Warning Order

Chapter Thirteen

A cigarette dangled from the right corner of Matt Wharton's mouth. Hazy, weightless gray smoke hung close to the ceiling. He sat behind his desk reviewing the report word for word. The outside of the folder was stamped with the words: TOP SECRET.

His private line rang. He gave the phone a disgusted glance then returned his eyes to the pile of paper. On the third ring he angrily grabbed the receiver. "Wharton!"

"Grant Stevens, sir. You alone?"

"Well, Captain! Yes, as a matter of fact, I am." He pulled off his reading glasses and flipped them onto the desk then squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

"Can we talk?" Grant asked.

Wharton leaned forward, tensing instinctively. "Sure, sure. This line's secure and most of the staff's gone to lunch. What's the problem?"

"I know Admiral Torrinson's filled you in on our upcoming activities."

"Yeah, we've discussed it." Wharton heard something that sounded like a long breath being exhaled, unsure of what he was going to hear but positive it wasn't going to be to his liking.

"I'll cut right to the chase, sir. I've got every reason to believe somebody there at the Embassy is playing double duty with you."

Wharton blinked. It felt like every ounce of blood in his body had just been shot through a cannon, firing against the inside of his skull. His head pounded. "Oh, Christ!"

"Look, I think we need to talk face-to-face. We're gonna need your help. Can you come out to Tegel?"

"Hell, yes. Name the time." Grant responded with time and place, and then Wharton said, "I'm on my way."

Activity in the outer office alerted him to the fact that his staff was returning from lunch. It was a perfect time for him to leave without any questions being asked.

Not longer after his conversation with Grant, he walked three blocks before ducking into a side street then hailed a cab. Handing a couple of extra Deutsche Marks to the cabby would ensure his swift arrival at Tegel Airport.

Wharton pushed himself back against the seat. Nervous tremors in his right foot started his heel pounding involuntarily against the floorboard. Images of faces flashed through his mind as if he was thumbing through a loose-leaf binder filled with portraits. Employees in the Embassy had worked for him anywhere from six months to the longest, two years. He swore to himself: Jesus Christ! How the hell could this happen on my watch?

He reflected back on the number of times he had observed, with mixed feelings, the exchange of spies at the Glienicke Bridge. How the hell long had the fuckin' shitbird been making a fool out of him, out of all of them?

Suddenly, a white Mercedes shot past the cab, its tires screeching as it cut in front to make a right-hand turn. The cabby leaned on his horn and hit the brakes. Wharton's head snapped forward and he grabbed hold of the armrest out of instinct, because his mind continued spinning on another matter. First, it was shock that held him firmly in its grasp. Now it was complete, unadulterated fury.

The cabby glanced in his rearview mirror, seeing his passenger's face change from white to a shade close to purple. Terrified the man was having a heart attack, he slowed the vehicle and nervously shouted, "Are you sick?"

The sound of the voice startled Wharton, shaking him out of his stupor. "Nein!" He motioned with his hand for the driver to keep going, saying, "Faster!"

Within twelve minutes the cab pulled in front of the Kummel Cafe. Wharton handed the cabby his fare. "Danke." The confused cabby could only watch as Wharton jumped out of the cab, slamming the door behind him.

He stormed into the noisy cafe, then stood just inside the entryway. Several men stood around a billiard table as they anticipated the next shot by a portly man, leaning over the table with his cue stick poised. A crack of a cue ball striking another one on the green felt tabletop caused Wharton to jerk his head toward the source of the noise. He stretched his neck, trying to see above the heads of patrons milling around the bar, trying to tune out other sounds of silverware, clanking glasses and a steady hum of chatter. Finally, near the far wall, he noticed Grant looking in his direction. Wharton bulldozed his way through a throng of boisterous patrons.

Grant sat down as soon as Wharton spotted him. He picked up his coffee cup and looked at Adler. "Batten down the hatches, Joe."

Adler swished a mouthful of Coke back and forth between his cheeks, finally swallowing it as he answered, "Aye, aye, Skipper."

Wharton paused at the bar to order a beer. A young female, with short blond hair, poured a deep gold-colored beer into a tall beer glass. He ignored her smile, dropped money on the bar, and with the stein gripped in his hand, made his way over to the two Americans.

He took a swig of the warm ale as he got to the table. "Gentlemen," he said as he nodded, then pulled a chair out and sat down heavily. The stein rapped against the tabletop. He rubbed his hands together then reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to the two men, who both declined. He took a deep drag, then let the smoke stream out of both nostrils. "Before we get started, are you gonna tell me what the fuck you've done with my favorite boy?"

"Uh, I'd prefer just to tell you that he's safe and in good hands, sir," Grant responded, shooting a quick glance at Adler.

"That's all I get?" Wharton asked with a rising voice, showing his obvious annoyance.

"I'm afraid for now, that's it."

"Listen, you know that if I hadn't already talked with Torrinson we wouldn't be having this goddamn conversation." Grant gave a slight nod, then Wharton added, "But since I did, I assured him I'd give you any assistance you needed, and that was after his shorthand overview of your upcoming operation. All I can say is that you'd better make damn well sure that I get my merchandise back in excellent working condition," he declared gruffly, pounding the tip of his index finger continuously on the table. "Do I make myself clear, Captain?"

Grant nodded, then replied, "Perfectly." He scooted himself forward on the chair. "Look, we did what was necessary to protect Rick. And by the way, one attempt was already made on his life not long ago."

"Don't be fuckin' with me, Captain."

"Wouldn't think of it, sir," Grant shot back.

Adler just listened to the banter, as he thought: This is certainly going so much damn better than expected! Shit!

"Yeah, right," Wharton responded before taking a swig of beer. "Let's get this show on the road. Who do you have under the microscope?"

Noise in the cafe continued at a fever pitch. A thick layer of cigar and cigarette smoke filled the cafe like an early morning fog. Grant took a quick look around, then leaned closer, rolling the coffee cup between his palms. "I can't give you a single name, but I've got it narrowed down to three."

"Just how'd you come up with those three names?" Wharton asked skeptically.

"Part what Joe and I observed after we got back with Lampson, and part from my instincts."

Wharton nearly choked on a mouthful of beer. "Your instincts? Your damn instincts?"

Adler quickly interjected, "You gotta go with his instincts, sir, believe me. You gotta believe in 'em."

"Why should I?"

Adler knew he was going to be up shitcreek but he went with it anyway. He lowered his voice. "Does the USS Bronson ring a bell, sir?" Grant flashed an 'I don't believe you said that' look. Adler ignored him.

In 1975 the two of them had been instrumental in preventing the most advanced destroyer in existence, the USS Bronson, from falling into Russian hands.

"Ahh," Wharton smirked, "the Bronson." He flicked an ash on the floor, then shifted his eyes to Grant. "If I'm not mistaken, one of our boys worked with you on that one. Tony Mullins, right?" Grant held back any reaction. "And you say it was all on instincts?"

"Pretty much!" Adler sheepishly looked in Grant's direction, giving him a 'see… no problem' wink.

"It's still gonna take a fuckin' lot more than that to convince me," Wharton added. "Gimme some names."

Grant stared intently into Wharton's round, full face, watching for a reaction. "Bradley, Canetti, Kelley."

Wharton barely blinked. His face remained like a mask. He leaned back against the chair, intertwined his fingers, then rested his hands on his midsection. Grant gave him a chance to roll the names around in his mind.

"In my estimation, you're picking the three most obvious, maybe too obvious," Wharton finally responded.

"Don't think so. Look, confirm for me that they were the only individuals who knew Lampson was coming back that night, and only just before extraction."

Wharton sighed deeply, reaching for his beer, but refrained from drinking. "I informed Bradley two hours prior to his taking Joe to the Spree, and Canetti and Kelley were put on alert to wait in the crypto lab for any transmissions from you. So that would've been around 2000 hours for all parties."

"Were they informed Lampson was being stashed at the Hotel Berliner?" Grant asked as he sipped on the cold coffee.

Wharton glanced up at the ceiling, thinking back to his conversations with the three men. He moved his eyes from Adler then back to Grant. "Yeah, I did tell them."

Adler asked, "What about the two agents assigned to guarding Lampson at the hotel?"

"They were that obvious, huh?" Wharton chuckled. Adler just shrugged his shoulders as Wharton responded, "No, they knew nothing until Bradley took Lampson over there."

"Would you say that the two hours was more than enough time to put a note in Lampson's room?" Grant asked.

"Note? What the hell are you talking about?"

"A note was taped to the inside of the medicine cabinet. It addressed Lampson by his German name, Eric Brennar, and threatened his twin sons. As a nice touch," Grant said with a note of sarcasm, "a photo of the kids was included."

"Torrinson mentioned the kids," Wharton nodded. "And getting back to your question, yeah, two hours would've given someone time to get the note to the hotel, or at least contact someone else to do it. My guess is it was probably the latter."

Grant pushed the coffee cup away, then rested his arms on the table. "Would you be willing to run some interference for us?"

"Like what?"

"Joe and I came up with a way to put our cast of characters through a test."

"I'm listening."

Grant outlined the plan. Wharton listened intently, sipping on his beer, every once in a while nodding his head, but he refrained from asking any questions. The plan was simple enough. Only the three men under suspicion would be involved. No one in the Embassy or West Berlin civilian community would be put in any danger.

The CIA bureau chief raised the beer stein to his lips and downed the last mouthful of warm beer. He held onto the stein momentarily, turning it around, letting his eyes wander across the colorful, intricate carvings covering the outer shell. Finally, he said, "I told the Admiral I'd help you two and this definitely falls into that category."

Grant's face broke into a grin. "Thanks."

Wharton stood up, with Grant and Adler following. "Speaking of help,” Wharton said, “John, I mean Admiral Torrinson, said you might need additional supplies."

"We're covered, but thanks anyway." As they shook hands, Grant said, "Sorry it had to be this way, sir."

Wharton then offered a hand to Adler as he said, "Listen, all we need to do is identify the son of a bitch then hope he didn't cause any irreparable damage." He started to turn away, then looked back at Grant. "You sure Rick's in good hands?"

"As safe as a baby in its mother's arms," Grant answered reassuringly.

Wharton nodded. "You know I'm not looking forward to talking with any of you tonight."

"Understood, sir," Grant nodded. The bureau chief sighed deeply and lowered his head before turning and heading for the front door. As soon as he'd gone, Grant said, "Come on, Joe. Let's go make that call to Grigori."

Wharton climbed the winding marble staircase leading to the second floor offices. He by-passed the elevator because he wanted the few additional minutes to think. As he reached the top step, he noticed Pete Bradley standing by a secretary's desk, thumbing through a manila folder. "Pete, I need to see you."

"Sure, Matt," Bradley answered, as he dropped the folder on the corner of the desk.

Wharton leaned toward his secretary. "Margaret, hold all calls, okay?" She nodded with a smile. He walked ahead of Bradley into his office, and hung his suede jacket on the clothes pole. Walking to his desk, he flopped down in the chair, opened the top drawer and pulled out a new pack of cigarettes, stripping away the cellophane wrapper. "Sit down, Pete." Bradley pulled a red leather upholstered chair closer to the front of the desk, then sat down. He waited while Wharton lit a cigarette. Wharton took a long drag from the Marlboro, then let out the smoke through a corner of his mouth. "Pete, what I'm going to tell you stays in this room. Understand?"

"Of course."

"I've been in contact with the Navy boys."

"Did you find out what they did with Lampson?"

"Yes and no."

"What's that supposed to mean? You were ‘ready for bear’ earlier."

"Just listen to me, okay?" Bradley shrugged his shoulders then sat back. Wharton thought about his response, then added, "I've been assured Lampson is safe. That's all you need to know. Now, Navy's going back into East Berlin tonight."

"What the… "

"I told you to listen! When I spoke with Admiral Torrinson he asked for our assistance. They've got some business to finish over there. At 2230 hours they'll be making their drop. Once they're safely in, they'll be contacting us." He got up and went over to a five-drawer file cabinet.

As he did Bradley asked, "Where's the designated drop zone?"

While he was unlocking the cabinet, Wharton informed him of the site, its coordinates, and code name. He then lifted his Delco portable radio from the top drawer. "Here. I want you to take this to your office when we're through." He put the black case on the floor next to Bradley's chair, then sat on the corner of his desk and picked up a pen and piece of note paper. He scribbled something then handed the paper to Bradley. "That's the frequency they'll be calling on. You've gotta start monitoring at 2100 hours. As soon as you hear from them, you get your ass back in here. I've gotta stay here and wait for Torrinson, you know, hold his hand while his boys are out playing their dangerous little games."

"Right," Bradley snickered.

"Remember, Pete… no one, I repeat, no one else is to know about this. Their mission is critical."

"You've got my word, Matt." He picked up the case containing the radio. "Listen, Matt, I know I haven't lived up to your expectations, so, well, I guess I'm surprised at your letting me help with this."

Wharton slid off the corner of the desk and a placed a hand on the attaché's back, gently showing him to the door. "It's time you got involved around here with more than just paperwork. Now, go lock up that radio." Bradley left. Wharton turned and walked over to the window. If it's you, you little shit, I'll break off your goddamn head and shit in the hole personally!

The clock above the door showed 1315. He went to the outer office. "Margaret, do you know if George and Blake are in the crypto lab now?"

"I know Blake is. When George left for lunch, he said he had an errand to run and would probably be back by two," she answered as she curled a strand of chin-length black hair behind her ear.

"Okay. Think I'll go take a walk around the building. Whatever I ate for lunch is sitting pretty heavy on my stomach," he said as he patted his belly.

"Hope you feel better, Matt." She turned toward the IBM Selectric typewriter and started filling out the daily report.

Instead of going outside, Wharton made a detour and went to the crypto lab, giving the same instructions to Blake Kelley as he'd given to Bradley, except the drop zone was different. Fifteen minutes later he was outside smoking a cigarette, waiting for George Canetti to return. Canetti would be given the third drop site.

All three sites were in secluded areas in the southeastern section of East Berlin where there was plenty of tree coverage. Grant, Joe and Manfred would be close enough in proximity to one another in order to pair up quickly when it was time to head out for the lab. Afterwards, Manfred would drive to a designated site and wait for Grant and Adler to bring the children.

After his discussion with Canetti, Wharton walked over to the iron gate. The Marine guard snapped to attention. "At ease, son," Wharton smiled. The guard relaxed to a stiff parade rest. Wharton leaned against the gate, staring across the busy four-lane road. Business as usual. He blew a mouthful of smoke between the iron bars while he mentally reviewed the intended plans for that night. All three men — Bradley, Canetti, Kelley — would be waiting for a confirmation call from the Navy boys, but that call would never come. Instead, he'd be getting that call, a verification that one of his men had turned. Whatever site the FSG showed up at would point the finger directly at one of them. Christ!

Stevens was leaving it up to him to decide what to do next. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Stevens and Adler were going after the FSG's lab to destroy the formula. He flicked the cigarette through the bars. What the hell was it that Torrinson said? Save the Kremlin? "Holy shit!" he shouted. The Marine jumped to attention as Wharton flew past him. He started running up the stairs, then nearly stumbled when he tried to stop on a dime. Now wasn't the time to draw attention or raise suspicion. He ran his palms along the sides of his head, smoothing down disheveled strands of hair.

"How are you feeling?" Margaret asked before popping a peppermint candy into her mouth.

He reached into the cellophane bag and pulled out one of the wrapped candies. "Better, thanks."

"That should help," she smiled. "Peppermint's supposed to be good for the tummy."

He grabbed another one, then went into his office, closing the door behind him. Standing near the desk, he dialed a number then sat down. Torrinson's yeoman answered and Wharton responded, "Matt Wharton here. Let me speak to the Admiral."

"Wait one, sir."

Within a matter of seconds, Wharton heard, "Hey, Matt!" Torrinson scooted closer to the edge of his leather swivel chair, bracing his arms on the desk. "What's happening?"

"Do you remember our conversation a couple nights ago?"

"Yeah," Torrinson replied, drawing the word out slowly.

"More specifically, about a certain place in the world that's near and dear to our hearts?"

Torrinson knew the place was Moscow but didn't know where the conversation was going. He wanted to clear up one point immediately. "Lay it on me, Matt. Are the boys okay?"

"Sure, sure. Now, tell me, John, the info they got from my boy has something to do with how the group plans on using the new 'candy,’ right?"

There was a brief moment of silence before Torrinson answered, "Affirmative." Before Wharton could reply, he added, "As a favor, Matt, leave them to their game, okay? They'll handle it."

Wharton pressed his back against the chair, rocking it back and forth. "From what I know of them, I'm sure they will, John. But if things start to turn to shit, you've gotta pull me in on it. Deal?"

The game was too far along. Torrinson didn't expect to hear from Grant till it was over, one way or other. If it went wrong, they'd all be up shitcreek. "Yeah, Matt, it's a deal."

"Good. Thanks. Hate to end our cheery little talk, but I've got a busy day and probably a busier evening. I'm sure we'll be talking again soon."

"For all of our sakes, I hope not real soon, Matt."