Sacrifice of One

Chapter 6

A light steady rain splashed against the plane’s windshield as it broke through heavy cloud cover, with the runway lights of Tempelhof coming into view. In the distance the city lights of Berlin were barely visible on the horizon.

A complex of four-story apartment buildings stood on both sides of the plane’s landing approach, three hundred yards from the end of Runway 27R. A long row of double landing lights were centered down several acres of brush, separating the apartments.

The plane touched down on concrete, with its six tires kicking up standing water. Within five minutes the C-9A pulled up to the terminal. The whining sound of the engines slowly decreased, until there was silence. Grant and Adler snapped open their seat belts and started gathering their gear.

While they waited for someone to open the door, Grant walked to the cockpit. He poked his head into the cabin. “Thanks for the flight, gentlemen."

“Our pleasure,” smiled Jim Whitley.

“Will you be hanging out here till we’re ready to fly back?” Grant asked.

“That’s right; presidential orders and all that,” Whitley laughed. His smiling face turned serious. “In all honesty, we’d be more than willing to help out, with or without those orders. We’ll stay here as long as it takes, captain.”

“Appreciate that.”

As Grant turned, Adler stepped next to him. “You take your suit bag. I’ve got this,” Adler said, taking Grant’s rucksack. “Go on ahead and make your call. I’ll be right behind you.”

A long rectangular sign was fixed above the glass entryway. The white sign with black letters read: BASE OPERATIONS. Grant jogged up the concrete steps, then pushed open the glass door. He checked in at the desk. An airman inspected his ID and official papers. “Oh, Captain Stevens, sir. I’ve got an urgent message for you.” He left the counter.

Grant thought, Must be from the admiral.

“Here you are, sir,” Airman Duffy said, handing Grant a sealed manila envelope.

“Thanks, airman.” He walked to the opposite side of the counter and laid his suit bag on top. Out of habit, he quickly scanned the room, military base or not. He slid his finger under the seal, finally drawing out a single sheet of paper.

The message was from Admiral Torrinson. It read: “Received call from your contact at 1700 hours my time. Call me.”

Grant folded the paper and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Hooking his fingers around the suit bag hanger, he hurried back to the main desk. “Excuse me, airman. Is there a secure phone I can use?”

“Wait one, sir.” Airman Duffy left the counter and walked into a room at the end of the counter.

Within a matter of seconds, he returned with Lieutenant Briscoe. “Captain? You need a secure phone?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Got one I can use?”

“Come around the counter and follow me, sir.”

Grant was led through one door, and ten feet beyond it was another, this one with a security keypad. The lieutenant punched in the code, then held open the door. “Here you go. I guess you know it’s the red one.”

“Thanks. Do me a favor, will you? When Lieutenant Adler checks in, could you pass the word where I am?”

“Yes, sir.”

Grant closed the door. He sat at the desk, picked up the receiver and dialed NIS. All the while his mind raced. He hoped Torrinson had some good news, news that would enable him to put a plan into action.

A minute later, Torrinson was on the line. “I’ll keep this short, Grant. Colonel Moshenko is to report to the airport by 1800 hours Moscow time. He has not, I repeat, he has not been given a pickup location. The final destination is still East Germany, but no precise location.”

“Nothing?” Grant asked with obvious surprise and concern.

“That’s correct.”

“Guess the premier can be just as paranoid as us, sir.”

“Most likely. And the President still hasn’t received any word from Gorshevsky. Look, Grant, he wants those men brought home. It doesn’t sound like he wants to make any kind of exchange.”

“I just don’t understand, admiral. Something must be going down. Why wouldn’t he want to discuss an exchange of our men, sir, POWs who’ve been through hell?” Grant could only shake his head, unable to understand political bullshit. He went quiet.

“Grant?”

“Sir, you know Joe and I are ready. We’ll do whatever it takes. But sending us in before even trying to negotiate, taking a chance when so much serious shit can go wrong. Uh, sorry, sir.”

“Grant, you know I agree totally.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, admiral. Guess I got carried away. Maybe I’ve been doing this too long, sir. I might be questioning things I never would have questioned in the past.”

Now Torrinson worried. It wasn’t like Grant to disagree like this, or to question. Was he really thinking about resigning? Or maybe this POW thing had gotten under his skin too much… in ’75 and again now. “Captain, this isn’t the time.”

“You’re right, sir. I apologize. It’s not up to me to question the President.”

“Then this conversation never happened, okay?”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

“Now, has that brain of yours gone into action yet?”

“Yes, sir. It has.”

“Any chance you can give me a hint?”

“You know me, sir. Any plan can change in a heartbeat, but right now I think Joe and I need to focus on getting aboard that chopper.”

Torrinson got a sudden chill up his back. “You sure that’s the only way, Grant?”

“Right now, yes, sir.”

Torrinson rubbed his red, tired eyes. He was putting his trust in Grant again. “Well, just keep me in the loop… if you have the time.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Grant started to leave the room when he thought, May as well call Tony.

After three rings, Mullins answered. “Whoever you are, speak to me.”

“Hey, Mullins-san!” Grant first called Mullins by this name when they were on the Bronson mission in the Sea of Japan.

“Shit! Grant! Wait! Need to turn down the TV. Hey! Where are you?”

“Tempelhof. We landed about 2330 my time.”

“Okay. Now tell me what you need?” he laughed.

“Let me first ask you this. How fast can you make a delivery to the hometown of my friend?”

“Your friend? Ohhh! Your friend! When and what do you need?” Mullins opened an end table drawer, pulling out a notepad and pen, getting ready to add to the list.

After a previous discussion at the Agency, the three men had reviewed the type of equipment Grant and Adler would request from Mullins if they needed any.

“Need everything on the original shopping list, Tony. It’s just that we need them delivered to that out of the way apartment Joe and I stayed at one time.” The apartment was more like a safe house used by Moshenko. “Do you still have the address?” Grant asked.

“Yeah, I do,” Mullins answered, seeing the street name scroll across his brain like announcements on the bottom of a TV screen. “How soon?”

“We’ve got a flight around 0800 hours our time. So, you can figure our arrival at the apartment will be around 1500 hours. Think you can do it?”

“Will try my damnedest, buddy.”

“Tony, you’ve gotta promise me one thing.”

“What might that be?”

“That you’ll pull out of this if anything doesn’t feel right. We’ll make due with whatever my friend leaves us. Deal?”

“How much time do I have to decide?”

“Tony! I swear to God, I’ll… ”

“Okay! Deal! Are you satisfied?”

“I’ll talk to you when we get back.” He wanted to slam the phone down but thought otherwise. Maybe he never should have asked Mullins for help to begin with.

He left the office and thanked the airman and lieutenant. He started walking away when he stopped. Will have to chance it and call Grigori early. “Say, lieutenant, any possibility I could use that phone in the morning, maybe around 0400?”

“Don’t see why not, sir. I’ll leave word with the duty officer.”

“Appreciate it,” Grant said, offering his hand. He turned around, seeing Adler walking toward him with a rucksack in each hand.

Even though there was still a helluva lot to do and plan, he finally had something in mind. He could make it work. He had to make it work.

“What's up?” Adler asked, as he handed Grant his gear. “Anything from the admiral?”

Grant kept his voice low. “Grigori still hasn’t been given the location of the men, not even his final destination. It’s still just East Germany.” Adler remained quiet. “Let’s head over to the hotel and get a couple hours sleep. Then we’ll start… ”

“Skipper, why wait? Hell, you know we won’t be able to sleep anyway!”

“You’re right. Come on.”

Adler reached out and grabbed Grant’s arm. He stepped closer. He’d seen the look all too many times before. “You already have something up your sleeve, don’t you?”

Grant backed against the door, opening it. “It’s about damn time, don’t you think?”

Alexandra was in the kitchen, preparing zavtrak (breakfast). She stood by the three-burner gas stove in the corner. As she stirred the kasha (porridge), she occasionally glanced out the window.

Taking a taste of the cereal from a wooden spoon, she added more milk and a touch of sugar. She lowered the flame under the heavy pot, then went to the counter next to a small sink. The counters were made of smooth, wide pieces of oak, covered with colored oil cloth.

Unwrapping a loaf of black bread, she cut a thick slice, buttered it, then topped it with a slice of ham. She gave the porridge one more stir, as she heard her husband’s heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. It had been another sleepless night for both of them.

He walked up behind her, leaning over her shoulder, inhaling the sweet aroma from the porridge. “Ahh. It smells wonderful, my dear,” he said, as he kissed her cheek.

“Sit, Grigori,” she smiled as she poured some hot tea into the glass and put it on the table.

Hanging his uniform jacket on the back of a wooden chair, he sat down and reached for the glass. Just then, the double ring of the phone in his study made them both look into the room, then back at each other.

He got up and took hurried steps toward his desk. She followed closely, still carrying the steaming kettle. When she got to the doorway, she stopped and waited.

He picked up the receiver. “Moshenko.” Finally hearing the familiar voice speaking in impeccable Russian, he breathed a sigh. He looked at Alexandra and nodded. She took a small step into the room.

He responded, “Yes, yes, I understand, but you have not reached the correct party. Of the two numbers you are inquiring about, only the second one sounds familiar, but I am afraid I cannot help you any further. Yes. You are welcome.” He replaced the receiver, then stood and walked toward Alexandra. She looked up at him, her eyes imploring for him to tell her what Grant said. She stood by his side, waiting.

Moshenko remained quiet as he sat at the table. Finally, he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze, refusing to let go. “Come, Alexandra. Have some breakfast with me. You have certainly made enough.” She brushed her fingers over his short jet black hair, noticing a few more grays at the temple, then she sat across from him, taking a small spoonful of kasha.

“Will you be at the hospital this morning?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered quietly. “We are still trying to isolate that new strain of virus. More children have been infected.” She worked morning hours at the Moscow Children’s Hospital as a lab technician, one of the few females to hold such a position in Moscow. She was highly competent and respected, and the wife of a KGB officer.

“I am sorry, Alexandra. I know you are concerned.”

“Yes,” she nodded, “I am.” With the look on his face she knew he understood her answer meant more than just the children.

They remained quiet while he finished his meal. Finally, he stood, went to the sink and turned on the water. When he turned around, she was standing in front of him, looking up into his dark eyes.

He held her close and whispered in her ear, “I will call you. Do not worry.” He kissed the top of her head. Taking a couple of steps to the chair, he lifted his olive green gabardine jacket from the back, then put it on.

She turned off the water, and asked him, “Will you be home for dinner?” She knew he would not be, but they must continue with the charade.

“I may be a little late.”

As he buttoned his jacket, she stood in front of him, repeating a routine she had done each day for so long. She brushed her hand over the olive green shoulder boards with three metal gold stars of a colonel, making sure the cloth collar tabs were laying flat. Finally, she adjusted his ribbons over his left chest, tilting her head as she did a final inspection. She repeated the same action for his KGB honored co-worker and academy graduation badges over his right chest.

“There,” she said with a smile.

He took her hands in his and kissed them. Then he put on his cap as he walked to the door. “You start dinner regular time, all right?”

She nodded. He closed the door quietly behind him.

“Joe! Open up!”

Adler got off the couch. “I smell food!”

Having heard the response, Grant was laughing when he walked in, carrying two full paper bags, and an open carton of milk, extending one bag out in front of him. “Whoa! Down boy!” he said as Adler grabbed the bag.

Adler immediately ripped the top of the bag open. “Bacon and egg sandwiches? Where the hell’d you get these?” he asked, as he started whipping out the wrapped food parcels, a bag of donuts, orange juice cartons, and coffee in paper cups.

Grant took off his dress blues jacket, then laid it on the back of the couch. “I bribed the geedunk manager to open up early,” he answered as he stretched his arms high overhead and yawned. Rubbing both hands vigorously over his face, he felt stubble. The hell with it. He finally plopped down on the couch.

“So,” Adler said, as he sat on the floor, “did you make contact with the colonel?” He unwrapped a sandwich and took a bite.

Grant leaned forward, pointing at the food. “Hey, hand me one of those and a coffee. Yeah. As usual, it was a really short conversation, but I got my message across.”

Swallowing the last bit of his first egg sandwich, Adler reached for another and said, “Okay. Tell me. What’s the plan?”

Grant took a swig of black coffee to wash down the remaining egg. “We’re going to Moscow.”

“Moscow? I thought East Germany was… ”

Grant shook his head. “I know. I know. But how can we be sure Grigori’s been told the truth about going to East Germany? Antolov is waiting till the last minute to give him a final destination and where he’s to pick up the POWs.”

“I see your point.” Adler got up off the floor, stretched his back, then reached for a coffee cup. “Does he know we’re comin’?” Not getting any response, he asked, “Is your mind going in a different direction again?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, he knows. Listen, I called Tony while I was in base ops.”

“Care to fill me in?” Adler drank the last drop of coffee, smashed the paper cup between his hands, then picked up another.

“Need to get more firepower.” He reached into the larger bag, took out the bag of donuts, and dumped them on a napkin. Snatching a chocolate cake donut, he reached for the milk carton.

Adler grabbed a jelly donut and asked, “So you think he can get it here before we make our exit?”

Grant shook his head. “Gonna try to have it waiting for us in Moscow.”

Adler’s eyebrows shot up. “Whoa! Tall order, don’t you think?”

“Wouldn’t think so for the ‘Cowboy.’ Besides, Grigori will have some equipment there, just like last time. If Tony can’t come through, we should have enough.” He brushed his hands together, wiping away crumbs. “Told him to back out if things started getting hairy for him.”

“Think he’ll listen?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Tell you what. If he doesn’t listen, I’ll hold him while you beat the crap out of him, okay?” Grant just smiled, then he finished off the last drop of milk.

“Hey, skipper,” Adler said in between a yawn. “I think I’ll go to my room. Need a shower and maybe a shave.”

“Thinking the same thing myself.”

“Meet you here in about thirty minutes.”

“Don’t you want another sandwich or more donuts?”

“Get them when I come back.”

The morning ride by taxi from the hotel to Schonefeld took about twenty minutes. If it had been anything but sunny, traffic along the two-lane road would have been bumper to bumper. Weather can wreak havoc close to this airport.

Schonefeld Airport was the location of the Henschel aircraft factory up until 1945. At the beginning of the Cold War, it was taken over by the Soviets, and then eventually turned into an East German civilian airport.

The taxi pulled up to a checkpoint crossing into East Berlin. An East German guard, with his weapon slung over his shoulder, stepped near the car. Adler rolled down the window, handing the guard his ID booklet showing the German name “Lukas Baeker.” The guard compared the picture to the face, handed it back to Adler, then reached for Grant’s. The guard didn’t think twice about an East German and Russian traveling together, as he examined Grant’s ID with the name “Dmitri Petrukhin.” He handed it back, and waved the taxi on.

Having secured their military rucksacks, uniforms, dollars, and wallets with all ids in a location at base ops, Grant and Adler bought plain canvas satchels with leather handles, more frequently carried by Europeans. They packed another set of civilian clothes, carried no firearms, except for det cord and pencils Adler had hidden. They couldn’t risk it. Moshenko and Mullins would have to come through.

Once they reached the terminal, they separated. This taxi ride would be the last time they’d be seen together until they reached Moscow.