Sacrifice of One

by Jamie Fredric

  A knot suddenly formed in Grant’s throat. Squatting next to the seats, he talked barely above a whisper. “Gentlemen, my name’s Grant Stevens and that’s Joe Adler,” he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re here to take you home.”

  All five heads snapped up, staring at this stranger who was speaking to them in English, telling them they were going home.

  Grant would never be able to explain to anyone what he was witnessing from these men at this moment. Tears filled their eyes. The man sitting nearest him grabbed hold of his arm. Grant tried to look at each man, as he said, “Now listen...you’ve gotta get off this chopper. You just follow Joe. Okay?”

  He started to stand but the man wouldn’t let go of him. Grant looked down at him, quietly saying, “It’s okay.” He pulled down the mask, and went to the cockpit, standing behind Adler. “Get them outta here. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Grant had to continue with the ruse, just in case something else went wrong. Grabbing hold of Moshenko’s arm, he pulled him off the seat. “Colonel, you are now our hostage. You are coming with us.” He “handed” him over to Adler.

  Once everyone was off the chopper, Grant turned to the pilot, jerking the headphones from his head. He pulled the connecting spiral-wound cord from the comm gear, and tossed the headset out the door. “You are lucky. I am going to let you go, only because I want you to fly this aircraft to your next destination. Tell those waiting what we have done, that we have the colonel and these men. Soon they will hear our demands. Do you understand me?” If for any reason there wasn’t a detonation, Grant was trying to protect Moshenko by making everyone think he was a hostage. If the chopper did go down, then...

  The pilot lowered his arms. His relief was obvious as his head bobbed up and down. ”Da! Da!” He didn’t have a clue who these two men were, but only assumed they were Russians. At the moment, it hardly mattered. He just wanted to fly!

  “Now, start the engine! In five minutes you take off! Five minutes--or else you will be seeing me again!” Grant immediately backed up. When he was at the door, he jumped down, and grabbed the headset from the ground.

  Everyone was waiting at the rear of the helo. He rushed to Adler, and still keeping his voice low, said, “Put that box back under the chopper...fast! Meet us at the truck.” Adler didn’t even hesitate. He went and got the box.

  “The truck’s straight over there,” Grant pointed for the men. “You run in front of me. Go!” Knowing the pilot would be watching, he grabbed Moshenko’s arm and pulled him across the field, heading for the trees.

  Once at the truck, Grant flung open the back doors. “Everybody in! Grigori, you drive. The key’s in the ignition. No lights; keep your foot off the brake.”

  Moshenko rushed around to the driver’s side. Trying to think ahead, and hoping to make himself less recognizable, he immediately removed his jacket and cap, then dropped them behind the seat. A brown shirt and tied would be less conspicuous. He slid in behind the wheel, and started the engine. With one hand ready to release the hand brake, he waited.

  The men climbed in the back. Grant apologized. “Sorry, but this is the only way. Will you all be okay?”

  “You just drive!” a voice said.

  Grant cringed, thinking of these men being isolated, inside darkness. “Joe’s gotta store his gear, then we’ll be outta here.” He took a quick check of his watch. Two minutes to go. Come on, Joe! he thought.

  A sound of the helo’s rotors winding up got his attention, just as he saw Adler racing toward the truck, carrying both satchels. Without hesitating, Grant ran to the cab, jumped into the passenger side, and scooted to the middle of the seat. “Get ready, Grigori!”

  Adler tossed the gear into the back, secured the doors, then rushed to the front and climbed in. He closed the door, and without waiting for Grant to ask, he gave a thumb’s up.

  “Go!” Grant shouted.

  Moshenko stepped on the gas. Immediately spinning the wheel, he aimed the truck back toward the road. Holding the steering wheel tight, he tried to prevent the truck from fishtailing, until tires finally grabbed pavement. Once on the road, he eased back on the gas, not wanting to draw attention from anyone who might be watching, then he flipped on the headlights. “Where do we go, Grant?”

  “Head to the safe house.” From the side mirror Grant caught sight of the chopper just as it rose above the trees. His original plan for getting the men out of Russia was now a thing of the past. He was worried. He had every right to be.

  *

  Moshenko constantly glanced in the mirror, checking for a tail as he drove down Kashirskoye Highway. Traffic was sparse, making it easier to spot a trailing vehicle.

  The early evening air was warm, with the humidity hovering around sixty percent. Adler rolled down the window, resting his arm on the edge of the door. He reached out and adjusted the side view mirror, then settled back against the seat, keeping his eyes focused on the mirror.

  Grant sat quietly, looking at his watch occasionally, thinking about the men in the back. They still had another twenty minutes or so before they reached the safe house.

  “Grigori, isn’t the Eliseevsky grocery store on our way? We need to get these guys some food.”

  Moshenko thought for a moment. “Yes, it is on Tverskaya Street.”

  “Okay, head for it. You’ll have to stay in the truck, so guess that leaves me to do the buying. Joe, you’ll have the watch.”

  “Right, skipper.” Usually, Adler would be more than protesting when it came to picking up food, but not this time.

  Grant owed Moshenko an explanation for his change of plans. “Grigori, let me explain our sudden departure from the chopper. Joe found some type of explosive device under the fuel tank and another one near the rotor.”

  “I suspected there was a problem, Grant, but not this!”

  “Any idea who could’ve planted them? Or why?”

  Moshenko shook his head slowly. “I will have to think.”

  Grant now had to decide what and when to tell Moshenko about Alexandra. He’d wait until they were at the safe house. After that his next objective was to get to a phone booth and call the Embassy to get confirmation about Mullins, then call Torrinson.

  Adler glanced into the side mirror, then turned his head toward Grant. “Think anything happened to the chopper, skipper? I haven’t seen or heard anything that could’ve been an explosion.”

  “Don’t know. Either way, I expect we’ll find out sooner or later.”

  Moshenko’s thick fingers curled around the steering wheel. He tried to stay focused on his driving, the road, and rear view mirror. With this news about someone wanting to bring down the aircraft, he tried to refocus his thoughts back to his wife, picturing her face, seeing her worried look when he left home this morning. Once again, he had to put his trust in Grant.

  He suddenly sat up straighter, shifting in the seat. The word “defector” bounced around in his brain. The past few years he knew his life and his views on his government were changing, but not enough to defect. The five Americans now riding in the truck had become the final impetus for his decision.

  “Grigori?” Grant called, giving him a nudge with his elbow. “Hey!”

  Moshenko gave a slight shake of his head. “Yes. Yes.”

  “Are you okay?” Grant asked with concern.

  “I was just thinking about Alexandra.”

  The fuck with waiting,Grant thought. “Listen. I was going to wait till we got to the safe house to tell you, but she left Moscow, Grigori. She should be on her way to West Berlin.”

  Moshenko’s eyes widened. “How? Who...?

  “Don’t worry. She’s in the hands of a friend, Tony Mullins. I’ve mentioned him before, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember. The Bronson, yes?” he answered, as he turned onto a bridge crossing the Moskva River.

  “Right. I’ve instructed Tony to go directly to the American Embassy. Alexandra will be safe there.” Thinking about the responsibili
ty he’d put on Mullins’ shoulders, getting Alexandra out of Russia, caused him dismay. He trusted Mullins, but the odds were not exactly in the agent’s favor. It was one more person he had to be concerned about. “We’ll talk further, my friend,” Grant added. “I know it’s difficult, but try not to worry, okay?”

  “You are right. It is difficult.”

  Even though it was barely dusk, lights from ornate street lamps shown through the windshield as they drove down Tverskaya Street.

  A major traffic route, Tverskaya had three lanes southbound, and two lanes northbound, with a pull-off lane on the right. Buses, some painted green and white, others red and white, stopped to pick up passengers. An electric tram pulled next to the truck, as Moshenko slowed down.

  Grant looked out the windshield. “We’re getting close to the store, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep an eye out, Joe. It’s number 14.”

  Moshenko leaned forward slightly, trying to see out the windshield. “Here it is,” he said, as he pulled next to the curb.

  Adler opened the door and hopped out. Grant slid across the seat, got out, then looked back at Moshenko. “You drive around slow. Meet me back here in...” he glanced at watch, “in fifteen minutes.” Adler got in and closed the door, as Grant said, “Give me a sec while I get the men up to speed.”

  As he walked to the back of the truck, he did a quick scan of passersby who might be taking an interest in him and the truck, or any vehicles that might be slowing down. Everything seemed clear, so he opened the right side door part way. Heads turned toward him as he leaned inside. “Everybody okay?”

  One person seemed to be the spokesman. “We’re fine.”

  “The colonel and Joe will be driving around till I come back. We’ll be underway in fifteen minutes. Hang tight!” He closed the door, then went into Eliseevsky Grocery Hall.

  Opened in 1901, Eliseevsky was the first real grocery store in Moscow. The former palace was purchased by millionaire Grigory Yeliseev. After the Russian Revolution, Bolsheviks allowed only important Communists to shop here.

  The interior of the old palace remains as it was with crystal chandeliers hanging high above, ornate walls and high arches. A portrait of Yeliseev, painted by Alexandr Romanov, is still on display.

  Since the war, modern updates were made to food cases and displays, but the huge array of food choices remained the same.

  Grant had to make his choices carefully, knowing there wouldn’t be any refrigeration. God only knows what they’ve been fed. His hunt was on for protein and calcium.

  As he scanned the shelves and cases, he thought about stories he heard and read about. Stories on the inhumane treatment these men must have faced. He worried about their systems not being used to rich foods. They had to build up their strength slowly, but for the time being, time was not exactly on their side.

  Fifteen minutes later, carrying three large bags, he walked outside, then looked to his left. Moshenko drove around the corner, then pulled next to the curb. Adler hopped out, taking two of the bags. They went to the rear and opened the door.

  They slid the bags across the floor, and Grant said, “Gentlemen, here’s some food. I might suggest you start with something light. There’s some black bread, hard cooked eggs and a couple bottles of milk. We’ll be at our destination soon. Oh, and there’re some chocolate bars in the bottom of that bag,” he pointed.

  All five men came toward the door, leaning over the groceries. “Thank you! Thank you very much!” they said in unison.

  Grant and Adler couldn’t help but smile, before closing the door and heading for the cab. Once seated, Grant said, “Let’s go, Grigori.” He reached into his top pocket. “Here,” he said, as he handed a Korkunov chocolate bar to Adler.

  “Yum! An unexpected treat!” Adler laughed, licking his lips as he snatched the candy.

  “Grigori, you want yours now?” Grant asked, holding up the candy bar.

  “I will wait, my friend.” Moshenko managed a half smile, still worried.

  *

  They were nearing their destination. Moshenko turned onto a side street, slowing to almost a crawl, then stopped.

  “Joe,” Grant said, “go on ahead and scope it out. I’ll watch your back.”

  Both of them got out and closed the door. Adler stayed close to the buildings as he headed for the end of the street. Grant stayed behind the truck, keeping a hand on the pistol in his waistband, turning himself in every direction, watching for anything or anybody suspicious. He stepped to the side, seeing Adler waving them forward. Walking toward the cab, he said to Grigori, “Go ahead. I’ll keep back.” Moshenko drove on.

  Adler pulled open one garage door, but still kept his guard up. He constantly scanned the area, while at the same time, trying to keep an eye on Grant. Moshenko drove the truck inside, immediately killing the engine.

  Grant picked up his pace, half jogging until he reached the garage then ducked inside. Adler quickly closed the door.

  Moshenko slid from the seat and hurried to the ladder leading to the upstairs loft. Once he unlocked the door and went in, he took the kerosene lamp from its hook and lit it.

  Grant and Adler helped the men from the truck. As each man stepped out, he shook Grant’s and Adler’s hand and gave his name: Pete Earlman, Chris Southere, Rick Ashland, Hank Lippton, Wayne Naylor. Even though they were still in Russia, in Communist territory, they felt like human beings again...free human beings.

  “Gentlemen,” Grant began, “when you go upstairs, I’d like you to introduce yourselves to Colonel Moshenko. It’s because of Grigori that you are here at this moment.”

  “We’ll be happy to,” Wayne Naylor replied for everyone.

  Grant pointed and said, “Just go up that ladder. Joe will be right behind you. I’ve got some business to attend to.”

  As the men disappeared behind the door, Grant and Adler took the grocery bags from the truck, noticing there wasn’t a scrap of trash left behind. Everything had been placed in one of the bags.

  “Joe, I’ve gotta make that call to the Embassy.” He handed Adler the bag. “Gotta let them know what’s happening, plus I want to find out if Mullins and Alexandra got there.”

  “Okay, skipper. Be careful out there!”

  *

  Stratsnoy Metro Station

  Grant pushed open a heavy, ornate glass door leading into the lobby of the Stratsnoy Metro station. As he walked across the black and deep red marble tiles, his eyes scanned the walls above three long corridors that fanned out from the lobby. Finally spotting a sign for telephones, he headed to the middle corridor. Keeping his eyes focused on the far wall, he hardly noticed the bronze statues set in niches, lining both sides.

  He caught sight of a bank of AMT-69 pay phones located against the back wall. The grayish metal boxes are approximately fourteen inches high, with a black receiver hanging from a U-shaped hook on the left. On the top right is a coin slot.

  He pulled out some coins. Holding them in his palm, his pushed them around with his finger, selected two and dropped the rest in his pocket. Taking a quick look behind him, he lifted the receiver, and pressed one coin at a time into the slot. When he got a dial tone, he dialed a coded number, waited for another dial tone, then dialed the Embassy number in West Berlin.

  Turning around, he kept his eyes on a throng of bustling people, riding a steep escalator, coming from and going to the subway below. Sounds from a train’s squealing brakes announced its arrival, as the ear-piercing sound echoed up to the corridor.

  “U.S. Embassy. May I help you?”

  He pressed the phone against one ear, a finger against the other. He turned toward the wall. “This is Grant Stevens. Could you connect me with the bureau chief, whoever took Matt Wharton’s place? I need a secure line.”

  “That would be Steve Greeley. Hold please.”

  Grant impatiently tapped his foot on the tiled floor. “Come on. Come on.”

  “Steve Greeley.”

&n
bsp; “This is Grant Stevens, sir. I work for Admiral Torrinson at NIS.”

  “Two to one you’re calling about Agent Mullins, aren’t you?”

  “Tell me he’s there, sir, with his ‘special package.’” Grant closed his eyes, waiting for the right answer.

  Greeley spit a piece of Wrigley’s into his palm, then dropped it in an ashtray. “I’m happy to report that is so, captain. They just got here.” He scribbled a note on an envelope, then buzzed the secretary’s phone. She came in and he handed her the note.

  Grant dropped his head back, breathing a sigh. “Glad to hear that, sir!” With the sudden blaring of a loudspeaker, announcing the arrival of a train, he leaned closer to the phone and spoke louder. “Wait one, sir.” Finally, the announcement stopped. Grant turned to face the corridor, making sure no one came too close. “Mr. Greeley, I’m at a Moscow train station, so, if I suddenly revert to Russian, it’s because...”

  “Understand, captain.”

  “Tell me, is Alexandra okay, sir? How’s she doing?”

  “She’s fine, captain. We’ve got a translator here so I’m sure she’s feeling more comfortable.”

  “I’d really appreciate it if she could stay at the Embassy, at least for a couple more days. It’s important that she stays under lock and key, sir. If you can’t do it, she’s going to need security. I’d suggest Agent Mullins, sir. Is that possible?”

  “We can keep her here for a couple of days, captain. After that, we’ll set her up with a room at the Berliner. I’ll assign Agent Mullins to stay with her. Do you have a message you’d like to give her?” He pulled a yellow notepad out of the middle desk draw.

  “Tell her Grigori’s safe. He’s with me and Joe. I don’t have any timeframe for our reaching Berlin, though. That should be enough, sir. Appreciate it.”