Operation Gold Eagle

Chapter 4

Two and a half hours after refueling in Shannon, Ireland, the Gulfstream touched down on Runway 07 of Schonefeld Airport, East Germany. Located ten miles south southeast of Berlin, the airport was situated just outside the boundary of the Berlin Wall.

An airport marshaller stood well in front of the Gulfstream, and head-on with Garrett's left shoulder. Garrett guided the plane along a white line, steering toward a concrete area. The marshaller motioned him forward until the Gulfstream lined up next to a Beechcraft with Swiss registration. The marshaller crossed his wands overhead, signaling Garrett to stop.

Just before departing Virginia, the Team received intel from NSA. Intercepted transmissions indicated the KGB had orders to transport Dotsenko directly to their aircraft at Schonefeld immediately after the exchange.

During the flight to Ireland, A.T. made preliminary plans for the 'snatch' of Alexei Dotsenko.

While Garrett and Draper sat in the cockpit going through the final checklist, the rest of the men gathered in the cabin, standing near Grant. He opened a map of the area, smoothing it down with a hand.

Munching on an Oreo cookie, Adler looked over Grant's shoulder. "Do you think that road is the best one for us to do our 'work'?"

Grant ran a finger along a black line leading from the airport. "I think so, Joe. We won't have to pass through security checkpoints."

Slade took a sip of Coke. "Are we gonna have a problem driving through East Germany without proper papers?"

Adler shook his head. "No. Any citizen of the Western Allied powers has authority to use all designated transit routes. The Soviets travel just about anywhere, anytime they want. But we've done it before, right, skipper?"

"Roger that, Joe. It's passing through checkpoints that can be hairy at times, but we'll still be taking all our passports."

"Maybe we'll be okay," James said, "but what about our 'traveling companion'?"

"I've got a new U.S. passport for him."

"And our gear and weapons?" Novak asked, worried about his sniper rifle.

"We'll leave everything on the plane, Mike, except for sidearms and rifles. Once Dotsenko is at the embassy, and he's given us her location, we're coming back to Schonefeld to plan part two of the op." Grant stood, as he was folding the map. "Any questions?" Silence. "Okay, let's go rent the vehicles. Joe, Frank, you'll be driving. We'll depart Schonefeld ten minutes apart, then join up. I'd like to check out the route before dark, then again around midnight tonight."

Only one road was a direct route from and to the airport that followed the perimeter of the Berlin Wall, taking the least amount of time. Returning to Schonefeld, vehicles had to make a right-hand turn off Konigstrasse, then 100 yards farther away, a left turn, putting them back on course for the airport. A.T. found the route to be the safest, quickest place to make the snatch.

While the Team left to grab something to eat in the terminal, Grant and Adler remained in the plane. Cabin lights were low, shades lowered.

Grant was stretched out on one of the bench seats, with his fingers locked behind his head. Hearing the sounds of jet engines hardly distracted him from his thoughts, thoughts that had nothing to do with the current mission.

Adler had gone aft to grab a couple of Cokes from the small fridge. He walked back through the cabin, sat opposite Grant, then set one can on the table, and popped the top on his. As he started to drink, he paused, seeing Grant deep in thought.

"What's wrong?"

Grant slid his legs over the side, then sat up. Brushing his hands over the top of his head, he looked across the aisle. "Joe, I've been thinking."

"No shit. It was pretty obvious."

"I'd like to run something by you."

"Fire away."

"There's no denying that both of us love the hell outta what we do, right?"

"Affirmative! We never would've gotten back into it after we retired if we didn't."

Grant leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. "My mind says I could do this for another ten, twenty years. But the … "

"But the bod says otherwise."

"Exactly. So, what would you say to a change in direction again?"

"As long as it's not sitting in a rockin' chair, what've you got in mind?"

"Maybe start something like a training facility, a camp."

"Seriously? And do what?"

"There're a lot of young men out there who can't make it, or think they can't make it into Special Forces. Maybe we could prepare them for the reality of what it takes, prepare their bodies and minds. The rough stuff would come later," he laughed.

Adler sipped his Coke. "Sounds almost like 'fun in Coronado' again."

"Almost. I doubt we could ever match that."

"It could work," Adler commented, rubbing his chin. "Are you talking weapons training, too?"

"Everything, Joe. I'm looking down the road, of course, but depending on how many signed up, we could form squads."

"Jesus! You have been thinking about it! You realize the idea opens up a whole shitload of questions. What happens to the Team? What'll our benefactors have to say? Jesus! What about the President's reaction?!"

"I realize all that, Joe. I was thinking the Team might be willing to become instructors, even the 'youngster.'" Grant referred to Doc Stalley. "As far as your other questions, well, we might be getting ahead of ourselves."

"How long has this notion been rolling around in that brain of yours?"

"A couple of weeks, I guess."

"Well, where do we go from here?"

"When this op is over and we're home, we'll have to discuss it with Matt first. If the benefactors aren't willing to support the proposition, we may have to scrap the whole idea. We'll have to wait and see."

The conversation abruptly ended, with the sound of A.T. returning. Grant leaned back, and stretched his arms across the backrest. "Joe, when are you gonna stop calling me 'skipper'?"

"What the hell should I call you?"

"We've known each other long enough for you to use my name."

"I don't know," Adler said shaking his head. "That might take some practice."

"Give it a shot."

"Not ready."

"Here you go," Garrett said, handing over two wrapped burgers."

The conversation changed direction again.

At 0030, two black Audi Quattro sedans followed the same route as earlier, but this time they parked 300 yards from Glienicke Bridge. Splitting up, A.T. did a recon of any possible 'hot' spots, unusual traffic, homes. East German guards at the bridge didn't appear to have any set routines. With rifle straps slung over their shoulders, they remained near the guard house, occasionally walked to the opposite side of the bridge, and frequently watched the guards on the American side.

After two hours of reconnaissance, A.T. returned to Schonefeld, prepared for the mission that night.

The Glienicke Bridge, made of steel, and resembling a suspension bridge, crossed the Havel River. The middle of the bridge was the dividing line between East and West Berlin. It had become known as the "Bridge of Spies." Tonight's exchange was scheduled for midnight.

Dressed entirely in black, the Team arrived one hour after sunset, well before the time the targets were due. The Audi with Diaz, Slade, and Novak was within 200 yards of the bridge with its headlights off. Feeling confident they or the Audi wouldn't be noticed, Diaz parked beneath a canopy of trees along a dark, single lane road. The men had a clear view of the route the Russians would be traveling.

Three miles farther east, Grant, Adler, James, and Stalley were near the first turn coming from the airport. Adler parked the Audi well off the road, still giving them a view of any car traveling the route.

"Headlights," Adler reported. He raised the binoculars, and waited for the vehicle, knowing it had to slow down when it reached the turn. As expected, the Mercedes slowed just enough for him to spot its occupants. "Five inside, four wearing uniforms. UF (unfriendly) in rear wearing a hood."

"Reznikov," Grant said, as he pressed the PTT. "Three-Six, targets heading to you."

"Roger," Diaz replied. Not long after, a Mercedes sped by the Audi's location. Diaz notified Grant. "Vehicle just passed."

Novak and Slade left the Audi, maneuvering their way closer to the bridge. Positioning themselves 100 yards east, they took cover behind a concrete wall that ran parallel to Konigstrasse. Using high-powered binoculars, they kept their attention on a black, four-door Mercedes. It was parked east of concrete barricades that were set up in a zigzag pattern, thereby controlling the speed of vehicles.

Grant glanced at his illuminated submariner, showing 2349. "They should be getting ready to make the swap." He pressed the PTT. "Four-One, update."

While Novak continued surveillance, Slade responded, "Eyes on four uniformed UFs outside vehicle. One UF inside with hood."

Grant glanced at his watch. "Head back once parties have met. Copy?"

"Copy that." Slade and Novak continued surveillance.

Adler leaned against the driver side door, adjusting his holster. "Unless shit happens, 'company' should be arriving soon."

Grant nodded, then pulled his Makarov from the shoulder holster. As he tightened the silencer, he turned in the seat, looking at Stalley and James. "Good to go?" The two gave a thumb's up. Their Makarovs were secured in holsters. AKs rested across their laps.

No other traffic had passed in either direction. A.T. counted on the strict travel restrictions.

Security pole lamps, positioned near guard houses on both east and west side of the bridge, illuminated the entire bridge area. Three Russian KGB officers, and one regular Army enlisted, stood together by the Mercedes. Across the bridge two CIA agents exited a black, mid-size, panel van, while two more remained inside with their passenger. Everyone waited for the stroke of midnight.

Lieutenant General Nikita Komarov and Lieutenant Colonel Vlad Petrova, flicked cigarettes behind one of the vehicle barriers, then they walked closer to the guard house. Both officers were highly trusted, highly trained in the "world" of KGB.

Petrova raised a set of binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck, focusing them on the van. "I see two agents outside the vehicle, Comrade General."

The stocky-framed Komarov stood with his arms behind his back, slapping one hand against the other. "Any sign of Comrade Dotsenko?"

"Not yet."

At 2355 a sliding door on the van opened, and Dotsenko stepped out, nervously adjusting his suit jacket. Four CIA agents walked with him toward a pole barrier. Special Agent Carl Traimore headed up the mission, accompanied by Special Agents Steve Leamon, Marty Fitzgerald, and Blake Torres.

"There he is." Petrova lowered the binoculars, just as Komarov turned slightly, signaling for Reznikov to be brought forward.

A car door opened. The hooded passenger was handcuffed and continued resisting. He had to be forcefully pulled from the vehicle. Then, Sergeant Baskov and KGB Major Kozlow each grabbed an arm, leading him closer to the point where he would begin his 75 yard walk to the dividing line at bridge center. The five men waited.

Chimes from a distant bell tower signaled midnight. Guards manually raised the pole barriers. Baskov and Kozlow accompanied Reznikov, who stumbled and kept resisting.

Dotsenko started walking east. Special Agents Fitzgerald and Torres followed close behind him, not so much as guards, but prepared to assume control of Reznikov.

Dotsenko gave the hooded Reznikov an emotionless glance, but his attention immediately was drawn to the white dividing line. As soon as he stepped across, Baskov and Kozlow fell in next to him.

The two CIA agents took control of Reznikov, with Torres immediately pulling off the black hood. The thinning black hair, and scarred hands and face ("earned" while spending time in one of Russia's toughest prisons), completed the identification process.

Blinking several times, he finally caught sight of the end of the bridge, a guardhouse, and waiting Americans. Before he was taken from his prison cell, he was handcuffed and the black hood put over his head. He had no idea where he was being taken.

Once near the Mercedes, Komarov greeted the returning Russian with hand extended. "Comrade Dotsenko! Welcome!"

Dotsenko returned the handshake, and replied simply, "Spaseeba, Comrade." Being back under the control of Russians left him with a very unsettling feeling. He reminded himself he was doing this for Sophia, but so much could go wrong, especially when it involved the KGB.

He climbed into the back seat, with Komarov and Petrova sitting on either side of him. Baskov slid behind the steering wheel, and moved the seat forward, as Kozlow settled into the passenger seat. Baskov started the engine, then looked in the rearview mirror. Komarov kept his eyes on the Americans, who literally dragged Reznikov into their van. Komarov finally gave a nod, the signal to proceed to the airport.

Slade tapped Novak on the shoulder, whispering, "Let's go." They ran in a zigzag pattern, maneuvering through the trees, heading for the Audi.

Slade notified Grant: "Exchange complete. Comin' back."

"Roger," Grant responded, continuing to hold the PTT, calling Diaz in the second Audi. "Three-Six, fire it up."

"Roger," Diaz responded.

Novak and Slade slid across the rear seat, just as Diaz started the engine. He slowly drove the Audi toward the main road, looking for any sign of headlights. He lowered the window, listening. "They're comin'!" The Mercedes roared by.

"Jesus! What the fuck have they got under that hood?!" Novak blurted out.

Slade pushed the PTT. "Zero-Niner, targets headed to you, high rate of speed."

"Roger," Grant responded.

Diaz put the car into gear, eased forward until he could barely see red taillights, then he pulled out, but kept the headlights off. He 'hit' the gas. At the speed the two cars were traveling, they'd reach the point for the intended snatch in no time.

Slade pressed the PTT, notifying everyone. "Approaching marker two."

"Time to move," Grant said.

The four men pulled down black, one-hole masks, then quickly exited the car. Standing alongside the asphalt road close to turn number two, they were getting ready to take their positions, when headlights appeared on the horizon, the high beams growing brighter.

Baskov slowed and made the right-hand turn, anticipating the next turn one hundred yards away.

"Now, Frank!" Grant said under his breath.

The Audi fishtailed as Diaz made the sharp right turn. Immediately bringing the car under control, he flipped on headlights then high beams, driving the Audi within a car's-length of the Mercedes.

Glare in the rearview mirror momentarily blinded Baskov, and he grabbed the wheel with both hands, expecting a rear end collision.

Kozlow braced his hands against the dashboard, warning, "Look out!"

Baskov hit the brakes. The back seat passengers were thrown forward. They braced themselves, trying not to hit the front seats. The Mercedes came to a screeching halt, directly in front of four men blocking the road, each one in a shooter's stance, with pistols and AKs aimed straight at the Mercedes.

The Russians started reaching for their own weapons, when three other men rushed to the side windows, with Makarovs pointing directly into the car. Dotsenko slouched down in the back seat, prepared for a shootout.

Slade stood by the driver's door, yanked it open, then immediately gripped his weapon with both hands. Diaz flung open the front passenger door, Novak, the right rear.

Slade ordered in Russian, "Toss out your weapons!" He waited, then ordered again, "Toss them! Now!" Reluctantly, the Russians obeyed, and four Makarovs clanged against the pavement. Stalley ran to the Mercedes, quickly collecting the weapons.

"Out of the car! Hands behind your head!" Slade motioned with his weapon.

Initial moments of shock quickly passed, as anger became obvious on Lieutenant General Komarov's face. He took a step closer to Slade, refusing to obey the order, keeping his hands by his side with fists balled up. "Who the hell are you?! What gives you the right to stop us?!"

"Enough of this shit!" Grant said through gritted teeth. He left ranks and jogged next to Slade. In a swift motion he jammed the silencer against the Russian officer's forehead, knocking him back a step.

With a quick glance, Grant noticed the Russian's name on his uniform. Then, speaking in Russian, he kept his voice deep and menacing. "You are in no position to question, Komarov! I leave it up to you whether or not I pull this trigger — and I will pull this trigger!"

Komarov's jaw tightened, but he reluctantly backed away and walked to the opposite side of the car. Novak and Diaz patted down the four men, not finding additional weapons.

Dotsenko, meanwhile, was delaying getting out of the car. Grant grabbed his arm and yanked him out. "Do not give us any trouble!" He shoved him toward Stalley who grabbed an arm, then hustled him to the Audi, as James guarded their sixes. Maintaining the ruse, Stalley pushed Dotsenko into the back seat, slammed the door, then took up a defensive position next to the car.

James was headed to the Mercedes, when Grant stopped him. "Get their names." James nodded, then took off, assisting Novak, Diaz, and Slade, who were forcibly prodding the Russians more deeply into the woods.

Keeping his eyes and weapon on the Russians as they were led away, Grant whispered, "Lose the Mercedes, Joe." Adler shoved his weapon into the holster then ran to the Mercedes, started it up, then drove it well beyond the tree line.

Grant walked around Stalley who was standing by the passenger door. He leaned in toward Dotsenko, and spoke softly in English. "We're Americans, sir. Sorry we had to be so rough. But as soon as we're finished here, we'll take you to the embassy where you'll be safe."

Dotsenko sighed deeply, before asking, "But what about …?"

"She's the second part of this mission. As soon as we're at the embassy, you'll need to answer some questions for us, though."

"Anything. Anything. I'll help all I can."

Grant gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then turned and waited for A.T.

Adler quietly closed the Mercedes' door, then hurled the key as far as he could. He hustled back to where the four Russians were standing, when suddenly the driver, Baskov, took off, running full bore into the forest. "Oh, fuck!" Adler said under his breath.

The chase was on. The Russian disappeared in the forest. Adler followed the sound of feet slapping against leaves and dirt, until — nothing. No sound, not even heavy breathing.

Adler pulled up, and stopped behind a tree. Holding his weapon close, he eased his head forward. Baskov ran from behind a tree and took off again. Adler gained on him, shouting one of a few words he knew in Russian: "Khal't!" (halt) Baskov stumbled, but kept running. Adler aimed and fired, dropping the Russian.

"Shit!" Grant raced through the trees.

Adler knelt near the Russian, whispering, "He's alive, just unconscious. Must've hit his head hard on that." Adler pointed at a dark, wet stain on a rock. Blood from a bullet wound was seeping through the uniform jacket near the shoulder blade.

Grant leaned down, and grabbed Baskov's arm. "Let's get him to the Mercedes." He and Adler dragged the Russian to the vehicle, and laid him in the rear seat.

"Now what?" Adler asked, closing the door.

"Secure him." Adler hesitated. "Do it, Joe! Somebody will come looking for them."

The other three Russians were forced onto the ground, with their backs against the base of a tree, and then they were lashed together. Duct tape covered their mouths, black hoods covered their heads, adding to the intimidation factor. Slade gave a thumb's up, then A.T. hurried back to the Audis.

But just as the men were opening car doors, the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons echoed in the stillness. They immediately dropped to a knee, taking cover near the vehicles, aiming their weapons toward the sound. Dotsenko threw his arms over his head, scrunching down in the back seat.

Realizing the noise was farther south than their location, the Team cautiously stood, but continued swiveling their heads, watching for anything out of the ordinary. Silence again.

Adler questioned what they were all thinking. "What the fuck?!"

Grant jammed his weapon into the holster, then looked over the top of the car door. "Let's get … " An explosion sent them to the ground again from pure reaction.

Still keeping a low voice, Grant spat out, "Jesus Christ! Move! Move! Go!"

The two vehicles sped off toward West Berlin, barely staying within the speed limit. They had 21 miles to go, and now wasn't the time to attract police.

A beat-up green, four-door 1970 Trabant rumbled slowly across five acres of land that twenty years earlier had cultivated potatoes, carrots, and cabbage. Heading toward an old deserted farmhouse, the driver cautiously maneuvered the vehicle through weeds and vines, avoiding ruts and hardened tracks once made by tractors and wagons. Rusted, broken, decaying farm equipment lay scattered across the property.

A house came into view, a dark shape standing against the backdrop of the horizon. The driver pulled around the back, parking close to the building. As remote as the location was, they still needed to err on the side of caution. Once the investigation into the incident started, they'd be hunted — again.

The driver, Sergei Botkin, and passenger, Pavel Orlov, started to get out, when Reznikov ordered, "Keep your weapons, but put the grenade launchers and explosives in that cellar with the rest." He pointed to a wood door, set at a slight angle, just above ground level. Below was a storage room, not more than ten feet from the house, once used for root vegetables.

Orlov pulled his straggly long hair from his face, questioning, "Just keep our weapons?!"

Reznikov slid across the seat, reaching for the door handle. "Weapons are one thing, but getting caught with those explosives … We will take only what we need when we receive new orders." He got out, opened the trunk and grabbed a flashlight, then left the two men to their assignment.

The darkness and the distance from the road gave him some sense of safety. No one could approach this property without being heard or noticed. Botkin and Orlov would take turns keeping watch, at least until daylight.

Walking to the front of the crumbling, discolored cement-block house, he remained cautious, listening to the two men transferring the explosives. Being together again made him think about the three of them, once prisoners in the high-security prison, Krasnoyarsk Camp 17. The city itself was located on the Yenisei River and the third largest city in Siberia.

They were each sentenced to thirty years for attempted theft of explosives and weapons from military armories, with intent to sell. But after only seven years, and without being told why, their sentences were reduced.

The day they were released, they were flown to Moscow under guard, even though they were supposedly free. That day was when they met their handler, known only as "Yermak." (Cossack leader) While they sat in his car at the airport, he gave them two choices: either accept what was to be offered without question, or be put back on a plane, and sent to Siberia's Black Dolphin prison, remaining there for the rest of their lives. Their decision was a no-brainer.

Reznikov could no longer trust anyone, except possibly, Botkin and Orlov. For the past two years they worked together, risked their lives, carrying out attacks their handler designated. Then without warning, he was captured, imprisoned, interrogated, then turned over to the Americans.

But Reznikov had yet determined why he was the only one captured, then offered up, when they were all involved in past terrorist activities. There was a possibility he'd been identified by surveillance tapes, but still, the three of them were known to operate together.

While at the East German prison, he had no idea Botkin and Orlov received information from Yermak, indicating the exact place, date, and time of the exchange. They planned the 'rescue' perfectly. Now, and for the moment, he felt some semblance of relief. He was free.

A slide bolt secured the door, with a key lock added. He unlocked it, put the lock in his pocket, before sliding it open. On the opposite side of the door were two bolts, adding to their security while inside.

The thick wooden entry door scraped across dirt-covered plank flooring. Except for scuffing from shoes and boots, the thickness of dirt was a testament to the length of time the building hadn't functioned as a home, but as a hideout. Each of six windows had been blacked out. Turning on the flashlight, he swiveled the light back and forth, then pointed it overhead. Thick wooden beams crossed the entire 800 square foot space.

Directing the beam toward a beat-up, rectangular wooden table in the center of the space, the light settled on a kerosene lamp. Striking a match, he lit the lamp, then lowered the flame until it barely glowed. Expecting to find an envelope with money and instructions for another attack, he slid his hand back and forth under the table top. Finding nothing, he turned on the flashlight, then shined the beam underneath. Again, nothing.

His brief moment of relief quickly vanished, as suspicion took hold. He shut off the flashlight. His pulse started racing, with the realization of why he'd been rescued. It wasn't because he was valuable. It was because someone feared he would eventually talk and identify his handler and the trail of money. And Yermak would eventually lead everyone to the person who headed it all, who used Reznikov and his men to fulfill his own agenda. But who that was, even Reznikov didn't know.

He spun around, hearing Botkin and Orlov stomping into the house. "Start looking for wires, explosives! Do it! Now!"

Without questioning, the two men grabbed their flashlights, and ran to opposite sides of the room, looking in corners, following beams of light along walls, both top and bottom.

Reznikov directed the beam of light along the base of the back wall, before he started backtracking. Shining the flashlight overhead, his eyes searched along a wooden beam, when something got his attention. He stopped directly underneath, tilting his head back. His eyes finally focused on a drooping thin wire. "Get the ladder!"

Orlov made a beeline for the door. In seconds he returned carrying a very old, handmade wooden ladder. As he balanced it against the beam, Reznikov pointed, "Check that wire, but watch what you touch! I cannot see where it leads."

Orlov started climbing, as Botkin braced his heavy body against the ladder. As he stood on the last rung, Orlov leaned over the wood beam, shining his flashlight along the back side. "Shit! Dynamite! Dynamite is strung across the beam with det cord!" He looked down at Reznikov. "Everything we have used for our attacks!"

Reznikov kept the flashlight beam on Orlov. "Do you see any type of timer?!"

Orlov looked along the left side, then right. "No! Neither end of the wire is attached to anything!"

"Somebody ran out of time," Reznikov commented, continuing to look up.

"What the hell is going on, Ivan?!" Botkin asked, with total confusion.

"Only two other people knew about this place," Reznikov mumbled, beginning to see the whole picture.

Orlov jumped from the bottom rung. "You cannot be thinking Yermak?"

"It must be. We have not received our money, no new orders, and now the explosives!" Reznikov shut off the flashlight then went near the table. "Leave everything as is. If we have to vacate, this damn place can be destroyed quickly."

"You want to leave the explosives in place?!" Botkin waved an arm overhead.

"If we are ever followed here, Sergei, that," he pointed toward the explosives, "may be all that will give us time to escape."

"I get it," Botkin answered, smoothing down his short, black beard.

Reznikov looked at both men. "We have to face facts. From now on, we are on our own."

Two Audis pulled in front of the security gate. Team A.T. waited for the guard to inspect them and their IDs. He walked around the open gate. "Evening, sirs." He took Adler's State Department ID, then said, "We've been expecting all of you. Just drive up to the main door, sir." He rolled back the gate, then snapped a smart salute as the cars drove past.

The Team quickly exited the cars, taking a defensive position around their "package," Alexei Dotsenko, then led him into the embassy.

"Gentlemen, I'm Sam Nichols, Station Chief. Welcome to the U.S. Embassy." The gray-haired Nichols extended a hand.

Grant returned the handshake. "Thank you, sir. I'm Grant Stevens, and … "

"Yes, I know, Captain Stevens. We've been expecting you and Team Alpha Tango." He nodded toward the men.

"And this is Alexei Dotsenko," Grant said.

Nichols offered his hand. "Mr. Dotsenko, welcome."

"I appreciate your help, Mr. Nichols."

Grant glanced down the hallway. "Would it be possible for us to use a room temporarily? We have some questions for Mr. Dotsenko."

"Sure. Go down this hallway, third door on the left. There should be enough chairs for you. I've taken the liberty and had some drinks brought in. If you need anything else, dial 221. That's my office."

"Appreciate it, sir."

Nichols watched the men as they walked away, all dressed in black, wearing shoulder holsters that held Russian Makarovs.

Once behind the closed door, A.T. grabbed some water and sodas. Adler offered a Coke and glass of water to Dotsenko, who selected the water.

Grant pulled out a chair, sitting opposite Dotsenko, noticing his pale face. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Yes. Yes."

"I'm sorry we roughed you up back there, but we couldn't let the 'comrades' suspect anything."

"Oh, I understand. It has all been quite overwhelming for me, though."

"You took one helluva risk coming back here. That took courage, sir." Dotsenko sipped at the water, looking over the rim of the glass at Grant, who said, "You don't have to worry. You'll be safe at the embassy while we complete the mission."

Dotsenko slapped his hand on the table, nearly knocking over his glass. He abruptly got up. "No! I cannot stay here! I must go with you! She … " He turned and walked away.

A.T. rolled their chairs back, obviously surprised at the reaction. Grant went to him. "Mr. Dotsenko." He laid a hand on the distressed man's shoulder, waiting for him to turn around. "Sir, I'm sorry you weren't informed sooner, and I apologize. But I'd like you to think about how dangerous that would be. We've been on missions like this many times, and I can tell you from experience that nothing is always straightforward. Believe me, sir, it'd be best for everyone, especially Miss Pankova." An expression of dismay remained on Dotsenko's face. "Please, sir," Grant said, motioning toward a chair. "We'd like some information that will help us."

The men glanced quickly at each other. But now they had to wonder if the information they were about to hear would lead them on the right path to complete the second part of the mission — a successful extraction.

Dotsenko drank some water, as Grant asked, "Can you tell me if she had an emergency escape plan in case she had to find safe haven somewhere?"

"That was one of the first details she always took care of. When she was in Tbilisi, she set up a plan to escape to Turkey, or at least get as close to the border as possible."

"I think we're all curious, but how did she manage to communicate with you? She had to have been watched."

"Just like any spy, she used dead drops while in Russia. She had her contacts. They took care of seeing to it that D.C. got her coded messages."

"Understand," Grant commented. "Let's move on to the base in Poland. With it being so secretive, I'd say she didn't have any contacts who could help her. Correct?"

"Yes."

"Then how did she …?"

"Contact me?"

"Yes, sir."

"As soon as she knew she was going to Drazowe, she left a message for her contact in Tbilisi."

For the time being, Grant didn't need explicit details on messages or contacts. He needed a location for the extraction. "Where is she?"

"Oleniv always set her up in her own place. They never lived together. His reasoning? I can only assume he felt it would protect her somehow, or he was just trying to protect himself. Yet, everyone knew she was his … " He couldn't bring himself to say the word "mistress."

"That's all right, sir. Go on."

Dotsenko reached for the glass, finished the water, then proceeded. "With the serious situation developing in the country, soldiers had been posted at all roads leading away from town. They were at bus stations, train stations, and the ferry terminal. They were checking everyone's papers. She couldn't take the chance."

"Are we to assume she's still in that residence?"

"Yes."

Grant's eyes scanned his men, seeing heads shaking. "You have an address, right?"

"Do you have pencil and paper?" Dotsenko asked, looking around.

Stalley got a pad and pen next to the phone, then brought them to Dotsenko who immediately began writing. When he finished, he slid the paper across the table toward Grant. "She used a signal in the past, to show me she was … home." His expression changed, showing part sadness, part embarrassment. "She would close the drapes of her bedroom window, but the right side would remain slightly open. That meant she was home … and alone. I would think that would still be her signal, unless something prevents her from … "

"Very well, sir." Grant scanned the note, then passed it to Adler. "You may not be able to answer this, but is this the only location where she could be?"

"There could be brief periods when she might leave, but I doubt it, and she certainly wouldn't go far. She realizes someone should be coming for her. Time is running out for her," he said, with his voice cracking. "If no one gets to her soon, she will not … she cannot wait any longer."

"I understand. Believe me."

"Do you know when you will leave?"

"We've got to make some special arrangements before we do, but I would guesstimate we'll be on our way no later than tomorrow. Remember, you'll have protection while you're here, so don't worry about safety.

"One more question. Is there anything you can tell us that'll convince Miss Pankova we know you, that she can trust us?"

Dotsenko mulled over the request. "We have code names. She is 'Silent Willow,' and I'm 'Gray Fox.'"

"That will definitely be the proof we need, sir. Thanks."

Grant rolled his chair back, then went to the phone and called Nichols' office. "Sir, we're finished here, if you want to have someone assist Mr. Dotsenko. Oh, and would it be possible to use the scrambler in the crypto room?"

"Sure. I'll be right there," Nichols responded.

Grant went to the door. "Listen, guys, Joe and I are gonna call Scott. Why don't you take a break after a guard shows up. See if you can get anything to eat. There might be some vending machines. Pick something up for Joe."

The elevator doors hadn't fully parted when Grant and Adler stepped in. Using a special key, Grant activated the mechanism, sending the elevator down two levels. The crypto room was soundproof, and had stark white, ten inch thick walls. Sophisticated equipment consisted of scrambler communication gear, internal walkie-talkies, a short-wave radio system, radio directional finders and receivers. A small safe contained code books for secure communication.

One of the crypto men on duty received prior authorization to give Grant and Adler access to the scrambler room. He pressed a button that unlocked the door, allowing the two to enter a room they used in the past. The scrambler room. The size of a walk-in closet. A secure room inside the crypto room.

Grant pushed back his sweater sleeve, checking the time, then he dialed the number. "C'mon, Scott. Pick up!"

"Keep your shorts on," Adler laughed, sliding a metal chair closer. He straddled it backwards.

"Mullins."

"Scott, it's Grant."

"I've got my pad and pen ready!"

"Don't think you'll need them, buddy. Only need two pieces of equipment: chopper and inflatable boat."

"Jesus, Grant!" Mullins blurted out, as he dropped the pen on the desk, then flopped back against his chair.

"We just found out the location of Pankova and that's the only way we can pull this off. We're gonna be pushin' the outside of the envelope on this one, Scott."

"I have a feeling you want the two items asap?"

"If not sooner. I don't need to tell you, this op was classified as top secret. So, the chopper crew … "

"I'll handle it. Now, tell me how long you're gonna be … Wait! Where are you?"

"The U.S. Embassy. Listen, we've been at Schonefeld long enough. We need to exit soon, so if you can get the items, direct them to Tegel. There should be fewer questions with a chopper landing at the military terminal. Guess it'll be easier if you get us prior authorization for the Gulfstream to land." The brief silence told Grant that Mullins was worried, for more than one reason.

"Tegel, huh? You'll barely get off the ground when it'll be time to land again."

"I know, but we've got too damn much gear to haul in cars, and it wouldn't be the best decision to leave the plane here."

"Should I call you at the embassy?"

"No. I'll call you from Schonefeld terminal, let's say at 1000 my time. You can do it, Scott. I've got faith in you."

"Talk at ya later, buddy." End of call.

One quarter mile east of the Brandenburg Gate, at Unter den Linden 63–65 (Under the Lime-Trees), stood the Embassy of the Soviet Union. The façade was ashlar stone, a finely cut/worked masonry, used as an alternative to brick or other materials.

First Chief Directorate Vladimir Borskaya waited by his office window, anticipating a phone call, confirming the exchange was a success. His specific orders were to call Moscow before the plane even departed Schonefeld.

He diverted his dark eyes to a wall clock above the credenza. Three hours difference between Berlin and Moscow,he thought. Pounding a fist into his palm, he angrily turned from the window, and went to his desk. As he reached for the phone, he paused, and read the words on a small wooden plaque standing near the phone: Loyalty to the Party — Loyalty to the Motherland. "Always," he quietly said.

He drew his hand away from the phone, hearing a sudden, heavy rapping on the office door. "Yes?!"

Sergeant Yozhin rushed in. "Comrade Borskaya! Our intel people have intercepted a message being broadcast by the East German police!"

"Well?! Out with it!"

"They were reporting a shooting, and the destruction of a motor vehicle, sir!"

At first Borskaya wasn't concerned. Incidents like this happened often, when East Germans tried to escape to the West. "What else?"

"No specifics were given, except two men were killed, two injured."

"What was this vehicle?"

Yozhin reread the message. "A van, sir."

Borskaya felt some relief. His men were driving a Mercedes. But another sudden thought crossed his mind. He rested his fists on his desk, leaning toward the young sergeant. "Who were those men?!"

"No names or nationalities were mentioned, sir. Only the Friedrichshain Municipal Hospital in East Berlin was identified."

"Have you not heard anything from General Komarov?"

"No, sir."

Borskaya slowly straightened up, as he began to think about the exchange, and the Americans who exchanged Dotsenko for Reznikov. Could it have been their van? "Where did this happen?"

"We looked at a map of that area, sir. It appeared they were heading east. It was near Kleinmachow."

The name sounded familiar to Borskaya. He turned and went to a wall map, showing all sectors of Berlin. Leaning closer to where the exchange took place, he slid his finger along a road heading east. "Checkpoint Bravo," he said, stabbing a finger against the spot. Only four men, driving a van, transported to hospital. They were possibly the Americans — which meant Reznikov got away. But did that incident have anything to do with Komarov not reporting in?

Pointing directly at Yozhin, he ordered, "Contact East German police headquarters — immediately! Get as much information from them. By my orders you are to send our agents to that hospital, to Schonefeld Airport, to Glienicke, anywhere along the route Comrade Komarov might have driven! Do you understand?!"

"Yes, sir!" Yozhin didn't wait to be excused. He saluted, then quickly left.

Borskaya blew out a long breath, as he silently reviewed the little information he had. Placing his hand on the phone, he hesitated, then decided to wait before he called KGB Director Antolov in Moscow. Glancing again at the clock, he turned and went back to the window. Daylight was nearly four hours away. He'd have to give the intel staff and his agents time to investigate. They should have something for me soon, he thought.