“Have to consider contacting Jack Edwards.”
Torrinson was silently giving approval by nodding his head. Then something dawned on him. “Wait a minute. You said ‘friend.’ Don’t you have two Italians there?”
“Yes, sir. I’m thinking about just returning Castalani, since he’s the one who Falcone’s wanting to get his hands on. I might just let the other guy fend for himself. He’ll probably live in fear for the rest of his life, anyway.”
Torrinson pushed away his plate with a half-eaten cheeseburger and cold french fries remaining. “This sure has turned into one hell of an op, Grant,” he commented as he took a sip from a can of flat Pepsi.
“I know, sir.” Grant rubbed a hand across his forehead, with his thoughts briefly turning to sleep he hadn’t had in--he couldn’t remember how long it’d been. Dark circles under his eyes only proved the fact. “Oh, sir, any word on the injured Italians the chopper took out of here?”
“The medical staff on the carrier did their best to patch them up, then they made arrangements with the civilian hospital in Catania to transport them there. That’s where they should be by now.”
“All of them, sir?”
“As far as I know. Oh, by the way, State’s heard from the Russian ambassador.”
Uh oh, Grant thought. “Yes, sir?”
“Ambassador Yakunin has requested that Colonel Moshenko proceed to East Germany with Tarasov and Rusnak.”
“Sir, you don’t think they’re aware of Grigori’s helping on this one, do you?”
“I sure as hell didn’t spread the word.”
“Of course not, sir. I didn’t mean to imply that, sir.”
Torrinson laughed to himself. Every once in awhile he liked to yank Grant’s chain. “Do you think he’ll have a problem with his comrades possibly spilling the beans?”
“Grigori can take care of himself, and he has a certain way with people, comrades or not.”
Torrinson reached for his cheeseburger again, took a bite, then spit it out. Grabbing his cloth napkin, he tried to wipe the cold grease off his tongue. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Have to talk with the team, sir, but I can guarantee this will be finished today.”
“Good luck, Grant.”
Five minutes later Grant was walking across the compound slowly, with his head down and his hands shoved into his back pockets. Halfway to the barracks, he stopped, clasped his hands behind his head and looked up. He just stood there, trying to put his thoughts in some kind of reasonable order.
Should he touch base with Jack Edwards? Edwards already had somewhat of a loose relationship with Falcone. But he couldn’t even be sure if Edwards would be willing to make the introductions.
He shook his head and started pacing. It ate him up thinking he had to deal with the Agency, but he may have no choice. He didn’t think he could just drive up to the warehouse and expect Falcone to let him in. No. He had to contact Edwards. Make Falcone aware he’d be delivering his “package.”
Okay, then what? He pounded his forehead with his fist. “Think, Stevens, think,” he said under his breath. Negotiate with Falcone. Maybe a trade. Castalani for the canister. Simple enough, and sometimes simple is best--but sometimes simple is stupid. But what if Falcone had his own plans for Castalani and the gas? He may not want to give it up so easily.
Moore and Adler walked up behind him, with Adler asking, “Anything we can help with, Skipper?”
Grant turned, was silent for a minute, then said, “Ray, try one more time to see if you can find out where that canister was being taken. Get as many details as you can.” Noticing that Castalani was still sitting on the ground, he added, “And get one of the marines to put that bastard in the hangar. Keep him out of sight.” Moore rushed off.
Grant stepped closer to Adler, staring at him dead on. “You get your head straight yet?”
“I’m ready to go forth, my fearless leader! When we gonna get this show on the road?”
“As soon as I touch base with Jack Edwards.”
“You pulling him in on this?” Adler’s eyebrows raised, not expecting the comment, especially knowing how Grant usually felt about Agency peeps.
“Think it’s best. Don’t think we can just drop in on Mafia. Since Edwards has been on speaking terms with Falcone, he’s probably our only hope to get in the door.” Grant looked over Adler’s shoulder, seeing Moore holstering his sidearm as he hustled toward them.
“Did you use more friendly persuasion, Ray? Hope you got something.”
“Affirmative. Last that clown knew, his friend was to deliver the canister to Falcone someplace not far from the commercial docks.”
Again Grant smacked his fist into his palm. “I knew that bastard had more to say.” But then he started feeling frustrated again. “Shit! Please don’t tell me it’s the warehouse. There’re too many damn places they could’ve hidden that canister.”
“Negative. Not the warehouse. Seems Falcone has a freakin’ hundred foot Benetti yacht docked in a marina just north of the warehouse location. That guy,” Moore indicated with a thumb over his shoulder, “is pretty certain from directions given to him and his partner, that that’s the location of the canister.”
This particular yacht was built at Benetti Yachts. A luxury yacht with three decks, she has a beam of twenty feet and maximum depth draught of eight and a half feet. Her hull was built out of steel and the superstructure over the hull is fashioned out of aluminum. With her twin GM diesel engines, her top speed is approximately fifteen knots and a cruising speed of twelve knots, giving her a range of thirty-eight hundred miles.
On the forward deck is a hydraulic winch, allowing easy launching and retrieving of a nine foot inflatable boat, a Zodiac. The transom of the inflatable is rigid, providing strength for the mounting of its outboard motor.
“Makes more sense than a warehouse,” Adler commented. “But that’s one helluva big boat, Skipper.”
Grant nodded in agreement, before turning to Moore. “See if Vince can get a marina name and the name of that yacht, and any specific details. We’ll be right behind you.”
He thought about Adler’s question, trying to reason where a canister could be stowed--a canister of nerve gas, on a vessel that size. But there wasn’t any reason for Falcone to think his secret wasn’t still safe. Grant was betting it was stored where Falcone could keep an eye on it, like maybe the bridge. With the canister being the size of a grapefruit, it wouldn’t take up much room.
They were going to have to give themselves enough time for the search, and before daylight. Grant glanced at his watch. It was 1145 hours. The drive to Palermo would take two and a half to three hours.
“So? Any idea on where to start looking?” Adler asked.
“I’d say start at the bridge and work our way down, Joe.”
Adler nodded, asking, “You still thinking of bringing Edwards in on this?”
“Don’t see any way around it. Oh, by the way, the admiral reported that the injured Italians were transported from the carrier to a hospital in Catania.”
Adler blew out a long breath, then asked, “All of them?”
“He seemed to think so. Feel better?” Grant asked, laying his hand on Adler’s shoulder.
“Yeah, sure do.”
Grant noticed Moshenko leaning against the doorframe, puffing on a cigar. “Joe, give us a minute.” Adler went inside. Grant anchored his thumbs in his back pockets and propped a foot on the doorstep. “Grigori, listen. I talked with Admiral Torrinson about your helping us.”
“And he said. . .?” Moshenko asked, almost not wanting to hear the answer.
“Ambassador Yakunin has requested you take the comrades to East Germany like originally planned. I’m sorry, Grigori.”
Moshenko flicked an ash from the cigar, looking down, shaking his head. “Very disappointing, Grant.”
“Look, Grigori. You went through one helluva ordeal here, not to mention saving our butts up at the cave. You need to fly outta
here, then go home to Alexandra. Hey, you don’t think the comrades will ‘rat’ on you, do you?”
“‘Rat’ on me?” Moshenko asked, wrinkling his brow.
“Yeah, squeal on you, tell somebody what you did for us.”
“No, I do not think they will ‘rat’ on me. I reminded them you saved their lives, and I will remind them again if I must.” His face broke out in a mischievous grin, revealing his chipped front tooth. “And we will be flying over a good deal of open water on our way. Strange things happen over water, Grant, no?”
“You’ve read and listened to too many stories, my friend,” Grant answered, giving a wink.
Moshenko broke the end from his cigar, tucking the remainder into his jacket pocket. “I will need to make contact with the Leningrad.” The Russian ship was a Moskva class helicopter carrier.
“Sure, Grigori. You need to use the phone in the AFN building?”
Moshenko shook his head. “I will use the radio in the helicopter.”
He started to walk away, when Grant grabbed his arm. “You remember the conversation we had about D.C.?” Moshenko nodded. “I’ll be there for you, my friend. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Looking back as he was entering the barracks, Grant could tell Moshenko had some concern for his immediate future. Now Grant had to erase the feeling of guilt for getting his good friend involved in the op.
Chapter 19
AFN - Barracks
1215 Hours
Grant sat near the end of the long wooden table, balancing himself on the back legs of a chair, rocking back and forth. He couldn’t waste any more time if this op was going to end today like he promised Torrinson.
His next order of the day was to contact Edwards in Naples. He had to convince him to set up a meeting with Falcone. Maybe it wouldn’t take much convincing considering what happened to Agent Fierra, whether or not Fierra died because of an accident or not. It was still an agent lost.
He stopped rocking suddenly. The front chair legs struck the floor. Wait one, he thought. What if they made Falcone just think there was going to be a meeting? What if they send him to some bullshit location while the team investigates the yacht? At this point, the yacht seems to be the most logical place for Falcone to have stashed the canister. Easy to hide. Easy to transport. Easy to dispose of.
He rested his elbows on his knees. Could it be? Is it possible Falcone wants to dispose of the canister and Castalani? And at the same time? “Change of plans, Stevens!” he spat out, as he jumped up, sending the chair backwards.
“Skipper!” Adler yelled from the other side of the room, as he and Moore started running.
Grant turned toward them, holding up a hand. “Whoa! Hold it, guys! Just had a thought.”
“Christ! That must’ve been one helluva thought!” Adler exclaimed loudly.
Grant started past them. “I’ve gotta call Edwards. Ray, have the men check every piece of gear. Joe, have your men start working on closing that tunnel. And see if you can find Keith. Maybe he’ll be good enough to bring us something light to eat.”
“Still got a huge pot of leftover pasta, boss.”
“Carbs. Sounds good, because this day’s got long written all over it.”
Adler yelled after him. “You gonna fill us in?”
Running across the compound, Grant raised a hand, giving Adler a slight wave.
**
U.S. Embassy
Office of Jack Edwards
Leaning back in a swivel chair with his feet propped up on his desk, fifty-two year old Jack Edwards was gnawing on the eraser of a yellow pencil. His new prescription black, horn-rimmed bifocals were resting on top of his head, nearly completely covered by a shock of gray hair.
Dropping his feet to the floor, he reached for a manila folder. Pulling his glasses from his head, he adjusted them on his nose as he was opening the folder. Two pieces of fax paper were attached to the right hand side. The top paper had a heading, OFFICE OF THE MEDICAL EXAMINER.
Resting a forearm on either side of the folder, he perused the report for the third time, his eyes zeroing in on one particular box, number eleven: Blood (Type; Alcohol Content). The report showed Agent Fierra’s blood type as A+ (A positive). But it was the next notation that caused Edwards both distress and rage: Alcohol Content - .093%.
He kept drawing circles around the figure with his pencil, pressing harder and harder, until the point snapped off. Edwards knew that Fierra wasn’t a drinker because of medication he was taking.
“That fuckin’ bastard!” he shouted, throwing the pencil on the desk. Flopping back against the chair, he swiveled it rapidly back and forth, stopping suddenly when his intercom buzzed. He flipped the switch. “What, Gail?”
Forty year old, recently divorced, bleached blonde Gail McCarthy had just been posted to Naples as Edwards’ secretary. Still trying to regain her self-confidence and self-esteem, she was finding it difficult to understand Edwards’ occasional outbursts, and responded timidly, “Jack, there’s a Captain Stevens on line one.”
Edwards started to press the yellow blinking button, hesitated, then punched it with a knuckle, finally picking up the receiver. “Captain Stevens, your timing’s perfect.” Without giving Grant a chance to speak, Edwards immediately continued, “Let me read you something from a fax I received not too long ago.”
The two men discussed the report, with Grant relaying all the information he got out of the two Italians. And after nearly forty minutes of conversation, Edwards stood slowly, not quite sure if he heard Grant correctly. “Would you repeat that, Captain? What exactly is it you want me to do?”
Confirming Grant’s request, Edwards finally responded, with amusement in his voice. “Sure. Sure. I know somebody. Absolutely! He’s very dependable.” Edwards was nearly jumping out of his skin, ready for “bear.” He flopped down in his chair. “Okay, consider it done, as long as you do me a favor.”
**
Grant stepped through the doorway of the barracks, sniffing the odor of a cigar. Moshenko was coming down the stairs, carrying his luggage in one hand, a cigar in the other. Tarasov and Rusnak were standing near the galley, waiting.
Moshenko motioned to the two, indicating for them to head to the chopper. He walked up to Grant. “My friend, walk with me.”
Grant hooked his thumbs in his back pockets as the two men walked side by side. “Grigori, I’m really concerned about. . .”
“Do not be, Grant. I will be fine. Believe me. My trip home will be a ‘piece of cake’ as you say.” Stepping next to the helo, he slid the door back.
Both Tarasov and Rusnak turned toward Grant. Surprisingly, they each extended a hand, and said, “Spaseeba, Captain Stevens.”
Grant responded, “Pazhahlsta.” (You’re welcome.)
The two Russians climbed into the helo, immediately taking their seats, then fastened the seatbelts. Rusnak made sure the box containing the tea cups was secured on the seat near him, also fastened with a seatbelt.
Moshenko shoved his luggage toward the cockpit, then dropped the stub of his cigar on the ground, grinding it with the toe of his shoe. Then he turned to Grant, throwing his strong arms around him in a bear hug. “I will keep your words in my mind, Grant,” he whispered, slapping him on the back. He turned away, then climbed into the helo.
Grant called after him. “Grigori, give Alexandra a hug from me, okay?” The request finally got a smile from Moshenko, before he headed to the cockpit.
Grant started backing up as the rotors started revolving, the blades picking up speed. Moshenko adjusted the collective pitch control lever, and the helo started its vertical climb.
Adler stepped next to Grant, both tilting their heads, following the chopper during its climb. They stood at attention, holding a salute, seeing Moshenko looking down at them through the windshield.
When the chopper passed three hundred feet, Moshenko finally adjusted the cyclic pitch control, changing the pitch of a blade, causing it to take a “larger bite” of
air during the after part of the rotor’s revolution. The helo tilted slightly, with its nose down, as Moshenko eased the stick forward, setting a course east, flying to meet up with the Leningrad.
When the chopper was out of sight, Grant brushed his hair off his forehead, saying to Adler, “Let’s go.”
“Did you talk with Edwards?”
“That’s where our planning comes in, Joe,” he grinned.
**
AFN
1500 Hours
EOD continued working in the tunnel, and after Adler reviewed complete instructions on how he wanted the job done, he put his three men in complete control of closing it off. They decided the best way to proceed was to set the charges along the beams, causing a cave-in. Since the height of the tunnel was no more than seven feet, the Italian workers could use bulldozers to scoop up dirt from outside the compound, and backfill the tunnel. Once the surface had been leveled, a concrete pad was planned for the water storage on one end. Adler suggested a helo pad be constructed near the opposite end.
Inside the barracks, the SEALs prepared for the mission. Russo succeeded in obtaining the requested information from Rocca. He reported the name of the marina where Falcone’s yacht was docked as “Aquasanta Marina.” The registered name of the vessel is “Sacco di Soldi” (lots of money). Registry: Monaco. According to Rocca, a maximum of five crewmen maintain the vessel, but they’re only onboard when Falcone decided to cruise. He never had guards specifically for his boat, mostly because everyone knew who the owner was. And since the marina was private, security was automatically provided.
For another two hours they huddled over a map, discussing a route, then went over final, critical details. Satisfied they’d covered and prepared for every possible situation, Simpson and Lewis drove the trucks to Motta, searching for gas, while Womack, Cranston and Russo organized their gear, checked all weapons and ammo.
Grant, Adler and Moore sat together. “I’m in on this one, right, Skipper?” Adler questioned, as he continued picking at the crusty leftover bread.
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