"How long has this notion been rolling around in that brain of yours?"
"A couple of weeks, I guess."
"Well, where do we go from here?"
"When this op is over and we're home, we'll have to discuss it with Matt first. If the benefactors aren't willing to support the proposition, we may have to scrap the whole idea. We'll have to wait and see."
The conversation abruptly ended, with the sound of A.T. returning. Grant leaned back, and stretched his arms across the backrest. "Joe, when are you gonna stop calling me 'skipper'?"
"What the hell should I call you?"
"We've known each other long enough for you to use my name."
"I don't know," Adler said shaking his head. "That might take some practice."
"Give it a shot."
"Not ready."
"Here you go," Garrett said, handing over two wrapped burgers."
The conversation changed direction again.
*
June 20
Day 2
At 0030, two black Audi Quattro sedans followed the same route as earlier, but this time they parked 300 yards from Glienicke Bridge. Splitting up, A.T. did a recon of any possible 'hot' spots, unusual traffic, homes. East German guards at the bridge didn't appear to have any set routines. With rifle straps slung over their shoulders, they remained near the guard house, occasionally walked to the opposite side of the bridge, and frequently watched the guards on the American side.
After two hours of reconnaissance, A.T. returned to Schonefeld, prepared for the mission that night.
*
Glienicke Bridge
2335 Hours - Local Time
The Glienicke Bridge, made of steel, and resembling a suspension bridge, crossed the Havel River. The middle of the bridge was the dividing line between East and West Berlin. It had become known as the "Bridge of Spies." Tonight's exchange was scheduled for midnight.
Dressed entirely in black, the Team arrived one hour after sunset, well before the time the targets were due. The Audi with Diaz, Slade, and Novak was within 200 yards of the bridge with its headlights off. Feeling confident they or the Audi wouldn't be noticed, Diaz parked beneath a canopy of trees along a dark, single lane road. The men had a clear view of the route the Russians would be traveling.
Three miles farther east, Grant, Adler, James, and Stalley were near the first turn coming from the airport. Adler parked the Audi well off the road, still giving them a view of any car traveling the route.
"Headlights," Adler reported. He raised the binoculars, and waited for the vehicle, knowing it had to slow down when it reached the turn. As expected, the Mercedes slowed just enough for him to spot its occupants. "Five inside, four wearing uniforms. UF (unfriendly) in rear wearing a hood."
"Reznikov," Grant said, as he pressed the PTT. "Three-Six, targets heading to you."
"Roger," Diaz replied. Not long after, a Mercedes sped by the Audi's location. Diaz notified Grant. "Vehicle just passed."
Novak and Slade left the Audi, maneuvering their way closer to the bridge. Positioning themselves 100 yards east, they took cover behind a concrete wall that ran parallel to Konigstrasse. Using high-powered binoculars, they kept their attention on a black, four-door Mercedes. It was parked east of concrete barricades that were set up in a zigzag pattern, thereby controlling the speed of vehicles.
Grant glanced at his illuminated submariner, showing 2349. "They should be getting ready to make the swap." He pressed the PTT. "Four-One, update."
While Novak continued surveillance, Slade responded, "Eyes on four uniformed UFs outside vehicle. One UF inside with hood."
Grant glanced at his watch. "Head back once parties have met. Copy?"
"Copy that." Slade and Novak continued surveillance.
Adler leaned against the driver side door, adjusting his holster. "Unless shit happens, 'company' should be arriving soon."
Grant nodded, then pulled his Makarov from the shoulder holster. As he tightened the silencer, he turned in the seat, looking at Stalley and James. "Good to go?" The two gave a thumb's up. Their Makarovs were secured in holsters. AKs rested across their laps.
No other traffic had passed in either direction. A.T. counted on the strict travel restrictions.
*
Security pole lamps, positioned near guard houses on both east and west side of the bridge, illuminated the entire bridge area. Three Russian KGB officers, and one regular Army enlisted, stood together by the Mercedes. Across the bridge two CIA agents exited a black, mid-size, panel van, while two more remained inside with their passenger. Everyone waited for the stroke of midnight.
Lieutenant General Nikita Komarov and Lieutenant Colonel Vlad Petrova, flicked cigarettes behind one of the vehicle barriers, then they walked closer to the guard house. Both officers were highly trusted, highly trained in the "world" of KGB.
Petrova raised a set of binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck, focusing them on the van. "I see two agents outside the vehicle, Comrade General."
The stocky-framed Komarov stood with his arms behind his back, slapping one hand against the other. "Any sign of Comrade Dotsenko?"
"Not yet."
At 2355 a sliding door on the van opened, and Dotsenko stepped out, nervously adjusting his suit jacket. Four CIA agents walked with him toward a pole barrier. Special Agent Carl Traimore headed up the mission, accompanied by Special Agents Steve Leamon, Marty Fitzgerald, and Blake Torres.
"There he is." Petrova lowered the binoculars, just as Komarov turned slightly, signaling for Reznikov to be brought forward.
A car door opened. The hooded passenger was handcuffed and continued resisting. He had to be forcefully pulled from the vehicle. Then, Sergeant Baskov and KGB Major Kozlow each grabbed an arm, leading him closer to the point where he would begin his 75 yard walk to the dividing line at bridge center. The five men waited.
Chimes from a distant bell tower signaled midnight. Guards manually raised the pole barriers. Baskov and Kozlow accompanied Reznikov, who stumbled and kept resisting.
Dotsenko started walking east. Special Agents Fitzgerald and Torres followed close behind him, not so much as guards, but prepared to assume control of Reznikov.
Dotsenko gave the hooded Reznikov an emotionless glance, but his attention immediately was drawn to the white dividing line. As soon as he stepped across, Baskov and Kozlow fell in next to him.
The two CIA agents took control of Reznikov, with Torres immediately pulling off the black hood. The thinning black hair, and scarred hands and face ("earned" while spending time in one of Russia's toughest prisons), completed the identification process.
Blinking several times, he finally caught sight of the end of the bridge, a guardhouse, and waiting Americans. Before he was taken from his prison cell, he was handcuffed and the black hood put over his head. He had no idea where he was being taken.
Once near the Mercedes, Komarov greeted the returning Russian with hand extended. "Comrade Dotsenko! Welcome!"
Dotsenko returned the handshake, and replied simply, "Spaseeba, Comrade." Being back under the control of Russians left him with a very unsettling feeling. He reminded himself he was doing this for Sophia, but so much could go wrong, especially when it involved the KGB.
He climbed into the back seat, with Komarov and Petrova sitting on either side of him. Baskov slid behind the steering wheel, and moved the seat forward, as Kozlow settled into the passenger seat. Baskov started the engine, then looked in the rearview mirror. Komarov kept his eyes on the Americans, who literally dragged Reznikov into their van. Komarov finally gave a nod, the signal to proceed to the airport.
*
Slade tapped Novak on the shoulder, whispering, "Let's go." They ran in a zigzag pattern, maneuvering through the trees, heading for the Audi.
Slade notified Grant: "Exchange complete. Comin' back."
"Roger," Grant responded, continuing to hold the PTT, calling Diaz in the second Audi. "Three-Six, fire it up."
&
nbsp; "Roger," Diaz responded.
Novak and Slade slid across the rear seat, just as Diaz started the engine. He slowly drove the Audi toward the main road, looking for any sign of headlights. He lowered the window, listening. "They're comin'!" The Mercedes roared by.
"Jesus! What the fuck have they got under that hood?!" Novak blurted out.
Slade pushed the PTT. "Zero-Niner, targets headed to you, high rate of speed."
"Roger," Grant responded.
Diaz put the car into gear, eased forward until he could barely see red taillights, then he pulled out, but kept the headlights off. He 'hit' the gas. At the speed the two cars were traveling, they'd reach the point for the intended snatch in no time.
Slade pressed the PTT, notifying everyone. "Approaching marker two."
"Time to move," Grant said.
The four men pulled down black, one-hole masks, then quickly exited the car. Standing alongside the asphalt road close to turn number two, they were getting ready to take their positions, when headlights appeared on the horizon, the high beams growing brighter.
Baskov slowed and made the right-hand turn, anticipating the next turn one hundred yards away.
"Now, Frank!" Grant said under his breath.
The Audi fishtailed as Diaz made the sharp right turn. Immediately bringing the car under control, he flipped on headlights then high beams, driving the Audi within a car's-length of the Mercedes.
Glare in the rearview mirror momentarily blinded Baskov, and he grabbed the wheel with both hands, expecting a rear end collision.
Kozlow braced his hands against the dashboard, warning, "Look out!"
Baskov hit the brakes. The back seat passengers were thrown forward. They braced themselves, trying not to hit the front seats. The Mercedes came to a screeching halt, directly in front of four men blocking the road, each one in a shooter's stance, with pistols and AKs aimed straight at the Mercedes.
The Russians started reaching for their own weapons, when three other men rushed to the side windows, with Makarovs pointing directly into the car. Dotsenko slouched down in the back seat, prepared for a shootout.
Slade stood by the driver's door, yanked it open, then immediately gripped his weapon with both hands. Diaz flung open the front passenger door, Novak, the right rear.
Slade ordered in Russian, "Toss out your weapons!" He waited, then ordered again, "Toss them! Now!" Reluctantly, the Russians obeyed, and four Makarovs clanged against the pavement. Stalley ran to the Mercedes, quickly collecting the weapons.
"Out of the car! Hands behind your head!" Slade motioned with his weapon.
Initial moments of shock quickly passed, as anger became obvious on Lieutenant General Komarov's face. He took a step closer to Slade, refusing to obey the order, keeping his hands by his side with fists balled up. "Who the hell are you?! What gives you the right to stop us?!"
"Enough of this shit!" Grant said through gritted teeth. He left ranks and jogged next to Slade. In a swift motion he jammed the silencer against the Russian officer's forehead, knocking him back a step.
With a quick glance, Grant noticed the Russian's name on his uniform. Then, speaking in Russian, he kept his voice deep and menacing. "You are in no position to question, Komarov! I leave it up to you whether or not I pull this trigger -- and I will pull this trigger!"
Komarov's jaw tightened, but he reluctantly backed away and walked to the opposite side of the car. Novak and Diaz patted down the four men, not finding additional weapons.
Dotsenko, meanwhile, was delaying getting out of the car. Grant grabbed his arm and yanked him out. "Do not give us any trouble!" He shoved him toward Stalley who grabbed an arm, then hustled him to the Audi, as James guarded their sixes. Maintaining the ruse, Stalley pushed Dotsenko into the back seat, slammed the door, then took up a defensive position next to the car.
James was headed to the Mercedes, when Grant stopped him. "Get their names." James nodded, then took off, assisting Novak, Diaz, and Slade, who were forcibly prodding the Russians more deeply into the woods.
Keeping his eyes and weapon on the Russians as they were led away, Grant whispered, "Lose the Mercedes, Joe." Adler shoved his weapon into the holster then ran to the Mercedes, started it up, then drove it well beyond the tree line.
Grant walked around Stalley who was standing by the passenger door. He leaned in toward Dotsenko, and spoke softly in English. "We're Americans, sir. Sorry we had to be so rough. But as soon as we're finished here, we'll take you to the embassy where you'll be safe."
Dotsenko sighed deeply, before asking, "But what about . . . ?"
"She's the second part of this mission. As soon as we're at the embassy, you'll need to answer some questions for us, though."
"Anything. Anything. I'll help all I can."
Grant gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then turned and waited for A.T.
Adler quietly closed the Mercedes' door, then hurled the key as far as he could. He hustled back to where the four Russians were standing, when suddenly the driver, Baskov, took off, running full bore into the forest. "Oh, fuck!" Adler said under his breath.
The chase was on. The Russian disappeared in the forest. Adler followed the sound of feet slapping against leaves and dirt, until - nothing. No sound, not even heavy breathing.
Adler pulled up, and stopped behind a tree. Holding his weapon close, he eased his head forward. Baskov ran from behind a tree and took off again. Adler gained on him, shouting one of a few words he knew in Russian: "Khal't!" (halt) Baskov stumbled, but kept running. Adler aimed and fired, dropping the Russian.
"Shit!" Grant raced through the trees.
Adler knelt near the Russian, whispering, "He's alive, just unconscious. Must've hit his head hard on that." Adler pointed at a dark, wet stain on a rock. Blood from a bullet wound was seeping through the uniform jacket near the shoulder blade.
Grant leaned down, and grabbed Baskov's arm. "Let's get him to the Mercedes." He and Adler dragged the Russian to the vehicle, and laid him in the rear seat.
"Now what?" Adler asked, closing the door.
"Secure him." Adler hesitated. "Do it, Joe! Somebody will come looking for them."
The other three Russians were forced onto the ground, with their backs against the base of a tree, and then they were lashed together. Duct tape covered their mouths, black hoods covered their heads, adding to the intimidation factor. Slade gave a thumb's up, then A.T. hurried back to the Audis.
But just as the men were opening car doors, the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons echoed in the stillness. They immediately dropped to a knee, taking cover near the vehicles, aiming their weapons toward the sound. Dotsenko threw his arms over his head, scrunching down in the back seat.
Realizing the noise was farther south than their location, the Team cautiously stood, but continued swiveling their heads, watching for anything out of the ordinary. Silence again.
Adler questioned what they were all thinking. "What the fuck?!"
Grant jammed his weapon into the holster, then looked over the top of the car door. "Let's get . . ." An explosion sent them to the ground again from pure reaction.
Still keeping a low voice, Grant spat out, "Jesus Christ! Move! Move! Go!"
The two vehicles sped off toward West Berlin, barely staying within the speed limit. They had 21 miles to go, and now wasn't the time to attract police.
*
Near the village of Lanke
June 21
0120 Hours
Day 3
A beat-up green, four-door 1970 Trabant rumbled slowly across five acres of land that twenty years earlier had cultivated potatoes, carrots, and cabbage. Heading toward an old deserted farmhouse, the driver cautiously maneuvered the vehicle through weeds and vines, avoiding ruts and hardened tracks once made by tractors and wagons. Rusted, broken, decaying farm equipment lay scattered across the property.
A house came into view, a dark shape standing against the backdrop of the horizon. The drive
r pulled around the back, parking close to the building. As remote as the location was, they still needed to err on the side of caution. Once the investigation into the incident started, they'd be hunted -- again.
The driver, Sergei Botkin, and passenger, Pavel Orlov, started to get out, when Reznikov ordered, "Keep your weapons, but put the grenade launchers and explosives in that cellar with the rest." He pointed to a wood door, set at a slight angle, just above ground level. Below was a storage room, not more than ten feet from the house, once used for root vegetables.
Orlov pulled his straggly long hair from his face, questioning, "Just keep our weapons?!"
Reznikov slid across the seat, reaching for the door handle. "Weapons are one thing, but getting caught with those explosives . . . We will take only what we need when we receive new orders." He got out, opened the trunk and grabbed a flashlight, then left the two men to their assignment.
The darkness and the distance from the road gave him some sense of safety. No one could approach this property without being heard or noticed. Botkin and Orlov would take turns keeping watch, at least until daylight.
Walking to the front of the crumbling, discolored cement-block house, he remained cautious, listening to the two men transferring the explosives. Being together again made him think about the three of them, once prisoners in the high-security prison, Krasnoyarsk Camp 17. The city itself was located on the Yenisei River and the third largest city in Siberia.
They were each sentenced to thirty years for attempted theft of explosives and weapons from military armories, with intent to sell. But after only seven years, and without being told why, their sentences were reduced.
The day they were released, they were flown to Moscow under guard, even though they were supposedly free. That day was when they met their handler, known only as "Yermak." (Cossack leader) While they sat in his car at the airport, he gave them two choices: either accept what was to be offered without question, or be put back on a plane, and sent to Siberia's Black Dolphin prison, remaining there for the rest of their lives. Their decision was a no-brainer.
Operation Gold Eagle Page 4