Adler cut the engine's power, lifted the props out of the water, just as the boat slid across the ramp. The Team scrambled out, tugging the boat into the cargo bay.
"Home and secured!" Brenner reported, as he raised his NVGs.
Within seconds, rotor noise and vibration increased two-fold as Anderson started the chopper's ascent. Water flowed over the end of the ramp, dumping back into the sea. The cargo door raised, sealing everyone inside.
Stalley helped Pankova out, then made sure she was seated with seat belt locked. "Ma'am, can I give you aspirin now? It should help relieve some of your pain."
"Yes. Thank you."
Brenner passed around earplugs, then he stopped by Grant. "Sir, Lieutenant Anderson would like a word."
Grant took off his watch cap, tucked it under his belt, then handed his rifle to Adler.
On his way to the cockpit, he stopped by the gunner, offering his hand. "Good shootin' back there. Thanks."
"My pleasure, sir."
"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?" Grant asked, leaning into the cockpit.
"Yes, sir. We're heading back to Tegel, but I've requested a flight path that'll take us outta harm's way this time. It might take longer, but I think you'll agree, sir."
"Couldn't agree more," Grant answered with a slight grin. "We've had enough excitement for one day." He turned to go back to the cargo bay, but paused a moment, looking at Pankova. The bruise on her cheek already turned black and blue; her eye was almost swollen shut. Stalley had dressed and treated cuts on her temple and forehead.
Grant walked in front of her, then knelt on a knee. "Are you feeling any better?"
"Somewhat. You know, after all we've been through together, I don't know any of your names." She winced trying to smile. "Or are they government secrets?"
"No, ma'am, not really secrets, but I guess most of the time we like to 'fly under the radar' so to speak. Listen, just to ease your mind, Alexei is safe at the U.S. Embassy in Berlin."
She breathed a heavy sigh, and reached for Grant's hand, feeling its strength and comfort. But then she realized what he'd said. "He's in Berlin?"
"Yes, ma'am, but that'll be explained later." Grant gave only a hint of a smile, then added, "We'll be landing at Tegel. We'll have to contact Washington to confirm where . . ."
"Where I'm to be sent?"
"Yes, ma'am. We land at the military terminal, so there'll be security for you. I have my doubts you'll be staying long, though." Grant stood. He motioned to Stalley, mouthing the word 'water' and tilting his head toward Pankova. Stalley handed her a filled paper cup.
"I know it's noisy in here," Grant smiled, "but you try and get some rest."
Plopping down on the seat next to Adler, he fastened the seat belt, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
"Whatcha thinking?" Adler asked loudly over engine noise.
Grant kept his eyes closed. "Just wondering if CIA found Reznikov."
"Well, while you wonder about that, I'll picture the huge steak I'm gonna order at the first restaurant we see."
Grant slowly rocked his head side to side, and just smiled.
Chapter 10
Russian Embassy
East Berlin
0545 Hours
Kalinin stood, then stretched his back. He and Zykov had been looking through files for hours, trying to find the slightest detail to lead them to Dotsenko. The trip to Schonefeld proved worthless. They couldn't obtain passenger manifests or flight info. The crew aboard the Russian plane had no recollection of a Gulfstream in their vicinity.
The more he thought, the more something inside him said Dotsenko was snatched by a team of Americans. His "capture" had nothing to do with Reznikov's escape.
The only safe haven had to be the American Embassy, but that particular embassy never had listening devices installed by Russia, and as far as he knew, no other agents kept the embassy under surveillance. And to him that made no sense. For the time being, there was no way to prove Dotsenko was even there.
The biggest question still remained: Why the hell did the Americans give him up to begin with? If they knew about his activities in the States, wouldn't they try and obtain valuable information from him, possibly get him to 'turn'?
"What the hell!" Kalinin snapped loudly, pounding a fist against his forehead.
Zykov closed another folder, then looked up. "What?!"
"Nothing is making sense, Oleg. If Americans took Dotsenko, why the fuck did they exchange him to begin with?"
"Maybe you just want it to be the Americans. Have you thought about that?"
Kalinin realized his partner might be right. Two unanswered incidents, neither one making any sense. Kalinin questioned himself now. Why couldn't he just roll all his effort into one? Each time he started down one path, he was distracted by another.
And as far as Reznikov was concerned, CIA was probably still looking for him, too. But there was something that bothered Kalinin about Reznikov's prior terrorist attacks. What had been the purpose? There was never a reason, no proclamation, just destruction and lives lost. Hmm. Americans, West Germans.
He leaned back against a file cabinet, crossing his arms over his chest, then stared down at the scuffed concrete floor. There had to be more to it.
"Nicolai!"
"What?!"
"I said, what do you think?" Zykov turned over another paper.
"Think?!" Kalinin responded, pounding a fist on the file cabinet. "How about pissed and frustrated?"
"What are we missing?" Zykov yawned, scrubbing his hands up and down his cheeks.
Kalinin went quiet, as his thoughts reverted back to the van, and then the car that most likely helped Reznikov escape. "Shit!" He hurried to the file cabinet, started searching for a particular folder, then pulled it out.
Zykov walked to the file cabinet, and propped his elbow on top. "What?!"
Kalinin kept folding over papers, until he found one in particular. "Here it is." He skimmed over the page. "Our intel guys did something good."
"Are you going to keep it a secret?" Zykov asked with his brow furrowing.
"Two years ago, the night the American barracks were blown up, intel intercepted radio messages, frantic messages between the Americans and West Germans. Here! Look!"
Zykov read the three sentences Kalinin was pointing to. "A green, 1970 Trabant. A description of the car!"
"Right."
"But what makes you think they are using the same vehicle? What are those odds?"
"We have to start somewhere, Oleg, and this is all we have right now. Do you have something to write with?" he asked, slapping his own pockets.
"No, but there must be something upstairs." Zykov hurried to the elevator.
Kalinin waited until the elevator doors closed, then he went to another file cabinet, spun the dial, pulled open the drawer, and took out two files. For a brief moment, he hesitated, tapping them against the drawer. Finally making the decision, he tucked them under his shirt in his back waistband, and readjusted his shirt and jacket. He'd read them when he had private time. Hearing the elevator motor, he slammed the drawer shut and spun the dial.
Zykov copied down information on the vehicle, names of individuals who reported the incident, then handed the paper to Kalinin. "Now what?"
"We go to intel, see if they picked up anything new, and hope they have more info on that vehicle. But I want to come back here later. We need to find a connection between those three men."
Zykov put on his jacket, as they walked to the elevator. "They are a terrorist gang, Nicolai!"
Kalinin stopped short, then grabbed Zykov's arm. "Listen to me! There must be a connection. It could be a town, another person. But something or somebody brought those men together! Somebody financed their operations!"
"I guess we will not be getting any sleep for a while."
Kalinin punched the elevator button. "Not likely."
*
Just three blocks northeast of Checkpoint Charlie, in the Sov
iet Zone, was a four-story, standalone concrete building on Kronenstrasse. It was the tallest of its kind within a two-block radius, one of many buildings rebuilt after World War II.
Zykov parked the Volga along a side street. "I hope we are not wasting our time," he said to Kalinin, as both car doors slammed. Kalinin ignored the comment.
The two men showed their IDs to a uniformed guard at the door, even though he recognized them. He snapped to attention, then opened the door.
A wide hallway had elevators to the right, office doors to the left. Black and white portraits of Lenin, Stalin, common workers, paintings of the hammer and sickle were hung on every wall. Straight ahead was a plain, concrete staircase with shiny steel handrails. The two men opted to take the stairs.
Once at the second floor, they walked down a hall to the left, heading for a specific room. Zykov pushed open a heavy wooden door, letting Kalinin enter ahead of him.
On the far wall were blacked out windows preventing light from entering, and prying eyes from seeing. Four rows of desks were in the center of the room. Along both sides were long tables with transcription equipment, teletypes, fax machines. Phones were on each of the 20 desks with a man sitting at each one. Some wore headphones, concentrating on intercepted transmissions, and making notes. Others listened to tape recordings.
A short man, with a dark beard approached the two men. "Comrade Kalinin, Comrade Zykov, is there anything we can help you with?" Boris Yellen asked.
Kalinin unbuttoned his jacket, and removed the paper. "Two things. First we want to look at any information you have on this vehicle. It was involved in the bombing of the U.S. barracks two years ago. Second, have there been any intercepts with reference to Alexei Dotsenko?"
"I will check, Comrade. What timeframe for the Dotsenko intercepts?"
"The past two days."
Yellen glanced at the handwritten note, then went to a file cabinet, and removed a file. He went to his desk and opened a thick ledger, flipped over half of the pages, then ran his finger down columns of dates and names.
Yellen handed him the file. "I could not find any information recorded pertaining to that name, Comrade."
"Shit!" Kalinin said through gritted teeth.
"Comrade Yellen! Sir!" one of the intelligence men shouted. He pulled off his headphones, holding them toward Yellen. "Comrade, you must hear this!"
Kalinin and Zykov hurried across the room, following Yellen. "What is it?" Yellen asked, grabbing the headphones, then holding one side against an ear.
Kalinin stood with his hands on his hips, growing more impatient. Whatever was happening . . .
"Here! I have never heard of the place!" Yellen said, shoving the headphones at Kalinin.
Kalinin slipped the headphones over his head, pressing both sides tightly against his ears. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, trying to pick up every word. The call was being transmitted from Poland, going directly to Moscow. He listened for over two minutes, hearing questions from Moscow and answers from Drazowe. "Holy shit!" He yanked off the headphones, and dropped them on the desk. "You see to it that we receive a copy of that tape with the entire transcript of that transmission before the morning is over! Do you hear me?!"
"Yes, Comrade! We will have it brought to the embassy!"
"Come on!" Kalinin said to Zykov. "We must go to the embassy and talk with Comrade Borskaya!"
"Will you tell me what you heard?!" Zykov asked, trying to catch up to his partner, who was already running toward the stairs.
"Once we are in the car!"
*
Zykov started the engine, then pulled out into traffic. "I am waiting, Nicolai!"
Kalinin rolled down a window, then swiped beads of sweat from his forehead. "That transmission came from Drazowe, Poland."
"Drazowe?! What the hell is at Drazowe?!"
"I am not sure, but it could possibly be a secret army base, since we have never heard of it."
"But what makes you think that? What happened?"
"I did not hear the beginning or names, but the OIC was killed while he was interrogating a female, a spy. She was taken by unknowns."
"She was taken? Another kidnapping?!"
"Maybe not. Perhaps a rescue."
Zykov just shook his head. "There is too much going on here that we know nothing about." He diverted his eyes to Kalinin, then quickly back to the road. "I assume none of those men -- the perpetrators -- were captured?"
"I did not get that far with the transmission." Kalinin went quiet. If he was right, the pieces were beginning to fit together: Dotsenko's kidnapping, and the female spy.
Morning traffic was beginning to build. Zykov turned onto Unter den Linden. They were approaching the embassy, when a vehicle passed them, going in the opposite direction.
"Shit! There he is!" Kalinin shouted, snapping his head around, trying to see out the back window.
"What?!" Zykov didn't know which way to look.
"That was Reznikov! Turn around!"
They were at the next street, already into the turn, when four consecutive explosions, milliseconds apart, sent orange fireballs shooting in every direction. Smoke and dirt nearly obliterated the entire area. Chunks of trees, pieces of concrete, glass, rocks, shot out in every direction, flying across the road, striking vehicles and pedestrians on both sides of the street.
Zykov spun the wheel then hit the brakes. Debris smashed into the back passenger and rear windows, sending glass flying through the car, striking both men. A rock narrowly missed Zykov's head as it flew past, blowing a hole in the windshield.
And then it was over, except for the screams, shouts, and police sirens. Both sides of Unter den Linden were littered with damaged cars, people sitting, laying in the road, on sidewalks. An embassy guard's body was barely visible beneath the rubble of the entry archway.
Kalinin was trying to focus his eyes, as he slowly sat up, feeling pain in the back of his head, neck. He touched the back of his head, then looked at his hand. Blood. More blood trickled from a cut near his eyebrow. Hearing a moan, he finally noticed Zykov slumped against the door. "Oleg," he said, tugging on Zykov's arm. "Are you all right?"
Zykov slowly pushed himself away from the door, then fell back against the seat. A cut on his cheek oozed, blood dripped from his temple. "What the hell happened?"
Kalinin leaned closer to the side window, trying to see through a multitude of spiderweb cracks. What his eyes saw was difficult to comprehend. "The front of the embassy . . . it is . . . gone! Rubble!"
Zykov ducked down, trying to see. "It is not possible!"
"Come on." They both got out. Pieces of glass fell from their clothes as they stood, but they held onto the car doors for support. "Can you walk?" Kalinin asked. Zykov nodded, then started going around the vehicle.
An East German policeman was running toward them, immediately stopping both men. "You cannot go any further." He spotted blood stains on their clothes. "You appear to need some medical care."
Kalinin responded in German as best as he could. "It can wait." He glanced at the smoldering building. "We are -- were employees of the embassy."
With blue lights flashing and sirens blaring, police cars, fire trucks, ambulances neared the horrific scene. Firemen from the first truck wasted little time attaching hoses to hydrants, then directed the powerful water jet back and forth across what once was the embassy's façade. Police held back curious, horrified onlookers, running from every direction. Emergency medical personnel rushed from ambulances.
"Wait here!" the policeman ordered. He went to converse with fellow officers. They were all part of the People's Police (VOPO) and wore green tunics and matching pants, with Norinco Tokarev, short recoil pistols in side holsters. When he returned, he told Kalinin a bomb squad was on its way to search for other possible devices. "Do you know how many people may have been inside?"
"No. Visitors were always possible, but we had a regular staff of twenty-five. And Ambassador Sidorov had his residence on the third fl
oor," Kalinin pointed.
"Do you have any identification?"
"Is this sufficient?" Kalinin asked, showing the KGB badge.
"Of course." He took a pad and pen from his pocket. "Give me as many names as possible of those who worked here." Kalinin and Zykov named as many as they could remember, every now and then looking at the smoldering building. Not a single sign of life, no voices, no cries for help.
If Borskaya was dead, they were on their own. For now, until ordered otherwise, they were still responsible for their mission -- finding Dotsenko. But once Moscow learned that Reznikov committed the terrorist act against the Motherland, the odds were he'd become their number one priority. Either way, they were going to need additional help, even if it was from the East Germans.
Kalinin had to think fast. "We have some information on who may have been responsible. We witnessed a black, four-door 1970 Trabant driving away just prior to the incident."
"How many were in the vehicle?!"
"At least three men."
After answering additional questions, Kalinin and Zykov were treated for their injuries. They waited two hours longer, while the fires were permanently put out. No one had walked out of the building.
Kalinin tapped Zykov's shoulder, and spoke softly. "Time to go."
They maneuvered their way through onlookers, firemen, medics, making it to the car without anyone paying attention to them. The exterior of the Volga was heavily damaged, glass sprayed throughout the interior, but the engine started immediately. Zykov slowly edged the vehicle forward, waiting for people to move aside.
As he turned the corner, he commented, "Nicolai, that vehicle was black. Wasn't . . . ?"
"I know. The report we read showed it was green."
"Then, how can . . . ?"
"Green. Black. Color does not matter, Oleg. I know I saw Reznikov driving!"
"Where to? Intel?"
"Not yet. Go to the next street, then park."
Zykov shot a look at his partner. "What are you planning?"
Operation Gold Eagle Page 10