not calling.”
“Not necessary,” she said, lightly touching his arm in its sling. “Will you be all right?”
“Affirmative! Hey, why don’t we start over? How’d you like to have dinner with me?”
“I’d like that,” she smiled broadly.
“Good. I’ve still got your home number. But you might have to give me a few extra days,” he said, moving his arm slightly. “Unless you wouldn’t mind Joe driving us.”
“Either way,” she laughed.
“Captain Stevens?” He looked toward the Oval Office door, seeing the secretary. “The President will see you and Lieutenant Adler now.”
He started walking past Claudia. “I will call. Promise,” he smiled. Then he met up with Adler and they went into the Oval Office.
Claudia rejoined the other women, and picked up her pad and pen. The meeting continued, but all she saw in her mind was Grant, his injuries. She wondered: Is this what happens? Is this what it’s like for these men, and for anyone they become involved with? The classified missions to places unknown; separations; worry. She reminded herself they were just going to dinner. But still, she wondered.
*
Carr sat behind his desk, leaning back, with his hands folded on his stomach. His eyes went to Grant then Adler, then back to Grant. “Grant, what’s the prognosis on that arm?”
“It’ll be fine, sir. Doc’s prescribed therapy. He doesn’t see any future problems.”
“Any leftover issues from the drugs?”
“Tests showed my system was clean, organs working properly.”
“And the concussion?”
“Get an occasional headache, but that’s all.”
“You were lucky all the way around then, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. And I’ll be the first to admit it.” Grant cleared his throat. “Mr. President, have you received any word on how the agents are, the ones who were in the accident?”
“Two broken arms, bumps and bruises, but I’ve been told they’re all back to work.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Carr rocked back and forth. His demeanor left both Grant and Adler uncomfortable, worrying about the upcoming G2.
“You want to tell me about that evening, Grant?”
“Well, sir, after ‘meeting’ Easton in the garage, not a whole lot has come completely into focus.” He revealed all he could remember, with bits and pieces of actual conversation still missing. “What I do remember is Jack telling me why he did it.” Grant shook his head slowly, still not believing. “I don’t know when I’ve felt more shocked.
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