Operation Gold Eagle

Chapter 10

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 Soviet 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 floor," 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?"

"I want to get inside."

Zykov parked the car, then they cautiously hustled to the rear of the embassy. Windows had been blown out, glass littered the sidewalk and street, but the lower part of the building itself remained somewhat intact. A hidden rear entrance, behind a panel of false cement blocks, would be their means of access.

Kalinin placed a hand against the stainless steel door, checking for heat. He punched in a code on the small panel, then pushed the door open. Smoke still hung low inside the building. They put their sleeves across their mouths, breathing shallow as they climbed the stairs, avoiding glass and debris. Once on the next level, they paused, trying to see through mounds of fallen ceiling and walls. Water dripped from the overhead. Equipment and desks were burned and strewn everywhere. They splashed through water sprayed from fire hoses. It wasn't looking good for anyone who'd been inside.

Noises toward the front of the building gave them some hope, until the voices they heard were German, probably the bomb squad and firemen.

Kalinin motioned to Zykov, pointing back toward the stairs. "Hurry! We must check the basement and files," he whispered.

Climbing over chunks of collapsed ceiling and walls, they cautiously worked their way to file cabinets. Most had damage, except for ones closer to the stairwell.

The voices seemed to be coming closer. Kalinin rushed to one of the cabinets. Even after unlocking it, he had to brace a foot against it, and pull until the drawer finally gave way. He grabbed three files, then glanced overhead, following the sound of voices with his eyes. He shoved the drawer in, but was unable to lock it. "Come on, Oleg." The two clambered over debris, hurrying to get outside.

By the time they reached the car, Kalinin had already made a decision. "Oleg, take these files then drive to intel."

"Where are you going?!"

"I will talk more with the police and maybe the bomb squad and get as much information as possible. Moscow will want specifics. As soon as you get to intel, call Comrade Borskaya's residence."

Zykov dug his keys from his pocket. "You do not think he is there, do you?"

"We must check. We will need help, Oleg, because someone must guard all the sensitive materials inside the embassy. Put that question to him. Then make sure intel has finished with that transmission from Drazowe." As Zykov opened the door, Kalinin stopped him. "See if there's another vehicle. We cannot drive this in its condition."

Once the Volga was out of sight, Kalinin blew out a long breath. His head pounded. Pressing fingers against his eyes didn't help the pain. "Move it, Kalinin," he grumbled, before starting to jog to the opposite end of the road. Traffic was backed up in every direction. Curiosity seekers rushed past him. Sirens from two more ambulances grew louder. The crowd separated, watching the approaching vehicles.

He spotted a phone booth at the next corner, then he started running, as he dug coins from his pants pocket. Sorting through the change, he pulled out enough pfennings, dropped the correct change into the slot, then dialed the number he'd memorized. (100 pfennings equaled one Mark.)

Less than two minutes later, he came out of the phone booth. It was time to head to intel, but he decided to look for embassy employees who may have made it out of the destruction. But as he wove his way in and out of the crowd of onlookers, all he saw were unfamiliar faces. Shaking his head in disbelief, he picked up his gait. Ten minutes later he was at Kronenstrasse.

No sooner had he opened the office door, when Zykov came rushing up to him. "Nicolai! Comrade Borskaya is all right!"

Kalinin's eyes searched around the room. "Where is he?!"

"Premier Gorshevsky ordered him and Comrade General Komarov to Moscow! They left for Schonefeld ten minutes ago."

"What about the ambassador, Oleg?! Has he reported in or been seen?!"

"No. It does not look good for him or his staff."

"Dammit!"

"Did you find out anything from the police?"

Kalinin closed the door then walked farther away from the intel staff. "No. Rescue vehicles were still arriving, but no one had come out of the building. I searched through the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face, but never saw anyone." He leaned a shoulder against a wall. "Can I assume you informed Borskaya about my recognizing Reznikov leaving the scene?"

"I did. I have never seen him so angry."

"Who will guard the embassy?"

"He called in two of our counterparts working at Stasi headquarters. They should arrive in an hour or so."

"Did he leave any instructions for us?"

"Find Reznikov."

"No mention of Dotsenko?!"

"Not a word."

Kalinin pictured the scene that would take place in Moscow. "I would not want to be either one of those men, Oleg, having to answer to the premier."

Zykov nodded in agreement, then said, "The transcription from Drazowe is on the desk over there."

"Did you read it?" Kalinin asked as they pulled two chairs closer.

"Not completely."

Kalinin got Boris Yellen's attention and motioned him over.

"Yes, Comrade Kalinin?"

"Do you remember any transmissions that could relate to the bombing?"

"Not offhand. Anything picked up with key words relating to 'bombs' is brought to my attention immediately. But I will check." He immediately went to each man, with the same question. Then sat at his desk, reviewing the book ledger.

Earlier that morning, dressed in a cheap black suit, and carrying an old satchel-type, brown briefcase, Pavel Orlov approached the Soviet guard standing by the arched entryway near the sidewalk. He presented his Russian identification papers, then more than willingly opened his briefcase for inspection. Papers, folders, pens, pencils, scissors, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. The guard reexamined the papers, then passed him through.

Once inside, he walked up to the second floor, politely nodded to employees that passed, then he turned down another short hallway, finding a door marked "Storage." Confirming he was alone, he hurried inside.

What he did next was exactly the same as he did the last visits, and he kept the preparation time to under three minutes. He opened the briefcase, removed a thin piece of chipboard that concealed a false bottom. Hidden were small blocks of C-4, sticks of dynamite, two short wraps of det cord, two small timers, electrical tape.

He completed the IEDs in his time allotted, hid one behind bottles and large cans of cleaning fluid, then stashed the second in the briefcase. Once he was in the hallway, he went down to the first floor, following signs pointing to the men's room, located at the opposite side of the main entryway.

Voices inside made him pause, but he had to complete the task. Two men were washing their hands. He nodded to them, put down the briefcase, then turned on a faucet. A minute later he was alone. He immediately planted the second device in the bottom of a metal trash can, then threw a mound of dry toilet paper on top.

He stopped briefly near the door, exhaled a long breath, then he left. There wasn't any need to examine the three devices previously installed at opposite ends of the building. Without stopping, he walked out the front door, past the guard, then headed to the next street, where Reznikov and Botkin were waiting in the vehicle, prepared to drive to their next two targets.

Located ten miles southeast of Berlin center, at Berlin-Karlshorst, was the headquarters for the East German Border Command Center. The command was charged with manning the crossing points into West Berlin and guarding the entire border perimeter.

Five minutes from the Command Center was the 6th Independent Motorized Rifle Brigade. In April, 1945, the Red Army's commander of the 1st Belorussian Front established his headquarters at the former Wehrmact mess hall in Karlshorst. It was here, on May 7, 1945, that Germany unconditionally surrendered.

Surprisingly, neither the rifle brigade compound nor the command center had an over abundance of security. Several guards, carrying AK47s, patrolled the grounds. The East German populous feared the Stasi (East German State Security), and that normally prevented any form of attacks against military or government. The organization was tasked with spying on the population, mainly through a vast network of citizens turned informants. No one could be trusted. The Stasi was one of the most effective and repressive intelligence and secret police agencies in existence. But for most civilians, if they were going to risk their lives, it would be attempting an escape to the West.

Parked midway between both complexes, Reznikov waited in his vehicle, ready to start the engine. Botkin and Orlov were in position, each man set, and waiting. Their targets were in the open, giving them an unobstructed view. Their paths for retreating — memorized.

Reznikov looked at his watch, beginning to count down the last minute. Two RPGs fired simultaneously, launching two H.E. grenades (high explosive). One hit the Border Command Center's armory, the other the Rifle Brigade armory. Both were perfect hits.

The two attacks left eleven soldiers dead at the Command Center, six at the brigade.

Heavy cloud coverage prevented ray's from the morning sun from breaking through. Winds picked up, the temperature dropped to fifty degrees.

Garrett and Draper sat on the Gulfstream's stairs, both men looking through binoculars, searching for a break in the clouds, searching for the Sea Knight.

"I hate this waiting, Rob," Garrett said. "I'd rather be out there with them."

"Yeah. Me, too," Draper answered, refocusing the glasses, looking along the roofline of the terminal. "You think they'll take a chance and come back across the Soviet Zone?"

"Guess it depends on how much of a hurry they're in."

"As in injuries," Draper stated.

Ten more minutes passed without any sign of the chopper. Garrett finally got up and started a visual inspection of the Gulfstream, trying to keep his mind occupied. There wasn't any sense in looking at his watch.

"There it is!" Draper shouted, pointing west. "Guess they took the long way 'round!"

They kept their eyes on the chopper, following it until its wheels settled on concrete. They weren't about to wait for the rotors to shutdown. Hurrying toward the tail end, they heard the whining motor lowering the ramp.

Crew Chief Brenner stood to the side as A.T. carried the boat down the ramp. Each man acknowledged Garrett and Draper.

Grant and Adler hung back, standing near Pankova. "Be right there," Grant said, looking towards the two men.

Stalley stood on the ramp. "I think the boss wants to call Scott asap to find out what we do next. We've gotta protect Miss Pankova until she's no longer our responsibility." He boarded. The rest of the Team took defensive positions near the chopper.

Grant and Adler walked down the ramp, joining Garrett and Draper. "C'mon," Grant said, slapping Garrett's shoulder. "Walk to Operations with us. We've gotta report to Scott."

"Guess you'll give us the details once we're in the air," Garrett said.

"It might be best, Matt," Grant responded opening the door, "but a lot has to do with what Scott has to say."

"Tell ya what. We'll wait in the plane."

After getting authorization from the OOD (Officer of the Day) to use a scrambler in the secure room, Grant dialed Mullins' office.

"Grant?"

"Hey, Scott!"

"I seem to detect good news in your voice. You found her, didn't you?"

"Without going into details, yeah, we did. She's quite a woman."

"Where is she?"

"The Team's guarding her on the chopper. But what I need to know is what happens now? Has a decision been made how she gets back to the States? Is Dotsenko still at the embassy?"

"He is, but first I've gotta report up the 'chain' and tell them she's safe at Tegel."

"Maybe mention that her cover was 'blown' and she went through some rough interrogation. That should get somebody's attention."

"Jesus! How'd the Russians find out?"

"Scott, can you get my questions answered first? We really have to … "

"No need to say anymore." Mullins scooted forward on his chair. "Stay on the line, 'cause this might take awhile."

Grant leaned back against the desk, tapping the receiver against his palm. "Dotsenko's still at the embassy."

Adler arched an eyebrow. "Why the hell didn't they fly him out?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Joe." He glanced at his submariner. "Do me a favor. Check with the chopper crew and see if they've reported in to anybody. And maybe we should transfer Pankova to the Gulfstream. It might be more comfortable for everyone. The guys can take shifts watching her."

Adler stood and readjusted his holster. "Maybe some drinks and food would help, too!"

"I'm sure they would," Grant answered, not surprised by the suggestion.

After all the hours spent with the Team on the op, Grant was finally alone, having time to think, to sort out details, maybe answer his own questions. But a question answered brought another unanswered. In his mind, the whole op to rescue both Dotsenko and Pankova began to reek. Why the fuck did the U.S. give up such a valuable commodity? That still bothered him.

He started pacing. An all too familiar feeling rushed through him, when he suddenly brought himself to a standstill. "Christ!" What if the CIA wanted Dotsenko back in Russia, where he'd be more valuable instead of running a goddamn phony spy ring in D.C.? What if Dotsenko was a willing participant, just to save Pankova? Was the Team's taking him to the embassy part of the plan? But then what? What was supposed to happen next?

Rubbing both temples vigorously, he almost didn't want to believe the whole fucking idea flashing through his mind. All the years he'd been involved with CIA one way or other, the Agency had been like a burr stuck in his ass. Was he just reaching here? Was he intentionally trying to pin something on the 'Cowboys'? Was …?

"Grant! Where the hell are you?!"

Grant snatched the receiver off the desk. "Sorry, Scott!" He turned, hearing the buzz, indicating the secure door unlocked. Adler came in carrying two paper cups with hot coffee. He handed one to Grant, then put a paper bag on the desk, with roast beef sandwiches inside.

Grant resumed his conversation with Mullins. "Scott, Joe just came in. I'll put you on speaker. Okay. Now before I run something by both of you, tell us the rest of this mission. It might be the deciding factor whether or not my theory is total bullshit."

Adler sat on the edge of the desk, blowing breath into his coffee. All the years he and Grant had known each another, there wasn't much that surprised him. So, he'd just wait for the details.

"Should I be worried?" Mullins asked.

"Probably."

"Shit!" Exhaling a long breath before continuing, Mullins began. "Here are the details: The two 'assets' will not — I repeat — will not be transferred together. SecDef has ordered a 'Prowler' from the Enterprise to Tegel. It'll be her escort back to Andrews." The AE-6B Prowler was a four-seater aircraft, derived from the two seater A-6 Intruder. The Prowler's main function was the jamming of radar and communication.

"I assume we're to wait until it arrives?"

"Affirmative. It's already in the air. Expected ETA is 0900 your time." Grant put the paper cup on the desk, and glanced at his watch, hearing Mullins say, "There's not to be any delay in getting that plane back in the air, Grant. Mid-air refueling's been authorized."

"We'll see that it happens."

"One more thing. I mentioned the interrogation she went through. A corpsman will be on the Prowler, just as a precaution in case she has any issues during flight."

"Good thinking, Scott. Now, I have a feeling there's gonna be more for getting Dotsenko out. Whether I reveal my bullshit idea hinges on what you have to say."

"There is, Grant, but I … uh, haven't been entrusted with that information."

"What the fuck are you talking about?!"

"Hey! Just cool it, goddammit! You know I'm not always made privy to details."

Grant's head started pounding. "What then?! What am I supposed to do?!"

Adler was about to take a drink, when his hand stopped in mid air. "Uh-oh."

Suddenly, there were three sharp raps at the door. "Captain Stevens! Captain Stevens!"

Grant and Adler jerked their heads around, then Adler immediately went to the door and opened it. Lieutenant Franklin, OOD, looked back and forth between Grant and Alder. "Beg pardon, sirs, but we just received word that the Soviet Embassy in Berlin was bombed!"

Grant and Adler shot looks at one another before Grant questioned, "Bombed?!"

"Yes, sir! Still no report on casualties."

Grant returned to his conversation with Mullins. "Scott! Did you hear that?! The Soviet Embassy was bombed!"

"Holy shit!"

Petty Officer Simms came rushing into the room. "Sirs, two other locations — bombed, sirs!"

"Hold on, Scott! Petty Officer! Where'd those bombings happen?!"

"An East German command center for border guards, and the Soviet's Rifle Brigade, sir!"

Grant's eyes narrowed as he looked at Adler. "That sonofabitch Reznikov."

"My thought, too. I'd better go tell the guys."

"Try not … "

"I'll be sure she can't hear me, but I'll tell them all about the Prowler." Adler took off, breaking into a run.

Grant directed his eyes to Franklin. "Keep me posted, Lieutenant." Franklin and Simms took their cue, and left.

"Jesus, Scott!"

"Word's beginning to come across the wires! And I heard what you said. You really think it was Reznikov?"

"Sounds like he's pissed at everyone. This may change everything on getting Dotsenko out."

"I'll call … Uh-oh. Grant, hold on. There's a call coming in that probably has something to do with this shit."

While he waited, Grant began thinking about meeting Dotsenko at the U.S. Embassy. But that was as far as he got, when he heard, "Grant, you're to go to the embassy! You'll be contacted when this shit calms down!"

Grant rubbed a hand over his head. "What if it doesn't, Scott? What if this is just the beginning of Reznikov's higher plan?"

"Look, don't even go there for now."

"Yeah. You're right, I guess. We'll wait for the Prowler, and I've gotta talk to the chopper pilot. I want him to wait until Pankova's on her way."

"Contact me from the embassy. Stay safe, buddy."

The lockbuzzedagain, and Adler came rushing back just as Grant hung up. Seeing Grant's worried expression, he leaned closer. "What the hell else is wrong?"

"We're to go to the embassy until we get further orders." Grant reached for the phone again. "While we're here, I'd better call Nichols."

The operator put him through to Sam Nichols' office. "Mr. Nichols, it's Grant Stevens."

"I guess you've heard, Captain."

"Yes, sir, we have. Is the embassy secured?"

"It is. Luckily, it's been relatively quiet."

"Glad to hear that. Listen, the main reason I'm calling is to update you. The Team's been requested to help maintain security there."

"I guess you mean for Mr. Dotsenko."

"The entire compound, sir. We still don't have orders concerning him. We'll just have to wait it out for now."

"Your presence will be welcome, Captain!"

Grant checked the time, but he decided not to mention Pankova to Nichols. "We'll be leaving here soon, flying back to Schonefeld."

"I'll advise the guards. Oh, I almost forgot. Someone called and left you a message."

"Who?"

"He only gave a first name — 'Nick.'"

Grant's eyebrow arched. "Excuse me?!"

"He said 'Nick.' Do you know him?"

"Yeah, I do. It's just a … surprise, that's all. What was the message?"

"He left pretty specific instructions, but basically, he wants to meet you near the Brandenburg Gate tonight."

"Okay. Thanks."

"I'll be expecting you soon."

Grant hung up, then leaned back against the desk, remaining quiet, rubbing his hand across his chin. He decided against telling Nichols to keep the message "close to the vest." It could raise questions, and maybe that would lead to an intel check on the name "Nick."

Adler waited for an explanation, until his curiosity got the best of him. "What's the surprise? Are you gonna tell me?"

"What? Oh. Nick called the embassy."

Adler's eyes went wide. "Nick?! OurNick?!"

"Yeah. He wants to meet near the Brandenburg Gate tonight."

"Jesus! What the hell are those odds, I mean, him and us being here?"

"The bigger questions are how'd he know to call the embassy, and why?" Grant started toward the door. "We're wasting time. Let's go."

As they jogged toward the Gulfstream, Adler couldn't hold back a laugh. "Do I give you my money now?!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Remember after the last op? I said the next time the two of you met up, I'd pay big bucks for tickets!"

"I take cash."

While Grant and Adler sat with Pankova in the Gulfstream, the Team stood watch around the plane. Stalley and Diaz had binoculars, waiting for the Prowler.

Stalley walked up the steps, then leaned toward the open doorway. "Boss, Prowler's on its final approach."

"Okay, Doc." Grant and Adler both stood, as Grant smiled at Pankova. "We'll be right back, ma'am."

They joined the rest of the Team at the front of the Gulfstream, watching the plane touch down on Runway 08.

"Joe, I'm gonna go release the chopper." He took off jogging across the concrete pad toward the Sea Knight.

The crew was standing in the cargo bay. Grant shook each of their hands. "Can't thank you enough, guys. You made the mission a success, and saved our butts!"

"Our pleasure, sir," Lieutenant Anderson responded.

Grant snapped them a crisp salute. "Safe trip back to base!"

The high-pitched whine of the Prowler's two turbo-jet engines signaled it's arrival at MILOPS. It pulled closer to the Gulfstream, following signals from the marshaller. Pilot and co-pilot would remain on board, readying for takeoff.

Grant and Adler hustled up the Gulfstream's steps. "Well," Grant said, "your special ride is here." Pankova exhibited a nervous smile. He tried to reassure her. "The Navy's fly boys are just about the best of the best, ma'am. They'll take great care to see you safely back to the States."

Petty Officer Jim Blackman (corpsman) stood at the bottom of the steps. "Sir?"

"Come aboard, Petty Officer," Adler motioned.

Blackman had a green flight suit folded over his arm, a pair of boots, with heavy socks stuffed inside. Pankova was standing near the forward bulkhead.

Grant made the introduction. "Petty Officer, this is your passenger."

"Ma'am," Blackman smiled, with a nod of his head. He held the flight suit and boots toward her. "We'd like you to put these on over your clothes. Everything's gonna be a little big, I'm afraid, but they should help keep you warm. There are gloves in the pockets." She took the clothes then went aft to the restroom.

Once she was behind the door, Blackman softly said, "Looks like she's had a pretty rough time, sir."

"You could say that," Grant replied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stalley. "Listen, why don't you go talk with Doc. He'll bring you up to speed on injuries that he treated. I think she only had one or two aspirins."

"Very well, sir." As Blackman started down the steps, he turned to Grant. "She'll be fine, sir."

Pankova walked through the cabin, with the flight suit's sleeves and pant legs rolled up.

"Are you ready?" Grant smiled down at her.

"Yes." But then she had to ask, "And Alexei?"

"As soon as we leave here, we'll be meeting with him, ma'am. But there still isn't a timeframe for his leaving. That's all I can tell you."

She extended her hand to both Grant and Adler, then Grant motioned for her to go ahead. The rest of A.T. stood on both sides of the stairs, giving her a nod as she went past.

Once she walked off the last step, she turned. "Thank you all."

Doc Blackman escorted her to the Prowler. Ten minutes later, the aircraft was taxiing to Runway 08. Five minutes later, it was in the air.

The Gulfstream headed back to Schonefeld.

The sound of the car's engine and rushing wind was all that was heard inside the rented black BMW. The green countryside became almost a blur as the car sped along the motorway.

Draper and Garrett were slouched down in the rear seat. All hands were needed to help guarantee the safety of Dotsenko, and the embassy. Leaving the Gulfstream at Schonefeld was a risk, but one that had to be taken.

With an elbow resting on the open window, Adler controlled the steering wheel with a light touch of his hand. He took his eyes from the road, then briefly diverted them to the rearview mirror. Slade was driving the second BMW, carrying the rest of the Team. He kept the car within three car lengths of the lead BMW.

Adler glanced at Grant, seeing the familiar locking of the square jaw. "Is this about the message?"

"No, but that's still got me wondering."

"Well, then, what is it? Can I help?" Adler finally asked, seeing Draper and Garrett in the back, paying attention.

"Hope so," Grant answered, as he brushed back strands of wind-blown brown hair. "I've been 'busting my balls' trying to come up with an explanation why CIA turned over Dotsenko. What Bancroft told me at the meeting stunk."

"Is that gut of yours telling you some bad shit?"

"What if the 'Cowboys' wanted all along to send him back, to become one of their operators again? And when Pankova went missing, they saw their chance."

"That's one helluva supposition!"

"Yeah, I know."

"And just how do you plan on resolving the issue?"

Grant draped his arm over the seat, turning to look at his good friend. "Either option might send me up shit creek."

"You've made that trip before."

"Look, I can confront Dotsenko, pick his brain, and see if that's his plan."

"Wait a minute! That's fuckin' stupid."

Grant had to laugh. "Nothin' like being honest, Joe!"

"C'mon! What good would it do? I mean, if he's going back, you couldn't stop him!"

"Maybe not. Maybe I just need confirmation the Agency instigated a bullshit 'snatch' and pulled the wool over everyone's eyes, including the President's."

"Christ! You aren't thinking what I think you're thinking, are you? You're already halfway up that creek!"

Grant turned halfway, looking at Draper and Garrett. "Comments?"

"Not at this time," Garrett answered, giving a wave of his hand.

"Me neither," Draper said, taking the silver wrapper off a stick of Wrigley's.