Code Name Antares

Chapter 10

Diaz stood by the large picture window with one hand resting on the wood frame, the other holding a can of Pepsi. Any minute now Grant should be arriving, driving his black Vette. Diaz thought as menacing as that Vette looked, it wouldn’t compare to Grant’s expression. The meeting wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Hey, Frank!” Adler called from the kitchen.

Diaz turned around, took a gulp of his drink, then walked to the kitchen. “Yeah, LT?”

Adler rested his elbows on the counter, as he balled up a wad of napkins. “You’ve been worried shitless since you walked in the door.” Diaz sucked on more Pepsi, then just shrugged his shoulders. “Hey!” Adler called, as he threw the crumpled napkins, hitting Diaz square in the face. “C’mon! Get your mind on track and remember every minute detail from this morning. Did you have glasses on that newspaper? Was there anything that made that car stand out?”

Diaz’s head started bobbing up and down. “I got ya, LT.” He hustled over the the table. Sliding a pad and pencil toward him, he grabbed the pencil and started jotting down notes.

“Need some help?” James asked dragging a chair closer.

“You’re in this just as deep as me!” Diaz replied, jabbing James’ ribs with an elbow.

Ten minutes later, they heard the deep rumble of the Vette’s engine. Within seconds, the door leading from the garage slammed. Grant ignored the two men and went right to the kitchen, dropping three boxes of donuts on the counter, then the thermos.

“You look like you need some fresh, hot java,” Adler said, reaching for the coffee pot. Grant slid a mug toward him, as Adler asked quietly, “You still pissed?”

“I can’t believe they lost him, Joe.” He picked up the mug and blew some breath into the hot brew, as he noticed Diaz and James hunched over the table. “What’s with them?”

“Besides trying to avoid you? They’re scrounging through their brains, trying to dig out details from this morning.” He leaned over the white boxes, opened all three, and finally selected a jelly donut with powdered sugar. “Speaking of this morning… let me show you something.” He headed for the dining room.

Grant followed him. “Have you heard from Mike?”

“He should be back by thirteen hundred. Sounded pretty giddy,” Adler laughed.

“I’ll bet.” Grant swiveled his head. “Seems like we’re missing three more.”

“Oh, that reminds me! Doc, Matt and Ken are at the airfield checking out our most recently acquired piece of equipment.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re gonna love it. A Seasprite chopper.”

Grant nearly choked on his coffee. “Where the…?”

“Our most kind and illustrious benefactors! Apparently, Matt’s been trying to work a deal to get us one. Now, just to let you know, he said it’s used, but it’s been extensively overhauled and it’s the one with twin engines. It’s supposed to reach airspeeds up to a hundred thirty knots with a range of four hundred eleven nautical miles. Certain modifications were made just for us!”

The Seasprite was a conventional type of turbine-powered helicopter, with a four-blade main rotor and three-blade anti-torque rotor, retractable tailwheel landing gear and a streamlined fuselage.

“That’s the one that can float, right? Sealed hull?”

“Usually floats like a boat!” Adler laughed. “Except with the modifications made, we may not want to try it!”

Grant just shook his head, unbelieving. The generosity of the gentlemen who made Team Alpha Tango possible was still overwhelming. “Like to take a look, but too much going on right now. Didn’t you say you had something to show me?”

“Oh, yeah.” Adler shoved the last piece of donut into his mouth as he walked to the opposite side of the table and spread out two photographs. “Look at these.”

Grant leaned toward the photos, then picked up one. He snapped his head up, staring almost dumfounded at Adler.

Adler pointed at the picture. “The guy looks like he could be your brother!”

“Is this the guy they lost?!” Grant asked, tilting his head toward Diaz and James.

“Yeah. He was in front of the Russian Embassy.”

“This is very … ”

“Creepy?” Diaz asked, without looking up from the writing tablet.

“Not exactly what I was going for, Frank,” Grant responded. “But close enough.”

He dropped the photo on the table, while Adler watched him, wondering why there hadn’t been more of a reaction.

Grant sipped the coffee, then went near the two men. “Well, what’ve you got for me?”

“Besides an apology, boss?” James asked.

The phone rang. “That might be Scott,” Grant said, walking to the side table. “Stevens.”

“Grant, got some info for the Camaro, but don’t know if it’s gonna help.”

“I’m listening.”

“I eliminated anything registered outside D.C., or owned by females. I came up with eight. Any idea on how to get that figure down?”

“Eliminate any registered to drivers under the age of twenty.”

“Hold on.” Mullins slid his finger down the page. “We’re down to five. Now what?”

“Wait a minute. I know I may be reaching here, but if those weapons weren’t aboard that chopper when it went down, that means they were brought someplace or … ”

“Or what?!”

“Listen, can you do a cross-reference?”

“Depends.”

“Cross-reference that Camaro with another vehicle.”

“So you’re thinking two vehicles, same owner?”

“Yeah. But here’s the thing. We — I mean you need to check SSNs and see if that ‘owner’ is still alive.”

Mullins dropped his pen on the desk and rocked back in his chair. “Some day I want you to explain how you come up with this shit!”

“Practice, my friend. Practice!”

“Do you want me to fax what I’ve got in the meantime?”

“Do it.”

Mullins rolled his chair near the end of the credenza, put the paper in the fax machine, and punched in the phone number. “Okay. It’s on its way. Anything else?”

“Two things.”

“Why do I ask?” Mullins said shaking his head.

“Check with the Coast Guard; see if any more debris was found from that chopper — any debris. Before you do that, I’d like you to contact the President. I want to bring Grigori in on this.”

“Whoa, Grant! This is top secret shit! You promised the President… ”

“I know what I promised! I have no intention of telling Grigori everything unless the President gives the okay. But Grigori could be our best shot at tracking down this guy. Maybe he has ‘insider’ details, since he used to be KGB. The Russians have gotta have at least one safe house here. Grigori might know where it is.”

“Do you want to speak with the President directly?”

“If he has the time. Oh, one more thing. Did you check on a Russian plane at Dulles?”

“There’s an Antonov registered to the embassy.”

“That’s all I need for now.”

“Hang close to the phone, Grant” Mullins said. “It shouldn’t take me long to touch base with the President.”

Grant hung up, then reached for the fax Adler was handing him, as Adler asked, “Don’t you think the odds are pretty remote that one of those names belongs to our guy?”

“Gotta start somewhere, Joe.” He took the fax to Diaz. “Frank, you and DJ take a look at these. Maybe you can plan the best and shortest routes to each of those addresses. Scott’s supposed to call back with info that might shorten your trip. And you’d better take DJ’s car.”

“Copy that, boss,” Diaz said, taking the paper. “How long before you want us to leave?”

Grant checked his watch. “I’ll give Scott a half hour.”

Diaz nodded, then said, “C’mon, DJ. I’ll treat ya to a cup of coffee and donut.”

As the two started to walk around Grant, he blocked their path, pacing back and forth, rubbing the back of his neck. Should he take a chance, whether it was legal or not? Desperate times call for desperate measures. “Listen, get the shotgun mike. Once you’re through looking for the Camaro, set up somewhere close to the embassy again.”

Diaz and James shot glances at each other, before James responded, “Whoa, boss! You sure?!”

Grant leaned closer, nearly coming toe to toe with James. “Are you having a hard time hearing… or just understanding?!”

James threw his hands up. “Okay! Okay! I copy!” The two turned away, mumbling as they walked down the hall, going to the garage.

“Dammit!” Grant said through gritted teeth, as he started toward the kitchen.

Adler followed him. “Now do you want to talk about that picture?”

Grant refilled the mug then shoved a box of donuts across the counter toward Adler. “I’ve seen him before.”

“Well, of course you have! Every time you look in the damn mirror!”

“Joe! I said I’ve seen him before! Why am I not being understood?!”

“Jesus! What the hell’s your problem?!” Adler shot back.

“My problem?! Oh, let’s see. There’s a traitor and mole on the loose. We’re missing top secret weapons. Now I have to inform the President about the mole. And I don’t have a fuckin’ clue which direction to go! Is that problem enough, Joe?!”

Time to defuse the tension. Adler shoved the box of donuts back at Grant. “Here! How about some extra sugar to turbocharge your brain even more!”

Grant kept staring at his good friend, slowly getting himself back under control. With an almost indiscernible smile, he asked, “Where were we?”

“You said you’ve seen that guy before. Where?”

Grant leaned back against the counter, crossing one foot over the other. “Can’t remember, but it’s been awhile. We were a lot younger.”

“So this guy’s been a ‘sleeper’ all that time.”

Grant tilted his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. “Jesus! I wish I could remember!”

“You don’t suppose he knows about you, do you?”

“Hard to say. And, no. None of those names Scott found were familiar. For some reason I don’t think we met formally anyway.”

The secured phone rang. Adler rushed to answer it. “Adler.”

“Joe! Scott here. I’ve got the President.”

“Wait one,” Adler said. Grant was already walking toward him.

“I’m here, Scott.”

There was a brief moment of silence, then, “Grant?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Can you tell me how you’re progressing with the operation?”

“We may have a lead, sir. Two of my men got a picture of someone at the Russian Embassy, who we’re almost certain was making a drop. But I don’t believe it was our traitor. Hate to say it, sir, but I think we’ve also got a mole on our hands.”

Carr’s 6’4” frame slumped in his chair, not believing what was being suggested. “A goddamn mole,” he repeated quietly.

“It’s just a theory, but somebody else has to be involved. This guy was probably a ‘sleeper.’” Carr remained silent, so Grant continued. “Agent Mullins has been trying to trace a car the individual was seen driving.” He hoped he didn’t have to get into the ugly details. “Be assured, Mr. President, the Team is prepared to leave immediately if it comes down to that.”

“And if it does come to that, Grant, where would that be?”

Grant took a deep breath. “With the current situation, it might be Afghanistan.”

“And your reason?”

“I’m sure you know the Russians are having a tough time getting the situation under control. It would seem those weapons might give them or the Afghans an edge, even if it were a small edge. And if not Afghanistan, those weapons will end up in Russia. No doubt about it.”

“A place you’re quite familiar with, right?”

“Yes, sir, very familiar.”

“And what about the DoD problem?”

“Still nothing, sir. I’m sorry. But if we can find this mole, there’s always the possibility he could lead us to him.”

Carr swung his chair around, disappointed with the answer. “Agent Mullins said you had a question.”

“Grigori may be a valuable asset in determining certain factors in this op. I’d like your permission to bring him in on this.”

Carr was quiet while he thought about Colonel Grigori Moshenko, former officer with the KGB. Colonel Moshenko who was instrumental in helping bring home five American POWs. Grigori Moshenko, personal friend of Grant Stevens and Joe Adler. Grigori Moshenko — Russian defector. Carr had issued an order that “misinformation” be leaked indicating the colonel and his wife had been relocated to the Midwest under assumed names. The only other way to protect them was to put them into the Witness Protection Program, something that was offered, but refused by the Moshenkos.

“Do you plan on bringing Colonel Moshenko fully onboard?”

“Only with your permission, Mr. President. Otherwise, I’ll only request details from him of KGB activities that could help in this op. Grigori won’t ask any questions once he understands this is top secret. I can assure you of that.”

“All right, Grant. I’ll trust your judgement. You do whatever you deem necessary. Anything else?”

“Sir, do you know if the NSA has picked up any transmissions that might give us some direction?”

“Nothing’s been reported, but I have a feeling you’ve got something in mind.”

“This guy’s going to stay quiet right now, but he’s got to make a move soon. My first thought was he’d try and get the weapons out by plane, the Russian Embassy plane. But now I’m not so sure.”

Carr wondered if he should make his own suggestion. “Grant, you know we can’t inspect in any way, shape or form, anything marked as a ‘diplomatic pouch.’ But I can have the plane put under surveillance, keeping an eye out for unusual packages. We can’t stop it from leaving, though.”

“Anything will help, sir. We’ll have to depend on getting accurate intel on a flight plan.”

“I can take care of that, too.”

“Mr. President, may I suggest you ask NSA to flag any unusual traffic, especially if it’s coming out of the Med?”

“Will do. Anything it picks up, I’ll make certain it gets to the analysts as soon as possible.”

“And our own ships should listen especially for ship-to-ship and ship-to-shore transmissions. I understand the Minsk and Kiev have been operating together in the Atlantic and Med before being assigned to permanent ports. They both carry KA-27 choppers which could be used for … ”

“Wait a minute, Grant. Refresh my memory. Wasn’t that the same type chopper you brought the POWs out of Russia with?”

“Uh, yes, sir. It was.”

“You were saying?”

“A chopper could be used to pick up the weapons from another craft like… ” Grant went quiet.

“Grant?”

“Sorry, sir. I had a thought that I’ll need to discuss with Agent Mullins.”

“How do you keep track of all those ideas?”

“With great difficulty, Mr. President.”

Carr smiled. “Can you tell me what you plan on discussing with Agent Mullins?”

“Of course. The other craft I was thinking of might be a Russian cargo ship. Maybe that’s where the weapons were flown that night.” Grant started pacing, wondering if his idea was plausible. “But … ”

“Yes, Grant?”

“I was just wondering if the thieves would put all their ‘eggs in one basket.’ Maybe they’d separate those crates, loading each one on different modes of transportation.”

“So, you’re thinking a plane and a boat?”

“I’m just trying to cover all bases, Mr. President.”

“Do you have anything to substantiate your request regarding the NSA?”

“No, sir, but those folks may need to listen for traffic from here, also.”

“I’ll call General Prescott, and I’d better let Secretary Daniels in on this conversation. SECNAV will have to be briefed.”

“One final question, sir.”

“Go ahead.”

“I know you want the weapons returned to the States, but what if we don’t have any option and … ”

“Grant, we have no way to tell whether blueprints or specific instructions for their use were included. But I don’t want those ten falling into the wrong hands again, so you do anything you have to so that doesn’t happen.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll take care of it either way.”

“If that’s all, Grant, I’ll let you get back to work.”

Grant detected a smile in Carr’s voice, and he responded, “Thank you, Mr. President.”

Carr hung up. Swiveling his chair side to side, he considered everything Grant reported, everything he asked for. The situation had taken a turn for the worse. A mole. A ‘sleeper.’ “Jesus,” Carr mumbled, as he loosened his tie.

It was a known fact that spies worked out of the Russian Embassy. But how long had this guy been in the States, waiting to act? Where was he working, living? A chill ran up the President’s back, as he wondered how many more ‘sleepers’ could be in the U.S.

It was time to make those phone calls.

As soon as Grant ended the call, he phoned Moshenko. “Hey, Grigori. It’s me.”

“My friend, how are you?!”

“I’m good. Listen, Grigori, don’t want to talk on the phone. Can we meet someplace, say in an hour?”

“Of course.” Moshenko walked to the front window, checking the weather. Blue sky was beginning to break through fast moving clouds. “The park at the end of my street is a good place. There is a gazebo on the south side.”

“Sounds good. See you later.”

Moshenko hung up. Standing by the window, he rolled the Davidoff Grand Cru cigar between his fingers, wondering about the upcoming meeting. Since he and Alexandra had been in America, he and his good friend never had any secretive meetings. If the meeting concerned Alexandra and him, Grant would have been more specific.

Noises and aromas from the kitchen told him Alexandra was preparing their upcoming meal, beef stroganoff and noodles. As he walked to the kitchen, he continued wondering about the meeting.

Diaz, James and Adler stood near the sofa. Grant was on the phone with Mullins. “Fax that to me, Scott,” Grant said, as he motioned Adler toward the machine.

“Before you ask,” Mullins said, “I made contact with the Coast Guard’s Command Senior Chief Phil Borrman in Baltimore. That command handles the Chesapeake Bay region. He and Tony were acquaintances, so I took a chance to see if he could offer up some info not already published in the news. But he couldn’t tell me much more. They still had their chopper and a boat searching off the coast. Heavier sections of that Huey sunk, and any pieces that hadn’t already been collected had probably drifted away in the Gulf Stream. They’re almost positive, though, that some type of explosive took it out.”

“Bodies? Weapons?” Grant asked, hoping he’d get some positive feedback.

“Some body parts, but identification won’t be easy. There’s a possibility something, or pieces of something, might eventually wash up on the eastern seaboard, but don’t count on it.”

“Shit!” Grant said, rubbing a hand briskly over the top of his head.

“Look, I asked Borrman to contact me if they find anything. Okay?”

“Yeah. By the way, NSA is gonna start flagging all unusual or suspicious transmissions. The President will most likely be contacted first. See what you can do to get on that contact list.”

“I’ll make a call right now.”

“One more request.”

“Gotta sharpen my pencil,” Mullins laughed.

“Find out if any Russian cargo ships were steamin’ that day between Maryland and North Carolina, maybe no more than a hundred miles off the coast. There had to be something going or coming out of Cuba.”

“Loaded or empty?”

“Could be either.”

“Will do.”

“Gotta go. And thanks, Scott. I know you’re doing your best.”

“I’ll be here if you need anything else.” End of conversation.

Adler held the fax toward Grant, who felt as if he finally had something to go on. He perused it briefly before handing it to Diaz. “Looks like we know what those bastards transferred the weapons to.”

“A damn Toyota pickup?” Diaz asked with surprise.

“Look at the owner information, Frank. Both the Camaro and Toyota were registered to ‘William Goldman’ who died five years ago.”

“Should we still check out this address, boss?” James asked, pointing to the paper.

“That’s the first one on your list, DJ. I have my doubts you’ll find anybody home. So… ”

“We’ll do a thorough search, boss,” Diaz said, motioning with his hand as if he was unlocking a door. Both he and James headed for the garage.

“Wait!” Grant called. “Leave the shotgun mike. You two have enough on your ‘plate.’”

“Roger that!” James responded, with obvious relief in his voice.

Grant picked up one of the photo’s, then folded it. As he slipped it in his pocket, he started having one of his “go quiet, ignore everything” moments. He grabbed a pen and notepad from the table and started writing.

Adler stood by, waiting. Finally, Grant handed him the paper. “Joe, contact Matt and the other guys. Give them this.”

Adler read it quickly. His expression showed he was in complete agreement. “I like it!”

“Yeah. We’ll talk later.” Grant dug his keys out of his Levis’ pocket. “Scott may call, and when the guys get back, you’ll need to fill them in.” He walked to the hall closet for his jacket. “I’m assuming the Gulfstream and chopper are ready to go.”

Adler gave a thumb’s up. “Fueled and ‘froggy.’” As Grant slung his jacket over his shoulder, Adler asked, “Do you want Ken and Mike to cover the embassy?”

“Yeah. I know there’s a car phone, but make sure they have a radio just in case they end up ‘hoofing’ it. Oh, and check the money in the safe. There should be enough.”

“Any particular ‘brand'?”

“Pounds, deutsche marks, rubles for now.” He turned toward the door, waving a hand overhead. “I’m outta here.”

As he drove through D.C., Grant couldn’t get the picture of the Russian out of his mind. Who the hell was he? Why couldn’t he remember where he saw him? Even though the photo hadn’t been completely in focus, he couldn’t deny the fact the two of them appeared to be similar in looks, height, close in age. Come on, Stevens! Think! He was positive it wasn’t at the Academy. And more than positive the guy wasn’t with the Teams. So where? One of the many ships he’d been aboard? The encounter had to have been brief. And probably from a distance. Time for direction change, he told himself, preparing to meet Moshenko.

A half hour later he turned into Moshenko’s neighborhood, drove to the dead end then turned around, parking on the shoulder. Looking out the passenger side window, he spotted his good friend standing on the steps of the gazebo, a white, wooden octagonal structure.

At 5’10” Moshenko was easy to spot, with his muscular build, short, jet black hair that had some grey streaks at the temples, and the ever present cigar.

Once Grant locked the car, he took off jogging across the grass, noticing several small children playing in a sandbox at the opposite end of the park. Two women sat on a bench, keeping a close watch on them.

As Grant got closer to the gazebo, Moshenko blew cigar smoke from the side of his mouth just as he stepped on the pebble walkway. “My friend!”

“Hey, Grigori!” Grant said with a wide smile. The two friends grabbed each other’s hand, then slapped each other on the back.

“Come,” Moshenko said, as he walked up the three steps and motioned to the curved bench seat. “You are looking well,” he said as he sat down.

“You just saw me last week!”

“And you are still looking well!”

“How’s Alexandra?”

“She is fine, and hoping you will share some food with us. She is preparing beef stroganoff.”

“Wish I could.”

Moshenko noticed Grant’s expression had changed. He watched him briefly before laying a hand on his shoulder. “You are troubled. What is it?”

“The Team’s involved in another mission. It’s been classified top secret.”

Moshenko nodded. “I understand.”

“No, no! It’s okay. The President gave me the go-ahead to discuss this with you, so don’t worry.”

“All right, Grant. Is there something you want me to do?”

Grant gave somewhat of a grin. “No flying choppers this time, but I’m hoping you can reach into your brain and pull out some information that might help us.”

“I will try,” Moshenko responded, flicking an ash over the railing, before scooting forward on the seat.

Grant unfolded the photo. “This is a photo Frank and DJ took in front of the Russian Embassy.” He handed it to Moshenko.

“You could be brothers!” Moshenko said with surprise, as he stared at the photo.

“That seems to be the consensus.”

“Who is he?!”

“Don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”

Moshenko studied the man’s face more closely, but then shook his head. “I would surely remember him, my friend. I am sorry.” He handed the photo to Grant. “But why did they take his picture?”

“My suspicion is he may be a ‘sleeper,’ Grigori,” Grant responded, smacking the paper against his hand.

Moshenko stood, walked a couple steps away, then turned around. “So he has been in your country since he was a child?”

“Yeah, if I’m right. Why?”

“I had access to files at KGB that listed all such people.”

Grant leaned back against the railing. “Something tells me that list was several pages long.”

Moshenko sat down. “Yes. I am afraid it was. The names were listed according to the country they were assigned to. I just cannot remember right now.”

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Grant responded, folding the paper, then putting it in his jacket pocket.

“I will continue to… what did you say? ‘Reach into my brain.’”

“In the meantime, let’s try this. Do you know where the safe house is located, either in D.C. or at least someplace close? Or if there’s more than one?”

Moshenko rubbed his chin in thought. “There was one only. But the location … ”

“Wait one,” Grant said. “I’ve got a map.” He hurried to his car.

While he did, Moshenko got up and walked the inside perimeter of the gazebo, trying to remember. He wondered if the KGB had the forethought to make changes since he defected. For Grant’s sake, he hoped not. He would help his friend in any way possible.

“Okay, here’s a map of the metropolitan area,” Grant said, spreading the map open on the bench. He remained quiet as Moshenko leaned over, looking at town and city names.

“Here!” he finally said, jabbing his thick index finger on Alexandria, Virginia.

“You sure, Grigori?!”

“Yes. I remember associating ‘Alexandria’ with Alexandra’s name. Yes. I am sure!”

“Good. That’s a start.” As Grant folded the map, he asked, “Any street address to go along with that by any chance?”

“You must give me some time, my friend. It has been awhile. You have never needed the information before. But… I can tell you something about those at the embassy.”

“I’m listening.”

“Before I left Russia, I assigned two KGB officers to the embassy. It is more than likely they are still there.”

“Do I hug you now or later?!”

“You can hug Alexandra!”

“And you know I’ll take you up on it! Now, who are they?”

“Misha Zelesky and Petya Vikulin.” For the next several minutes, Moshenko revealed descriptions, and all he could remember concerning the two KGB men. As grateful as Grant was for Moshenko’s help, he couldn’t help but worry. As he stood, he held a hand toward Moshenko, helped him up, then continued to grasp his friend’s hand. “Listen, Grigori, you need to be extra careful, now more than ever.”

“But nothing has changed, Grant. Our conversation will not go beyond your men… and the President.”

“I know. But now that you’ve told me you knew the KGB ‘boys’… ”

“Do not worry. I will be cautious.”

“Keep an eye on Alexandra, and without arousing her suspicion, okay? I don’t want her to worry.” Moshenko nodded. “Once this is over, maybe the President can come up with some way to have those two sent home.”

“That might be difficult, Grant, although proving them guilty of espionage or threatening your government might work.”

Grant gave him a shit-eatin’ grin through perfect white teeth. “You’re scaring me, Grigori! Sounds like something I’d say!”

“Yes. Your way of thinking is smoothing off on me!”

Grant’s brow wrinkled before he laughed. “I think you mean ‘rubbing off.’”

“I will mark that off my list of sayings to learn!”

Grant put a hand on Moshenko’s back. “C’mon. Walk with me to my car.”

Grant was ten minutes out from Eagle 8, when the car phone rang. “Speak.”

“Skipper! Are you anywhere close?”

“Ten minutes, Joe. What’s up?” He turned on the windshield wipers as a car in front plowed through a puddle.

“Ken and Mike are on the move!”

“What the hell are you talking about?!”

“They called in when they saw someone driving out of the embassy in an older Mercedes. I gave them the go-ahead to pursue.”

“It wasn’t our suspect, was it?”

“No. Older guy.”

“Did they give you a description?” When Adler finished, Grant said, “Sounds like Vikulin, KGB.”

“What should I tell Ken and Mike?”

“Stick with him. Grigori said when Vikulin worked for him at KGB Moscow, he was someone who always stuck to a schedule and had favorite ‘haunts’ in town.” Grant glanced quickly at his submariner. “Have them report to you every time that guy makes a stop. And warn them they’d better not fuckin’ lose him!”

“Be happy to!”

“Any word from Frank and DJ?”

“They found the Camaro locked up in a garage, but not much else in the house.”

“See you in five, Joe. I’ve got an idea.” Connection broken.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Adler said laughing, as he hung up.

Kalinin tucked his Makarov in his back waistband, shut off the living room light, then went out the back door. Once he was inside the garage, he closed the doors, waiting briefly until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Then he went to the passenger side and removed the cardboard box and a small flashlight from under the seat.

He lowered the truck’s tailgate, lifted the camper’s window, then crawled inside the bed. Kneeling alongside the crate, he turned on the flashlight, and hung it from a hook directly overhead, before pulling the canvas pouches closer.

He ran a hand over the wooden crate, then touched a strip of thin, but strong aluminum, one of three. Spaced ten inches apart, they were wrapped around the crate then secured underneath. The wood cover was screwed on.

By the time he’d cut through the strips and removed screws, sweat covered his body. He swiped a hand across his forehead. Then he lifted the top and slid it toward the back. He checked the time. Depending on how long his task would take, he might have an opportunity to examine one of the weapons.

He started digging through foam packing peanuts, grabbing onto a section of heavy plastic. Pulling it out, he held the weapon with both hands, but the plastic was opaque and he couldn’t get a good view. He laid the weapon down, then continued digging through foam, until the five wrapped, top secret weapons were laying next to him.

He began filling each of three pouches with the foam, then slid in one weapon at a time, ensuring they were protected from touching or hitting one another. He checked his watch again. He decided against an inspection and would have to wait until he was in Moscow.

Once the weapons were secured inside the pouches, he removed the special seal and rubber stamp from the cardboard box, preparing to classify each pouch as “diplomatic.” The metal seal, with a hammer and sickle on both sides, would act as the official signature for the Russian Embassy.

With the truck and garage locked, he rushed back to the house, grabbed a glass of water, then hurried upstairs.

The evening hours were the best time to broadcast. The “E region”—the Heaviside layer— is one of several layers in the Earth’s ionosphere. Medium-frequency radio waves reflect off it and can be propagated beyond the horizon. During evening hours the solar wind drags the ionosphere further away from the Earth, increasing the range radio waves can travel.

He had to work fast, knowing the U.S. had “ears” listening, especially now. Once he opened the panel, he set a wooden chair in front of the shelf, then sat down. He now regretted not having a shortwave in the leased house, but it was a chance he couldn’t take. And he should have asked the ambassador to contact the cargo ship the night the weapons were stolen, instead of relying on the word of mercenaries. Another bump in the road, but not significant enough to compromise the mission.

It was impossible to use his one-time pad. He’d have to rely on sending the message in Morse Code, except he’d add another code within it. The ship’s radioman and the captain would have knowledge of the code.

With his thoughts in order, knowing exactly the wording he would use, he began sending Morse Code. He authenticated the message with his code name: Antares.

The cargo ship Igor Brobov was making her return trip to Russia, having picked up cargo in Cuba. She was a small ship with only four cargo holds. All four holds were filled to capacity with sugar, corn, coffee, rice. With a heavy load, she was riding low in the water, her deck a mere thirty feet above the waterline.

Nearly one month ago, Captain Sergei Ivanov received a coded message from the Russian Embassy in Washington, D.C. Once he left Cuba with his cargo, he was directed to travel up the coast of the U.S. He would stay within a hundred miles off the coast of Virginia, reduce speed to twelve knots (thirteen mph), then wait to be contacted.

The ship had been “steaming” within the designated range, when he finally received another message. He was to give the ship’s coordinates to a man going by the name of “Python,” who would deliver special cargo by chopper.

One more message would arrive, requesting final confirmation the special cargo was onboard, showing no evidence of tampering.

His involvement in this operation would cost him valuable time. His schedule was completely screwed up. With over fifteen years experience in the shipping trade, this “incident” was a first for him. Hopefully, the ship’s owners would not question the reason. He assumed the embassy in Washington would notify them of his involvement.

Ivanov stood near the magnetic compass, peering out across the bow. All activity on deck had ceased, returning to normal after the delivery. He brushed a hand over his short, salt and pepper hair.

The door of the radar room opened and Radioman Gremesky hurried to the bridge with a message in his hand. “Captain!”

Ivanov adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and reached for the paper. He read the brief, decoded message, and confirmed the code name. He handed the paper back to the radioman. “Send reply the cargo is onboard, intact. Proceeding on course designated.” Ivanov breathed a heavy sigh, relieved he finally had permission to continue the voyage.