Warning Order

Chapter Fourteen

Closing time for the park was seven o'clock. A heavy chain had been pulled across the road then attached to a five-foot high concrete pillar on the opposite side, prohibiting entry. A gravel road traveled approximately one mile from the entrance then made a loop and returned. This was the only way in and out.

Within ten minutes after hitting the ground, Grant had buried his jump gear and chute deep within the woods. He was outfitted completely in black with a black watch cap pulled low on his head. He retrieved the rucksack, then crouching low, he ran halfway down a knoll, weaving in and out of pine trees, finally taking up a position about a hundred yards from the park’s entrance. A fifty foot pine was broken seven feet above its base, a recent victim of a lightning strike. A few lower branches close to the stump still had their needles intact. Good cover, he thought as he scooted behind the stump, dragging the rucksack as he went. Resting on one knee, he unzipped the sack. He took a quick look around the tree trunk, then removed a standard issue, drab green walkie-talkie. The thin band of its antenna flopped back and forth. "Panther calling Timberwolf. Come in Timberwolf."

"Timberwolf. Go 'head, Panther," Adler replied.

"Confirm contact with Silverfox."

"Confirmed and secure." Once Adler had secured his own position, he made contact with Manfred. The old man had instructions to contact Adler if anyone appeared at his location. If not, he was to wait until 2345 hours then drive to a predetermined location and wait.

"Roger," Grant answered, keeping his voice to just above a loud whisper. "Over and out."

It was understood that unless they encountered a problem, their next transmission would be at 2330 hours. He put the walkie-talkie back into the rucksack, pulled out his "hushpuppy" and screwed on a silencer. He slipped it into his front waistband. Taking the rucksack with him, he crept across the grass until he was in the thick of some branches still covered with long needles, then he maneuvered himself in between two large boughs, crawling close to the main trunk. He felt the prick of sharp needles poking through his sweater. The branches gave him enough coverage, even from a kneeling position. Again he opened the rucksack and removed the Starlighter scope. Looking through a Starlighter was like looking at a negative, only instead of black and white, objects showed in light and dark green. He knelt close to the tree and put the scope to his eye, slowly making a hundred eighty degree sweep of his surroundings. Then, he turned around and checked his back.

After nearly twenty minutes of continuous listening and watching, he lowered the scope then pushed his shoulders back, trying to ease the tightness. He glanced overhead, looking up between the surrounding trees through the space left by the fallen pine. It was a moonless, starless sky. How many missions had he found himself looking up into this same type of sky, under the same conditions, in the middle of some goddamn ocean, desert, or jungle. He thought to himself: Christ! Fourteen years of my life. Hold it! This isn't the time to get into one of your philosophical bullshit sessions, Stevens.

He continued waiting. It was 2230 hours. A faint noise off in the distance made him quickly raise the scope as he leaned forward and rested on the downed tree. It was so very quiet, almost too quiet, making it difficult to pinpoint the right direction as the noise echoed. He focused the scope on the entrance and then beyond.

There were three roads. Two ran parallel to the park, and one head-on. Each had two lanes and intersected just outside the entrance. They joined at a roundabout, a circle. Grant slowly moved his head, training the scope up and down on the far right road, then continued moving left. Nothing was happening on the middle road. He had just scanned the grassy area to the left, when something caught his eye. Wait one! He steadied his elbows on the trunk.

Two subjects came briefly into view then disappeared behind a ten foot section of a brick wall that had been all but destroyed during World War II. The noise must have been car doors. They parked far enough away. That's why it took five minutes before he spotted them. Odds weren't exactly in his favor. With final confirmation that an Embassy employee was a traitor, he could haul ass now then contact Wharton. But Grant Stevens was going to play the game until its conclusion. The two pursuers were about to become the pursued.

They ran across the street, quickly stepping over the chain at the entrance. Both men were wearing dark slacks, heavy sweaters and loose fitting jackets. Only one, the taller of the two, wore a cap, similar to a golfer's cap.

Grant zeroed in with the scope, noticing a weapon in each man's hand, complete with silencers. He laid the Starlighter in front of him, then reached down and touched the handle of his knife. Instead, he opted for the .45 and drew it from his waistband. "Oh, shit," he said under his breath, seeing the taller man giving directions to his partner as he pointed in Grant’s direction. The shorter man started running up the hill straight for him. Grant took a quick glance at the taller man running up the opposite side, then, he immediately flattened his body under a needle-covered branch, with his arms slightly bent. The gun handle was gripped in his hand in front of his face. He listened to twigs snapping under running feet.

There was a rustling sound as the man crawled around behind the stump. He was less than fifteen feet from Grant when a sound suddenly made Grant flinch. The man was trying to imitate a birdcall as a signal. Grant waited. Then a second later there was a response somewhere off to his left. He heard a 'click.’ A gun hammer? The man was on his knees now, allowing Grant a clearer view through the branches. He was about 5'7", maybe in his late twenties and stocky. By the way he was breathing, it was obvious he wasn't in good, physical shape.

After twelve minutes in a kneeling position, the man started rubbing his legs, finally falling back on his rearend, extending his legs out in front of him.

Grant's options were very limited when it came to putting this guy out of commission. Positioning the .45 so it was aimed straight ahead, he felt around with his other hand and found a small rock, then tossed it beyond the tree branches. The East German snapped his head around, shifting the Luger to his right hand before getting back into a kneeling position. He gradually stood but remained crouched, while he moved slowly away from the fallen tree, taking one cautious step at a time.

Grant turned his head to the right, ignoring the scraping of his cheek over prickly pine needles. The man was in clear view now, still trying to find the source of the noise. He was no more than twelve feet from Grant when he heard, "Psstt." He jerked around. A second after his eyes met Grant's, the bullet struck his forehead, dropping him like a rock.

Grant crawled out from beneath the branch. Staying on his hands and knees, he moved next to the dead East German, whose eyes and mouth were still open as if in shock. Grant thought: No time to find out who you are… were, friend.

Keeping low, he scrambled back to the tree and grabbed the scope. Where the hell was the other guy? He looked through the scope trying to find the second gunman. A slight movement caught his attention.

He shoved the scope into the rucksack then took a bearing with his compass that was attached to his watch band. He looked up the hill, verifying his escape route. He was about to stash the rucksack behind another pine thirty feet away, when he heard an engine. Christ! More company. He peered over the tree trunk. A jeep-load of East Germans was driving down the road that led directly toward the entrance. It drove into the circle, then started heading away from the park. Time for you to join the party, Grant thought as he took aim and fired, intentionally aiming at the windshield. The bullet shattered the glass. The driver swerved and slammed on the brakes. Four soldiers scrambled out, taking cover behind the vehicle now sitting at a forty-five degree angle, blocking both lanes. The East German hiding in the trees snapped his head around, clearly surprised and near panic.

Knowing he'd probably be giving away his position, Grant fired again anyway, this time shooting at the ground close to the lone gunman. Dirt kicked up around the man and he jumped. Then, confused and scared, he fired recklessly into the trees.

Just as Grant had hoped, the soldiers didn't take the time to analyze which direction the bullets were heading or coming from, never thinking there could possibly be two gunmen. Instinctively, they opened fire with their AK47's.

Time to haul ass, Stevens! He slung the rucksack over his shoulder, and crouching as low as possible, he beat feet up the hill, ducking behind trees as he ran, not bothering to look back. He ran full tilt, hearing the firefight taking place behind him. Suddenly, everything went dead quiet just as he reached the top of the hill. He glanced back, seeing the soldiers running into the park, all four heading toward the last known position of the lone gunman. Whatever the outcome, Grant wasn't hanging around. Not even out of breath, he started running again, putting as much distance between himself and the East Germans as he possibly could.

When he had covered nearly two miles, he dropped to the ground then took the walkie-talkie from the sack. "Panther calling Timberwolf. Come in Timberwolf. Over."

The walkie-talkie crackled. "Timberwolf. Over."

"Target acquired. Call Silverfox then Chief. On my way to rendezvous. Over and out."

Adler switched off the walkie-talkie and let out a muffled shout, "Hot damn!" He immediately called Manfred, then Wharton.

Wharton had locked himself in his office. He was sitting behind his desk with his sleeves rolled up. Several cigarette butts had already been thoroughly crushed in the ashtray. Nervously, his eyes kept shifting from the wall clock to the walkie-talkie in front of him. He thought to himself: Gotta remember to call that NIS guy when this is over. What the hell was his name? Oh, yeah, Webster, Glen Webster.

He grabbed a pen from the holder and made the note on his desk calendar, deciding not to trust his memory. Grant asked that when the double-crossing son of a bitch in the Embassy had been identified, Wharton was to contact Webster to have him see that Marie got back home safely. He flipped the ballpoint pen on the desk, ignoring it as it rolled over the edge. All the significant players were in place — Bradley, Canetti and Kelley. Christ! It was almost 2330 hours. Was this plan going to work? He nearly came out of his chair when he heard a crackle from the walkie-talkie.

"Timberwolf calling Chief. Come in. Over."

"Chief here. Over."

"Panther made contact. Repeat, Panther made contact. Three on way to rendezvous. Over."

"Understood. Good luck. Out." The transmission ended. "Son of a bitch! The bastard!" he swore as he shook his head and dropped the walkie-talkie on the desk. He'd been hoping Stevens was wrong, that his instincts would play him wrong this time. The chair rolled back and hit the wall with a thud as he angrily stood up. He punched in one of the buttons at the base of the phone then picked up the receiver. The button lit up then he dialed extension 55. "Sergeant Major, I want you and one of your men to come to my office on the double!" He slammed down the receiver. Within two minutes there was a rapping at the door. "Come!"

Sergeant Major Mike Mahoney and Corporal Lewis Franklin entered, immediately bracing themselves at attention, Mahoney saying sharply, "Sir!"

Wharton noticed both men were wearing sidearms. "Come with me." He barreled past them, nearly knocking Franklin off his feet. The two Marines looked at each other as if to say, "Oh, shit!" They stayed close to Wharton’s heels as he charged down the hallway.

Without even bothering to knock on the door, Wharton burst into Bradley's office. "Pete!"

Bradley had a set of headphones on. As he spun his chair around, the wires tangled around his throat. "Jesus, Matt! You scared the shit… "

"Get off your ass and come with me now."

"But the radio trans… "

"What part of 'now' don't you understand? Fuck the transmission! Come with me!" Bradley flung the headphones on his chair, nearly falling over himself trying to get around the desk.

The four men piled into the elevator. Wharton couldn't stay still, constantly tapping his foot on the floor. Finally, the door opened. Canetti and Kelley both turned around, surprise obvious on their faces.

"Matt," Canetti said. "What's up?"

Wharton walked toward them, finally setting his stare on Blake Kelley. "Sergeant Major, I want you to place this man under arrest."

Canetti jumped up and shouted, "What?! What the hell are you talking about?!"

Wharton never took his eyes from Kelley, even as the two Marines took their places on either side of him. "You wanna tell him, Blake? You wanna tell all of us why, why you turned?" If the proverbial pin had dropped in the room at that moment, it would have sounded like a bomb.

Perspiration broke out on Kelley's brow. He was positive he hadn't slipped up. Wharton had to be bluffing. "Like George said, Matt, what the hell are you talking about?"

Wharton shoved his hands into his pants pockets, and then shifted his eyes to the big Southerner. "George, why'd I ask you to be here tonight?" Canetti hesitated, and Wharton added, "It's okay, George. Navy's already landed. It's all over."

Canetti glanced at Kelley as he answered. "You said I was to wait for a transmission from one of the Navy boys. He was using the code name ‘Timberwolf.’”

"Go on," Wharton said.

"He was to transmit at 2330 hours, as soon as he made it to his drop zone in Kruezgarten Park."

Wharton nodded. "Have you received a transmission?"

Canetti shook his head. "No."

Then Wharton called, "Pete."

Bradley walked around Wharton and stood next to Canetti. Anticipating Wharton wanted the same type of response from him, he said, "I was expecting a transmission from ‘Silverfox’ at 2330 hours. He was to transmit from Prinzgarten Park. And, no, I didn't get any transmission."

Wharton turned back to Kelley. "And Kelley, let's see. You were waiting for a call from someone, too, weren't you?" Kelley diverted his eyes from Wharton, staring at the cold, tiled floor. "Code name ‘Panther,’ right? ‘Panther’ was to transmit at 2330 hours, also, only he would be calling from Hurstengarten Park." Wharton was seething. He spit the words out with a booming voice. "Isn't that right?!" Kelley jumped but remained silent. Wharton turned and walked away, standing momentarily in front of a file cabinet. Then he turned around. "At approximately 2329 hours I received a transmission. Timberwolf confirmed that Panther made contact with two East Germans. You care to tell us why they were there and who they were?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Kelley answered flatly, in a monotone voice.

"Like hell you don't, you son of a bitch… you bastard!" Wharton shouted as he made a move toward him. Canetti grabbed his arm. Wharton pulled away then resumed talking. "You contacted somebody within the FSG organization. You told him exactly where and when the landing was going to be. You stupid bastard! We set you up, and you took the bait. Now, are you gonna tell us why?"

Kelley's shoulders went slack. He started sobbing. "I… I can't." He started shaking his head violently and screamed, "I can't tell you! I can't tell you!" He started to wretch then he vomited on his black trousers.

Wharton motioned to the Marines. They assisted Kelley in standing up then led him away to a secure room located at the opposite end of the Embassy's basement.

The three remaining men in the crypto room stared at one another in silence until Canetti mumbled, "Jesus Christ!" He looked into Wharton's bloodshot eyes, as he was shaking his head in disbelief. "What the fuck just happened here?"

"Your buddy's been feeding data to the FSG on Rick Lampson," Wharton answered. "Navy snatched Lampson because he had vital information on a drug the FSG group was working on, along with their plans for its use." He turned and walked slowly across the brightly lit room, trying to stabilize his heartbeat. An overhead fluorescent light bulb flickered and he glanced up at it. "It started when Kelley told them where we stashed Lampson."

"Christ," Canetti groaned. "But you didn't tell us anything about Lampson until two hours before he was to be extracted. How'd Kelley have the time to notify the FSG?"

"Don't know yet, George. But I can guarantee you that I'll find out." Wharton dug his hands into his trousers' side pockets. "Tonight Stevens and Adler were going back to take out the lab and rescue Lampson's kids." Canetti and Bradley shot a quick glance at one another, but refrained from asking any questions. "That's why Stevens put this scheme together, and Kelley went for it." He took quick steps over to the entrance. "Listen, George, I think you'd better hang around just in case Stevens calls in. I'll be in my office if he needs anything. Got it?"

"Right, Matt." When Wharton and Bradley had gone, Canetti got up and paced the room. His headphones were still draped around his neck. "How the hell did this happen? Why didn't I know?" A round stainless steel garbage can was just a little to close to his foot, and he intentionally kicked it across the room. The metal pail went airborne, bouncing off the door of a file cabinet then rolled across the room. Canetti flopped down in his chair, then started rolling the wheels back and forth. He stared at his former partner's chair, disbelieving but madder than hell.

Steiner stood in the living room, adjusting the uniform jacket. He looked down at the medals hanging from different colored ribbons. One ribbon was twisted, with the bronze medal facing backwards. He straightened it then ran his hand along the double row. Making his way into the kitchen, the thoughts of his three missing men came to mind. He went to the window that was facing vacant acreage. A mile away a red blinking light at the top of the television tower, Fernsehturm, marked the location of Alexanderplatz.

As he stared into the distance, he remembered the last contact he had with Kelley from the U.S. Embassy. Kelley had been unable to find out any information pertaining to Steiner's men. It's too bad, he thought, as he leaned against the window frame. But Kelley did inform him that an American was scheduled to make a drop into the East tonight. Buy why? The Americans already had Brennar. Only six members of the FSG knew the location of the lab. Wait! Could Von Wenzel have told Brennar? Steiner thought for a moment, reasoning that he'd put enough fear in both Von Wenzel and Heisen to rule that out. Suddenly his back straightened. The twins! That American's coming back to look for Brennar's brats. But it was impossible for him to know where they were — impossible. He tilted his head back, momentarily letting his eyes wander back and forth across the discolored ceiling. Unless… He rested his hand against the wall as he continued to try and answer troubling questions. Neus, Schinkel and Richter are missing. Were they dead? Or did the Americans somehow abduct them to obtain further information?

After he had heard from Kelley, he'd put a plan together swiftly, sending Kirchner and Schloss to the park to handle that one American who was coming back to East Berlin. Was the same fate going to befall them? A strange, chilling feeling came over him. Someone was destroying the FSG, almost systematically, ever since Brennar defected. There seemed to be a pattern. What was the name Kelley mentioned? Stevens? Yes, Stevens. Captain Stevens was the one who took Brennar back to the West. Would he be the one Kirchner and Schloss would have to confront in the park tonight?

In the distance a bell chimed. Whatever was happening at the park, he didn't have time to wait for the outcome because the military flight to Moscow was scheduled for departure from Schonefeld at 0230 hours. He'd have to depend on his men. More pressing matters were waiting for him in Moscow, the first phase of his plan to rid East Germany of Soviet control. With its success, the second phase, and in his mind, the most important phase could proceed. The people of East Germany would turn to him when they learned he was responsible for freeing them. And who knows where that will lead?

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew fraudulent military identification papers and orders signed by General Hermann Stauffenberg. The orders directed him to Moscow to attend a conference at the Kremlin, joining Stauffenberg's group. He tapped the folded papers against his chin. He thought of Fraulein Hannah Zille, who did an excellent job in getting the papers. He’d have to pay her another visit when he returned, so he could show her his gratitude again.

Hannah Zille, twenty-three years old, worked at the East German Military Command Headquarters as a file clerk. Steiner began a relationship with her five months prior to setting up the lab. Getting more heavily involved with Steiner as the months passed, and with the many promises he made her, she didn't hesitate to supply him with any information or papers he needed.

No sounds came from the bedroom as Steiner opened the door. The kerosene lamp on the kitchen table barely shed enough light into the bedroom. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw the two boys on one cot, the woman on the other. All were sleeping soundly. He left the door part way open then went back into the hallway.

Victor Engels and Karl Breite sat on a couple of blankets spread out near the fireplace. Breite was of medium build, in his early thirties and an expert when it came to explosives. He swallowed the last morsel of crusty bread filled with liver sausage, then licked his fingers. He glanced across the room at Steiner while he picked at his overlapping front teeth.

Engels kept his eyes on Steiner, asking, "You worried about Kirchner and Schloss?"

Steiner didn't bother answering. As he went to the closet, he rubbed his finger across his clean shaven upper lip. He'd touted a mustache for as long as he could remember, but the sacrifice had to be made. He reached up to the closet shelf and removed an East German military cap then rubbed the uniform jacket sleeve across its brim. He adjusted the cap on his head as he came back into the living room.

Engels and Breite got up off the floor. Steiner stood opposite them. He spoke with his voice lowered, looking directly at Breite. "I'm leaving it up to you to take care of them." He motioned toward the bedroom.

"You don't mean the children, too, do you?"

"We won't be able to stay here after I take care of our Moscow comrades. I'll need you and the others to be more than just watchdogs and babysitters. All of you will be disbursed to the locations we've pinpointed in the Soviet sector. Those three would just be in the way."

The idea wasn't sitting very well with Breite, and he tried protesting again. "Why don't we just take them someplace in the country and let them go?"

"Why?" An artery in Steiner's neck began to pulsate. "They can identify us, Karl. And she can bring the government or anybody else back here to the lab. We need a safe place to keep the drug until we've accomplished what we've set out to do. We still need this place."

"But if… "

As he stepped closer, Steiner reached behind his back and withdrew his Walther. Standing close enough to Breite that he could smell sausage on his breath, he ran the barrel of the gun down the side of Breite's tensed jaw. "I'm through arguing, Karl. If you can't do it, I'm sure I can find someone who can. Or maybe you're no longer capable of taking orders. Is that it?"

"All right! All right! I'll take care of it," Breite responded as he pushed the gun aside then backed away.

Steiner slowly lowered the gun then placed it back in his waistband. He continued looking at Breite as he said to Engels, "After you leave me at the airport, I want you to take a ride to Hurstengarten Park. See if you can find Kirchner and Schloss then come back here with them. We may need the extra security. Now, let's go." He stopped and turned around. "Karl, by the time Victor returns, I expect you to have completed your task." Breite nodded without responding.

Two silhouetted figures, with weapons drawn, appeared from around the west-side of the building, flattening themselves against a wall. Having spotted a sentry when the came across the vacant lot, they proceeded cautiously and inched their way toward the front doors. Grant and Adler had small batteries attached to their waistbands, each with a dangling antenna. Wires ran from the batteries up under their sweaters to throat mikes and earpieces. They wore chest vests with additional gear. Adler had a rucksack strapped to his back.

Grant led the way, stepping onto the first of two concrete steps. He edged his way toward double wooden doors. Adler hung close, watching their backs while Grant jimmied the lock. He tapped Adler's shoulder. They disappeared into the building quickly and silently.

As their eyes started adjusting to the dark, they pulled pen-like flashlights from their waistbands. The thin beams cast enough light to guide them while they climbed the ten flights. Within minutes they were on the top floor.

Walking across the squeaking, wooden floor, they aimed the flashlight beams toward a passageway at the rear of the building. Tucked in a narrow shaft were a set of steep-angled stairs that led to the roof.

Once he was on the top step, Grant reached for the doorknob. He turned the dirt-encrusted knob, finding it was unlocked but the door hardly budged. He shined the flashlight around the frame. Years of neglect left the door warped, and its hinges completely rusted. He switched off the flashlight, reattaching it to his belt. Adler aimed his light back down the stairwell, preparing for the door to open. Grant braced himself, then threw his weight into it and hammered the door with his shoulder. Begrudgingly, it gave way enough to allow them to slip through. They took short, quick strides to reach the west side of the roof. Black strips of tarpaper ran across the width of the roof, most of it ripped and shredded. Small torn pieces were caught in a ten knot wind swirling around the building.

Finally reaching the side that faced the alley, they took a quick look across at their final objective. On the opposite side about fifty feet away was an exact duplicate of the building they were on. They ducked down behind a four-foot high, cement block wall that ran around the building's perimeter.

"What the hell…?" Grant said suddenly, as a familiar noise got their immediate attention. They snapped their heads around. The sound grew louder. It was the unmistakable noise of rotor blades. A chopper was approaching from the rear. Their eyes immediately focused on a beam of light, a searchlight affixed to the outside of the cargo bay. The operator swiveled it slowly, back and forth, sweeping the surrounding grounds.

Grant and Adler knew they were too exposed. The light had a range of nearly a hundred yards. Their only chance was to make it back to the stairwell. The chopper was nearly two hundred yards away, the light aimed at the field directly behind the two buildings. Taking off at the same time, the two raced across the roof, squeezing through the partially open door. Adler grabbed the door knob. He hoped that by using his forward momentum it would help pull the door closed behind him, but it jammed. Grant reached around him, and the two of them asserted all their effort, pulling on the knob. A shaft of light started to penetrate the open space just as the door slammed shut. Again in pitch black surroundings, they waited, directing their eyes overhead, unable to see, but listening to the noise above them as the chopper continued to hover.

Several seconds later, the repetitive noise changed direction. Grant and Adler followed the sound, moving their heads to the right. Gradually, they were listening to silence. Once back outside, they took a quick glance toward the horizon, still able to see the beam of light reaching down to earth as if on a quest.

Adler pulled the Starlighter from the rucksack, as Grant was removing a black object that resembled a long tube. It was about eighteen inches in length, had a wire running from the handle to an earpiece, and the opposite end had a ‘sight.’ A collapsible dish opened around the mike in order to capture more sound. The directional microphone, known as a "shotgun mike" was highly sensitive. Adler once said that the powerful microphone could pick up a gnat's fart.

Grant started to fit the earpiece into his ear when Adler nudged him and whispered, "One sentry, six o'clock."

Grant reached for the scope then leaned over the edge of the wall, aimed it at the alley directly below, and spotted a man standing in the middle of the dark alley. He wore a heavy jacket, and had an Uzi slung over his shoulder. A tiny flame suddenly glowed in the darkness, as a match was brought close to the tip of a cigarette. The small light flickered a moment before being extinguished, then the burned matchstick was dropped to the ground. A puff of cigarette smoke drifted into the air before the sentry turned and started meandering toward the vacant lot.

Grant nodded then handed the scope back to Adler. Once the small earpiece was snugly in his ear, he aimed the head of the shotgun mike toward the opposite building. Starting at the top floor, he moved it in a back and forth pattern, trying to cover every floor, every apartment. He leaned against the wall, keeping his eyes closed, allowing him total concentration on the sounds filtering through the earpiece. Minutes later, he stopped his arm motion and tilted his head.

Adler detected that Grant heard something significant, and he lowered the scope, waiting for confirmation.

Pressing his index finger against the earpiece, Grant heard what appeared to be whimpering, immediately followed by a female voice attempting to quiet a child. He whispered, "Live bodies. Kids, one female."

Adler's face broke out in a wide grin. He motioned with a thumb's up then asked, "Location?" Grant held up two fingers. Adler pressed the scope against his eye, moving the sight along the fire escape, zeroing in on a window that didn't have a trace of light filtering through it. He stepped back and ran behind Grant, heading for the rear of the building about forty feet away. First he made sure the sentry was still in the alley then he leaned over the wall as far as he could and checked every angle of the two buildings.

Beyond the rear of both buildings was an area covering approximately one hundred acres. Adler steadied the scope then moved the sight methodically back and forth, scanning the acreage they crossed earlier to reach their objective. They had made their way through piles of rubble and debris scattered across ground. Most of the rubble consisted of large chunks of concrete, broken sections of rusted pipe, window glass, and even pieces of furniture, making it obvious another building had once occupied the site. There was little chance the average East Berlin citizen would wander into this neighborhood. All Grant and Adler had to worry about was an occasional patrol… or another flyover by a chopper.

Adler hurried back to Grant, who still had the microphone aimed at the second floor across the alley. "Anything?"

“At least one male,” Grant replied. He pulled the earpiece from his ear, handing it and the microphone to Adler, who was on one knee, storing the scope in the rucksack. "Let's move," Grant said.

Once Adler had the rucksack secured on his back, they headed for the door leading from the roof. Securing it behind them, they immediately reached for the pen-like flashlights, the tiny beams guiding their way down the steep stairs. Staying on the top landing, they knelt down and gripped the flashlights between their teeth before they proceeded to check the equipment. Grant opened his chest vest and examined the roll of det cord, blocks of C4, and chemical pencils. Adler put a new clip into both his and Grant's .45 then tightened the silencers. They each carried five additional clips in their vests, one MK6 CS vial of tear gas, a set of lock picks, along with phony passports and “haul ass” money sealed in plastic. They sealed the chest vests and removed the flashlights from their mouths.

"Ready?" Grant asked, as he checked his knife, secured in the leg strap.

"Let's do it!"

All their planning, down to the most minute detail, was about to culminate. The flashlights were extinguished and slipped into their pockets for easy access. With weapons drawn, Adler partially opened the door, sliding his body through, then taking cover behind it as Grant exited, quietly closing it. He gave Adler a signal, and they both made a dash across the front of the building then turned the corner, running full bore across compacted dirt, heading for the rear. Their black clothes made them blend into the darkness, becoming shadows themselves.

Adler poked his head around the back corner. He gave Grant the "all clear" then they cautiously followed the building toward the alley. Once they reached the end of the wall, they paused, listening for anything that would tell them the sentry's location. While they were on the roof, Adler had timed how long it took for the German to make one pass around the entire building. But they couldn't depend on that. If he was smart, the sentry would vary his routine and maybe even use the fire escape to check the roof.

Detecting a slight odor, Adler turned his head and signaled it was a cigarette. Grant nodded, partially opened his vest and felt around inside. He pulled out a thin telescoping rod with a three inch round mirror attached to the end then handed it to Adler. Slowly extending the rod past the corner, Adler adjusted its angle as he stared into the mirror. He withdrew it, handed it back to Grant then gave a thumb's down. But the smell of cigarette smoke still lingered. Adler slid his back down the wall, getting himself into a low crouch. His eyes searched the ground, finally spotting a cigarette butt about seven feet away. He pointed for Grant to see.

Goddammit, Grant thought. They were wasting time!

Suddenly, a sound made them all but melt into the wall. They strained their ears, trying to pinpoint the location and identify the sound. Grant pressed on the throat mike, barely whispering, "Fire escape."

Adler nodded, taking a quick look around the corner. He signaled with a thumb's up then held up three fingers, indicating the second floor then pointed down with his index finger. The sentry was on his way back down to ground level.

The German had stopped on the second landing of the fire escape, his ear pressed against a window. He finally started down the metal steps, facing toward the front of the building. Adler cautiously ran across the alley, taking cover behind the building. He could hardly see Grant from that angle, but it didn’t matter. They knew what had to happen next.

They didn’t have time to wait and see which direction the sentry would go. They poked their heads around the corner, seeing the German beneath the fire escape, lighting up another cigarette then leaning against the wall. Adler took the penlight flashlight from his pocket, then clicked it on and off once, signaling Grant, who stood ready, holding the .45 with both hands in front of him, his elbows close to his body. He turned and faced Adler and the alley, poised and waiting.

Adler stuck the light around the corner and aimed the tiny beam along the ground, tracking a path toward the German whose eyes fell on the light. He blinked and threw the cigarette away, fumbling with the strap of the Uzi, finally pulling it from his shoulder. He started walking, when the light suddenly disappeared. He stopped in his tracks, staring at the ground then lifted his head, looking into the blackness of the field beyond, uncertain whether to proceed, but then he tried to reassure himself it was probably nothing. There hadn't been a single sighting of anyone near here, let alone any attempt to try and attack or break into the flat or lab. He hesitated, but knew he had to investigate. With the Uzi clutched in his hands, he started cautiously forward. The quiet was almost deafening. He swung the Uzi slowly from side to side, trying to cover both buildings, not knowing what to expect. He was less than eight feet from the corner when a black form swung out from behind the building on his left. Stunned, his reaction was only quick enough to raise the Uzi. The last sound he heard was a muffled “putt.”

Grant and Adler rushed to the dead German. Each grabbed an arm and started dragging the body beyond the building to the edge of the field. Adler pulled the clip from the Uzi then rolled the German over, face down. Grant quickly scanned an area close by, quietly asking Adler, "See any camouflage?"

"Behind you," Adler answered immediately, spotting something over Grant's shoulder. He ran about fifteen feet, lifted a rusted piece of crumbled sheet metal, carried it back then covered the body. Only the bottoms of the German’s shoes were left exposed.

Grant motioned with his head toward the building then took off, Adler right next to him. Jesus, Grant thought, where the hell is the trail of bodies going to end?

Not surprising, the basement door was locked. Grant pulled a case from his vest, removing a lock pick. Adler pulled double duty, holding the flashlight and standing guard. Grant manipulated the instrument inside the lock like an expert burglar, finally hearing a click.

Adler entered first, shining the beam of light ahead of him. Grant was right behind him, closing the door silently. "Nine o'clock," Adler whispered. He aimed the flashlight on what looked like a rectangular wooden box. "Trap door?" They moved cautiously toward the box. Grant knelt down on one knee, running his hand along the edge of the wooden frame, lifting one edge. Adler leaned over, shining the light down through the folding stairs. "Look familiar?"

"Yeah." He reached for Adler's flashlight, searching for some kind of switch. Finding it, he stood up and handed the flashlight back to Adler who started to close the lid. "Leave it," Grant said. "In a little while, it won't matter who knows we've been here. Let's go." At the top of the steps, they confronted another locked door. Christ! Grant again removed the lock picks. He swung the door out just enough to poke his head through the opening. His eyes had adjusted fully to the darkness, and he spotted the stairs just to his left. "Clear," he whispered. He led the way up the stairs to the first landing. Standing by the front door, Adler pressed an ear to it. They both listened for any sound, but there was only silence.

Grant moved to the next flight of stairs, as Adler stuck close. Almost in unison, they stared up toward the second landing, the outline of the apartment door in sight — their final objective. With adrenaline pumping, they ascended slowly, one step at a time, staying close to the wall, their weapons cocked and ready.

Karl Breite stood at the entrance of the kitchen, with a Luger gripped in his hand. He drew back the hammer, while never taking his eyes from the partially opened bedroom door. The children were quiet again after nearly thirty minutes of fussing. He made the decision to dispose of the woman first, then the children. He breathed in deeply, knowing he had no choice if he wanted to survive. Steiner would make good on his promise. Breite's only consolation for what he was about to do was that he'd make sure they didn't suffer.

A kerosene lamp sat near the edge of the folding table, its flame barely giving off enough light to cast shadows in the kitchen. Breite pictured in his mind the position of the cots and where the woman and children were. Deciding he couldn't take the chance and maybe miss the targets with first shots, he carried the lamp and put it down on the floor near the bedroom entrance. He turned up the wick. He stood in front of the door and began to push it open with his foot, his weapon secure in both hands. The cots were directly opposite him, the sleeping children coming into view as the door opened. He took a slight step to his left as he entered the room, preparing for the other cot to come into view. He started to pull the trigger when suddenly, out of his peripheral vision, he caught sight of someone lunging at him from behind the door. He began to swing the gun around when an excruciating pain shot through his chest, just below the sternum, the instrument of death being forced up at an angle, plunging into his heart. A reflex action caused his finger to squeeze the trigger.

Grant and Adler were at the front door when the shot rang out, sounding like a cannon in the empty building. Screams from the hysterical little boys made Grant's blood turn cold. "Oh, Christ! Go! Go!" he yelled.

Without hesitation, he and Adler fired at the lock then kicked in the door. Adler rushed in at a forty-five degree angle to the right, sweeping the room with his .45 as Grant came right in behind him. The children's screams were earsplitting. Adler searched the living room. "Clear!"

Grant pulled open the closet door, also confirming, "Clear!" He headed for the kitchen entrance, close behind Adler. A kerosene lamp on the floor outside the bedroom still burned, casting eerie shadows across the floor and wall. Adler took a position near the door's opening, Grant opposite him. Grant nodded. Adler reached for the doorknob, pushing the door open but something blocked its movement. The screams from the little boys had turned to pathetic cries. Every once in awhile one of them would choke and start coughing, then the crying would resume.

Adler tried to see inside the bedroom. All that was visible were a man's legs, his upper body hidden behind the door. Adler stood up and looked at Grant, moving an index finger across his throat. They had to make their move now.

Grant motioned that he'd throw his body weight against the door. Adler took a deep breath and nodded. Grant slammed his body against the door with full force. Adler rushed into the room. For one split second, there was complete silence. The twins stopped crying, shocked for a second time. But seeing two strangers, dressed completely in black was too much for the little boys, and they screamed.

Both men ignored them, keeping their guns ready and their senses on alert. A quick look around the room told them it was clear. In unison they looked down. "Jesus," Adler mumbled.

The man's body had been shoved across the floor from the force of the door, but it was the first time they noticed the woman. She was laying half under the man's upper body. No movement or sounds came from either one. Blood was pooling on the floor between both bodies. Her blond hair was draped across her face, the long strands showing streaks of blood. A metal nail file was embedded in the man's chest just below the sternum. His Luger remained clutched in his hand.

She nearly made it, Grant thought grimly. He opted not to have Adler bring in the kerosene lamp. His immediate thought was to try and block the view from the boys. He shook his head slowly. "Get the kids and get the hell out."

Adler quickly slipped the .45 into the shoulder holster. He stepped over the dead man and went to the cot where the twins were huddled. Tears streaked the small, pale faces. They stared at the stranger talking softly to them in their native language. Their cries changed to whimpers as Adler picked them up, carrying one in each of his arms. Grant snatched two blankets from the cots and caught up to Adler on the landing, taking one of the boys from him. Then, they rushed down the two flights with their penlights in hand, and continued down into the basement. Adler extinguished his light then Grant handed him a blanket. Grant bundled up the little boy he was carrying before handing him over to Adler.

"Wait one," Grant said, as he stuffed the light into his pocket then opened the door leading to the vacant lot. He scanned the darkness before exiting, then quickly went to the alley and checked it out. Returning to Adler, he pulled off his throat mike and earpiece. "Battery's dead." He shoved the unit into his vest then quickly removed the rucksack from Adler's back as he said, "Manfred should be at the designated site." When the old German offered his services to the West, he had been given instructions to locate sites throughout the city that could be used as possible safe places. He found a garage, once used for repairing electric trams and located just one block from the lot. Two large, rickety wooden doors swung outward, allowing easy access. Since the garage was completely empty, the doors were left unlocked.

Grant shined the flashlight on his watch. "It's 0205. If I'm not there by 0230, you haul ass."

Adler immediately started to protest. "I won't… "

"That's an order!"

"Aye, aye, sir." He took a few steps then turned back to Grant. "Don't you go waitin' around for the BWF, ya hear?" Adler referred to the blinding white flash that's caused by an explosive device.

"Roger that. Now, go." As soon as Adler was out of the building, Grant closed the door only part way, planning his escape route. It was time to do it. He slung the rucksack over his shoulder and turned on the flashlight, hurrying over to the stairs leading to the lab. He bent over and flipped the small switch. The bottom rung had barely touched the floor when Grant was already climbing down, the flashlight casting a narrow beam of light. He hesitated halfway down, moving the flashlight beam slowly, checking for any obstacles in his path. He stopped his hand motion as the light fell on a discoloration on the floor by a counter. Making his way across the concrete floor, he got down on one knee, inspecting the irregularly shaped stain, touching it with his fingertips. Dried blood. He moved the light to the right where the blood had trickled under the counter. His eyes caught sight of a crumpled envelope. He reached for it then held it in front of the flashlight, reading the addressee's name. The note inside gave the location of the lab and also read: Klaus Steiner in possession of drug SD-7. "Jesus Christ! Get your ass in gear, Stevens!” It was imperative he contact Moshenko.

He immediately reached up and balanced the flashlight on the countertop, facing the beam toward the middle of the room. There wasn’t any more time to play detective, he cautioned himself.

There was barely enough light for him to work, but he'd opted to not turn on the overhead lights, just in case any visitors stopped by. He opened the rucksack and removed a quarter pound block of C4 and a roll of det cord. At one time when he was planning this operation he was concerned about civilian casualties. Concussion grenades were to have been the explosives of choice. At least everything in the lab would be destroyed. But the buildings and entire neighborhood were civilian-free. The C4 would do a very thorough job in sealing the lab and tunnel.

Working quickly, he made a slash across the C4 with his knife. He tied a stiff knot in the end of the det cord, then pushed the cord into the slash with his thumbs, finally pressing the C4 against it, sealing it inside. He squeezed the explosive around the metal framework supporting the counters. Unwinding the det cord as he scooted farther across the floor, and following the length of counter, he repeated the process around the room until three more blocks of C4 and det cord were in place. He stood by the flashlight, positioning his arm to see his watch. It was nearly 0211 hours. Unrolling the det cord as he walked, he quickly made his way over to the steel door and unlocked it. He jerked the door open and stepped out into the tunnel. Glancing down, he tried to find more evidence that a body had been disposed of through the tunnel system. Dark spots, spaced apart every few feet, led away from where he was standing and toward the river. Whoever he was, he was carried out of here.

Getting back to his task at hand, he glanced at the overhead. All he could do was guess how thick it was and hoped the explosives would cause enough damage to seal off the lab. He prepared the C4 with the det cord exactly as he did in the lab, then reaching as high as he could, attached the explosive to a conduit running vertically near the door. Quickly unrolling the det cord, he took long steps to the opposite side of the tunnel. And last but not least… He opened his vest and grabbed a chemical pencil with a three minute timed delay. Holding it and the end of the det cord together, he carefully molded the C4 around both. At the end of the pencil was an ampoule of acetone which he left protruding out of the upper part of the explosive. He reached up and bent the chemical pencil until he heard the ampoule break. He jumped back through the doorway, when he froze in place. Oh, shit! A board on one of the basement steps creaked. He pulled the .45 from the shoulder holster, cocking the hammer. The flashlight! He was on the opposite side of the room but he had to chance it. Keeping low, he hustled across the floor and grabbed the flashlight from the counter. Just as he shut off the light, a shot rang out, a bullet striking the countertop next to his head. Shards of metal slivers struck his face. The bullet careened off the countertop and slammed into the wall to his right. He leaned slightly forward and returned fire, getting off three rapid shots, aiming at the ceiling opening. He fell back, hitting the wall, as he brought the gun close to his cheek. He waited. But there was only silence. No return fire. Whether or not his bullets found their target was immaterial at this point. He had to get the hell out of the lab now or else he was going to become a permanent fixture.

Crouching, he ran to the steps and stared up toward the opening but saw only blackness and silence. He calculated he had less than ninety seconds to escape. Taking one step at a time, he kept the gun pointed up, swiveling his head, trying to cover every overhead angle. Instinctively, he held his breath as he reached the last step. Keeping low, he slowly brought his head through the opening then scrambled out and immediately flattened his body against the basement floor. The silhouette of the open back door came into his line of sight. A hundred thoughts ran through his mind in one split second. Could the shooter be outside waiting for him? Or was he hiding somewhere in the basement? He didn't remember hearing footsteps after the shot.

Whatever, he was outta there. Time was up. He jumped to his feet and made a beeline for the open door, his mind clicking off the seconds as he ran. A sound of gunfire erupted behind him just as he reached the doorway. He dove for open ground and rolled across the hard-packed dirt. He brought himself to a kneeling position and fired off a round at the dark form of a man rushing toward him. Grant fired again just as the first explosion in the tunnel went off, then a millisecond later, a horrific noise from the explosives in the lab ripped into the night. An orange-white glow spread through the basement, flames quickly engulfing wooden timbers and stairs. The concussion from the explosion sent the man careening forward, a painful groan escaping from his mouth from a burst eardrum. He came through the doorway off balance, his hands pressed against his ears.

Grant shot off another round. Victor Engels stumbled, fighting to retain his balance but his legs buckled. He fell to his knees then crumbled on the ground in a heap, landing about six feet from the door and moaning in pain.

Rapidly ejecting the empty clip from the .45, Grant reached into his vest then rammed a fresh one up into the handle, slowly raising himself up, keeping the gun gripped in both hands. He took side steps, cautiously approaching the body from the back. He kicked at the Luger, sending it spinning across the dirt. He stood over Engels momentarily, when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a small object just under the door sill that resembled a large gun casing. As he picked it up, a noise off to his left made him freeze. He spun around, with his gun poised, nearly falling back on his butt. "Christ! When the hell are you gonna start following orders?!"

Adler came running up to him with gun drawn, briefly glancing down at the German. "It's good to see you, too.”

Fire leapt through the lab's ceiling that had been blown out, flames licking at pieces of furniture on the floor above. Window glass cracked and popped.

Stuffing the object he found inside his vest, Grant searched Engles' pockets for identification. He withdrew folded papers from a pants pocket, then rolled Engles over on his back. The German's eyelids fluttered, but he was too weak to keep them open. A blood stain on his chest was spreading. Grant handed the papers to Adler.

Alder illuminated them with his penlight, then knelt down on one knee, leaned close and asked in German, "Where's Steiner, Victor?" Engles coughed, a trickle of blood dripped out of the corner of his mouth. His voice was barely a whisper, making Adler lower his head even closer. Engles' body went limp.

Grant and Adler stood simultaneously, as Adler said, "According to him, we're too late."

"Shit! He's on his way to Moscow."

"You sure?"

"I'll explain later.”

An unmistakable sound of sirens punctuated their urgency as Adler grinned, “Polizia!”

“Let’s get our asses outtta here."

They ran full bore across the vacant field, hurdling obstacles in their path, racing to make their rendezvous with Manfred and the children.

Torrinson sat at his desk with his back pressed against his chair as he swiveled it back and forth. His fingers formed a teepee and he tapped them against his lips. He was worried and pissed at the same time. No word had come out of West Berlin. It was all too quiet. What the hell's going on over there? He said quietly, “Where the hell are you, Captain?” There was a knock at his door. "Come!"

"Sir," Zach Phillips said as he stuck his head around the door, "there's a call on the scrambler, from the West Berlin Embassy."

Torrinson all but lunged for the phone. "Matt!"

"Sounds like you missed me," Wharton laughed.

"No time for jokes, Matt. What the fuck's happening over there? Are Stevens and Adler okay?"

"The last time I talked with them, they were."

Torrinson's voice was rising with each question. "What the hell's that supposed to mean? And where are they?"

"Look, John, cut me some slack, will ya? It hasn't exactly been easy for me lately."

"Okay, okay. Point taken. What's the straight skinny?"

Wharton stood by his office window then pulled his chair around, finally flopping down into it. "Your Captain Stevens is quite the detective, John. He put a little scheme together that trapped our… Jesus, it still doesn't seem possible!"

"He found your mole, didn't he, Matt?"

"Yeah, he sure as hell did. It was Kelley, Blake Kelley, one of my crypto guys."

"Christ, Matt, I'm really sorry." He realized the pressure Wharton was under, and for the next several minutes let him detail, uninterrupted, the plan that Grant had devised to flush Kelley out. When Wharton finished, neither of them spoke until Torrinson asked, "Why, Matt? Did you find out why he did it?"

"The bastards were blackmailing him, John."

"Blackmail? What the hell did he do?"

"Not what he did, but what he was. They found out he was a homosexual."

Torrinson's head dropped back and he stared blankly up at the ceiling. "Christ," he mumbled softly.

"Ya know, when I confronted him that night, I wanted to rip his goddamn head off. I don't remember ever, ever, being so pissed in my whole life."

"Any indication he passed any other information, Matt, like your codes?"

"He hasn't admitted to it. He said all the group wanted was info on Lampson." He reached for a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out with his lips, then flung the pack across the desk. "Ya know, John, it makes you wonder how something like this could happen right under your nose. Goddammit!"

"How'd he pass all this info to begin with?"

"A driver that picks up dinners for the train station in the East was Kelley's drop man. Kelley would leave a message in a paper bag in the trash at the corner of Steinstrasse. It was always in a movie house popcorn bag. Horst Rhinehart would make the pickup and deliver it to Steiner."

"What's gonna happen to him now?"

"He's on a MAC (Military Airlift Command) flight to Andrews. I'm sure the 'plumbers' will get what they're looking for to hook his ass. From there, further investigation, then trial." He pulled open his middle drawer, shoving aside papers till he found a book of matches. He folded back the cover and bent one of the matches over half way, flicking it against the striker with his thumb. A spark of sulfur flew against his tie. Another burn hole! Shit! He took a deep drag from his cigarette, then with smoke pouring from his nostrils, he finally said, "Getting back to your boys — we got word from their contact in the East that they'd succeeded in rescuing Lampson's kids and set off the explosives in the lab and tunnel."

Torrinson let out a deep sigh, his body going slack in the padded leather chair, then his brain registered and he sat up. "Where are they, Matt?"

"Don't know."

"Shit!"

"Don't get your ass in a twitter. You know they had to get the kids to Lampson."

"And where's Lampson?"

"Uh, don't know that either."

"You're sure a goddamn wealth of knowledge!" Torrinson roared back.

"Well, here's something else for you! The contact said that the group's leader, Klaus Steiner, had the drug. All indications are he's on his way to Moscow."

Torrinson groaned. "They're going after the bastard!"

"You can't be certain of that, John."

"Oh, no? Would you like a side bet?"

Wharton laughed, one of the few times since the shit started. "Listen, if I hear from them, I'll let you know, if you'll do the same. Deal?"

"Yeah, sure, sure."

"Good talking to you, John. Listen, you know your boys better than I do. But from what I've seen, you shouldn't worry."

Torrinson knew Wharton was right. He just didn't like being out of the loop.