Operation Gold Eagle

by Jamie Fredric

  Reznikov could no longer trust anyone, except possibly, Botkin and Orlov. For the past two years they worked together, risked their lives, carrying out attacks their handler designated. Then without warning, he was captured, imprisoned, interrogated, then turned over to the Americans.

  But Reznikov had yet determined why he was the only one captured, then offered up, when they were all involved in past terrorist activities. There was a possibility he'd been identified by surveillance tapes, but still, the three of them were known to operate together.

  While at the East German prison, he had no idea Botkin and Orlov received information from Yermak, indicating the exact place, date, and time of the exchange. They planned the 'rescue' perfectly. Now, and for the moment, he felt some semblance of relief. He was free.

  A slide bolt secured the door, with a key lock added. He unlocked it, put the lock in his pocket, before sliding it open. On the opposite side of the door were two bolts, adding to their security while inside.

  The thick wooden entry door scraped across dirt-covered plank flooring. Except for scuffing from shoes and boots, the thickness of dirt was a testament to the length of time the building hadn't functioned as a home, but as a hideout. Each of six windows had been blacked out. Turning on the flashlight, he swiveled the light back and forth, then pointed it overhead. Thick wooden beams crossed the entire 800 square foot space.

  Directing the beam toward a beat-up, rectangular wooden table in the center of the space, the light settled on a kerosene lamp. Striking a match, he lit the lamp, then lowered the flame until it barely glowed. Expecting to find an envelope with money and instructions for another attack, he slid his hand back and forth under the table top. Finding nothing, he turned on the flashlight, then shined the beam underneath. Again, nothing.

  His brief moment of relief quickly vanished, as suspicion took hold. He shut off the flashlight. His pulse started racing, with the realization of why he'd been rescued. It wasn't because he was valuable. It was because someone feared he would eventually talk and identify his handler and the trail of money. And Yermak would eventually lead everyone to the person who headed it all, who used Reznikov and his men to fulfill his own agenda. But who that was, even Reznikov didn't know.

  He spun around, hearing Botkin and Orlov stomping into the house. "Start looking for wires, explosives! Do it! Now!"

  Without questioning, the two men grabbed their flashlights, and ran to opposite sides of the room, looking in corners, following beams of light along walls, both top and bottom.

  Reznikov directed the beam of light along the base of the back wall, before he started backtracking. Shining the flashlight overhead, his eyes searched along a wooden beam, when something got his attention. He stopped directly underneath, tilting his head back. His eyes finally focused on a drooping thin wire. "Get the ladder!"

  Orlov made a beeline for the door. In seconds he returned carrying a very old, handmade wooden ladder. As he balanced it against the beam, Reznikov pointed, "Check that wire, but watch what you touch! I cannot see where it leads."

  Orlov started climbing, as Botkin braced his heavy body against the ladder. As he stood on the last rung, Orlov leaned over the wood beam, shining his flashlight along the back side. "Shit! Dynamite! Dynamite is strung across the beam with det cord!" He looked down at Reznikov. "Everything we have used for our attacks!"

  Reznikov kept the flashlight beam on Orlov. "Do you see any type of timer?!"

  Orlov looked along the left side, then right. "No! Neither end of the wire is attached to anything!"

  "Somebody ran out of time," Reznikov commented, continuing to look up.

  "What the hell is going on, Ivan?!" Botkin asked, with total confusion.

  "Only two other people knew about this place," Reznikov mumbled, beginning to see the whole picture.

  Orlov jumped from the bottom rung. "You cannot be thinking Yermak?"

  "It must be. We have not received our money, no new orders, and now the explosives!" Reznikov shut off the flashlight then went near the table. "Leave everything as is. If we have to vacate, this damn place can be destroyed quickly."

  "You want to leave the explosives in place?!" Botkin waved an arm overhead.

  "If we are ever followed here, Sergei, that," he pointed toward the explosives, "may be all that will give us time to escape."

  "I get it," Botkin answered, smoothing down his short, black beard.

  Reznikov looked at both men. "We have to face facts. From now on, we are on our own."

  *

  U.S. Embassy

  0120 Hours

  Two Audis pulled in front of the security gate. Team A.T. waited for the guard to inspect them and their IDs. He walked around the open gate. "Evening, sirs." He took Adler's State Department ID, then said, "We've been expecting all of you. Just drive up to the main door, sir." He rolled back the gate, then snapped a smart salute as the cars drove past.

  The Team quickly exited the cars, taking a defensive position around their "package," Alexei Dotsenko, then led him into the embassy.

  "Gentlemen, I'm Sam Nichols, Station Chief. Welcome to the U.S. Embassy." The gray-haired Nichols extended a hand.

  Grant returned the handshake. "Thank you, sir. I'm Grant Stevens, and . . ."

  "Yes, I know, Captain Stevens. We've been expecting you and Team Alpha Tango." He nodded toward the men.

  "And this is Alexei Dotsenko," Grant said.

  Nichols offered his hand. "Mr. Dotsenko, welcome."

  "I appreciate your help, Mr. Nichols."

  Grant glanced down the hallway. "Would it be possible for us to use a room temporarily? We have some questions for Mr. Dotsenko."

  "Sure. Go down this hallway, third door on the left. There should be enough chairs for you. I've taken the liberty and had some drinks brought in. If you need anything else, dial 221. That's my office."

  "Appreciate it, sir."

  Nichols watched the men as they walked away, all dressed in black, wearing shoulder holsters that held Russian Makarovs.

  Once behind the closed door, A.T. grabbed some water and sodas. Adler offered a Coke and glass of water to Dotsenko, who selected the water.

  Grant pulled out a chair, sitting opposite Dotsenko, noticing his pale face. "Are you all right, sir?"

  "Yes. Yes."

  "I'm sorry we roughed you up back there, but we couldn't let the 'comrades' suspect anything."

  "Oh, I understand. It has all been quite overwhelming for me, though."

  "You took one helluva risk coming back here. That took courage, sir." Dotsenko sipped at the water, looking over the rim of the glass at Grant, who said, "You don't have to worry. You'll be safe at the embassy while we complete the mission."

  Dotsenko slapped his hand on the table, nearly knocking over his glass. He abruptly got up. "No! I cannot stay here! I must go with you! She . . ." He turned and walked away.

  A.T. rolled their chairs back, obviously surprised at the reaction. Grant went to him. "Mr. Dotsenko." He laid a hand on the distressed man's shoulder, waiting for him to turn around. "Sir, I'm sorry you weren't informed sooner, and I apologize. But I'd like you to think about how dangerous that would be. We've been on missions like this many times, and I can tell you from experience that nothing is always straightforward. Believe me, sir, it'd be best for everyone, especially Miss Pankova." An expression of dismay remained on Dotsenko's face. "Please, sir," Grant said, motioning toward a chair. "We'd like some information that will help us."

  The men glanced quickly at each other. But now they had to wonder if the information they were about to hear would lead them on the right path to complete the second part of the mission -- a successful extraction.

  Dotsenko drank some water, as Grant asked, "Can you tell me if she had an emergency escape plan in case she had to find safe haven somewhere?"

  "That was one of the first details she always took care of. When she was in Tbilisi, she set up a plan to escape to Turkey, or at least get as close to the
border as possible."

  "I think we're all curious, but how did she manage to communicate with you? She had to have been watched."

  "Just like any spy, she used dead drops while in Russia. She had her contacts. They took care of seeing to it that D.C. got her coded messages."

  "Understand," Grant commented. "Let's move on to the base in Poland. With it being so secretive, I'd say she didn't have any contacts who could help her. Correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Then how did she . . . ?"

  "Contact me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "As soon as she knew she was going to Drazowe, she left a message for her contact in Tbilisi."

  For the time being, Grant didn't need explicit details on messages or contacts. He needed a location for the extraction. "Where is she?"

  "Oleniv always set her up in her own place. They never lived together. His reasoning? I can only assume he felt it would protect her somehow, or he was just trying to protect himself. Yet, everyone knew she was his . . ." He couldn't bring himself to say the word "mistress."

  "That's all right, sir. Go on."

  Dotsenko reached for the glass, finished the water, then proceeded. "With the serious situation developing in the country, soldiers had been posted at all roads leading away from town. They were at bus stations, train stations, and the ferry terminal. They were checking everyone's papers. She couldn't take the chance."

  "Are we to assume she's still in that residence?"

  "Yes."

  Grant's eyes scanned his men, seeing heads shaking. "You have an address, right?"

  "Do you have pencil and paper?" Dotsenko asked, looking around.

  Stalley got a pad and pen next to the phone, then brought them to Dotsenko who immediately began writing. When he finished, he slid the paper across the table toward Grant. "She used a signal in the past, to show me she was . . . home." His expression changed, showing part sadness, part embarrassment. "She would close the drapes of her bedroom window, but the right side would remain slightly open. That meant she was home . . . and alone. I would think that would still be her signal, unless something prevents her from . . ."

  "Very well, sir." Grant scanned the note, then passed it to Adler. "You may not be able to answer this, but is this the only location where she could be?"

  "There could be brief periods when she might leave, but I doubt it, and she certainly wouldn't go far. She realizes someone should be coming for her. Time is running out for her," he said, with his voice cracking. "If no one gets to her soon, she will not . . . she cannot wait any longer."

  "I understand. Believe me."

  "Do you know when you will leave?"

  "We've got to make some special arrangements before we do, but I would guesstimate we'll be on our way no later than tomorrow. Remember, you'll have protection while you're here, so don't worry about safety.

  "One more question. Is there anything you can tell us that'll convince Miss Pankova we know you, that she can trust us?"

  Dotsenko mulled over the request. "We have code names. She is 'Silent Willow,' and I'm 'Gray Fox.'"

  "That will definitely be the proof we need, sir. Thanks."

  Grant rolled his chair back, then went to the phone and called Nichols' office. "Sir, we're finished here, if you want to have someone assist Mr. Dotsenko. Oh, and would it be possible to use the scrambler in the crypto room?"

  "Sure. I'll be right there," Nichols responded.

  Grant went to the door. "Listen, guys, Joe and I are gonna call Scott. Why don't you take a break after a guard shows up. See if you can get anything to eat. There might be some vending machines. Pick something up for Joe."

  *

  The elevator doors hadn't fully parted when Grant and Adler stepped in. Using a special key, Grant activated the mechanism, sending the elevator down two levels. The crypto room was soundproof, and had stark white, ten inch thick walls. Sophisticated equipment consisted of scrambler communication gear, internal walkie-talkies, a short-wave radio system, radio directional finders and receivers. A small safe contained code books for secure communication.

  One of the crypto men on duty received prior authorization to give Grant and Adler access to the scrambler room. He pressed a button that unlocked the door, allowing the two to enter a room they used in the past. The scrambler room. The size of a walk-in closet. A secure room inside the crypto room.

  Grant pushed back his sweater sleeve, checking the time, then he dialed the number. "C'mon, Scott. Pick up!"

  "Keep your shorts on," Adler laughed, sliding a metal chair closer. He straddled it backwards.

  "Mullins."

  "Scott, it's Grant."

  "I've got my pad and pen ready!"

  "Don't think you'll need them, buddy. Only need two pieces of equipment: chopper and inflatable boat."

  "Jesus, Grant!" Mullins blurted out, as he dropped the pen on the desk, then flopped back against his chair.

  "We just found out the location of Pankova and that's the only way we can pull this off. We're gonna be pushin' the outside of the envelope on this one, Scott."

  "I have a feeling you want the two items asap?"

  "If not sooner. I don't need to tell you, this op was classified as top secret. So, the chopper crew . . ."

  "I'll handle it. Now, tell me how long you're gonna be . . . Wait! Where are you?"

  "The U.S. Embassy. Listen, we've been at Schonefeld long enough. We need to exit soon, so if you can get the items, direct them to Tegel. There should be fewer questions with a chopper landing at the military terminal. Guess it'll be easier if you get us prior authorization for the Gulfstream to land." The brief silence told Grant that Mullins was worried, for more than one reason.

  "Tegel, huh? You'll barely get off the ground when it'll be time to land again."

  "I know, but we've got too damn much gear to haul in cars, and it wouldn't be the best decision to leave the plane here."

  "Should I call you at the embassy?"

  "No. I'll call you from Schonefeld terminal, let's say at 1000 my time. You can do it, Scott. I've got faith in you."

  "Talk at ya later, buddy." End of call.

  *

  Embassy of the Soviet Union

  East Berlin

  One quarter mile east of the Brandenburg Gate, at Unter den Linden 63-65 (Under the Lime-Trees), stood the Embassy of the Soviet Union. The façade was ashlar stone, a finely cut/worked masonry, used as an alternative to brick or other materials.

  First Chief Directorate Vladimir Borskaya waited by his office window, anticipating a phone call, confirming the exchange was a success. His specific orders were to call Moscow before the plane even departed Schonefeld.

  He diverted his dark eyes to a wall clock above the credenza. Three hours difference between Berlin and Moscow,he thought. Pounding a fist into his palm, he angrily turned from the window, and went to his desk. As he reached for the phone, he paused, and read the words on a small wooden plaque standing near the phone: Loyalty to the Party - Loyalty to the Motherland. "Always," he quietly said.

  He drew his hand away from the phone, hearing a sudden, heavy rapping on the office door. "Yes?!"

  Sergeant Yozhin rushed in. "Comrade Borskaya! Our intel people have intercepted a message being broadcast by the East German police!"

  "Well?! Out with it!"

  "They were reporting a shooting, and the destruction of a motor vehicle, sir!"

  At first Borskaya wasn't concerned. Incidents like this happened often, when East Germans tried to escape to the West. "What else?"

  "No specifics were given, except two men were killed, two injured."

  "What was this vehicle?"

  Yozhin reread the message. "A van, sir."

  Borskaya felt some relief. His men were driving a Mercedes. But another sudden thought crossed his mind. He rested his fists on his desk, leaning toward the young sergeant. "Who were those men?!"

  "No names or nationalities were mentioned, sir. Only the Friedrichshain Mu
nicipal Hospital in East Berlin was identified."

  "Have you not heard anything from General Komarov?"

  "No, sir."

  Borskaya slowly straightened up, as he began to think about the exchange, and the Americans who exchanged Dotsenko for Reznikov. Could it have been their van? "Where did this happen?"

  "We looked at a map of that area, sir. It appeared they were heading east. It was near Kleinmachow."

  The name sounded familiar to Borskaya. He turned and went to a wall map, showing all sectors of Berlin. Leaning closer to where the exchange took place, he slid his finger along a road heading east. "Checkpoint Bravo," he said, stabbing a finger against the spot. Only four men, driving a van, transported to hospital. They were possibly the Americans -- which meant Reznikov got away. But did that incident have anything to do with Komarov not reporting in?

  Pointing directly at Yozhin, he ordered, "Contact East German police headquarters -- immediately! Get as much information from them. By my orders you are to send our agents to that hospital, to Schonefeld Airport, to Glienicke, anywhere along the route Comrade Komarov might have driven! Do you understand?!"

  "Yes, sir!" Yozhin didn't wait to be excused. He saluted, then quickly left.

  Borskaya blew out a long breath, as he silently reviewed the little information he had. Placing his hand on the phone, he hesitated, then decided to wait before he called KGB Director Antolov in Moscow. Glancing again at the clock, he turned and went back to the window. Daylight was nearly four hours away. He'd have to give the intel staff and his agents time to investigate. They should have something for me soon, he thought.

  Chapter 5

  Oval Office

  White House

  2130 Hours - Local Time

  Unlike the usual hustle and bustle of the White House on any given day, tonight's silence seemed almost palpable. President Andrew Carr stood behind his desk, wearing dark gray sweats, staring down at the scrambler phone, waiting for it to ring, expecting to talk with Premier Nikolai Gorshevsky.