Warning Order

Chapter Twelve

A silhouetted figure stood on the fringe of the tarmac close to MILOPS. With his arms folded across his chest, Grant Stevens glanced upward at the morning sun. It was a crisp, autumn day, with bands of clouds being nudged along the horizon by a moderate, northerly breeze.

Hearing the sound of jet engines, his gaze turned to a Pan Am 707 lifting off runway 27. Gray streams of exhaust, spewing from four jet engines became clearly visible against the cobalt blue sky. The silver fuselage gleamed as the aircraft banked left, beginning its flight to New York City. His eyes followed the aircraft, but his thoughts were on the events that had taken place earlier that morning, leading up to Marie's departure for the hotel. Whether or not he contacted Matt Wharton for assistance was yet to be seen. Too many "eyes and ears" inhabited the Embassy. Maybe there would be hell to pay later on, but right now, the risk might be too great to take any unnecessary chances.

He turned, hearing the main door to MILOPS swing open. Adler stepped out, swiveling his head till he spotted Grant. He jogged across the parking lot, with his unzipped leather jacket flapping as he ran. He pulled up when he was next to Grant, extending a hand holding a covered paper cup. "Coffee, sir?"

"No, thanks, Joe."

Adler flipped the plastic cover off and sipped on the steaming black coffee. He licked his lips. "Marie's okay, sir. Checked in without any problem. She's in room 415."

Grant nodded. Behind the dark aviator sunglasses were intense brown eyes. His thoughts were solely on his own initiated DAM (direct action mission). The term was used by SEALs for a specific military operation involving commando-style raids into hostile or denied areas.

Grant's target had been acquired. The kids had to be found today and the lab destroyed, not to mention getting their own asses safely out of East Berlin.

Adler reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out his sunglasses, giving them a downward shake to separate the thin, gold-colored wires, then he fitted them over his ears. As he adjusted them on his nose, he tilted his head back, scrutinizing a day that was starting off to be just about perfect. He rocked back and forth on his heels while inhaling a lungful of air and getting a brief whiff of jet fuel. "I don't know about you, sir, but that shower sure as hell felt good!" He swirled the remaining coffee around in the bottom of the paper cup. The black brew had cooled rapidly in the morning air and he chugged down the last mouthful, flattening the cup before slipping it into his pocket. Thinking about seeing his reflection in the mirror earlier, he rubbed his hand along his hairline, then glanced at Grant. Both of them were in need of haircuts.

The wheels of a Swiss Air passenger jet screeched down on the runway, its engines screaming as the pilot threw them into reverse. But the long, quiet moment between Adler and Grant continued. Grant's face had a look of fierce determination. The clamping of the square jaw and grinding of teeth was a familiar sight for Adler. Knowing the pressure and concern his good friend was experiencing, he attempted to disguise the excitement he was feeling.

"Today's the day, isn't it, sir?"

Grant lowered his head, then looked up, pushing the aviator glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It's gotta be, Joe. We're out of time. We need to stage now. Did you check to see that the chopper was still in the hanger?"

"It's fueled and froggie, Skipper."

"Very well."

"You got something else on your mind?" Adler questioned as he tilted his head down and looked over the top of his sunglasses.

Grant jabbed him in the shoulder. "You read me like a cheap novel, Joe! And, yeah… I decided it's time we lay a trap for that shitbird in the Embassy."

"Hot damn!" Adler bellowed, as he smacked his hands together. "I tell you what, Skipper, I thought you were gonna miss that one. I should've known better, foolish kid that I am."

Grant had to laugh, knowing Adler was "hot to trot" for some action. "How could you think I'd let a smell like that go unattended? Let's think about this. The only ones who didn't ask any questions after we extracted Lampson were Bradley and the two crypto guys."

"But Wharton would have probably clued Bradley in, right?"

"This was a lone wolf, Joe. Only Wharton knew that we were gonna snatch Lampson. Bradley wasn't brought in until he was instructed to take you to the pickup site."

"Well, hell, then, no wonder nobody's asking questions. Nobody knew."

"Oh, come on, Joe. Once we got back to the Embassy even the cockroaches were poppin' questions, yet those three guys were zipped up tighter than your fly."

"See what you mean. Think we ought to do a bait and switch on them and fuck up the bad guys? That'll give us some extra time to let us do our thing."

"Right. We'll have to get Wharton to drop the info at the right time."

"Good idea, Skipper."

Grant stroked his chin as he started pacing back and forth in front of Adler, his plan unfolding as he talked. "We'll have to give him three separate bogus locations, telling all of them that we'll be dropping into the East at 2330 hours, with transportation waiting, of course."

"Of course," Adler laughed.

"Wharton's got to make sure that they get the word separately, no later than 1500 today. Final phase will be to have him assign the comm guys to the crypto room from 2100 hours on. His orders for them will be to wait for confirmation from us that we're in."

"Ahh," Adler remarked, "and, of course, that call will never come since we'll already have contacted Wharton." He tapped an index finger against his lips as he asked, "What about Bradley? Shouldn't he be invited to the party, too?"

"You can bet Wharton will give all three of them special invitations." His concern was apparent as he added, "I was hoping we could leave Manfred out of the rest of this shit," he remarked thoughtfully, lowering his head. "But we'll have to bring him in again. He can play it safe by concealing himself in the woods and use a long-range scope."

"You know him better than me, boss, but from what I gathered, the old gentleman strikes me as someone who likes to be in the thick of things. You think he'll be satisfied with just hiding in the bushes?"

"You're right about him, Joe, but he's not one to jeopardize an operation, believe me."

"Gotcha. You planning on us covering the second and third sites, right?" Grant nodded. "So then whichever one of us acquires a target will make contact with Wharton."

"Roger that. That'll still give us plenty of time to reach our destination."

"Final question, Skipper. Do you think Wharton is gonna pull 'his boy' outta circulation mucho quick?"

"That'll be up to him. Don't think we'd be able to hold him back, though." He kicked at a small rock, sending it skittering across the sidewalk. "Jesus! He's gonna go ballistic when I drop this one on him. Three of his boys are under suspicion."

"Not a pretty thought, boss. You think we need to get him away from the Embassy for this little meaningful discussion?" Grant nodded, then Adler suggested, "How about the cafe in the airport terminal? It's usually crowded enough, so we can blend right in."

"Sounds good, Joe. It should only take him fifteen to twenty minutes to get here."

"We've got a helluva lot of names on our dance card, Skipper, including Grigori. What time are you supposed to make contact?"

"Fourteen hundred hours. That'll give us enough time to chat with Wharton then pick up our gear from the locker." He grinned and punched Adler’s arm. "Looks like I've run out of excuses to go 'dancing' tonight. What say we have our own hoe-down?"

As they turned and headed for the offices to make the phone call to Wharton, Adler said, "Skipper, I've jumped a lot of fences with you and I don't mind telling you, this one's got my attention."

Grant stopped in his tracks and stared down at his shoes for a few seconds, then turned and looked Adler straight in the eyes. "I've never been on one that didn't give me that feeling, Joe, but there's not a man in this world I'd want covering my ‘six’ more than you."

The silence of genuine respect and true friendship struck them both as they stood facing each other. Finally, Adler's rugged face broke into a broad grin, with deep creases visible at the corners of his blue eyes. He bowed and motioned with his arm. "Take me to Indian country, my fearless leader!"

The window panes of the small three room flat were covered inside and out with grime and grease. Dirt had accumulated along the window sill and on the wooden strips dividing the two panes. A man inside the living room stepped closer to the window. Ever wary of an occasional patrol, he peaked out the side of the dark, brown blanket tacked to the top of the window. He glanced at his watch, then looked out at the street and sidewalk again. From his vantage point from the second floor, no one would be able to enter the building without him seeing them. He made sure that the door leading to the basement at the rear was securely locked, forcing any visitors to use the front door.

Allowing the window covering to fall back into place, he put the beer stein to his lips and sipped on the dark beer, licking the foam from his lips. Then, he turned away, his heavy footsteps on the scuffed wooden floor echoing in a room that's furnishings were only two hand-made wooden benches placed at forty-five degree angles to one another, and set close to the wall opposite the window. During the night, the only source of light came from a kerosene lamp sitting on the end of one of the benches, placed far enough away from the window.

He went to the front door, jiggled the handle to ensure the lock was secure, then he walked into the shabby kitchen. A small radiator, chipped and rusty, was crammed between the sink basin and refrigerator that was less than six cubic feet in size. Discolored grout criss-crossed white tiles from the baseboard to midway up the walls. Small diamond-shaped black accent pieces were intermittently dispersed among the tiles, the only embellishment in the dingy room.

He glanced indifferently at two tousled-haired little boys who sat under the folding table, quietly occupying themselves by playing with teaspoons and paper cups. They were both wearing thin, long sleeve blue pullovers, green overalls, white hooded sweatshirts and white socks. Two sets of small brown shoes lay strewn near a wall.

“Did she feed them?" Steiner asked.

Victor Engels, Steiner's second in command, ran the point of a pocketknife under his fingernails, and without looking up, motioned with his head toward the sink.

Engels was a man with a penchant for having a quick, violent temper. Rows of wrinkles ran the width of his broad forehead; brooding dark eyes looked out from beneath sloping blond eyebrows. His black boots, the kind often seen worn by motorcyclists, were propped up on the edge of the wobbly table.

Steiner glanced at the soiled ceramic bowls, with clumps of dried oatmeal stuck to the sides. Sitting on a two-burner, portable propane stove, was a white enamel pot. An empty quart-size bottle of milk lay on its side in the stained sink. He sipped again on the beer, then walked toward the bedroom and unlocked the door. Pushing it part way open, he stepped into the dismal room. Peeling paint and nail holes marred the walls. A tattered, braided throw rug lay in the middle of the room on a wooden floor. A gray metal folding chair was in the corner, barely three feet away from two canvas cots that were pushed lengthwise up against the wall, end to end. Two pillows and an olive-drab blanket were strewn on one cot. A cracked, rectangular mirror hung next to the window. Even in daylight, the room remained dim because of the closeness of the building across the alley.

Steiner checked the window lock just as a precaution. He pulled back the blanket then leaned closer to the glass, finally able to see his brother, Friedrich, standing in the vacant alley, safeguarding there'd be no escape or rescue attempt. Steiner let his eyes roam up and down the alley, then at the building opposite the bedroom. Months of thorough research led him to this particular site. Both buildings were unoccupied, situated in a district completely isolated and not yet on the list for restoration by the government. Another group member, Rolf Weider, who worked as an electrician for the Ministry of Regional Housing, had obtained floor plans and duplicate keys.

He turned, then stood still, quietly sipping his beer, looking down at one of the cots where a woman was sleeping. Her body was covered by a thin white sheet. She was fully clothed, wearing a pair of worn jeans, a long sleeve white blouse, topped with a red, wool pullover sweater. She stirred slightly and turned away from the wall, her long hair falling across her cheek. He left the room, locking the door behind him.

The woman stayed motionless and looked toward the door through squinted eyes just as a precaution in case her captor hadn't really left. Satisfied he'd gone, she sat up and slid her long legs over the edge of the cot. As she stood, one of the uneven legs of the cot struck the floor. She hesitated for a moment, watching the door. Satisfied no one heard the noise, she tugged on her sweater, stretching it till it hung loosely around her narrow hips. Without bothering to put on her loafers, she tip-toed toward the door, trying to remain quiet. She leaned close and placed her ear against it, listening for any sounds coming from the kitchen. Hearing the twins playing, she made her way over to the window and peeked out of the side of the blanket. Trying to escape would be not be wise, especially knowing someone was waiting outside. She had caught only glimpses of the guard since they brought her to the flat. There had been times when she heard clanking sounds on the fire escape, but she could never really be sure where he might be located.

Her mind was filled with questions: How much longer would it be before Steiner would tire of keeping her alive or from harm? On several occasions he'd prevented his thugs from raping her. But she saw a familiar look in his eyes, one that seemed to say he wanted her for himself. He hadn't tried to touch her in any way since bringing her and the children to this place. She rubbed her forearm thinking of how he had grabbed her when she tried to run, leaving a bruise that was just beginning to fade. And what about Eric? Would he find a way to come back? Or would they find him first?

As she stepped away from the window, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The strain, worry, and anger she felt were taking their toll. Her peaches and cream skin now looked drawn and sallow. She lightly ran a finger across dark circles under her tired eyes. She noticed that even her hair no longer had its luster. She bent forward and ran her fingers through the tresses, occasionally catching them in a tangle. As she stood up, she threw her head back, shaking the long strands back and forth before gathering them into a ponytail and securing it with the rubber band from her wrist.

She walked quietly across the room, then lifted the canvas shoulder bag from the chair. She picked up the book of matches and started to light the lamp, but then she thought otherwise as she glanced at the bedroom door. Rummaging through the bag, her hand felt the round, smooth tube. She took it out and removed the silver-colored cap. But she thought twice. This isn't the time. She replaced the cap and dropped it back into the bag.

Patience was not a virtue that Klaus Steiner was known for, and he went back into the living room to wait for his two men. He pulled his Walther PPK from his back waistband and placed it on one of the benches. He sat at an angle so he could watch the front door, then propped his feet up on the other bench, resting his back against one side of the brick fireplace. A small coal-burning stove occupied a spot in front of the fireplace.

He thought about Richter and Schinkel. No matter what assignment he gave them, he never questioned their methods and always counted on their thoroughness. But today they were long overdue from their appointed task. As for Otto Neus, he hadn't been seen or heard from for over a day, although it was something that didn't surprise Steiner. Compared with other members of the group, Neus was a completely different story.

For the past two months Neus' enthusiasm for the project had waned considerably. He'd become nothing but a pain in the ass, questioning every order and plan that Steiner designed. For weeks Steiner made it a point to never tell Neus the whole truth, never allowing him to go to the lab or come to this flat, never telling him Greta’s whereabouts. He regretted not having given Schinkel the order to put Neus away permanently. But perhaps he would still have that opportunity.

He pushed up the sleeves of his green wool sweater as he smugly thought: As intelligent as those goddamn scientists think they are, their common sense is non-existent.

Growing up during post-World War II in a city nearly destroyed by Allied bombs, Steiner had to learn strategies for survival. He prided himself on his “street smarts,” something the so-called intelligent scientists didn't possess. For that, he felt superior to them all. He thought how much greed, money, and fear played such an important role in his accomplishments to date. As a man who never showed emotion, his demeanor was an important part of maintaining control of himself and the group. But a brief, almost unnoticeable crack surfaced from his normally stoic expression as he thought about how luck had turned his way when he found the letter.

During the interim when Eric Brennar was waiting for extraction from East Berlin, he made contact with Von Wenzel regularly. Even though the scientist was unaware of Brennar being CIA, he had taken him into his confidence, freely discussing possible methods for escaping to the West. Brennar reassured Von Wenzel that if they were ever in a situation where face-to-face contact was no longer possible, the scientist could count on correspondence becoming their means of staying in touch. Brennar knew the risk he'd be taking in contacting Von Wenzel.

The sudden disappearance of Brennar had left Von Wenzel shaken, fearing some terrible harm had come to him. But beyond that, a bone-chilling thought shook him to his very core. He'd been so free with his words while talking to Brennar. Could it be that Brennar was STASI? Did Von Wenzel now have to worry that he and his family would be arrested? But then, one afternoon, a great sense of relief came over him when he received Brennar's one and only note.

In the assumed safety of his own home, and with his wife and children finishing dinner in the kitchen, Von Wenzel excused himself and retreated to the bedroom. When he opened the envelope, all he removed was a single, standard-size white, cotton handkerchief. After unfolding the handkerchief, he held it above the flame of a lighted candle, staring impatiently as the letters slowly appeared. Brennar had used one of the simplest methods known as 'secret' writing. The message had been written with a matchstick dipped in lemon juice. Heat from the candle's flame turned the dried juice brown, revealing Brennar’s words. The message had been brief. Brennar appealed to Von Wenzel to contact him with any news on Greta. He only gave a phone number as a point of contact, feeling more secure with that than having to reveal Marie's address.

Later that evening Von Wenzel received a frenzied call from Herman Schmitt at the university. A number of students had organized what was scheduled to be a peaceful demonstration, but everyone was fully aware those often turned violent. As a precautionary measure, Schmitt requested Von Wenzel come to the university to assist him in collecting and securing valuable data from the law library. In his haste to leave, Von Wenzel absent-mindedly tucked the handkerchief into his overcoat pocket. For all the months Von Wenzel and Heisen had worked in the lab, not once had they even imagined that someone could be searching their apartments, clothes, or belongings while they worked.

Steiner's thoughts once again turned to his missing men. An unfamiliar, icy chill suddenly gripped him. He moved his feet from the bench to the floor, then leaned forward. Could it be that his men’s possible disappearance had to do with the same men who extracted Brennar from the East? Steiner's contact had little to say about the two, only that they were both with the American Navy. Brennar must have told them about the drug and perhaps even our plans. He couldn’t delay any further.

Engels appeared from the kitchen, standing in the shadows between Steiner and the front door. A knuckle knife was in his hand, so named because one side of the handle resembled a set of metal knuckles. He stood there quietly polishing the 5–1/2” blade with a ragged cloth. He finally asked, "Aren't they back yet?"

The sound of Engels' voice shook Steiner from his deliberations. He picked up the handgun before he stood up. "Nein." He slipped the gun into his back waistband then went toward the front door. As he turned the lock, he motioned with his head toward the kitchen and said, "Keep an eye on them. I'm going down to the lab."

The wooden banisters in the stairwells were rough and splintered; many support spindles were either broken or completely missing. On each landing one light socket was positioned in the middle of the ceiling. Steiner had seen to it that all the bulbs were removed.

His footsteps echoed as he stepped heavily going down to the first floor. Even though he'd been up and down these same steps hundreds of times, he ran a hand along the wall as he descended the last flight, being cautious with his footing as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He stopped momentarily, then pulled a key from his pants pocket, the only key that unlocked the door leading to the basement. No one entered or left without his knowledge. Opening the door, he stood at the top of the steps and lit a kerosene lamp hanging from a hook.

It was time to put the final phase of his plan into action. Whether Brennar was brought back, or even if he was already dead, no longer mattered. Once Steiner was on his way to Moscow, the woman and twins would be disposed of. They had already outlived their original purpose. The question of why he allowed them to survive this long passed briefly through his mind but he didn't linger on it. There wasn't any need at this point in time.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto solid concrete, then he turned up the light on the lamp. His nostrils flared as putrid smells buffeted his senses. More goddamn dead rats, he thought disgustedly.

He stopped and turned, hearing a faint sound somewhere behind him. He held the kerosene lamp high as he took a few steps. The light extended enough for him to see water leaking from a section of pipe. He turned back around and let the light cascade down on a rectangular wooden box, about five feet long, three feet wide, six inches high. He walked to it then set the lamp on the floor. Reaching down, he lifted one end. A shaft of light erupted through the opening. He raised the lid on its hinges, locked it into place at a ninety degree angle, then flipped a switch inside the opening with his thumb, energizing a small motor. The steps began unfolding as they lowered into the lab. He left the kerosene lamp burning, then climbed down the stairs.

Josef Von Wenzel looked up at him through the steps, then walked away. Flecks of gray were disbursed throughout Von Wenzel's dark brown hair. He wore black horn-rimmed glasses. A white lab coat covered dark gray slacks and shirt. He stood bent over a worktable, listening as Steiner's footsteps came closer. All the months he'd worked at this place, the scientist constantly worried about his family, about his own life. When Brennar disappeared and after he received his note, he prayed that someone would find the lab and destroy it. If that meant he and the others died, so be it. Even though he'd been coerced into fabricating the potentially lethal drug, whatever Steiner's final plans were, he, Josef Von Wenzel, and even Heisen, would be equally responsible.

"We've let this process go on too long, Herr Von Wenzel." His voice purposely sounded intimidating. "I know you've finished."

Von Wenzel turned, looking at Steiner with a questioning stare. "Finished? We still have… "

Steiner grabbed hold of a thin, frail forearm, squeezing it till Von Wenzel winced. "I said I know you're finished."

Von Wenzel seemed astonished. "But, how…? Oh, my God! Heisen — you got to Heisen."

"It seems Herr Heisen was more concerned for his family than you." Steiner gave Von Wenzel's arm a final twist, then released it. He took a step then reached behind his back, touching the Walther, but then left it alone. "While we talk, why don't you prepare some of the drug for me. I should think that two of those tubes should be enough." Steiner leaned against the table, watching every move the scientist made.

Von Wenzel transferred the clear liquid into two, four inch glass tubes, then pushed a cork securely into the top of each. He prepared himself for the worst. "And now?" he asked with a trembling voice, as he handed the glass containers to Steiner one at a time.

"Now? Now I'll leave you to clean up in here. Then, why don't you go home to your family?" Von Wenzel's knees nearly gave way beneath him as he closed his eyes in relief. Steiner reminded him, "When you leave, be sure to go out through the rear door in the basement. I'll unlock it for you. Remember, it's still daylight, and we wouldn't want you to be seen, would we?" Von Wenzel shook his head. Steiner walked by him and climbed the stairs.

Von Wenzel kept an eye on his tormentor, then, once Steiner disappeared from sight, he began wondering. Steiner seemed… rushed. Could it be possible that the lab has been discovered by the authorities? He mumbled softly, “I've got to do something.” He spun around to the table, grabbed a pen, and scribbled a brief note on a scrap of paper. He reached for a small white envelope, dumping out loose paperclips. Quickly addressing the envelope to the Chief of Police in East Berlin, he folded the paper in half and shoved it into the envelope, thinking he’d post it on the way home.

A single shot rang out. The bullet struck the scientist at the base of his skull. A reflex action caused his hand to curl around the envelope, then his body slid down the edge of the countertop. He collapsed on the floor, falling face first, with his arm outstretched under the counter. His fingers twitched, gradually uncurling, and the envelope fell from his grasp.

Steiner stood momentarily on the top step, first looking at Von Wenzel, then glancing down at the glass tubes in his own palm. He finally climbed up into the basement, leaving the trapdoor open.

Once back in the apartment, he ordered Engles to dispose of Von Wenzel's body. The procedure was simple. It was just a matter of carrying and dragging the body through the tunnel, then dumping it through the open hatch. The water flowing through the pipe was being fed by the Spree. From that point, the body would be carried along a series of pipes that formed the tunnel. They were set at different levels, each one slightly lower than the previous. Eventually, the water and Von Wenzel's body would exit at a fifty foot waterfall, emptying into a lake formed by the Muritz Dam.

Steiner opened a closet door in the hall. Hanging from a wire coat hanger was an East German military officer's uniform, bearing the insignia of a major. He pulled the uniform jacket from the hanger and carried it into the living room. He stood by the window, glancing at two rows of medals hanging above the left jacket pocket.

He pressed the cork into each of the glass tubes, ensuring they were secure. Then he placed them in an eyeglass case before slipping it inside the breast pocket. He carried the uniform back to the closet.

Engels walked through the front door, seeing Steiner leaning up against the closet door deep in thought. Engels was unable to interpret Steiner's expression, thinking perhaps it concerned Von Wenzel. "Don't worry, Klaus. It's all taken care of."

Steiner gestured with his hand. "Good. Good."

"Do you have something on your mind? Anything else I can do?"

Steiner shook his head. "I was just remembering something I read one time that suits what I am trying to accomplish. 'To choose one's victim, to prepare one's plan minutely, to slake an implacable vengeance, and then go to bed… there is nothing sweeter in the world.'"

"Hitler?"

"No. Stalin."