Sacrifice of One

Chapter 8

They’d been driving along Kashirskoye Highway for twenty-minutes, one of the major streets coming out of Moscow that eventually leads to the town of Kashira.

Adler glanced out the side window. “Looks like that storm might be passing us by.” Light from an early evening sun broke through passing clouds. Winds had died down to under fifteen knots.

He looked across at Grant and asked, “You have any idea where the colonel’s gonna be?”

“Taking a shot he’ll be at the north end of the airport. On the opposite side of the two runways there’s a helo pad. Grigori pointed it out last time we came through here, remember? Right now that’s our best bet.” He slowly shook his head. “Wish we could have talked to him one more time.”

Something started nagging at him, something about the chopper. The flying distance to East Germany had to be at least a thousand miles. Making that trip in a chopper would take well over six hours. There’d have to be refueling at least twice.

Who the hell came up with the idea of a chopper to begin with? And why? Grigori can fly anything, and he confirmed he’d be going to head up security. Maybe there’d be a plane waiting at the next location. That’s a plausible explanation.

Grant readjusted his body on the seat, getting more anxious. Suddenly, a terrifying thought came to his mind. Chopper or plane. Grigori. POWs. All in one place. “Fuck!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.

Adler nearly came out of his seat. “Shit! Now what?”

Grant gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. “Christ, Joe! What if the plan is to dispose of Grigori and the POWs on the way to East Germany? What if that chopper is going to go down, intentionally?”

“You really don’t think… ”

“Jesus! I hope I’m wrong, Joe. I sure as hell hope I’m wrong. But no matter what I think, I’m going to be on that chopper. It’s too late to change plans.”

“Hey, skipper. I’ve said this before, but don’t think about leaving me behind,” Adler said, keeping his eyes on Grant. “We’re in this together, no matter what the fuck happens.”

“I know,” Grant replied. “Listen, get on the horn and call Tony. He should still be in range. He needs to get Alexandra out now. Tell him not to go to the safe house. They need to get out of Russia. And ask him if Grigori’s called.”

Without questioning, Adler pulled the radio from the satchel.

Mullins put a hand on the radio. He snapped his head around, looking at Alexandra, as he put a finger to his lips. He lifted the radio from his belt then quickly and silently went to the door. Going out into the hallway, and ensuring he was alone, he replied softly, “Cowboy here.”

Adler kept it short. “Leave immediately. Forget the safe house. Go to final destination. Wait till contacted. Copy?”

“Copy.”

“Have you received any calls?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

“You, too, my friends.” Mullins took a deep breath. Were his friends in trouble or just being cautious? Not the time to question or wonder. He went back inside the apartment.

Alexandra stood by the stairs, waiting, but she had a suspicion they were leaving. Mullins stepped close to her. He had to make her understand completely. He reached into his pocket and pulled out her new papers. Holding them in front of her, she stared, nodded, then immediately ran upstairs.

She was already prepared for this exact situation, remembering what Grant told her. One final time, she opened a purse in the closet, making sure her “old” papers were there. Grabbing a black raincoat, she picked up a large handbag, made of needlepoint, that contained a change of clothes and a few essentials. Giving the room one last look, she tried with everything in her to keep her emotions in check. Then she turned and rushed down to meet Mullins.

Mullins whispered, “Okay?” She tried to smile. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. Motioning for her to wait, he hurried to the exit door and looked around outside. Clear. Going back to the apartment, he offered her his hand and led her into the hallway, waiting briefly as she closed the door.

Something tugged at his heart, knowing she was closing the door to the only life she ever knew, willing to risk it all for a husband she loved.

He quietly said, “Metro.” She nodded then he motioned for her to walk ahead of him. Once on the main road, he caught up to her and held her arm. By staying in crowds, the chance of her being recognized was slimmer.

Within ten minutes, they arrived at the station. He held the door open for her, and they entered the lobby. She pointed to her right, indicating the ticket counter. He took several folded Russian notes from his pocket, then held them out for her. She took a one hundred ruble note, then looked up at him, waiting for a destination. He said, “Sheremetyevo.”

The station was crowded, which was in their favor. He kept his eyes on her as she stepped up to the ticket counter. Seeing her reach into her bag and take out her papers, he thought, Stay calm, Alexandra. She slid them under the glass opening and waited while the ticket seller examined them and her. He passed them back to her and she handed him the money.

Picking up the tickets, she put everything in her bag, then started toward him. Mullins briefly diverted his attention to the ticket seller. The man made no deviation from his routine and helped the next customer. Mullins breathed a silent sigh.

Alexandra saw him tilt his head to the left, indicating for her to continue to the train. He followed a few paces back, finally catching up to her on the escalator.

Once at the lower level, she looked to the left, spotting a sign for Track 3. She tugged on Mullins’ arm, then pointed.

While they waited, she reached into her purse and handed him a ticket. He leaned close, whispering, “Spaseeba.” They smiled at each other.

The crowd began moving closer to the tracks as the sound of an approaching train grew louder. Air being pushed ahead of the train began swirling around the tunnel. Brakes started squealing. Mullins held Alexandra’s arm, drawing her near him, ensuring her safety.

As the train stopped, the doors parted and a throng of passengers pushed forward, mingling with passengers who were trying to exit. Mullins stepped behind Alexandra as they entered the car, immediately guiding her to the opposite side, grabbing two seats.

Part number one over, he thought. Part number two might be more difficult when they reached the airport. They would have to change trains only once, with a scheduled timeframe of forty minutes to the airport. He had no idea on departing flights to Berlin. They could be waiting hours, unless they got lucky. Either way, the plan was in motion.

Domodedovo Airport tower came into view just as a sound of jet engines grew louder. An Aeroflot 707 roared down one of the parallel concrete runways, took flight, then made a slow bank toward the West.

Grant kept his eyes on traffic, as he negotiated a sharp curve. “It should be ahead, off to the right, Joe. Get those binoculars.”

Reaching into the satchel, Adler rummaged around for the binoculars, then pulled them out. Adjusting the dial until he was able to see clearly, he scanned the grounds about a hundred yards ahead.

Grant felt a knot in his stomach beginning to tighten, until Adler said, “There’s a Russian helo, skipper; looks like a KA-27.” The KA-27 (Kamov) replaced the aging KA-25. It has two Isotov turboshaft engines with co-axial rotors, a maximum speed of one hundred sixty-six mph, and can carry up to sixteen passengers.

“See anybody?” Grant asked anxiously.

“Not yet.”

Grant shifted into second, slowed the truck, and continued on his current course. The road curved to the right, about fifty yards from where the helo was.

“Wait, skipper! There’s the colonel getting out now.” Grant didn’t even attempt to stifle his long, exhaled breath. Adler readjusted the clarity of the glasses and said, “Uh-oh. Three more peeps just got out.”

Grant nodded before turning his head briefly to look out the right window. “Yeah. Grigori said there’d be a pilot and two guards. They all wearing uniforms?”

“That’s affirmative. Uh-oh.”

“Again with the uh-oh’s?”

“I’d suggest you keep driving. There’s a shiny black Mercedes driving toward the chopper. It’s got one of those small Russian flags near the left front bumper. Can’t make out what the other flag is on the other side.”

“Wish Grigori had a chance to call Alexandra,” Grant said under his breath. “Joe! What time is it?”

Adler pulled his sleeve back. “Closing in on 1748.”

Doesn’t matter now, Grant thought. We’ve gotta get aboard that chopper.

He had to take a chance to try and get Moshenko’s attention. “Joe. Keep an eye on Grigori. See if this gets his attention.” He hit the clutch, revved the engine a couple of times, then kept driving past the field.

“He looked our way, skipper!”

Seeing another vehicle rounding a curve in the distance, Grant suddenly said, “Hold on! I’m heading for those trees!” He made a sharp right turn.

Adler braced his hands against the dashboard, pressing his body against the seat. Grant held the wheel tight, as the truck barreled across uneven ground, scraping grass and dirt. He hit the brakes and clutch. The truck skidded to a stop. He killed the engine, then looked across at Adler, as he rubbed his own shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Adler replied, as he moved his head side to side. “I won’t even question that move!”

Grant jumped from the cab. “Start clearing any evidence from this truck. Make sure there isn’t anything identifying Grigori, and pull off the license plates.”

He rushed around to the back, pulling his satchel close. They’d take everything Mullins and Moshenko provided, but hoped they wouldn’t need the “heavy” stuff: Uzi with extra clips; extra clips for the Makarov; MK6 (Mark Six) CS vials (tear gas), and two concussion grenades. Each grenade measured about one and a half inches high and wide, and six inches long. Black hard-pressed paper makes up the shell that encloses the explosive material inside. Because of the paper shell, there isn’t any shrapnel when the grenade explodes.

Adler searched the cab thoroughly, looking for papers, ids, anything that could associate it with Moshenko. He couldn’t find any vehicle identification number. The colonel must have made a clean sweep himself; nothing’s here, Adler thought. With his task completed inside, he pulled his satchel out, then yanked off both front and rear license plates.

“Got everything?” Grant asked, pulling his gear from the truck.

“Only things were the plates. What do we do with ‘em?”

“Put them with your gear. You’ve got det cord and pencils, right?” Adler nodded. “Get me the binoculars before you do that.” He took a few paces away from the truck, then got down on his belly, trying to get a better view under the trees.

The Mercedes was still there. Someone was standing next to an open rear door. Probably a driver, Grant surmised. A large barrel-chested man, wearing a dark suit and hat, walked to the car. Above his left pocket was a row of medals. As he put a hand on the open door, he turned toward the helo. It was then Grant recognized him. Antolov!

KGB Director Mikhail Antolov settled into the backseat. The driver closed the door, then immediately hurried around to the other side. Headlights and tail lights came on as the engine turned over. When the car started down the road, Grant diverted his attention back to the chopper. No definite sign of Grigori, just four sets of boots showing from underneath. He got up and dropped the glasses in the satchel.

After a few minutes Adler came close. “All clear?”

“Clear,” Grant responded. “Grab your shit. Let’s head over there.”

Crouching, they inched their way closer to the open field, ducking behind large overgrown brush. They got on their bellies, crabbing their way closer, trying to get a better view. Adler peered through the binoculars, focusing on the helicopter, then tapped Grant’s arm, handing him the glasses, saying softly, “Grigori.”

Grant readjusted the focus. One of the Russians stood behind Moshenko, who was slowly swiveling his head. Grant knew Moshenko was looking for him and Adler.

Finally, Moshenko raised an arm and shouted what sounded like an order. The uniformed man gave a quick salute, then immediately turned and went to the other side of the helo, with Moshenko slowly following.

Grant moved the binoculars, trying to catch sight of the black Mercedes, spotting two red tail lights, now just tiny dots in the distance. Grant breathed a sigh of relief. The car kept on its current path. He stashed the binoculars in the satchel.

Getting up into squatting positions, they took ski masks from their belts, then pulled the black masks down over their heads. If they turned the pilot and guards loose later, they didn’t need their descriptions broadcast over the airwaves. KGB dossiers could be just as accurate as the CIA’s.

Drawing pistols from their back waistbands, they took a final look around. Grant gave a nod, and crouching low, they ran like hell across the field. Their weapons, grasped tightly in their hands, hung close to their bodies. When they were within thirty feet, they slowed down, creeping closer, positioning themselves near the double tail fins, away from windows. They listened for any movement or voices.

Adler squatted, then leaned sideways, looking at the opposite side where two men stood. He got up slowly, keeping his back against the helo, then held up two fingers. Suddenly, they heard a familiar voice. Grant understood Moshenko, telling the pilot to finish his preflight check list.

Grant gave Adler a thumb’s up. They had to do it now. Just as they made the turn around the tail, Moshenko came around from the other side. All of them stopped in their tracks, staring at one another.

Grant motioned for Moshenko to come closer, and he whispered, “We’re taking… ”

Moshenko held up a hand, with his palm facing forward, as he stepped directly in front of Grant. “They are here, on the aircraft.”

Grant opened his mouth, but no words came out. The feeling going through him was totally unexpected. Finally, he managed to ask, “All of them?” Moshenko nodded. Grant snapped his head left, staring at Adler. “Joe?”

“It’s what we’ve waited for, skipper,” Adler quietly said, grabbing hold of Grant’s arm.

Grant took a deep breath. “Grigori, play along. We’re taking you hostage. Let’s go.”

Moshenko walked to the open cargo door, with Grant close behind, holding his pistol in plain sight. Two Russian guards stood by the door with their Uzis trained on the prisoners.

Moshenko briefly looked up into the cabin, then climbed the portable steps, as he said, “Put down your weapons.” Surprised, but without even considering questioning a KGB officer’s command, the guards obeyed, laying the Uzis on the deck.

As Grant climbed aboard, he shouted in Russian, “Get over there! Sit!” He pointed the pistol toward the seats.

Adler held them at gunpoint, as they backed up slowly, sitting in the seats behind the Americans. He came around and stood behind them. The Russians were completely oblivious to the fact that their “lights” were about to go out. Within the blink of an eye, the butt of Adler’s pistol collided with each skull. Both men slumped in their seats.

The Americans all sat with their heads bowed, completely still. They were dressed alike. Black trousers, long sleeve dark gray shirts, no belts, black work shoes. Their hair was cut very short, especially around the sides. It was difficult to tell their ages, but probably late thirties to early forties. Their skin was sallow, their bodies undernourished. Grant guessed they’d probably been fed more lately than they had been over these last years, in preparation for what was to be their release. He still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He knew he’d never forget.

“Colonel,” Grant said, motioning with the pistol, “go up front.” Moshenko took the seat to the right of the pilot where a navigator and weapon systems operator normally sit. Grant positioned himself behind the pilot, ordering, “Hands behind your head!” The order was immediately followed by both men.

Grant looked back at Adler, who hadn’t taken his eyes from him. Using two fingers, Grant pointed at his own eyes, then twirled a finger in the air, with a slight jerk of his head. Adler checked the Russians were still unconscious, then bolted from the cabin.

Tension inside the helo increased with each passing minute for Grant, as Adler made his search. Grant could only keep his fingers crossed that he was wrong, otherwise, the plan was shit.

Within minutes, Adler climbed back into the cabin. He rushed over to Grant. The look of distress on his face was more than obvious, as he held out his hand. In his palm was a small box, similar in color to the chopper. He pointed down, indicating it had been planted directly under the fuel tank. He figured C-4 was inside, just enough to do the job, enough to ignite the fuel. Then, he raised his eyes, pointing overhead, and circled his fingers. Another one, slightly larger, was planted somewhere near the rotors. There was no way he could get to it, nor did they have the time.

Grant wanted to puke. The idea of losing POWs again was beyond his comprehension. The thought that he, Adler and Moshenko would have also perished hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Adler went to the door and jumped out. No time to disarm, he thought. He ran behind the helo and placed the box on the ground for the time being. Whoever planted it would be expecting the helo to disappear. And if Grant was right, the detonation would occur when the chopper was in flight. Somebody wanted to ensure this chopper was destroyed.

Plan A had just been shot all to hell. Grant’s original plan was to have Moshenko fly the chopper to the final destination. Now, without an aircraft, getting out of Russia was going to be one tough son-of-a-bitch.

Adler came aboard then hurried aft, taking a small rectangular case out of his satchel. Inside were four hypodermic needles, each pre-filled with sodium pentathol. He returned with two and injected the “knockout drops” into each Russian’s arm, with more than enough leftover if he needed it. Stashing the case in the satchel, he went to the cockpit, seeing Grant motioning for him.

Grant backed away from the pilot, and whispered to Adler, “Watch him.” He glanced at his watch. He couldn’t waste time. Whoever planted the device was probably waiting until the helo was well past the airport before setting it off. That could also mean somebody was positioned nearby, waiting to signal the chopper had departed.

Adler stood directly behind the pilot, keeping the barrel of his weapon touching the man’s head, making certain there wasn’t any chance the man could turn around.

With his weapon in hand, Grant hid it behind his back, then lifted the mask from his face. He walked over to the Americans. They were sitting completely still, unsure what was happening, hesitant to lift their heads from years of being dominated, controlled.

A knot suddenly formed in Grant’s throat. Squatting next to the seats, he talked barely above a whisper. “Gentlemen, my name’s Grant Stevens and that’s Joe Adler,” he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re here to take you home.”

All five heads snapped up, staring at this stranger who was speaking to them in English, telling them they were going home.

Grant would never be able to explain to anyone what he was witnessing from these men at this moment. Tears filled their eyes. The man sitting nearest him grabbed hold of his arm. Grant tried to look at each man, as he said, “Now listen… you’ve gotta get off this chopper. You just follow Joe. Okay?”

He started to stand but the man wouldn’t let go of him. Grant looked down at him, quietly saying, “It’s okay.” He pulled down the mask, and went to the cockpit, standing behind Adler. “Get them outta here. I’ll be right behind you.”

Grant had to continue with the ruse, just in case something else went wrong. Grabbing hold of Moshenko’s arm, he pulled him off the seat. “Colonel, you are now our hostage. You are coming with us.” He “handed” him over to Adler.

Once everyone was off the chopper, Grant turned to the pilot, jerking the headphones from his head. He pulled the connecting spiral-wound cord from the comm gear, and tossed the headset out the door. “You are lucky. I am going to let you go, only because I want you to fly this aircraft to your next destination. Tell those waiting what we have done, that we have the colonel and these men. Soon they will hear our demands. Do you understand me?” If for any reason there wasn’t a detonation, Grant was trying to protect Moshenko by making everyone think he was a hostage. If the chopper did go down, then…

The pilot lowered his arms. His relief was obvious as his head bobbed up and down. ”Da! Da!” He didn’t have a clue who these two men were, but only assumed they were Russians. At the moment, it hardly mattered. He just wanted to fly!

“Now, start the engine! In five minutes you take off! Five minutes — or else you will be seeing me again!” Grant immediately backed up. When he was at the door, he jumped down, and grabbed the headset from the ground.

Everyone was waiting at the rear of the helo. He rushed to Adler, and still keeping his voice low, said, “Put that box back under the chopper… fast! Meet us at the truck.” Adler didn’t even hesitate. He went and got the box.

“The truck’s straight over there,” Grant pointed for the men. “You run in front of me. Go!” Knowing the pilot would be watching, he grabbed Moshenko’s arm and pulled him across the field, heading for the trees.

Once at the truck, Grant flung open the back doors. “Everybody in! Grigori, you drive. The key’s in the ignition. No lights; keep your foot off the brake.”

Moshenko rushed around to the driver’s side. Trying to think ahead, and hoping to make himself less recognizable, he immediately removed his jacket and cap, then dropped them behind the seat. A brown shirt and tied would be less conspicuous. He slid in behind the wheel, and started the engine. With one hand ready to release the hand brake, he waited.

The men climbed in the back. Grant apologized. “Sorry, but this is the only way. Will you all be okay?”

“You just drive!” a voice said.

Grant cringed, thinking of these men being isolated, inside darkness. “Joe’s gotta store his gear, then we’ll be outta here.” He took a quick check of his watch. Two minutes to go. Come on, Joe! he thought.

A sound of the helo’s rotors winding up got his attention, just as he saw Adler racing toward the truck, carrying both satchels. Without hesitating, Grant ran to the cab, jumped into the passenger side, and scooted to the middle of the seat. “Get ready, Grigori!”

Adler tossed the gear into the back, secured the doors, then rushed to the front and climbed in. He closed the door, and without waiting for Grant to ask, he gave a thumb’s up.

“Go!” Grant shouted.

Moshenko stepped on the gas. Immediately spinning the wheel, he aimed the truck back toward the road. Holding the steering wheel tight, he tried to prevent the truck from fishtailing, until tires finally grabbed pavement. Once on the road, he eased back on the gas, not wanting to draw attention from anyone who might be watching, then he flipped on the headlights. “Where do we go, Grant?”

“Head to the safe house.” From the side mirror Grant caught sight of the chopper just as it rose above the trees. His original plan for getting the men out of Russia was now a thing of the past. He was worried. He had every right to be.

Moshenko constantly glanced in the mirror, checking for a tail as he drove down Kashirskoye Highway. Traffic was sparse, making it easier to spot a trailing vehicle.

The early evening air was warm, with the humidity hovering around sixty percent. Adler rolled down the window, resting his arm on the edge of the door. He reached out and adjusted the side view mirror, then settled back against the seat, keeping his eyes focused on the mirror.

Grant sat quietly, looking at his watch occasionally, thinking about the men in the back. They still had another twenty minutes or so before they reached the safe house.

“Grigori, isn’t the Eliseevsky grocery store on our way? We need to get these guys some food.”

Moshenko thought for a moment. “Yes, it is on Tverskaya Street.”

“Okay, head for it. You’ll have to stay in the truck, so guess that leaves me to do the buying. Joe, you’ll have the watch.”

“Right, skipper.” Usually, Adler would be more than protesting when it came to picking up food, but not this time.

Grant owed Moshenko an explanation for his change of plans. “Grigori, let me explain our sudden departure from the chopper. Joe found some type of explosive device under the fuel tank and another one near the rotor.”

“I suspected there was a problem, Grant, but not this!”

“Any idea who could’ve planted them? Or why?”

Moshenko shook his head slowly. “I will have to think.”

Grant now had to decide what and when to tell Moshenko about Alexandra. He’d wait until they were at the safe house. After that his next objective was to get to a phone booth and call the Embassy to get confirmation about Mullins, then call Torrinson.

Adler glanced into the side mirror, then turned his head toward Grant. “Think anything happened to the chopper, skipper? I haven’t seen or heard anything that could’ve been an explosion.”

“Don’t know. Either way, I expect we’ll find out sooner or later.”

Moshenko’s thick fingers curled around the steering wheel. He tried to stay focused on his driving, the road, and rear view mirror. With this news about someone wanting to bring down the aircraft, he tried to refocus his thoughts back to his wife, picturing her face, seeing her worried look when he left home this morning. Once again, he had to put his trust in Grant.

He suddenly sat up straighter, shifting in the seat. The word “defector” bounced around in his brain. The past few years he knew his life and his views on his government were changing, but not enough to defect. The five Americans now riding in the truck had become the final impetus for his decision.

“Grigori?” Grant called, giving him a nudge with his elbow. “Hey!”

Moshenko gave a slight shake of his head. “Yes. Yes.”

“Are you okay?” Grant asked with concern.

“I was just thinking about Alexandra.”

The fuck with waiting,Grant thought. “Listen. I was going to wait till we got to the safe house to tell you, but she left Moscow, Grigori. She should be on her way to West Berlin.”

Moshenko’s eyes widened. “How? Who…?

“Don’t worry. She’s in the hands of a friend, Tony Mullins. I’ve mentioned him before, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. The Bronson, yes?” he answered, as he turned onto a bridge crossing the Moskva River.

“Right. I’ve instructed Tony to go directly to the American Embassy. Alexandra will be safe there.” Thinking about the responsibility he’d put on Mullins’ shoulders, getting Alexandra out of Russia, caused him dismay. He trusted Mullins, but the odds were not exactly in the agent’s favor. It was one more person he had to be concerned about. “We’ll talk further, my friend,” Grant added. “I know it’s difficult, but try not to worry, okay?”

“You are right. It is difficult.”

Even though it was barely dusk, lights from ornate street lamps shown through the windshield as they drove down Tverskaya Street.

A major traffic route, Tverskaya had three lanes southbound, and two lanes northbound, with a pull-off lane on the right. Buses, some painted green and white, others red and white, stopped to pick up passengers. An electric tram pulled next to the truck, as Moshenko slowed down.

Grant looked out the windshield. “We’re getting close to the store, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Keep an eye out, Joe. It’s number 14.”

Moshenko leaned forward slightly, trying to see out the windshield. “Here it is,” he said, as he pulled next to the curb.

Adler opened the door and hopped out. Grant slid across the seat, got out, then looked back at Moshenko. “You drive around slow. Meet me back here in… ” he glanced at watch, “in fifteen minutes.” Adler got in and closed the door, as Grant said, “Give me a sec while I get the men up to speed.”

As he walked to the back of the truck, he did a quick scan of passersby who might be taking an interest in him and the truck, or any vehicles that might be slowing down. Everything seemed clear, so he opened the right side door part way. Heads turned toward him as he leaned inside. “Everybody okay?”

One person seemed to be the spokesman. “We’re fine.”

“The colonel and Joe will be driving around till I come back. We’ll be underway in fifteen minutes. Hang tight!” He closed the door, then went into Eliseevsky Grocery Hall.

Opened in 1901, Eliseevsky was the first real grocery store in Moscow. The former palace was purchased by millionaire Grigory Yeliseev. After the Russian Revolution, Bolsheviks allowed only important Communists to shop here.

The interior of the old palace remains as it was with crystal chandeliers hanging high above, ornate walls and high arches. A portrait of Yeliseev, painted by Alexandr Romanov, is still on display.

Since the war, modern updates were made to food cases and displays, but the huge array of food choices remained the same.

Grant had to make his choices carefully, knowing there wouldn’t be any refrigeration. God only knows what they’ve been fed. His hunt was on for protein and calcium.

As he scanned the shelves and cases, he thought about stories he heard and read about. Stories on the inhumane treatment these men must have faced. He worried about their systems not being used to rich foods. They had to build up their strength slowly, but for the time being, time was not exactly on their side.

Fifteen minutes later, carrying three large bags, he walked outside, then looked to his left. Moshenko drove around the corner, then pulled next to the curb. Adler hopped out, taking two of the bags. They went to the rear and opened the door.

They slid the bags across the floor, and Grant said, “Gentlemen, here’s some food. I might suggest you start with something light. There’s some black bread, hard cooked eggs and a couple bottles of milk. We’ll be at our destination soon. Oh, and there’re some chocolate bars in the bottom of that bag,” he pointed.

All five men came toward the door, leaning over the groceries. “Thank you! Thank you very much!” they said in unison.

Grant and Adler couldn’t help but smile, before closing the door and heading for the cab. Once seated, Grant said, “Let’s go, Grigori.” He reached into his top pocket. “Here,” he said, as he handed a Korkunov chocolate bar to Adler.

“Yum! An unexpected treat!” Adler laughed, licking his lips as he snatched the candy.

“Grigori, you want yours now?” Grant asked, holding up the candy bar.

“I will wait, my friend.” Moshenko managed a half smile, still worried.

They were nearing their destination. Moshenko turned onto a side street, slowing to almost a crawl, then stopped.

“Joe,” Grant said, “go on ahead and scope it out. I’ll watch your back.”

Both of them got out and closed the door. Adler stayed close to the buildings as he headed for the end of the street. Grant stayed behind the truck, keeping a hand on the pistol in his waistband, turning himself in every direction, watching for anything or anybody suspicious. He stepped to the side, seeing Adler waving them forward. Walking toward the cab, he said to Grigori, “Go ahead. I’ll keep back.” Moshenko drove on.

Adler pulled open one garage door, but still kept his guard up. He constantly scanned the area, while at the same time, trying to keep an eye on Grant. Moshenko drove the truck inside, immediately killing the engine.

Grant picked up his pace, half jogging until he reached the garage then ducked inside. Adler quickly closed the door.

Moshenko slid from the seat and hurried to the ladder leading to the upstairs loft. Once he unlocked the door and went in, he took the kerosene lamp from its hook and lit it.

Grant and Adler helped the men from the truck. As each man stepped out, he shook Grant’s and Adler’s hand and gave his name: Pete Earlman, Chris Southere, Rick Ashland, Hank Lippton, Wayne Naylor. Even though they were still in Russia, in Communist territory, they felt like human beings again… free human beings.

“Gentlemen,” Grant began, “when you go upstairs, I’d like you to introduce yourselves to Colonel Moshenko. It’s because of Grigori that you are here at this moment.”

“We’ll be happy to,” Wayne Naylor replied for everyone.

Grant pointed and said, “Just go up that ladder. Joe will be right behind you. I’ve got some business to attend to.”

As the men disappeared behind the door, Grant and Adler took the grocery bags from the truck, noticing there wasn’t a scrap of trash left behind. Everything had been placed in one of the bags.

“Joe, I’ve gotta make that call to the Embassy.” He handed Adler the bag. “Gotta let them know what’s happening, plus I want to find out if Mullins and Alexandra got there.”

“Okay, skipper. Be careful out there!”

Grant pushed open a heavy, ornate glass door leading into the lobby of the Stratsnoy Metro station. As he walked across the black and deep red marble tiles, his eyes scanned the walls above three long corridors that fanned out from the lobby. Finally spotting a sign for telephones, he headed to the middle corridor. Keeping his eyes focused on the far wall, he hardly noticed the bronze statues set in niches, lining both sides.

He caught sight of a bank of AMT-69 pay phones located against the back wall. The grayish metal boxes are approximately fourteen inches high, with a black receiver hanging from a U-shaped hook on the left. On the top right is a coin slot.

He pulled out some coins. Holding them in his palm, his pushed them around with his finger, selected two and dropped the rest in his pocket. Taking a quick look behind him, he lifted the receiver, and pressed one coin at a time into the slot. When he got a dial tone, he dialed a coded number, waited for another dial tone, then dialed the Embassy number in West Berlin.

Turning around, he kept his eyes on a throng of bustling people, riding a steep escalator, coming from and going to the subway below. Sounds from a train’s squealing brakes announced its arrival, as the ear-piercing sound echoed up to the corridor.

“U.S. Embassy. May I help you?”

He pressed the phone against one ear, a finger against the other. He turned toward the wall. “This is Grant Stevens. Could you connect me with the bureau chief, whoever took Matt Wharton’s place? I need a secure line.”

“That would be Steve Greeley. Hold please.”

Grant impatiently tapped his foot on the tiled floor. “Come on. Come on.”

“Steve Greeley.”

“This is Grant Stevens, sir. I work for Admiral Torrinson at NIS.”

“Two to one you’re calling about Agent Mullins, aren’t you?”

“Tell me he’s there, sir, with his ‘special package.’” Grant closed his eyes, waiting for the right answer.

Greeley spit a piece of Wrigley’s into his palm, then dropped it in an ashtray. “I’m happy to report that is so, captain. They just got here.” He scribbled a note on an envelope, then buzzed the secretary’s phone. She came in and he handed her the note.

Grant dropped his head back, breathing a sigh. “Glad to hear that, sir!” With the sudden blaring of a loudspeaker, announcing the arrival of a train, he leaned closer to the phone and spoke louder. “Wait one, sir.” Finally, the announcement stopped. Grant turned to face the corridor, making sure no one came too close. “Mr. Greeley, I’m at a Moscow train station, so, if I suddenly revert to Russian, it’s because… ”

“Understand, captain.”

“Tell me, is Alexandra okay, sir? How’s she doing?”

“She’s fine, captain. We’ve got a translator here so I’m sure she’s feeling more comfortable.”

“I’d really appreciate it if she could stay at the Embassy, at least for a couple more days. It’s important that she stays under lock and key, sir. If you can’t do it, she’s going to need security. I’d suggest Agent Mullins, sir. Is that possible?”

“We can keep her here for a couple of days, captain. After that, we’ll set her up with a room at the Berliner. I’ll assign Agent Mullins to stay with her. Do you have a message you’d like to give her?” He pulled a yellow notepad out of the middle desk draw.

“Tell her Grigori’s safe. He’s with me and Joe. I don’t have any timeframe for our reaching Berlin, though. That should be enough, sir. Appreciate it.”

“Hold on a minute,” Greeley said.

“Hey, buddy! How are ya?” Mullins laughed.

“Mullins-san! Jesus! Glad you’re okay! I sure appreciate you taking care of Alexandra.”

“She’s a great little lady, Grant.”

“Yeah, she is. I asked Mr. Greeley to keep her at the Embassy for a couple days. Anything beyond that, he’ll have her go to the Berliner, with you as security. Problem with that?”

“I’ll go with the flow, buddy!” Mullins laughed.

“Hey, you haven’t caught hell from those on high for helping us, have you?”

“Negative. Haven’t heard a word so far.”

“Glad to hear it. Tony, listen. We’ve got our passengers but… ”

“Whoa! Wait a minute! You got them?” Mullins asked, excitedly.

“Yeah. They were already onboard.”

“Jesus, Grant! You did it!”

“Still got a long way to go before we can fill in our ‘dance card.’ The term ‘dance card’ refers to an AAR, an after action report, used at the completion of a mission.

“Yeah, but still… let me give you early congrats!”

“Hold the thought because we had a change in plans. We had to reclassify our intended transportation as extremely risky. We’ll be heading west and trying to find another mode of transportation. Once we do, may need your help.”

“Talk to me,” Mullins replied.”

“If we run into an emergency situation, we can use frequency 243.0, but give me an alternate channel. Okay. Got it. I’ll use your call sign “Legs.” Mullins had the nickname while an instructor at Combat Swimmers School. “Mine’s ‘Panther.’ I’ve gotta get back to the ‘apartment.’ Where will you be staying?”

“Your favorite place. Hotel Berliner.”

“And the name you’re using?”

“John Smith.”

“John Smith? You shittin’ me?”

“Would I shit you, friend?” Mullins laughed.

“John Smith it is.”

“Listen, Grant, when do you expect to fly?”

“Still on the hunt for our transportation, but hope by early morning.”

“In that case, I’ll take my ‘jammies’ to the chopper and wait for your transmission.”

“Your call,” Grant laughed.

“Give my best to the colonel and Joe.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Stay safe… and watch your back.”

“Wait! Tony, can I be patched through to NIS?” Grant heard Mullins questioning Greeley.

“You want a secure line, Grant?”

“Yeah, if possible.”

While he waited, Grant continued glancing around, watching for anybody out of the ordinary. Anybody trying to duck behind a newspaper, or standing too long in front of a glass window. He waited.

Although it was barely summer, the heat index was close to a scorching ninety-five degrees, with the humidity nearly as high. Without any breeze, gas fumes from thousands of vehicles driving along Pennsylvania Avenue hung heavy in the stillness, leaving an acrid taste in mouths.

Within twenty minutes of getting the phone call, Admiral Torrinson arrived at the White House. President Carr had called an urgent meeting between Torrinson, SECDEF Willard Kruger, Vice President Victor Blakely, and CIA Director Ed Hannigan.

Torrinson waited outside the Oval Office, standing in front of a floor to ceiling window near a secretary’s desk, looking out at the West Colonnade.

Valerie Castle, a petite blond, twenty-seven years old, was an assistant to the President’s secretary, Rachel. She stood at the door to the Oval Office. “Admiral Torrinson.” Torrinson swung around. “You can go in now.” She opened the door and he entered.

SECDEF Kruger was the only one in the room, sitting on one of two beige-striped couches, separated by a glass-top coffee table. He was leaning over the coffee table, scanning a double page document.

Torrinson stepped near the couch. “Mr. Secretary.”

“Oh, Admiral Torrinson. Have a seat,” SECDEF indicated with his hand. Kruger was in his first year as SECDEF. He was sixty-five years old, of medium height, wore round, horned-rimmed glasses, and had mostly gray hair.

“The President and Vice President should join us shortly. I believe they were finishing a call with Russian Premier Gorshevsky.”

Torrinson felt a sudden knot in his stomach, his thought immediately going to Grant and Joe.

Kruger looked beyond Torrinson and stood. Torrinson rose and turned to see the President and Vice President coming into the room. “Mr. President, Mr. Vice President,” he said, respectfully. They don’t look happy, Torrinson grimly thought.

CIA Director Hannigan followed on their footsteps. Hannigan was almost sixty-one years old, and constantly battling a weight problem. Cigarettes and food were his two vices. His dark brown eyes always seemed to be questioning. He was perfect for the job.

Vice President Gerard Blakely approached Torrinson and gave a brief nod and smile. “Admiral.” Blakely, a quiet spoken man, was fifty-eight years old, slim, under 5’8”, with wavy brown hair. Just from his expression one could tell he was still mourning the loss of his wife of thirty years. He took a seat next to Kruger.

President Carr dropped a folder on the coffee table, then extended his hand to Torrinson. “Admiral. Glad you could join us. Sit, please.” He pulled an ornate wooden chair back, then sat on the edge, immediately opening the folder. Getting right to the matter, Carr said, “Admiral, earlier today CIA intercepted a Russian communication. It seems one of their helicopters disappeared from radar around 7:30 PM, Russia time.” Torrinson leaned forward, rubbing his hands together, with a sick feeling growing in his stomach.

Carr continued, “Being the concerned person that I am, I called Premier Gorshevsky to offer our assistance. According to the premier, the aircraft had departed Domodedovo Airport on a scheduled flight. Its first stop was to be Minsk.

“They sent out search aircraft almost immediately. Less than seventy-five miles from Domodedovo, they found pieces of wreckage, or to be more precise, charred pieces wreckage, scattered a quarter of a mile from the main site. Looks like it exploded in midair.” Carr’s distress was obvious. He sat back, then asked Torrinson, “Admiral, have you heard from Captain Stevens yet?”

“Not yet, sir. Mr. President, have any bodies been found?”

Carr shook his head. “Whether they have or not, the premier didn’t give up that information, even after I asked. Nothing was specifically mentioned by either of us about who may have been onboard. With his not committing to answer me, I suspect it may be ‘our’ helicopter, Admiral.”

Silence pervaded the Oval Office, with the same grave concern on each man’s mind. Five American POWs, a KGB officer, and possibly two U.S. Navy officers. Carr spoke. “Admiral, do you have any way to reach the captain?”

“Not directly, sir. I can call the Berlin Embassy and alert the bureau chief. But you can rest assured, Mr. President, that as long as Captain Stevens is able, he will contact me.”

Carr almost hated to pose the question. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then, Mr. President, we still won’t know for sure. Plans can change. There are too many possibilities, sir. We’ll just have to give it some time.”

Hannigan cleared his throat before saying, “Mr. President, Admiral Torrinson, I’d like to interrupt for a moment. Admiral, do you know Agent Tony Mullins?”

Torrinson gave a slight shake of his head. “Not personally, sir. I only know he’s the agent who notified Captain Stevens when Colonel Moshenko called the Agency. Is there a problem?”

“The problem, admiral, is we haven’t seen or heard from Agent Mullins for a couple of days.”

Torrinson let his words out slowly. “In what way does this have to do with Captain Stevens or the Russian helicopter?”

“We’re still putting pieces together, but it just seems a little coincidental.”

“Coincidental? I say again, sir… how and what does it have to do with the…?”

Carr held up a hand to stop the conversation before it got “hot and heavy.” The dislike, or competition, between CIA and NIS was ongoing. “Gentlemen, let’s get back on track, okay?” He pushed his sleeve back and glanced at his Bulova. “Admiral, I suggest you head back to your office. When the captain contacts you, or you hear from the Embassy, you call me any time, any hour.”

Torrinson stood, picking up his cap from the coffee table. “I will, Mr. President. I will.” He gave a brief nod to the other three men, then left.

Valerie Castle was hurriedly jotting down a message. She stood as Torrinson closed the door. “Oh, admiral, I have a message here for you.” She tore a piece of pink paper from a small pad, then reached across the desk and handed it to him. Across the top were imprinted words “While You Were Out.”

“Thank you.” Torrinson read the message as he walked toward the exit door, then he spun around. “Miss Castle, is there a phone I can use?”

“Of course. Do you need a secure line?”

“No. I don’t believe so.”

“Then you can use the phone on the table near the sofa.”

Not even bothering to sit, Torrinson dialed his office number.

“Petty Offi… ”

“Zach. Tell me!”

“Sir, Captain Stevens just called. He… ”

“Did he indicate if he was going to call back?” Torrinson asked anxiously, but definitely relieved.

“Yes, sir, in a half hour.”

“Zach, I’m leaving here as soon as I relay the information to the President. Don’t let Captain Stevens off the line if I’m not there yet. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir! Of course, sir!” Connection broken.

Torrinson went back near the door to the Oval Office. “Miss, I really need to get back in there.”

She pressed the intercom button, and Carr answered, “Yes, Valerie?”

“Mr. President, Admiral Torrinson would like to speak with you. He’s waiting by your door.”

“By all means. Send him in.”

“Go right in, admiral.”

As Torrinson entered, Carr stepped away from his desk, immediately recognizing one relieved admiral. “You got a message, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Stevens called. He’s calling again in a half hour.”

Carr slapped the side of Torrinson’s arm. “Terrific news!”

“Mr. President, I know I don’t have to remind you, but we still don’t know about the POWs, whether or not they were aboard that helicopter.”

“I realize that, admiral, but at least we should be able to get answers from Captain Stevens. So, don’t just stand there! Off with you! And call me when you’re done. Tell my secretary to find me if I’m not in here!”

Nikolai Gorshevsky stood behind his desk, looking out across the square through a large plate glass window. He fidgeted with keys and change in his trouser pockets, as he reviewed his conversation with the American President. It disturbed him deeply.

The Americans not only knew of the accident, but somehow he was sure they knew of the POWs being onboard, even though they were not specifically mentioned.

Five Americans, presumed dead. Colonel Grigori Moshenko, presumed dead. How could this have happened? What worried him more was who leaked the information about the POWs? His one bargaining chip… no, five bargaining chips to free Boris Chernov from the CIA’s clutches, gone.

Exhaling a long sigh, he turned and rolled a large black leather chair from under the desk. He unbuttoned his dark brown suit jacket before sitting. His dark brooding eyes looked out from beneath gray eyebrows at the two men standing before him.

Dmitri Osokin, Minister of Internal Security and Mikhail Antolov, Director of the KGB, had arrived fifteen minutes earlier. They remained quiet, waiting for the premier to speak.

Gorshevsky pushed aside several sheets of official papers, then rested his elbows on the desk, intertwining his fingers. “Sit,” he said, eyeing both men.

As they settled on the wooden chairs, Gorshevsky didn’t waste any more time to begin the conversation. “Do either of you have any indication this was not an accident?”

The silver-haired Antolov answered first. “Not as of yet. We have soldiers combing the site for any kind of evidence that would denote otherwise. I have my men out there, also.

“According to the airport tower, the aircraft took off not long after I departed the airport. The pilot did not indicate any problem before or during flight.”

“Is it possible a device was placed anywhere on the helicopter while it was waiting for the prisoners?”

Antolov thought very briefly. “I do not think that was likely or possible. Colonel Moshenko would have noticed. I do not believe anyone would have tried with him being there, and surely not in front of a pilot and guards.

“I arrived not long after the prisoners were on the aircraft. I did not see any other vehicles in the area.”

“Then, do you know if this aircraft was inspected prior to arrival at Domodedovo?”

“That is the usual procedure,” Antolov answered simply.

“You did not answer my question.”

“Anytime KGB or Politburo members are to fly, the aircraft are inspected before flight.”

Gorshevsky still didn’t get a definitive answer. “I want a list of names of everyone who was near that aircraft — everyone.”

“I will see to it,”Antolov replied. “I do have a couple of things for us to think about, though.” He shuffled through papers, drawing one out, quickly reviewing times and names.

“And those are?” Gorshevsky replied, curious.

“We interviewed controllers in the airport tower. They reported the aircraft did not request clearance prior to takeoff.”

“And that could mean what?”

“A couple of things, sir. The pilot could have lost communication, but not likely, or the aircraft was taken over by unknown individuals.

“There are unconfirmed reports that men were seen near the aircraft prior to takeoff. These men were not wearing uniforms. If that is the case, sir, then we should find more bodies.”

Gorshevsky sat back, linking his fingers behind his head. “Yes. It is something to think about. Do you think these men are part of that underground group?”

“It is too soon to make that determination, sir. We have not yet received any messages or calls from anyone or any group stating demands.”

“You will follow up, of course.”

“That is already being done.”

“Mikhail, I know this is devastating to KGB, with Colonel Moshenko having been onboard,” Gorshevsky commented.

“Yes. Yes. He was a loyal and respected officer. A man I trusted for years.”

“Have you contacted his wife?”

Antolov shook his head. “No. I would like to wait until we have final confirmation of bodies, if there are any remains to identify.”

Gorshevsky nodded then set his dark eyes on Dmitri Osokin. “Have you started an investigation yet?”

Osokin’s brown eyes looked over the top of his wire-rimmed reading glasses, and he handed a sheet of paper across the desk to the premier. “These are the people I have assigned. I’ve also listed their assignments in the second column.”

Gorshevsky glanced at the list, then swung his chair around, trying to make sense of the incident. He slowly turned around, again facing the two men. “There were very few who knew about the Americans. I do not believe those people had any reason to cause the accident. But, men have turned before, men who never would have been suspected, and for reasons unknown. So, I will leave you two to find out who and why.”

Torrinson stood inside the elevator within inches of the doors, waiting impatiently for them to open. As it lurched to a stop, the doors barely parted when he shoved his hand between them, forcing them open. He immediately broke into a jog. As he rounded the corner, he saw Zach standing by the office door.

“Captain Stevens is holding on the red one, sir. Berlin Embassy is patching him through.”

“Thanks, Zach,” Torrinson said, a little out of breath. He dropped his cap upside down on the desk, then picked up the receiver. “Grant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, sir. I can hear you. I’m at a Metro station in Moscow. It’s a little difficult finding secure phones here, sir,” he replied facetiously.

“Listen, Grant. CIA got word a chopper went down after leaving Domodedovo airport.”

“Suspected it was going to happen, sir. Joe found a device under the fuel tank, and spotted another by the rotors. Didn’t have time to search thoroughly, but just what Joe found was enough. So we got the men and our friend off fast.”

Torrinson couldn’t believe what he heard. The helo was destroyed, and the POWs were safely in Grant’s hands. “How are those men?”

“Haven’t been able to spend much time with them myself, sir, but they appear to be in halfway decent shape, considering.”

“I’m assuming the ‘friend’ is the colonel?” Torrinson asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s next, Grant?”

“Have to rethink another plan, sir. When they find the… ”

“The Russians have located it already.”

“Already, huh? Well, expect once it’s dark, they won’t be able to do much more searching and examining, sir. That should give us a head start.

“Look, admiral, I think it’s time for us to get outta here. Don’t know when I’ll make contact with you again, sir.”

“One more thing, Grant. You wouldn’t happen to know where Agent Mullins is, would you?”

“Agent Mullins, sir?”

“Yes. Agent Mullins. Director Hannigan questioned me this morning at the White House. Seems CIA hasn’t seen or heard from him in a couple of days.”

“I… I’m not exactly sure where he is at this time, sir.” Grant squeezed his eyes shut, smacking his fist against the wall. Shit!

“Ah-ha. I see.” Torrinson said. “Well, Godspeed, captain.” Torrinson’s next task was to relay the information to the President, everything except the Mullins’ issue.

Grant hustled out of the Metro, pissed as all hell. Mullins! Dammit, Tony, he angrily thought. The damage had been done. Mullins would most likely be reprimanded. The Agency might even give him his walking papers. Shit!

He got his mind back on track. He had to find a place where he could safely contact Adler. His eyes searched up ahead. There was a narrow alley two blocks away at a bus stop.

Stopping at the corner, he looked at his watch, then glanced down the street, seeing a number 18 bus approaching. Several people lined up along the curb, waiting. As soon as the bus stopped, passengers started exiting, pushing past those trying to get on.

That was his chance. He slid around the corner, then ducked into a doorway, taking the radio from inside his jacket. “Joe,” he called, as he leaned his head out just enough to check the alley.

“Here, skipper.”

“Get everybody out! Find anything in the room we can use… anything! Meet me in front of the Metro at Stratsnoy. Grigori should know it. Look for me on either side of the street, in case I’ve spotted ‘eyes.’ And, Joe, tell Grigori Alexandra’s safe at the Embassy.”

“Copy that! Out!”

Grant slipped the radio back under his jacket, then took a check of the time before walking back to the main street. Again, trying to be inconspicuous, he gave a quick glance at cars and pedestrians, then he turned left, heading back toward the subway.

Keeping up a steady pace, he wove in and out of pedestrians, never making eye contact with anyone.

He pushed open the door and stepped just inside the Metro lobby. Looking around the perimeter, he caught sight of a small kiosk selling the newspaper Pravda,and headed for it. He thought it might help him blend in with the average Moskovite by reading a piece of Communist bullshit. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out coins, then dropped one kopek on the counter, before picking up a paper and tucking it under his arm.

Once outside, he walked north about twenty feet and backed up against the building. Snapping open the paper, he folded one side behind the other, then in half. He lowered it just enough so he could look over the top.

Pedestrians and traffic kept moving. Vehicle headlights started coming on. Twilight was just beginning to approach. Sunset was close to 2200 hours during the summer months.

His eyes scanned doorways and alleys across the street. All were clear. A red and white bus stopped in front of the subway entrance. Passengers exited from front and rear doors. No one lingered. No one glanced in his direction. Either they didn’t give a shit about him, or someone was very, very good at his job.

He turned the paper over and refolded it. As he continued “reading,” a black Mercedes pulled next to the curb. No flags, but definitely an official vehicle, he thought. The average Russian couldn’t afford a Mercedes. Grant stiffened. Doors and windows remained closed. Could there be cameras behind those windows? he wondered. Slipping the paper under his arm, he headed south, ignoring the vehicle.

He kept walking past the Metro entrance, threading his way through passing pedestrians at a normal clip. Once he was at the next intersection, he turned left and immediately stopped. Taking a breath, he positioned himself just close enough to the edge of the building, poking his head around the corner. The Mercedes was gone. Did that mean it was a false alarm? Or was someone driving around the block, heading for this street?

He wasn’t about to wait. Hurrying to the curb, he checked left and right, then he sprinted across the intersection, dodging cars and an electric tram. Making haste along the sidewalk, he posted himself directly across from the Metro, backing up into a darkened corner of a clothing store entrance. He pulled the edge of his sleeve back. Fifteen minutes had passed. Anytime now, he thought.

Still no sign of the Mercedes on the side street. But there was a white truck approaching the intersection. Grant moved cautiously toward the sidewalk, still not exposing himself completely.

The truck turned right, then pulled next to the curb. Adler looked out the passenger side window. “Don’t see him.”

Moshenko scanned the opposite side, looking in between passing cars. Just then, he spotted Grant making eye contact with him. “There he is.” Grant jerked his head left, then started walking in that direction.

Moshenko pulled away from the curb then eased his way into the left hand lane of traffic, slowly following Grant. At the next street, Grant hung a left. Moshenko turned onto the street and slowed. That’s when Grant ran across to the other side, being partially shielded by the truck.

Adler opened the door part way. Grant grabbed the door handle and jumped into the cab. “Keep going. And keep an eye out for a black four-door Mercedes. One might be shadowing us.”

Moshenko readjusted the side view mirror. “No one is there. Where are we going, Grant?”

“West. Head out of Moscow, Grigori.”

More than twenty minutes had passed. They were just reaching the western outskirts of Moscow. No one spoke. Grant kept his eyes glued to the side mirror. Moshenko did his best to do the same, but heavy traffic commanded his total concentration.

Finally, Grant asked, “How are the fellas, Joe? Can’t imagine what’s going on in their minds right now.”

Adler gave a brief nod in agreement, then replied, “All things considered, not bad. They managed to eat a little more. Nobody had any stomach problems. Think we’ll need to get more supplies, though, skipper.”

“Yeah. I know.” Grant thought about the men having to sit in the enclosed dark space, with little fresh air circulation. “Joe, what are the odds you could ‘blow’ a couple of small holes in the back?”

“Huh?”

“Need to get those guys some air and not make them feel so closed in.”

“Yeah. It can be done, but we’re gonna have to get somewhere outta sight.”

“Grigori, find someplace.”

Fifteen minutes later, and away from city lights, everyone got out of the truck, and went a safe distance away. Adler made two very small wraps of det cord, putting them high up on the side, closer to the cab. A couple chemical pencils, and it was done. Two semi-round air vents.

Once they were back on the road, Grant said, “So, Grigori, I guess Joe told you that Alexandra’s safe at the Embassy.”

“Yes! I am grateful and relieved, my friend! Is your Agent Mullins still there?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s there all right.”

“Uh-oh,” Adler said. “Don’t like the sound of that. Bet that means the Agency doesn’t know, right?”

“He’s in a world of shit, Joe.”

“Nothing we can do, skipper.” Grant just nodded. Adler finally asked, “Hey! Why’d we have to haul ass?”

“Talked with the admiral. Seems that chopper went down.”

“No shit? So you were right.”

Moshenko had mixed feelings about the news. “It is too bad anyone had to die.”

“I know, Grigori,” Grant answered. “Did you have any time to think about what I asked you?”

“Yes, but I have not come up with any names.”

“Well, let me throw out a couple.” Grant leaned forward just enough to see Moshenko. “Tarasov and Rusnak.”

Moshenko’s brow wrinkled. “But why them? The most contact we had was during the time in Sicily.”

“You know they weren’t happy when you helped us, plus you did, shall we say, threaten them on the way back to the Leningrad.” The Russian ship is a Moskva class helicopter carrier. “And biggest fact… they’re comrades, in every sense of the word.”

“Yes. That is true. I also threatened them while we waited for you to rescue us.” Moshenko pictured himself waving his Makarov in front of the two. “But do you think that would be enough reason to want to kill me?”

“People have killed for even less, my friend. It was just a thought,” Grant answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Adler got the conversation back to the chopper. “Did the admiral say where it went down? Did they find any wreckage?”

“Didn’t have much time to talk to him. All he said was it went down after leaving Domodedovo and the wreckage had been spotted about seventy-five miles away. If that thing exploded in midair, it might take time to determine how many were onboard.” He glanced out the window at a clear, dark sky. “Don’t expect they’ll be able to continue with the search effort now that it’s dark. We’ll need all the extra time we can get.”

They needed transportation, transportation to Berlin and a helluva lot faster than a truck. Grant could only come up with one way. “We need a chopper,” he said under his breath.

Both Moshenko and Adler gave him a sideways glance, with Adler saying, “That’d be perfect, skipper. Do you know of a Boeing plant nearby?”

“We’ve gotta find one, Joe. There’s no other damn way to get us to Berlin in any reasonable time. Those guys back there won’t last on a long trip. Hell, we won’t last. Driving time has gotta be over twenty hours. Right, Grigori?”

“Yes, at least.”

“We’ve gotta get an aircraft. Flying time will take at least four to five hours the way I figure.”

“Jesus, skipper! We’re talking trying to avoid radar for four hours! How the hell are we gonna avoid the radar? You do realize they shoot at unidentified, and maybe identified flying objects around here.”

“You telling me my plan is insane?”

“Affirmative! But it’s also the only one I can come up with,” Adler answered, shaking his head.

Grant turned to look at Moshenko. “So, Grigori, you think it’s insane?”

“I do… but I agree. There is no other way.” His mind was already working. “There will have to be refueling, of course.”

“Any ideas where?”

“We must not land in Russia. We should be able to reach Warsaw, Okecie Airport. I have flown from there to Gdansk.”

“Ah, Gdansk,” Adler said, patting his stomach. “Good food.”

Grant just shook his head, then asked Moshenko, “Do you think you’ll be recognized?”

“Possibly, but I am KGB. They may need to forget I was there.”

Grant and Adler laughed, with Grant saying, “I don’t know, Grigori, but you seem to be picking up some nasty habits hanging around with us.”

Moshenko just smiled, but then turned serious again. “I will not be KGB much longer, my friends.”

“How do you feel about that?” Grant asked.

“I think I will miss it.”

The three sat quietly, until Grant said, “Yeah, my friend, we know what you mean. Tough decision, huh, Joe?”

“Yeah. Tough.”

“Okay. So, where do you think we can find our ‘ride’?” Grant asked.

“A maintenance facility would serve our purpose. There is a small facility just outside Shelkovka. They mostly service helicopters and the security is usually minimum. We can be there in about one hour.”

“Go,” Grant said.

In addition to maintenance facilities, Moshenko knew locations of radar installations; he knew military bases; he knew the shortest route to Berlin. Nothing would guarantee their safety, but these were the factors tilting the scale in their favor, with the biggest factor of all… Grigori Moshenko knew how to fly.