“Safe trip, Grant.”
Chapter 23
Virginia
Two Chevy Suburbans, with their high beams glaring, traveled along the single-lane road, following closely behind one another. They started slowing as they approached the electronic gate.
Parked just off the shoulder, facing the oncoming Chevys, was an unmarked black van, with its low beams on, its engine running. Two men got out of the cab, as two more walked from the back.
Grant got out of the front passenger side, then walked around the front of the lead Chevy. “Gentlemen,” he said, as his eyes went to each of the four men.
A tall, blond-haired man took a step toward him. “Grant Stevens?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m Special Agent Brad Donlevy.” He pulled the right side of his jacket back, exposing a badge and weapon.
Grant extended a hand. “Agent Donlevy. Ready to assume control of your passengers?”
“We are.” The four agents stood together, three with their hands poised near their firearms. Donlevy held a small notebook and pen.
Grant motioned toward the first Chevy, signaling to Diaz and Novak. They slid out of the rear, then came around to open the back passenger door. The Team in the second Chevy rolled down the windows, then leaned on the door frames.
Novak reached in and helped Gao slide out of the vehicle. He identified Gao as he handed him over to one of the agent’s. The same process went on for the other three prisoners. Inside the van, each prisoner was handcuffed to a bar running the length of a stainless steel bench seat. When all were secure, the agents got in the back of the vehicle and closed the doors.
Donlevy flipped his notebook closed, then put it and his pen in a pocket inside his jacket. He extended a hand toward Grant. “We might be contacting you soon.”
Grant gave a nod. “Look forward to it.” Once the van’s taillights were out of sight, Grant finally relaxed. He got in the Chevy.
“Did I hear you correctly?” Adler asked with some surprise. “You’re looking forward to a meeting with the CIA?!”
“I was just being polite. Okay. Take us home.”
*
Three Days Later
Department of State
Scott Mullins’ Office
Grant and Adler sat in front of Mullins’ desk, flipping through papers, comparing their final AAR to the CIA’s document. While the AAR wasn’t a requirement for the Team, it was one of those CYA (cover your ass) reports. Mullins would retain any and all documents submitted by Alpha Tango.
“Have these been seen by the President?” Grant asked, as he continued scanning the pages.
“I believe so,”Mullins responded. “Why? Do you see any discrepancies?”
“No. Everything matches.” He handed his papers to Adler. “Guess it’s SOP not to put everything in writing, at least for the Agency.”
“Probably. But it looks like your assumptions were correct about the Taiwan ‘team.’”
Grant leaned back, locking his fingers behind his head. “Scary stuff. This seems to happen way too often. Tell me. . .do you know if Lin was American?”
“He was born here, but his parents moved back to Taiwan when he was a little kid.”
“Joe and I figured there’s no way in hell the President will turn Zhu back over to China. But do you have any idea what’s going to happen to Gao?”
Mullins tapped a pencil on his desk, shaking his head slowly. “I tried to find out but couldn’t get anything. My personal guess is the President’s having another long conversation with Chairman Xiaoping. That government’s gotta be concerned about who Gao was working for and the havoc he and his partners were about to cause.”
Adler dropped the papers on the desk and commented, “All the diplomacy would’ve gone right down the shit strainer if anything happened to the V.P.”
“You got that right,” Grant said. “Getting back to Gao. . .my suspicion is once the Agency’s finished with him, they may consider sending him back to China.”
“That’s my vote!” Adler laughed, giving a thumb’s up.
“Oh, one last question, Scott. Have you heard any scuttlebutt if Dao will get a star on the Wall of Honor at the Agency?”
Mullins shook his head. “Nothing’s filtered down, but I can’t see him not getting one.”
Grant slapped his thighs, just before he stood. “Well, guess it’s time we head out. Unless you’ve got another job for us!”
“You’re a glutton for punishment,” Mullins responded, as he walked around to the front of the desk. “And, no, nothing’s come across my desk yet.”
“Good,” Adler said, “‘cause I’m starving!”
Grant picked up his baseball cap from the desk. “How about joining us for lunch?”
Mullins checked his watch. “Have to take a raincheck. I’ve got another meeting with the director in a half hour.”
Grant screwed on his ball cap. “Maybe dinner?”
“That I can do! Call me with time and place.”
“C’mon, Joe. Let’s swing by and see Grigori. Damn! I mean ‘Uri.’ Just can’t get that name to stick in my brain.”
“I’d like to meet that friend of yours,” Mullins said.
“I’ll see that it happens, Scott. He and his wife are really good people.” Handshakes went around and Grant said, “Okay. We’re outta here. See you tonight.”
Even though they were still in the parking garage, the two put on their aviator sunglasses, then settled into the Vette. Grant picked up the mobile phone and punched in a number. “Hey! It’s Grant! Joe and I are on our way over, but just wanted to ask you ahead of time. How about dinner out tonight? Our treat!”
PART II
Team Alpha Tango
How It All Began
Chapter 24
February
Washington, D.C.
2030 Hours
Blackened snow, leftover from the previous week’s storm, was still piled along sidewalks and in alleyways. The nor’easter dumped nearly twelve inches of wet, heavy snow up and down the Eastern seaboard. The temperature had dropped into the low twenties every evening over the past several days.
Puffs of breath constantly wafted into the freezing air as Grant Stevens walked down G Street at a good clip. His gloved hands were shoved into the pockets of his brown leather flight jacket. Its fur collar gave some warmth to his neck. The jacket was given to him by the AE-6B pilot who flew him and Adler from an aircraft carrier back to D.C. after one of their missions.
He talked himself into taking this walk thinking the cold night air and a cup of hot, black coffee might be the answer. His intention was to only clear his brain. . .not freeze it.
Turning down a narrow side street, he was immediately hit by a blast of cold wind. He pulled his watch cap down over his ears, as he stepped over a small mound of frozen snow. Even with heavy socks, his boondockers (black, lace-up boots) barely kept his feet warm. “Colder than a witch’s tit,” he said quietly through clenched teeth. How many times had he heard that aboard a ship floating somewhere in the North Atlantic? Now he questioned why the hell he just didn’t put on a pot of coffee at his apartment.
The small cafe he frequented was situated between a watch repair shop and a used bookstore. It was one of those places only known by locals. A red neon sign hung inside a plate glass window, flashing an outline of a cup of coffee with steam rising from the cup.
The cafe had been around since the early fifties. The current owners refurbished the interior but still kept it decorated from that era. Booths and chairs were covered in shiny, red vinyl. The chair frames were made of chrome. Tabletops were standard white Formica. Against the wall next to the front door was a jukebox, original to the cafe. Tonight, it remained silent.
The door swung open. Grant stepped back, as he grabbed the curved, stainless steel handle. A young couple, bundled up like they’d been to the North Pole, rushed past him, running toward G Street.
Once inside, he removed his cap,
and smoothed back strands of brown hair from his forehead. He picked out a booth near the back, away from the window, then headed for it. The cafe didn’t have any seating hostess. Customers were on their own. Tonight the place was practically empty, most likely because of the cold.
Standing next to the table, he gave a quick glance at three other customers sitting at the counter, all three hunched over coffee cups, sipping their hot drinks.
Removing his gloves, he shoved them and his cap into his pockets, then unzipped his jacket. He slid across the seat, feeling more comfortable near the wall.
A young waiter, wearing white shirt and black pants, walked to his table. He took a pencil from behind his ear, then used the tip of the eraser to push a blond curl from his forehead. “What can I get you?” he said lifting an order pad from his shirt pocket.
Grant looked momentarily at the kid without responding. The curly blond hair caught his attention.
“Something wrong, mister?”
“Oh, no. You just reminded me of a young man I met not too long ago.” Chris Southere. The young man was the nephew of one of the POWs.
“So, what can I get you?”
Grant saw a stick-on name tag on the shirt pocket. “Just black coffee, Brian.”
“You don’t want anything to eat?”
“Maybe later,” Grant answered, assuming the kid didn’t think his tip would be big enough from just an order of coffee. Gotta be a college student, he thought.
Grant blew warm breath into his hands as he watched Brian carrying an overflowing cup to the table. Some of the black brew splashed over the rim, running down the sides.
“Here you go,” Brian said, putting the white mug in front of Grant. He dropped the bill on the edge of the table.
As he started to leave, Grant said, “Hold it.” He removed his wallet from inside his jacket. “Are you in college?”
“Not yet. I start in September.”
Grant took out five dollars, picked up the bill and handed money and bill to the kid.
“I’ll bring your change in a minute.”
“Keep it,” Grant answered, as he slid the mug closer.
“But the coffee was only. . .!”
“I know.”
“Thanks! Thanks a lot, mister! Just let me know if you need anything else.”
Grant pulled a couple of paper napkins from a metal container and wiped the spilled coffee. He picked up the mug and took a sip.
A rush of cold air surged into the cafe as the front door opened, bringing with it a sound of street noise. A man walked into the cafe, with the door automatically closing behind him. He wore a black leather coat with a white scarf wrapped around his neck. He stood there for a moment before removing his black leather gloves. He was tall, maybe in his early sixties, and somebody who looked to be in good shape. His hair had heavy streaks of gray, nearly covering dark brown strands.
Letting his eyes roam around the cafe, he finally settled his gaze on Grant. Then, he started walking toward the back of the cafe.
Grant put the mug on the table, keeping his eyes on the stranger. His senses immediately went on alert. He pressed his back against the seat, waiting, wrapping both hands around the hot coffee mug.
The man stopped next to the table. Grant looked up at this stranger, trying to pull out a name from somewhere in his brain, trying to match it to the face he was looking at. Nothing. A complete blank.
“Hello, Captain Stevens.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry, but you don’t look familiar. Am I supposed to know you?”
“Probably not.”
“Then let’s try this question. Do I know of you?” The stranger gave no indication he was about to reply. Grant pressed further, not sure if he wanted this to continue. “Come on. Give me something. Not even an introduction?”
“Perhaps in time. Would you mind if I sat with you for a while?”
“Does it matter if I say ‘no’?”
The man slapped his gloves against his opposite palm, then smiled slightly. “Please. I’d like to talk with you.”
Trying to prepare himself for just about anything now, Grant responded, “The seat’s yours. But don’t plan on staying long.”
The stranger dropped his gloves on the table then unwound his cashmere scarf from his neck. He sat down heavily on the vinyl seat, directly opposite Grant.
The waiter rushed over to the new customer. “Can I get you anything?”
Without taking his eyes from Grant’s, the man replied, “Not now.”
No words passed between the two men for what seemed like a very long minute. Red flags starting popping up in Grant’s brain, signaling caution. What made him more uncomfortable was the thought this guy could’ve followed him from his apartment.
He pushed the coffee cup aside, then propped his elbows on the table. Squeezing one fist with his other hand, he finally said, “Look, I don’t have ESP. So, are you gonna tell me what this is about?”
The man gave an almost indiscernible smile. “Let’s just say I have a proposition for you.”
Grant leaned back, then pulled the coffee mug closer to the edge of the table. He arched an eyebrow and asked, “A proposition? You won’t tell me who you are, but you want to make me a proposition?”
“Would it help if I told you that we have a mutual friend?”
“It would help even more if you told me who you and this friend of yours were.”
“What I will tell you, Captain, is that you come very highly recommended by this ‘friend.’”
Grant sipped on his warm coffee, looking dead-on at this stranger, a stranger whose answer was beginning to intrigue him. “I’m gonna get a warm-up. Want something?”
“Coffee.”
Grant motioned for the waiter, then ordered two coffees. Once the waiter left, Grant held the mug close to his lips, blowing some breath into the fresh, hot brew.
As the man stirred sugar into his coffee, Grant broke the brief silence. “Whoever this ‘friend’ is, I guess he didn’t tell you I’m no longer on active duty. I’ve retired. You don’t have to call me ‘Captain.’”
“Oh, no. He told me. That’s the main reason why I’m here.” The man continued stirring the coffee, then he leaned against the table and lowered his voice. “He told me about your ‘adventures’ and accomplishments over the course of your career. I know what you’ve done for this country. In my opinion, Grant Stevens, you still deserve to be called ‘Captain.’”
Grant put the coffee mug on the table and pushed it aside. Taking a quick glance around the cafe, he noticed that he and “whoever he was” were the only two customers remaining. Closing time was twenty-three hundred hours. It was approaching twenty-one fifteen.
Watching Grant look around the room, he asked, “I assume we’re alone?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we are. Does that mean you’re about to give me more. . .” Grant became quiet, then said suspiciously, with his eyes narrowing, “Tell me you’re not with the ‘Cowboys.’” He referred to the CIA, the “Cowboys In Action.”
“If you’re referring to the CIA, no, I’m not.”
Grant was feeling uneasy, and for more than one legitimate reason. “I’ll give you thirty seconds to fill me in; otherwise, one of us is outta here.”
“Why don’t we start with a name. You can call me ‘Mr. Young.’”
“‘Mr. Young’? That’s it? How long until we’re on a first name basis?” Grant smirked.
Young looked at his Rolex. “Tell you what. It’s still early in the evening. If you’re willing to take a ride with me, I’ll give you complete details as to why I wanted to meet you. I’ll even give you my first name, and the name of our friend.”
“How about you tell me now?”
Young just shook his head. “I’d rather not. Look, just come with me. Perhaps I’m the one taking the chance. I’m well aware of your karate abilities, and I can assure you, I’m not armed.”
Grant pictured his .45 locked in a small safe in his ap
artment. Bluffing, he patted the left side of his jacket. “Never leave home without it.”
He slid across the seat, then stood up. Standing next to the table, he pulled his gloves and watch cap from his pocket. “Well,” he finally said, “you’ve peaked my curiosity. Let’s go.”
*
Grant walked a half step behind Young as they made their way to G Street. Occasionally taking a quick glance over his shoulder, he wondered if he was being smart. Who the hell was this guy?
Young stopped by the curb, and readjusted his scarf. Grant cautiously walked up next to him. “Need to hail a cab?”
No sooner did he get the words out, when a silver, four-door Jaguar XJ12L pulled next to the curb and stopped. Young opened the back door and climbed in, scooting to the opposite side.
Grant leaned toward the open door, trying to get a look at the driver, who appeared to pay him no mind. Sliding onto the leather seat, Grant closed the door.
The interior of the Jag had that new car smell. The leather seats were a dark silver-color. The door trim, dashboard and steering wheel were natural walnut. A car phone was encased in the armrest between the two front bucket seats, with another phone mounted on a panel behind the driver’s seat. Every detail was first class.
Crossing the Potomac, they headed out of D.C. and continued west. Most of the route Grant was familiar with, until they turned south. They were leaving city lights behind, heading to the country. The Jag picked up speed.
Grant’s concentration was broken with the sound of Young’s voice. “Captain.”
Turning slightly in the seat, Grant looked at him and responded, “Mr. Young.”
Shanghai Mission Page 17