by Ted Halstead
But never take anything for granted. So, Martins and his men had been systematically sweeping the possible target offices in their assigned building for over an hour when the word finally came over their radio earpieces.
Wade was arriving.
There had been no hint so far that any attack was imminent. Was this going to turn out to be a big waste of time?
No sooner had the thought crossed Martins' mind than he saw movement at an office window just as he moved his scope on to look at another location. He immediately moved back to where he had seen something move and…yes!
It was a rifle barrel, pointing down to where Wade had just exited his vehicle.
Martins quickly calculated where he thought the sniper would be relative to the rifle barrel and fired.
He heard a clamor of voices over his earpiece. Martins had been too late.
Whoever it was had already fired on Wade.
The rifle barrel was no longer visible.
Cursing, Martins reached for the radio to call the police.
Was Wade dead?
Chapter Fifty-Five
Downtown Office Building
San Francisco
His training told Grishkov to stay focused on the target area since Vasilyev would fire any second.
But some instinct told Grishkov to do another counter-sniper sweep, though the many he had done over nearly an hour had turned up nothing.
And this time, all he saw was a distant glint of light that vanished almost as rapidly as it had appeared.
Grishkov launched himself at Vasilyev and landed on him an instant before a shower of glass was accompanied by a rush of wind and a distinct "thwock" some distance behind them. The momentum of Grishkov’s leap carried them both about a meter from Vasilyev’s former position.
Grishkov was spared having to ask whether Vasilyev had been hit when he heard his wry voice say, "Time to go!"
Hunched low, both of them rushed towards the exit door, half expecting more rounds to follow.
None did.
Grishkov wondered whether it was because the shooter could no longer see them or was merely content with stopping their attack.
As Grishkov closed the office door behind them, he shrugged. It didn't matter. At least, they had survived.
Now to see if they could escape. Whoever had fired at them had certainly contacted the authorities, who would be here in minutes.
Or seconds.
At least there were no curious neighbors in sight. As they walked the short distance to the elevator, the other doors in the hallway remained firmly closed.
Testimony to excellent soundproofing? Or to American caution at exploring whether an unexplained sound meant a gunshot?
Grishkov's money was on a call from his neighbors that would help pinpoint where the police should go.
The elevator opened promptly and didn't stop until depositing them at the building's basement level, below even the parking garage. The locked door directly in front of the elevator quickly yielded to Grishkov's tools and experience.
In fact, Grishkov had picked this door's lock several days before and thoroughly explored the level. Filled with pipes and equipment, it had no offices, and Grishkov was sure nobody ventured into the level unless it was necessary to conduct repairs.
As they walked quickly to their next destination, Grishkov asked in a low voice, "Did you have time to take the shot?"
Vasilyev nodded and replied in an even lower voice. "Yes, just as you slammed into me. But I have no idea whether I hit the target."
Then he quickly added, "Not that I have any complaints. In fact, thanks."
Grishkov nodded absently. "A simple act of self-preservation. Between them, Neda and Arisha would have left nothing but bones if I'd failed to bring you back intact."
Vasilyev grinned. "Yes, we're both fortunate to have found such formidable women."
His smile disappeared as they arrived in front of a bare metal door set into the basement's far wall.
"I have to tell you, I'm still not too fond of your escape plan," Vasilyev said.
Grishkov nodded. "I'm not either. But I think it's our best chance."
With that, he used his tools on the lock, which was even easier to pick.
Well, Grishkov thought, what was it really protecting?
A short distance past the door was a metal grate, which once removed revealed a set of metal handholds leading down into darkness.
Grishkov had been inspired to look into this means of escape by his father, who had fought in the Second World War as a very young man. He had told Grishkov several stories about one of his friends who had survived months of guerilla fighting against occupying German and Romanian forces in Odessa.
In large part, because of Odessa’s two thousand five hundred kilometers of underground tunnels. With about a thousand known entrances. Though some were natural, most of the tunnels had been created as a byproduct of limestone mining.
Remembering those stories, Grishkov had checked on whether San Francisco had a substantial network of tunnels. He had been delighted to find that its one hundred twenty-seven square kilometers were home to about one thousand six hundred kilometers of walkable tunnels. Tunnels that were to be found underneath every city block.
Grishkov had been less excited to find that they were sewer mains, some dating back to the 1840s. Fortunately, the city's sewer mains also happened to be the only ones in California combining waste and stormwater transport. This dilution didn't quite make their upcoming walk a pleasant prospect.
But according to the accounts of many unauthorized explorers, it did make it survivable.
Fortunately, they didn't have too far to go. San Francisco's subway system had fifty stations, and they were headed towards one about two kilometers away. Not the closest station available, but instead one Grishkov had picked because he expected it to be outside the initial police search perimeter.
Grishkov had spent hours committing the route to memory, and his recollection proved accurate. Within minutes, they stood in front of another set of metal rungs and began to climb.
Grishkov breathed a sigh of relief as the metal grate at the top lifted away both smoothly and quietly. He had the tools to defeat a lock, but time was critical.
They had no way to know how quickly the police would react to their attack or how widely their net would be spread. But seconds were likely to count.
Grishkov and Vasilyev found themselves in a small room occupied by pipes and what looked like a meter. And no hint that anyone was likely to come here soon.
That was good because they needed privacy.
Grishkov zipped open his tool bag and removed its other contents.
Clothes and shoes for both of them. After their stroll in the sewers it was a critical step in the escape plan.
Once they had changed, Grishkov nodded to Vasilyev, who nodded back and closed his eyes. He also knew to hold his breath.
Grishkov did the same and emptied the contents of an aerosol can over both of them. The KGB's 14th Department had been tasked decades before with developing a method to conceal even the most pungent odors, including decomposing bodies. The agent at the consulate who had given Grishkov the can had assured him it worked.
He'd been grinning as he said it, though.
"I think that's enough," Vasilyev said quietly.
Grishkov set the can down gently on the cement floor. No need to risk drawing attention.
He carefully opened his eyes, which stung sharply enough that he closed them again immediately. Grishkov next risked a quick breath.
And suppressed an urge to cough and perhaps reveal their presence. Who knew who might be just outside their small room?
Grishkov waited a few moments. Then he wiped his eyes with his sleeve and risked opening them again. Better.
Then he drew another breath and was relieved the urge to cough was gone. Now, though, he could distinguish at least one of the active agents used by KGB scientists.
Lemon oil.
Well, it could be worse. Wrinkling his nose, Grishkov amended that. Moments ago, it had been worse.
Grishkov looked across at Vasilyev, who he saw was still rubbing his eyes. Shortly, though, he nodded.
Ready to go.
Grishkov carefully opened the door and peeked outside.
Nobody in sight.
A few minutes later, they were standing in front of an elevator with only one button. Grishkov assumed correctly that was because "Up" was the only direction available.
The elevator doors opened, and they entered just as a voice behind them said, "Hey, who are you guys? You're not supposed to be down here!"
Grishkov's finger stabbed the "Door Close" button as he turned to see the source of the voice running towards them.
The man had close-cut graying hair and was wearing a leather tool belt. As the elevator doors closed, Grishkov could see him pull a walkie-talkie from it.
On the bright side, they didn't have to deal with the man.
On the other, Grishkov was certain building security had just been alerted.
Had they already been notified that the police were searching for assassins in the area?
Grishkov had pressed the button for the next level, hoping it would lead to a ground-level exit. This time, though, as the doors opened, he could see he had miscalculated.
The lack of windows said they were still underground. The large white machines, rising steam, and cloth baskets full of sheets made it immediately clear this was a laundry. Probably for the hotel that was supposed to occupy this building.
They stepped back into the elevator and pressed the button for the next level.
Nothing happened.
Apparently, security had already locked down the elevator.
Not good.
Grishkov spotted a door some distance away with the word "Exit" over it, and ran towards it, Vasilyev close behind.
Just as Grishkov's hand closed on the door's handle, they could both hear shouting behind them.
The door wasn't locked. It opened on a stairwell, with steps leading both up and down.
Well, they weren't going back into the sewers. Up it was two steps at a time.
The next door had a narrow glass pane set into its top half. Grishkov looked through it and immediately saw the level lacked what he needed.
Windows.
Grishkov continued bounding up the stairs, with Vasilyev right behind. Now they could both hear someone on the stairs below them.
Grishkov didn't bother looking before opening the next door. Still no windows, but quite a few people walking around. On his right, Grishkov saw a glass-sided room filled with exercise equipment. A strong chlorine smell announced the presence of an indoor swimming pool on his left before he even saw it.
Grishkov and Vasilyev walked as quickly as they thought they could without attracting attention. So far, it seemed to be working.
But how were they going to get out of here?
Grishkov's heart leaped as he saw a sign even better than the "Exit" sign he'd been hoping to spot. It had an arrow pointing straight ahead and the word, "BART."
Bay Area Rapid Transit. The subway. As he had thought, there was an underground walkway leading from this hotel directly to a station. Until now, though, he hadn't been sure he could find it.
Grishkov had to suppress the urge to look behind him. He knew if they were still being pursued, it would merely help remove any doubt that they were the trespassers being sought.
A sign directly over a heavy metal door on their left once again said "BART," and Grishkov opened it to find an empty corridor, with another door at its end.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Grishkov nodded at Vasilyev, and they both began to run. Just as they reached the next door, they could hear the one behind them swing open.
"Hey, you there!" was all Grishkov heard before the second door closed behind them.
And revealed a swirling mass of people in front of the subway station. Grishkov and Vasilyev quickly merged with them and arrived at the entrance. Both had smartcards provided by the consulate, allowing entry with just a tap on a reader.
Grishkov had seen that all four subway lines available here at "Embarcadero" led to their destination station called "Civic Center/UN Plaza" as long as they picked one going in the right direction. Moments later, a train had arrived, and they were on their way.
There was no indication building security had pursued them to the station. Probably their authority ended at the last door they had opened, Grishkov thought.
He was sure, though, that they had called the police. Grishkov doubted the police would attach a high priority to trespassers who had stolen nothing and caused no damage.
With luck, the police wouldn't connect that trespassing report to their attack on Wade. At least, not in time.
Annoyed looks from some of the other passengers encouraged them to maintain their distance to the extent possible. It seemed the smell of lemons still lingered.
Grishkov sighed and said, "I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at a bottle of cognac again."
Vasilyev looked at him curiously and then smiled. "I get it. I remember my father drinking a glass of cognac once with a side of sliced lemons. I thought he was crazy. I'll never forget how surprised he was at my reaction."
Grishkov snorted and shook his head. In a low voice, he said, "I'll add that to the long list of things I liked about Alexei. You youngsters have a lot to learn about real Russian culture."
Vasilyev smiled again, but Grishkov could see the worry in his eyes. "Think there'll be a reception party once we get there?"
Grishkov shrugged. "I doubt it. They have no way to know which station we'd use to leave the subway system, so would have to put men at every exit. And with what description? I picked these clothes to be as anonymous as possible."
Vasilyev nodded. It was true. They had on solid-colored khakis and polo shirts that matched those worn by several other men in this very subway car.
Though not everyone was wearing caps and sunglasses. Since it was one of San Francisco's rare clear sunny days, Grishkov had been forced to abandon their usual hooded windbreakers.
It took less than ten minutes for the subway train to reach their destination. As they exited the station, Grishkov and Vasilyev looked around as unobtrusively as possible for any police who might be searching for them.
Neither saw anyone suspicious.
Instead, they saw exactly what they needed.
A taxi.
Both of them piled into the cab, and Grishkov said to the driver, "Pier 39, please."
The driver nodded and put the car in gear. After a few minutes, he glanced in the rearview mirror and asked, "You guys been polishing furniture?"
Grishkov didn't understand the question but decided it was safest to nod.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. My wife loves the stuff. I'm not a big fan of the smell, but I know better than to complain. I mean, it could be worse, right?" the driver asked.
Vasilyev and Grishkov both smiled and nodded. Grishkov added, "My father always said keeping complaints to yourself is the secret to a long marriage. I never heard him say it while my mother was around, though."
The driver laughed. "Sounds like your dad was a smart guy. I've been following his advice for almost thirty years. Well, mostly. Whenever I forgot and opened my big mouth, I always regretted it."
Grishkov nodded. "It helps that my wife is nearly always right, anyway, so I'm not often tempted to argue."
The driver smiled. "Sounds like the son is just as smart as his father. How many years do you have in?"
Grishkov correctly guessed he meant years of marriage. "Eighteen, so I'm not quite up to your record."
"That's OK," the driver said. "I'm sure you'll get there. Now, what are you guys planning to do at Pier 39?"
Grishkov shrugged. "A friend told us it was a good place to walk around. Said we'd see some sea lions. Lots of restaurants to choose
from when we get hungry."
The driver nodded. "Your friend was right. And you're in luck. Traffic has been a breeze today for a change, and we're just about there."
Indeed, less than a minute later, the taxi slid to a stop in front of the pier.
"The fare's twenty-five bucks," the driver said.
Grishkov nodded and handed the driver two twenty-dollar bills, saying, "Keep the change."
"Nice!" the driver exclaimed. Then he handed Grishkov a card with a name and a phone number.
"If you guys need any other rides, call me anytime! Have a great day!" the driver said and pulled back into traffic.
Grishkov pocketed the card and walked with Vasilyev towards the nearby boats. Both of them looked from side to side but saw no one noteworthy among the throng of visitors.
"Well, I must admit I thought it odd to travel away from our ultimate destination at first. But I can't argue with the results," Vasilyev said.
Grishkov shrugged. "What mattered was putting distance between ourselves and the event. If anyone is thinking about someone leaving San Francisco in a hurry, I hope they'll think first about airports and trains."
Vasilyev frowned. "Airports, plural?"
"Yes. The subway system we just left could have taken us to two different international airports. The first, designated for San Francisco, is one of America's largest. The other across the bay in Oakland is much smaller but still has multiple flights to both Mexico and Europe," Grishkov said.
"But not good options for us," Vasilyev said quietly, glancing at the crowds of nearby tourists.
"No. Now, we just have to find the right slip. They're supposed to be grouped by size. The boat we're looking for is about fifteen meters long. I have the boat's name and slip number, so it shouldn't be too hard to find," Grishkov said.
"Perhaps I can help," a familiar voice said behind them.
Grishkov and Vasilyev both wheeled around to find a grinning Alina, resplendent in a smart white outfit with a matching white hat.
"Let's go fishing," she said.