Sacrifice of One

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Sacrifice of One Page 8

by Jamie Fredric


  Finally, they met up at the end of an alley where it came to a T. They looked up and down what could only be classified as a path, wide enough for one vehicle. Potholes, broken pieces of wood, shards of glass, and hardly recognizable material were scattered as far as they could see. On either side were rows of abandoned buildings, built above vacant garages.

  They focused on their destination, straight in front of them. Hurrying across the path, they stopped in front of large double garage doors, made of heavy, vertical wood planks. A rusted bolt held them closed. Adler gave the bolt a yank, then dragged the door open. They rushed inside.

  The interior was barely large enough to house two vehicles. There were two rough-hewn oak columns separating the space. The floor was made up of hard-packed dirt and tiny pebbles. Only a few, thin streaks of sunlight filtered through the doors.

  Grant took the lead, walking to, then climbing a wooden ladder on the left side against the wall. At the top was a heavy, metal door with a lock below the handle. He tried the handle. Locked, as it should be. He gave Adler his satchel, then reached into his trouser pocket and removed a single key, inserting it into the slot. Forcing the key to the right, the lock finally clicked. He removed the key and dropped it in his pocket. Pressing down on the handle, he pushed the door open.

  Except for faint light filtering up from the garage, the room was completely dark, without a single window. Lacking any kind of ventilation, the air was oppressive, muggy, with the temperature hovering around twenty-five Celsius.

  They hesitated just long enough to let their eyes adjust to the darkness inside. Carefully stepping off the top step of the ladder, Grant had barely walked into the room, when a sudden movement behind the door made him swing around.

  He was ready to strike until he heard, “Whoa! Grant!”

  Immediately recognizing the voice, Grant dropped his arms and angrily said, “What the shit are you doing here?”

  Mullins stepped closer, sliding his .45 into his leather shoulder holster. “Well, it’s fuckin’ good to see you, too!”

  Adler dropped the bags. “What the hellare you doing here, Tony? And how the hell did you get in? No! Wait! I don't wanna know!”

  Mullins leaned over and picked up a kerosene lamp. “Answering the second part of your question, Joe, don’t forget. I’ve got ‘associates’ here. That’s why you didn’t find any open locks.” He struck a wooden match, lit the lamp, then closed the door. He hung the lamp from a hook on a beam near a table. “And Grant, you wanted a special delivery, so...”

  “So, you decided to make the damn delivery personally,” Grant finally said, his irritation obvious as he shook his head.

  Mullins responded, “Look, you guys are gonna need extra help. We’re talking five Americans who might need help themselves.”

  Grant didn’t have time to continue arguing. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. All he really wanted to do was spit. “I’m going to ignore you for awhile, if you don’t mind,” he said as he brushed past Mullins and started walking around the room.

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  Grant looked around the room, noticing some kind of box or trunk in the shadows, pushed against the back wall. “Yours?” he asked, indicating with his thumb.

  “Nope. My stuff’s over there.” Mullins pointed to a metal case.

  “Joe, you check that. I’ll see what Grigori left for us.” He glanced at his watch, thinking, We’re cutting this close.

  Mullins pulled a wooden stool from under the rickety table and took a seat. He decided to stay in the background for the time being until Grant cooled off.

  Grant knelt on one knee next to the old wooden trunk and lifted the lid. A familiar-looking briefcase stood upright near the left side of the trunk. Lifting it out, he put it on the floor, then pressed the latches outward. The locks opened with a snap.

  Inside was the exact gear Moshenko gave them the last time they were here, encased in thick, protective black foam: two Makarov 9mm PMs (Pistolet Makarov); eight extra fully loaded clips; two throat mikes with earpieces, and two hand-held radio transceivers.

  Closing the briefcase, he grabbed the handle, then walked to where Mullins was sitting. He put the briefcase on the table, but didn’t take his eyes from the agent.

  Mullins slid off the stool, taking a step closer to him. “Look, you just let me tag along. You know I can do the job. I can handle this thing, you know,” he said tapping his holster.

  Grant took a deep breath, letting it out through tight lips. “Let me bring you up to speed, Tony. The President doesn’t want any bloodshed. So, can you handle that, ‘Cowboy’?”

  “I’ll do what needs to be done. Don’t you worry. But how the hell can you not expect any bloodshed? How can you guarantee that?”

  “Never said I didn’t expect it. Just stating what the President requested.” Grant left it at that, but at the same time, he started having one of his gut feelings. It wasn’t good. A decision had to be made, and he’d just made it.

  Hooking his thumbs in his back pockets, he said to Mullins, “Look, to tell you the truth, I’m worried about Alexandra, Tony. I don’t want to leave her alone. She’s probably terrified. If you insist on being part of this, I think you need to stay with her while we’re gone. We may need to get her out in a hurry.”

  Mullins took a step back. Even in the dimly lit room, his face couldn’t hide his surprise. But then his eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer to Grant, asking between clenched teeth, “You’re telling me you want me to babysit?”

  Grant had had it, and his voice boomed, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “You’re just trying to keep me out of the way, aren’t you?” Mullins yelled back.

  Grant couldn’t believe this conversation was happening, especially with Mullins. Something was going on, something was definitely gnawing away at him. The frustration was getting out of control.

  The two men were nearly toe to toe. Grant ground his teeth, finally saying, “Do you have any idea what’ll happen to her if and when the KGB discovers what Grigori’s done? Do you?” he shouted. “Look. I don’t have any more damn time to argue with you. You can get the hell out of here, and go home. You never should’ve come in the first place.”

  Mullins instantly realized he’d made a mistake. He was here to support the mission, not question it, not jeopardize it. “Jesus! Grant, I’m sorry. Tell me what I need to do.”

  Grant wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, as he backed away from Mullins, getting his blood pressure back to normal. Looking at Mullins through intense brown eyes, he asked, “Are you sure? Because if you’re not...”

  “I’m sure,” Mullins nodded. He’d just become part of the mission.

  Grant took a deep breath. “Okay. Now listen. Alexandra hardly speaks any English, but she’s smart, so she’ll understand. You’ve gotta be careful with any conversations in that apartment, though. There could be ‘bugs.’

  “It’d probably be best if she goes to work tomorrow. I think she still just works morning hours. You know the routine. Keep her in sight, but stay out of sight. If you feel there’s the remotest possibility of danger, you immediately take her here.”

  “Understand, Grant.” That was the only reply necessary.

  Grant kept an eye on him as he asked, “Joe, all the gear sorted?”

  “Yeah, skipper. Divvied up and put in the satchels.”

  Grant turned his attention to the briefcase and opened it, took out a Makarov, then loaded a clip with the cartridges. He slipped it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, then rolled a thin belt around a black leather holster. “Here, Joe,” he said, holding the holster out. “Put this in the satchel with yours.”

  “Tony, take one of these.” He handed Mullins a radio. They set the frequencies. “You got extra ammo?” Mullins patted both jacket pockets.

  Giving his watch a quick glance, he took a deep breath. “Ready?”

  Mullins and Adler nodded. Whatever plan
there was, it had just begun.

  *

  Leaving at least a block separating them, the three men walked at a brisk pace, trying not to draw any attention to themselves. They had a little over a mile to cover before reaching Stoleshnikov Lane and the apartment of Grigori Moshenko.

  This apartment complex was one of many built from the Khrushchovka design, named for Nikita Khrushchev. It was an early attempt at industrialized and prefabricated buildings. The elements (or panels) were made at concrete plants and trucked to the site as needed. From 1961 to 1968, sixty-four thousand units of this type were built in Moscow.

  Since elevators were considered too costly and time-consuming to build, all Khrushchovka apartments were only five-stories, the last being completed during 1971.

  In Moshenko’s complex, the three, five-story buildings formed a U. His building, one of the newest in Moscow, was in the back, off the main road. Two corner apartments were two levels, one belonging to Moshenko.

  Grant, followed by Adler, then Mullins walked past the complex, each of them ducking into a stand of trees, finally joining up.

  The grounds around them were empty, quiet. Confident they were safe, they made their way behind the first building. When they reached the corner, they stopped briefly, ensuring the area was still clear, then hustled to the back building. Without any hesitation, they entered from a side door.

  Grant motioned for Adler to secure this door and for Mullins to follow him. They turned and started walking down the hallway. Grant kept his right hand on the pistol tucked into the back of his trousers, hidden under his jacket.

  The hallway was dark. An overhead lightbulb was broken. Slivers of glass had been kicked toward the baseboards. They stayed close to the wall, listening for voices. But only silence surrounded them.

  Grant stopped in front of a door with the letter “A” painted above it. He handed Mullins his satchel, then signaled for him to wait at the exit door farther down the hall.

  Once Mullins was positioned, Grant tapped three times on the apartment door.

  As he waited, he looked back towards Adler. Then, there was a slight sound on the other side of the door, with a soft voice asking in Russian, “Who is it?”

  “Alexandra, it’s Grant.” He heard a lock being turned, then the door opened. He took one more look toward Adler and Mullins, then slipped into the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Putting a finger to his lips, he took her hand, went to the kitchen and turned on the water. The pipes behind the wall rattled and the water sputtered several seconds before flowing evenly.

  Grant gave her a quick hug, trying to put her at ease. She wasn’t able to hide her nervousness. Her life was changing in a dramatic and possibly dangerous way. She nervously rubbed her hand on her black skirt, causing one edge of her white blouse to come out at the waistband.

  Standing close to her, and keeping his voice low, he asked with obvious concern, “Are you okay?” She looked up at him and nodded, trying to smile. He reached for her shaking hand, holding it in both of his, hoping it would calm her, but he needed information. “Is Grigori going to call you?”

  “Yes, before six from Domodedovo,” she responded, as tears started filling her brown eyes.

  Grant knew that would be too late. He and Adler had to leave now, before Moshenko departed. Leaning toward her, he asked, “You still know the codes, right?” Again she nodded. “When Grigori calls, you tell him what time I left here and there will be two of us going to Domodedovo.” She held up two fingers in confirmation, and he nodded.

  He motioned toward the front door. Standing quietly, he looked down at her, thinking, She’s your responsibility now, Stevens, yours and Mullins.

  Her eyes widened as she remembered something, then she held up her hand, meaning for him to wait.

  She rushed into the study. Pulling open a drawer in the desk, she rummaged through papers, searching for a key. Taking it out, she wrote a quick note, then rushed back to Grant, lifted his hand, and dropped the key and note into his palm. He looked at the tag hanging from a piece of twine, with the word “groozaveek” (truck) and then the note. It had the address of where Moshenko parked the vehicle. He smiled as he slipped both items into his jacket pocket.

  He whispered, “A friend of mine is going to stay with you. His name is Tony. You can trust him. He doesn’t speak Russian, but I think you’ll both do fine. He’ll protect you, Alexandra.” She squeezed Grant’s hand in understanding. “Don’t make any phone calls. Leave your papers in a purse. Tony has new ones for you, and remember, when the time comes, take very little. No suitcase, okay?” She merely nodded. Needing final confirmation, he asked, “Are you sure about this, Alexandra? Do you both want to do this?”

  He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb, as she replied, “Da.”

  Giving her a hug, he tried to reassure her as he whispered, “It will be all right, Alexandra. We’ll take care of everything. You’ll both be safe. I promise.” Then he carefully opened the door part way, poked his head out, and signaled for Mullins.

  Quietly, brief introductions were made. Then Grant motioned for Mullins to follow him into the hallway. “Tony, if Grigori calls, you contact me on the radio. We’re flying by the seat of our pants from now on.” He took his satchel from Mullins.

  “What happens if I need to get her out?”

  “You’ve got the passport and papers, right?”

  “Yeah, right here,” Mullins answered, patting his upper pocket.

  “I told her to put her old ones in a purse to be kept here. It might throw off KGB if they search. Besides, I don’t want her accidentally showing it if it comes to that. Christ! I know she’s scared to death, for herself and Grigori.”

  Mullins shook Grant’s shoulder. “You need to get outta here now, buddy. I’ll handle things.”

  As he was about to leave, Alexandra stepped in the doorway, and tugged on Grant’s arm. He leaned toward her as she stood on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek, and she whispered, “Spaseeba, Grant.” (Thank you.) She went back into the apartment.

  Mullins grabbed Grant’s hand, holding it firmly. “Keep your head down, ya hear?”

  “Yeah, Tony. You, too.” Giving Mullins’ hand one last squeeze, he said, “See you in Berlin!” He signaled for Adler to leave, then he went to the opposite exit door, gave Adler a few seconds head start, then left the building.

  Mullins waited until both of them left, then he closed the apartment door.

  Grant met Adler at the clump of trees. “We’re heading to the Metro, about a six minute walk south. Grigori’s left the key to the truck. It’s parked near there.” He gave directions, then said, “Stay within a block of me. Once you see me at the truck, stay where

  you are. I’ll pick you up. Let’s go.”

  The two were on their way to the Metro known as Ploshchad Sverdlova. Opened in 1938, it was part of the second state of construction of the Moscow Metro system, and for residents, it was ideally located near numerous theaters, including the Bolshoi Theatre.

  Grant shielded his eyes as he looked overhead. The wind was picking up. Dark clouds were on the horizon, blowing in from the West.

  He kept up a steady pace, brushing past Russians caught up in their own lives, just trying to survive. As he walked he couldn’t help think about all the missions he’d been on, but this one had special meaning.

  The Team’s inability to rescue the POWs in ‘75 hung over him like the black clouds heading toward him now. The failure troubled his mind. As strong of a person that he was, both physically and mentally, it was his heart that felt the pain. And now he had the additional responsibility of Grigori and Alexandra. Her face, anxious and distressed, remained in his mind’s eye.

  It was imperative that everyone survive this mission. If any part of it turned to shit, and if he survived, he’d have to make one of the most important decisions of his life. Would this be his last mission?

  Snapping out of his thoughts, he found hims
elf in front of the Metro. He slowed his pace and looked down a line of parked vehicles, each one at a slight angle, facing toward the sidewalk.

  Walking slower, he spotted a truck, confirmed the license plate number, then he went around the back and put his satchel inside. Digging the key from his pocket, he opened the door, then slid behind the steering wheel. No one paid him any mind as he started the engine. He adjusted the side mirror. With one foot on the brake and the other pressing down on the clutch, he shifted into reverse, backed up slowly, then shifted back into first.

  Adler walked toward the street when he saw the truck. Grant pulled alongside the curb and stopped. He reached across the seat and unlocked the passenger door. Adler pushed his satchel toward the middle of the seat, as he was getting in.

  “See anybody we should worry about?” Grant asked.

  “Nobody.”

  Grant took a quick check of his watch. They would be cutting it close, with twenty-six miles to go to the airport. He looked in the side view mirror, waited for a van and two Volgas to pass, then he pulled away from the curb. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

  Chapter 8

  Kashirskoye Highway

  1720 Hours

  They’d been driving along Kashirskoye Highway for twenty-minutes, one of the major streets coming out of Moscow that eventually leads to the town of Kashira.

  Adler glanced out the side window. “Looks like that storm might be passing us by.” Light from an early evening sun broke through passing clouds. Winds had died down to under fifteen knots.

  He looked across at Grant and asked, “You have any idea where the colonel’s gonna be?”

  “Taking a shot he’ll be at the north end of the airport. On the opposite side of the two runways there’s a helo pad. Grigori pointed it out last time we came through here, remember? Right now that’s our best bet.” He slowly shook his head. “Wish we could have talked to him one more time.”

  Something started nagging at him, something about the chopper. The flying distance to East Germany had to be at least a thousand miles. Making that trip in a chopper would take well over six hours. There’d have to be refueling at least twice.

 

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