Warning Order

Chapter Sixteen

The early morning storm dumped snow on Moscow but had by-passed Gdansk. Situated at the mouth of the Vistula River on the Baltic Sea, Gdansk's climate was much more favorable than its neighbor to the east.

Aeroflot flight 853 touched down on runway 21, smoke and debris flying outward as the screeching tires hit the concrete runway. It taxied toward the one-story terminal then came to a rolling stop about one hundred feet from the passenger entrance. Maintenance personnel rolled portable steps up to the open door of the aircraft.

Only ten passengers had booked reservations on the flight from East Berlin. A Russian businessman and an East German with two small children would be the last to leave the plane. Grant Stevens and Joe Adler had current passports identifying them as Yuri Borisov and Wilhelm Schwimmer.

A slim, dark haired stewardess dressed in a red jacket with matching skirt, stopped by the tall, handsome man. "I hope you had a pleasant flight," she smiled up at him.

He put on his black leather jacket and returned her smile. "Yes, thank you." He pulled an overnight bag from the shelf above the seat. "Are you from Odessa?" he asked, looking down at her surprised expression.

"Why, yes, well, actually, about eighty kilometers from there. How did you know?"

"Your accent," he smiled, as he started walking away.

She leaned against one of the seats. "Perhaps we'll meet again sometime."

"Perhaps." He took long, slow strides down the aisle toward the front of the plane, eyeing two men putting on their coats near the front row. He stopped next to the fourth row of seats behind the bulkhead. "Can I help you," he asked in broken German as he smiled, watching the man trying to bundle up one of two little blond-headed boys. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the last passengers leave the plane.

"I could use the help," Adler responded in German. He picked up one of the boys and stood him on the seat, the little boy continued to gyrate and sing. He managed to put the boy's red jacket on him then he looked across the aisle as the man tried his hand at playing 'daddy’ with the other twin.

Ha! Welcome to the world of kids, sir! Joe Adler laughed to himself.

Grant lifted the child off the seat and held him in the crook of his arm. "Ready?" Adler nodded, slid across the empty seat and then followed Grant down the remainder of the aisle. His hand gripped the brown handle of a ragged, brown leather satchel.

The Americans passed through security without incident. Adler filled out papers for a 1970 BMW, and fifteen minutes later they were driving through the High Gate, which, for ages, was the main entrance to the city. From Royal Road they turned onto Dluga, the main street of Gdansk. Official buildings of state, as well as apartments and hotels, maintained their late medieval and early Renaissance architecture.

Within minutes, the Americans located the Motlawa Hotel, parked the car in front then went inside to the front desk. The small lobby was decorated simply with two upholstered armchairs and a two-tier end table positioned in front of the plate glass window. On the far wall of the twenty-foot room was a coal-burning fireplace where a young boy knelt, scooping piles of gray ashes into a battered bucket.

Grant and Adler put their suitcases by the base of the desk then put the twins on the floor. Adler sniffed the air, recognizing the aroma of fresh bread and pan-fried breakfast sausage.

The sound of a woman's laugh made them turn, noticing a slender, smartly dressed, middle-aged woman coming down the steps and chatting with her male companion, who appeared to be in his early sixties with snow white hair. They glanced at the two men standing by the front desk, then they both smiled as their eyes fell on the two little blond boys, standing between the two. Josef shyly looked at them then wrapped his arms around Grant's leg as if for protection. She gave a little wave to the twins before leaving the hotel.

The office door behind the desk opened. A balding man, short in stature, came out, raising his head to look up at the two men standing on the other side of the desk. Leo Grobowski gave them a warm smile then asked in Polish, "Gentlemen, may I help you?"

The Americans picked up the twins. The hotel owner showed a brief moment of surprise then he nodded. Except for the young boy by the fireplace, the lobby was unoccupied, but even so, he quietly asked, "Grigori?" as he shifted his eyes between the two men.

Grant acknowledged with a nod. Grobowski reached into one of the slots of a wooden, pigeon-holed shelf that was positioned against the wall. He put a skeleton key on the counter. It had a thin metal ring through the hole at the top. Attached to it was a brass tag with the numbers "203" engraved on it.

Grant palmed the key, gave the gentleman a smile, then looked at Adler. "Ask him if Lampson's in."

Adler complied, and Grobowski responded in German, "Ya."

Grant pointed to the phone on the desk and Grobowski slid it towards him. Grant dialed the room, listening as it rang twice. Lampson barely got a word out, when Grant said softly, "Rick, unlock your door but stay in your room. We're on our way up." He immediately hung up then motioned to Adler. Both of them said "danke" to Grobowski before turning and walking up to the second floor.

Grobowski stood quietly watching, leaning over the counter till the men and children were out of sight. Then he went back into his office and closed the door.

At the top of the stairs, they followed the corridor to the right and stopped in front of the third door. Adler gave a look behind them before Grant opened the door. Lampson nearly lost his breath, not knowing what to expect after Grant's call.

He rushed toward them, scooping up the boys. "My God!" he cried, as he hugged the twins tightly. Grant and Adler stepped back, giving Lampson space. The twins seemed bewildered at first, then their little voices squealed in delight, finally recognizing Lampson. "Papa!" they cried. Lampson sat down on the bed, placing a child on each knee. He hadn't shaved since leaving Marie's. A blond, scruffy beard and mustache failed to hide the gauntness behind them.

Grant and Adler unzipped their jackets. Almost in unison, they sagged down on a two-seat sofa, nestled beneath a double window that faced Nowy Park. They shot a glance at one another and grinned. Both of them were near exhaustion. They'd been running a marathon for days on pure adrenaline, and the finish line still wasn't in sight.

Grant looked back at Lampson through half open eyes, knowing he had to tell him Greta was dead. He hoped that having the twins back would help ease the pain. "Rick, I think we need to get some food into those little guys."

Lampson jerked his head up, looking at Grant through reddened eyes. "What? Oh, yeah. Uh… I can run down to… "

"Think it might be best if Joe makes the food run,” Grant interrupted. “Okay, Joe?"

"Sure," Adler answered as he stood up and stretched his fatigued body. He looked down at Grant. "We're getting too old for this, boss."

Grant nodded with a smile. He stood up and dug his wallet out of his pocket. "When you get back, see if you can get us a room, preferably next to this one. Lampson needs some time with his sons, and we need some rest." He handed Adler some bills. "Maybe Leo can tell you where to find some good chow. I have a feeling these kids need to get some nourishing food into them. And buy some milk, too, and anything else that looks good." Adler kept his hand out, and Grant slapped more bills into his palm.

"Yeah, like big, fat, gooey, double chocolate ice cream sundaes!" Adler laughed seeing Grant lick his lips. He slipped the money into his jacket pocket then reached for the brass door handle. "I'll try and get something for you, too, boss!" He left without waiting for a response.

Grant took off his jacket and dropped it on the back of the couch. He smoothed his hair then rubbed his face vigorously with both palms. He looked at Lampson, thinking he may as well not delay it any longer. "Rick."

Lampson looked up, a sudden expression of sadness showing on his face. "Something's happened to… her, hasn't it?"

Grant nodded. "I'm sorry, Rick. We… we found her at the flat with your kids." He saw Lampson's eyes fill with moisture. Grant suddenly felt a pang of guilt. If they had reached the flat just a few, short moments sooner, maybe they could have saved her.

He was going to drop the subject, but Lampson asked, "What… how did it happen, Captain?"

Grant lowered his head then folded his arms across his chest before responding. "It looked like one of Steiner's men had been ordered to… " He glanced at the twins then continued. "He’d been ordered to take them all out, Rick." Lampson listened, but nervously occupied himself by taking off the boys' jackets. He kept his eyes on them as Grant kept talking. "She put up a helluva fight; got him with a nail file before… " He didn't have to fill Lampson in with any more details. Enough had been said.

The twins played gleefully in the room. Their little feet patted across the carpet while they looked at the knick-knacks on the dresser and made faces at themselves in the oval, beveled mirror. They spotted the window and ran to the sofa, struggling to climb up on it then pressed their noses and hands against the glass, watching children playing in the park.

Grant stepped closer to Lampson, then leaned back against the dresser. "Listen, Rick, I'm really sorry."

"I know, I know." He stared at Grant, finally noticing the fatigue showing on his face and pronounced dark circles under his eyes. "You got my kids, and I'll be indebted to you forever." He looked across the foot of the bed at the twins, as he asked, "What about Von Wenzel?"

"Don't know. Nobody was at the lab when I got there. I found a note that was addressed to the chief of police. It looked as if it had been scribbled in a hurry. Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but near where I found it there was a stain on the floor that was most likely blood."

Lampson's body shuddered, then he said somberly, "Von Wenzel or Heisen must have written it. What did it say?"

"Steiner has the drug."

"Oh, my God," Lampson muttered.

"I had a… shall we say, run-in with one of his men. All he managed to tell us was that we were too late. That's gotta mean that Steiner is on his way or is already in Moscow." Grant stared at his black shoes that were in desperate need of a spit shine. Blowing a long breath through tight lips, he continued, "All we've got is your description." Once again he looked up at Lampson. "If he wants to get into that meeting tomorrow, he'll probably be wearing a uniform. Christ! I hope Grigori was able to get something more for us."

Both men turned their heads hearing giggles from the little boys. They had pulled Grant's jacket from the back of the sofa and were trying to hide underneath it. "You've gotta be thankful they've come through all this, Rick, and in good shape. They're a couple of tough little guys." Lampson nodded then got up off the bed, went over to the children, and sat on the floor near the sofa.

A sudden tapping at the door made Grant jump and automatically reach for a .45 that wasn't there. They had to leave their firepower with Manfred. The only means of protection they could rely on was the gun Lampson should have brought from Marie’s. Grigori would have to supply them with everything else they'd need.

“It’s me, boss,” Adler whispered.

"You didn't forget anything, did you?" Grant smiled, glancing at the two bulging paper grocery bags filled to the brim.

Adler put the bags on the dresser and called to the boys. "Josef, Franz." They jumped off the sofa, falling on their hands and knees, but immediately got up and ran to Adler. He bent over and handed each of them a large sugar cookie. "Leo said the kitchen's available. I got us a couple of sandwiches."

"Sandwiches?" Grant grunted, his voice obviously lacking enthusiasm. "I was hoping for a sixteen ounce T-bone."

"But wait! Wait'll you see the suckers! I asked the store clerk to load them up."

"Hope you got your Rolaids," Grant grinned. He turned to Lampson. "Rick, do you know how many other guests are staying here?"

"Only people I've seen are a couple who checked in two days ago and a single, elderly gentleman. This isn't exactly tourist season."

"Okay. Why don't you take the boys downstairs and make them a hot meal. Joe, were you able to get us a room?"

"Next door, like you asked."

Adler handed Lampson one of the grocery bags. Lampson stopped at the door. "By the way, Captain… Colonel Moshenko is quite a man. And one helluva chopper pilot!"

"Yeah, I know; told you not to worry."

"Never thought I'd be saying that about a KGB agent. You won't tell my boss, will you?" Rick smiled weakly.

"My lips are sealed," Grant answered.

Lampson called to the boys. They ran to him, licking sugar from their little fingers. "You can lock the door. I've got my key."

"Rick," Grant called, "before you go… you have the firearm secured?"

"The suitcase is on the top shelf of the wardrobe."

"Okay. By the time you get back, we’ll be next door catching some shut-eye."

Once in their room, Adler started removing his food stash from the paper bag. Individually wrapped pastries, overstuffed sandwiches on hard rolls, and bottles of Coke and ginger ale lined the top of the dresser.

"You want Coke? Skipper! Do you want Coke?" Getting no response, he turned. Grant was stretched out on one of the twin beds, sound asleep, his hands resting on his chest. The Coke fizzled as Adler popped the top with the opener. He carried it and a sandwich over to the sofa and sat down heavily, putting the bottle on the floor between his feet. Eat first, sleep later, he told himself. He glanced at the bed, hearing Grant's steady, deep breathing. “Don't worry, boss. I'll save you a morsel or two.”

The bedroom was in total darkness. Heavy, blue curtains prevented light from filtering through. Grant began to stir. He cracked open one eye and looked across the foot of the bed toward the window then he turned his head, seeing the dark shape of Adler's body sprawled out across the other twin bed. A muffled sound of voices made him bolt upright. Christ! What the hell time is it? He reached for the lamp on the nightstand.

Adler's body jerked, and he pushed himself up, shaking the cobwebs from his head.

"Reveille, Joe."

"Yeah, right," Adler groggily answered, his voice sounding husky from sleep. He rolled over on his back and rubbed the back of his hands across his eyes, squinting as he tried to focus. "What the hell time is it?"

Grant slid his legs over the edge of the bed. He held his arm up toward the light. "Sixteen hundred hours."

"Yeah, but what day?" Adler groaned.

"Continuation of the same one, I'm afraid," Grant answered as he stood up and stretched his arms overhead. "Think I'll skip sit-ups," he mumbled.

Lampson's room was as quiet as a tomb. There was the sound of a door closing somewhere down the hallway, followed immediately by a set of heavy footsteps pounding across the carpeting, then the distinct sound of those footsteps descending the staircase. Grant whirled around, hearing a piercing double ring of the phone. He shot a glance at Alder and motioned for him to answer.

"Ya?" Adler replied into the handset. He raised his eyes to meet Grant's, mouthing the word ‘Grigori,’ then handed the phone over. He slid off the bed and rubbed his face, feeling the scratchy stubble of beard.

With all the precautions being taken, Grant and Moshenko weren't about to assume their conversation wouldn't somehow be monitored. They’d leave out specific information and would again converse in Russian. Moshenko was in a phone booth that was nothing more than a three-sided glass enclosed box, making the background noises of car horns and clanging tram bells impossible to drown out. Grigori used a sequence of numbers to make the call, eliminating the need for coins.

"I'm here," Grant answered, as he watched Adler leave the room. His leaving wasn’t to give Grant privacy, but to check out the lobby and office. He and Grant had made a sweep of their room before sacking out, and even though it was Leo who put the call through from his office switchboard, it was an extra measure of safety.

"My friend, I have some news."

"Hope it's good."

"Yes and no," Moshenko sighed deeply, turning his back to the traffic and pedestrians. The temperature was dropping. Ice crystals started forming on the thawed, mushy snow. He pulled fur-lined suede gloves from his coat pocket. "I have the name that our expected visitor will be using."

"Outstanding! That should eliminate the need for us to bring 'papa' tomorrow, right?”

"Da."

Grant took slow, deliberate steps back and forth between the beds. "And now… the bad news?"

"Let me ask you a question first," Moshenko said, noticing a reflection in the glass of a woman wearing a long, sable coat passing the phone booth. He followed her with his eyes as he asked, "Did you find the woman?"

A picture of Greta, blood-covered, passed through Grant's mind. "She's out of the picture, my friend." Squeaking springs sagged along the edge of the mattress as he sat down heavily.

"Hmm. I'm afraid all I've been able to confirm is that she was employed at the university, which we already knew."

"Well," Grant said with disappointment in his voice, "at least you got what was really important.”

Moshenko understood, then asked, "What time can I expect you?"

"We're leaving here tonight at eight thirty. I'll call when we get there."

"Safe trip, my friend. Do svidaniya.”

"Do svidaniya," Grant answered, then he put the receiver into the cradle. He walked toward the window, scratching his head. He separated the curtains slightly. The sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving a deep shade of orange to paint the drifting clouds. Street lamps glowed. He hammered his fist against his forehead. "Think, Stevens! What the hell's wrong with this picture?"

There was a tap at the door before Adler walked in, balancing an oval tray on the palm of his hand that held two cups and a silver teapot. "Tea's served," he grinned while putting the tray on the dresser.

"Tea?" Grant asked, his nose wrinkling.

"Just kidding. I gotta tell you, though, this stuff's gonna kick start your heart."

Grant poured coffee into both cups, as Adler reached for one and asked, "Grigori have any good news?" He sipped slowly from the cup, while he walked over to the bed and sat on the edge.

"He's got the name Steiner is using to get into the meeting, but he couldn't find out any more on our mysterious Greta. Shit! That woman's like an apparition who appears out of the blue, with no traceable past.”

"Think we need to forget about her? I mean, she's dead, boss."

Grant shook his head while he swirled the coffee around in his mouth, the bitter flavor rolling over his taste buds. He wasn't satisfied. Ops weren't over till all the puzzle pieces were in place.

"Hey, Skipper, can we change the subject for a minute? It’s been bugging me and I’ve gotta ask you….you still plan on reaming Lampson’s butt because of that message he sent to Von Wenzel, you know, the one that could’ve screwed up a perfectly good mission?"

"I was ready to, right up until we walked into his room. I don’t know, Joe, especially after telling him about Greta and then seeing him with those kids… "

"Yeah," Adler said quietly. "You don’t think we’re turning soft or something, do you?"

"Who? Us? Hey, you hungry?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?" Adler laughed.

"It sounds like Lampson and the kids are still sacked out. Why don't we grab an early dinner? Our flight doesn't leave for three and a half hours."

"Follow me!"

Vehicle traffic had thinned. Most of the residents were already home from work. Narrow sidewalks lined both sides of the side street. Jewelry stores displayed objects made with Gdansk's native treasure, amber, the stones ranging from deep yellow brown to yellow.

The cafe was located on a corner. Grant and Adler walked in and Adler requested a table near a wall where they could keep an eye on anyone coming and going.

Old habits are hard to kick, Grant sighed to himself. Better to purposely sit with your back against a wall, than having your back up against one.

The two Americans ordered from the menu, then sat back and let their eyes roam across the front door and from table to table. Five couples, all different age groups, were seated throughout the dining area. Sitting at a table about fifteen feet away was a young couple in their early thirties, who were getting ready to leave. The man reviewed the bill then removed his wallet from his brown tweed jacket. The woman dabbed a white napkin at the corners of her mouth then she removed something from a small handbag.

Grant couldn't see what it was until she began using it to apply her pink lipstick. Adler caught Grant's expression out of the corner of his eye but remained silent, seeing him chomping down on his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

He silently thought: Uh oh. Boss has his wheels spinning again.

Grant finally turned his head then stared straight at Adler. "She's not dead, Joe," he said with what was slightly more than a whisper.

"Who? Whoa! You don't mean Greta?"

"Yeah… Greta."

"But we saw… "

"Did you check for a pulse?"

Adler shook his head. "We'd already spent enough time in that place. Besides, the blood… "

"And we saw what she wanted us to see." He tapped his index finger on the table as he continued. "I found something outside the lab and just shoved it into my vest. Didn't think too much about it; thought it was some type of gun casing."

"And… it wasn't?"

"No. It's one of those single shot, 4.5mm's that looks like a tube of lipstick. She's the one who fired that shot at me while I was in the lab."

"Jesus! But why didn't she grab the Luger from the guy she killed and use it instead?"

Grant rubbed his chin. "I didn't say she used the 4.5. I said she fired one shot."

"Then why didn't she try and finish you off with the Luger?"

"It's likely she snatched her belongings from the bedroom in a rush, knowing somebody else would be coming back. That East German… what was his name? Victor?" Adler nodded. "She had to have heard him coming down the stairs, that's why she hauled ass. Besides, she didn't know it was me in the lab. They only light was from my penlight. She could've thought I was one of Steiner’s men."

They cut their conversation short as a waiter arrived with their meals. Once he'd left, Adler said, "Ya know, you just can't buy those 4.5's in a candy store."

Grant picked up his knife and fork and started slicing through the thin piece of beef. It wasn't a one inch T-bone but at least it was beef. He jabbed a piece with his fork then held it in front of his face, smelling the aroma. He kept his attention on the meat as he said, "I know. I'm working on that. And before you ask… I don't know why she didn't let on she was alive, especially when she knew we were Americans, and we were taking her kids."

"Maybe she wanted us to take them," Adler commented, while he sprinkled salt on a side dish of roasted potatoes.

Grant rolled the idea around in his mind. "Good thought."

"Is that gonna take us back to the question whether the kids are Lampson's?" Adler asked, while he pulled a hard roll apart with his fingers then slathered butter on both halves.

Grant shoved a piece of meat into his mouth, savoring the distinctive flavor as he chewed and chewed. He shook the fork in Adler's direction. "Look, all this thinking is giving me one helluva headache. You mind if we just eat?"

"Is that an order?" Adler asked facetiously without bothering to look up from his plate of Polish sausages.

Grant blissfully chewed another piece of meat and shrugged his shoulders. "What the hell difference does it make?"

Crystal icicles hung like sharpened daggers from window ledges and roof overhangs. The temperature had started dropping steadily since early evening, leveling off at minus six degrees Celsius. At the horizon, a black sky blended with the earth.

Moshenko sat quietly, with his index finger tracing a pattern along the edge of the white, porcelain top table. He raised his eyes, glancing at the ceiling, hearing Alexandra's footsteps in their bedroom. A radiator under the window hissed as steam escaped from the side valve. He pushed his chair back then walked to the room's only source of heat. He'd just started turning the round handle to adjust the flow of steam, when he jerked his head to the side as he heard the sound of his phone. Taking quick strides to the study, he practically lunged for the phone. "Da!"

Grant was at a phone booth, speaking the brief, coded message in Russian. "Is this two N three two?"

"No," Moshenko answered.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you." Grant broke the connection.

Moshenko placed the receiver back in its cradle. With hardly any conscious effort, he deciphered the sequence of numbers. 'Two N' meant Grant and Adler would be at the second entrance of the airport terminal on the north side of Domodedovo Airport and 'three two' indicated the last two numbers on a license plate belonging to a white panel truck. They'd wait till they spotted the truck then backtrack to the men's room.

At 2215 hours a white panel truck pulled up and parked outside the second entrance of the air terminal. A man got out and walked around to the back, opening one of the doors. He was dressed in painting coveralls with a white cap pulled down nearly covering his eyes. He lifted out two large paint buckets, locked the door and headed for the building. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a uniformed guard standing at the corner of the terminal smoking a cigarette.

In less than fifteen minutes, three men walked out through the same door, each dressed in paint-splattered, long sleeve overalls and caps. Under the tarp draped over their shoulders, Grant and Adler had their suitcases concealed. Moshenko led the way.

The guard turned then took several steps in their direction. Grant immediately started talking loudly in Russian, complaining about the long hours he and his partner had been asked to work that day. Grigori Moshenko shouted back, as they threw the paint buckets and tarps into the back of the truck. The arguing continued as the three men slid onto the front seat. The passenger and driver doors slammed simultaneously. Moshenko started the engine. The truck stalled. Adler glanced in the side mirror at the guard stepping off the curb, walking toward the rear of their vehicle. Moshenko turned the key again. A backfire sent a puff of black smoke out the tailpipe, and he immediately threw the gearshift into first. The guard stopped dead in the middle of the one-way road as the truck lurched forward. Another disturbance at the front of the terminal between two taxi drivers made him quickly turn his attention from the truck. Moshenko kept driving.

Lights from passing vehicles glared through the windshield as Moshenko weaved the truck in and out of traffic. A normally twenty minute drive had taken nearly forty-five minutes as he took side streets and alleys, in an attempt to shake off anyone that might be following. He turned onto Pokrovo, then at the second block turned into an alley that was flanked by two-story buildings. He shut off the headlights, leaving only the parking lights on, then slowed down. The sound of hard-packed snow crunching beneath tires was clearly audible inside the truck, as it drove across patches left untouched by wider vehicles, probably delivery trucks.

A side door of a building off to the right opened. Something was tossed directly into their path. A thick gruel-like substance splashed across the truck's hood. In his rearview mirror Moshenko noticed a man stepping into the alley who was holding a bucket. He briefly looked in the truck’s direction then turned and reentered the building that housed a stolovaya, a Russian workers' cafeteria serving what could only be described as cheap slop. Daily fare would be a dish of rice topped with pieces of fat and a ladle of grease. Adler rolled down the window, trying to rid the cab of the foul smell.

They'd traveled the equivalent of three blocks when they reached the end of the alley, where a row of run-down, vacant garages beneath abandoned stores lined the right side of the road that was in itself barely more than a wide bicycle path. Moshenko stopped the vehicle and Adler immediately jumped out and pulled one of the door's open, its rusted hinges barely holding it in place. He had to grab the edge and lift up, walking backward with it until it was fully open. Moshenko drove in and pulled alongside his Volga.

Somewhere in the distance a sound of howling stray dogs generated an eerie sensation on human minds and souls. The lamenting cries continued as the pathetic animals searched for food in dark, cold alleyways. Adler glanced in the direction of the howling, trying to see beyond the darkness through squinted eyes. He closed the door.

Very few words had passed between them during their hectic journey, allowing Moshenko to concentrate on his driving.

Finally, Grant grabbed Moshenko's outstretched hand tightly. "Nice ride!"

"Colonel Moshenko, sir," Adler said.

Moshenko reached for Joe's hand. "Joe! Welcome to my country," he laughed.

"Thanks. Too bad we won't have time for sightseeing, though."

"Ahh, yes. But, maybe next time," he winked. He reached under the driver's seat and pulled out a flashlight, then opened the Volga's trunk. "You might need these," he commented, as he reached in and lifted out two heavy, black parkas. "They may be more cumbersome than what you are used to, but they will keep you warm."

Grant and Adler took them, Grant saying, "You know us California boys pretty well. We freeze if the temperature drops below twenty Celsius!"

Moshenko removed a briefcase then led the way up a set of wooden ladder-type steps then through a heavy door. He directed the beam of light around the makeshift safehouse, settling it on a kerosene lamp hanging from a hook on the far wall.

Adler glanced around, seeing boarded up windows at the front of the building and three straight-backed wooden chairs placed near the kerosene lamp.

Grant laughed, watching Adler's expression. "Not exactly home, but it's safe to talk." He pulled a chair around and sat backwards, resting his arms on the backrest. "We've got a busy day ahead of us, Grigori."

"We do indeed… a busy and perhaps dangerous day."

"You said you have the name Steiner will be using?"

Moshenko reached inside his coat pocket and handed Grant a piece of paper. "It's the last name on the page. General Stauffenberg could not identify it, and he confirmed his original list only had nine names. As you can see, the list sent to me has ten. We will find out who from Stauffenberg’s office has helped Steiner."

"Right, but we need to stick to this first,” Grant said as he glanced at the paper, seeing the name ‘Ziegler.’ He handed the paper to Adler, commenting, "This is sounding way too simple."

Adler tapped Grant's arm with the paper, handing it back to him, saying, "Simple, as in notifying the guards at the Kremlin's entrances to keep an eye out for someone carrying ID papers with the name 'Zeigler'?"

Grant nodded, "Yeah. But we've gotta hope that he hasn't somehow found out his cover's been compromised. If he has, we're up shitcreek."

Moshenko withdrew a cigar from his pocket. He stuck it in the corner of his mouth, but didn't light up, as he stated matter-of-factly, "We have to go with what we know for the moment. Do you think he'll try and get the drug into KGB Headquarters today, also?"

"With all the top dogs at the Kremlin, I'd say that's gonna be his main objective."

Adler asked, "What if there's more than one of 'em with the drug, one person for each location?"

"I don't think so, Joe. According to Lampson, Steiner doesn't trust anybody. His profile fits an egomaniac's perfectly. He'll want all the glory. Besides, I'd say we took care of most of the top echelon of the FSG, leaving just the worker bees."

"You mentioned Lampson before," Moshenko said. "The children… they are alright?"

Grant smiled. "Yeah, they're okay. They're good little kids." He suddenly went silent, seemingly staring right through the Soviet.

Moshenko looked hard at Grant. "What is it, my friend? You are thinking about their mother perhaps?"

Grant stood and rubbed his forehead. He propped his foot on the chair. "I don't think she's dead, Grigori."

"Didn't you say… "

"I know, I know. Look, from the very beginning we suspected there might be more to this woman than anyone knew about. She's got no past history; she appears, disappears then reappears. And now… " He cut himself off, before finally continuing. "Grigori, before the meeting gets underway, can you check with your black ops… "

"You actually think…?"

"Please, just check. We’ve gotta look at every angle at this stage of the game."

"When he gets a wild hair, sir, there's no stopping him!" Adler laughed.

"Wild hair?" Moshenko frowned.

"I'll explain some other time,” Grant said. “Will you?"

"Of course. But there will be very little time for me to do it."

"I know. Just do your best."

"This may or may not mean anything," Moshenko said, first looking at Adler then up at Grant, "but I met someone in Alexei's office, a Major Zuyeva. They had just finished looking at a movie that the major eventually stashed in his briefcase. Then Alexei introduced Zuyeva as an interpreter." Grant and Adler hung on every word, hoping that whatever Moshenko offered up would help them figure out the puzzle. Moshenko continued. "During this same time, I noticed a folder on the desk labeled with the name 'Heisen.’"

"What?!" Grant responded in amazement. "Not the East German scientist?"

"So, you have heard the name," Moshenko answered.

"Not just the name. According to Lampson, the man's deaf, uses sign language, right?" Grant sat down on the edge of the chair, shaking his head slowly. "Lampson had been so certain Heisen could be trusted."

"Well, it seems Major Zuyeva reads sign language, my friend, and… "

"They were 'reading' a movie Heisen sent them," Grant interrupted, smacking his fist into his palm.

"Bingo!" Adler uttered sharply.

Moshenko shot a glance at Adler, then back at Grant. "Alexei knows about Steiner," he sighed heavily, "and by now he has figured out why I met with him." Moshenko stood and walked behind the chair, resting his hands on its splintered, wooden back.

Grant stared at his friend, who suddenly looked drawn and worried. "Look, the question now is, how the hell is Stoyakova involved?" Grant rubbed his palms together slowly. "Come on, Grigori, think about it. Why wasn't he setting up an agenda to stop Steiner himself? This shit's been going on for nearly two years. That tape couldn't have been the first one he's seen. With what he knew, and in his position, you'd think he would have brought it to the table before now. Right?"

Moshenko barely nodded his head then he turned and walked into the shadows, his footsteps heavy on the wooden planks. The two Americans watched him closely, concerned.

Adler intertwined his fingers, then rested his hands on top of his head, saying under his breath, "This is getting pretty heavy, boss."

Grant slid around to the side of the chair and called, "Grigori." Moshenko didn't respond. "Look, I know you've been trying to work this out in your own mind, probably since you met with Stoyakova. Let's hash it out, okay?"

Moshenko's head was bowed, but he slowly raised it, as he turned and walked back. "You are right," he finally responded, once again becoming an intelligence officer, searching and probing for answers. "Some people wish for power. I think Alexei is wishing. He does have his own agenda."

"Keep talking," Grant said, motioning with his hand.

"We can't be certain if Alexei has been in contact with Steiner."

Grant shook his head slowly. "Probably not. If he was, there wouldn't be any reason for Heisen and his movies."

"Right, boss," Adler said. "And from our intel on Steiner, he's not one to share the glory that he's hoping for."

"Alright," Moshenko agreed, his voice controlled again. "So now we have two individuals to be concerned about."

Grant stood. Puffs of breath escaped into the cold air as he thought out the problem. "Okay," he finally said, raising a finger, counting each statement. "First, we've got Steiner who's got the drug; second, we've got Stoyakova who wants to take over. So, does Stoyakova wait till Steiner's drugged the liquids, or, does he make an implied threat?"

"Either way," Adler said, "that means somebody else is involved."

Moshenko stood nearby, recording all the data in his brain, and at the same time trying to determine who the other party was. "Whoever it is has to know what Steiner looks like, no?"

Grant and Adler shot looks at one another. Grant replied. "Only one person we can think of, Grigori, and that would be our mysterious woman, Greta."

"Christ! The more we think we know about her," Adler said, exasperated, "the more we don't!"

Moshenko's words came out slow. "More are involved."

"Well," Grant answered, walking in and out of shadows, "Stoyakova may have backers, but two to one they'll shrink away if anything goes wrong."

Adler snickered. "Sure as shootin' when Stoyakova takes the fall, he'll be dragging down those so-called backers."

"So then," Moshenko sighed, "we remove three, and the rest will be taken care of in the scheme of things."

"Roger that, Grigori," Grant answered with a slight curve to his mouth.

"Only problem is, how the hell do we remove the three?" Adler questioned, rocking back and forth on the back chair legs. "I mean, we don't even know where Greta is."

"Our main objective's gotta be stopping Steiner, Joe. Without him or the drug, Stoyakova's got squat."

Moshenko finally sat down. He pressed his broad back against the chair, folding his hands in his lap. "Let's discuss what has to be done."

Grant nodded. "Do you know if traffic will be limited to certain entrances?"

"Yes. Spasskaya Tower. All others will be secured and guards posted."

"Wait one, sir," Adler piped up. "Aren't there some tunnels under one or two of the towers?"

Moshenko nodded, adding, "There are several so-called 'secret' passages beneath Spasskaya Tower, but only one of those travels under street level beyond the Kremlin walls. I believe it exits at… hmm, let me think." He closed his eyes, picturing the tunnel, but his mind followed the path above at street level. "Yes, yes, it exits at a storm grate just beneath the highest part of the wall at St. Basil's Cathedral." The cathedral, with its multi-colored, onion-shaped towers, was positioned at a twenty-five degree angle from Spasskaya Tower and Red Square. A gray-colored wall formed a half-circle around the grounds. It started level with the cobblestone street then gradually rose to a height of approximately thirteen feet at its halfway mark.

“We've gotta cover all bases in case Steiner somehow knows about the tunnels and manages to slip by you," Grant said. "Look, you can't be in more than one place at the same time, so guess Joe and I will have to situate ourselves somewhere. I don't think the guards would welcome these two Americans with open arms," Grant answered, moving his thumb side to side. "We'll have to try that tunnel. So, we'll leave the hotel well before daybreak then hope we can climb down into that thing without being spotted. Did you bring us any firepower?"

Moshenko pushed the briefcase with his foot toward Grant, who picked it up and put it on the chair seat. He pressed the latches outward and the locks popped open. Inside were two Makarov 9mm PMs (Pistolet Makarov), chambered for Soviet 9x18mm cartridges. Four extra fully loaded clips, two throat mikes with earpieces, and two hand-held radio transceivers — one for him, one for Moshenko. They were resting on thick, black protective foam.

Grant handed a Makarov to Adler along with two extra clips and a throat mike. Adler glanced down at the gun in his palm. A five-pointed star was centered in the grip.

After checking the clip that was already loaded in the weapon, Adler asked, "Time to get out of these?" He tugged on the front of the oversized coveralls.

"Do it," Grant answered, as he unzipped the overalls then stepped out of them. They slipped the firearms into the waistbands at the small of their backs, readjusted their heavy sweaters and leather jackets, and finally put on the parkas. Grant took a transceiver from the case and confirmed the number they'd be using to transmit. "Okay, time for us to go to the hotel. You've got the address, right?" he asked Grigori, who nodded. The hotel was located a half mile from the garage. "Let's do the synchronize thing with our watches. It's 0015 hours. Grigori, what time will you be leaving for the Kremlin?"

"I should be on my way at 0700."

"Can you swing by the cathedral, say around 0715? That should give us clear reception. Contact me over the radio."

"I'll be there at 0715," Moshenko said as he led them back down to the garage. He got into his car while Adler cracked open one of the garage doors, then eased through sideways, checking to see all was clear. As he pulled the door open, Moshenko started the engine.

Grant leaned closer to the open window, putting a hand on Moshenko's shoulder. "This is it," he said, his voice low and deep, filled with obvious concern.

"Yes, my friend. Do not worry. We will find him in time."

Even though the moon was hidden behind heavy cloud coverage, bright floodlights cast long shadows across Red Square. Around the base of St. Basil's Cathedral, white lights directed their brilliant glow upward onto the colored domes. The streets were nearly deserted, except for city buses and taxis. But the conditions were still less than perfect for Grant and Adler.

Trying to conceal themselves was becoming increasingly difficult. They stayed close to the buildings on their way to the river, ending up across from the southeast corner of the Kremlin wall. Their timing would have to coincide with the movement of the guards around Spasskaya Tower and Lenin's Tomb. From the river to the cathedral was all open territory.

They stood in an alley with their backs flattened against a building. Adler poked his head around the corner, judging the distance to the grate to be about seventy-five yards. He talked softly into his throat mike. "Seventy-five yards; open ground."

Grant's eyes shifted from Adler to the corner of the wall. Adler jerked his head around, seeing a city bus coming toward them that was preparing to make a left turn. He gave a thumb's up. As the bus made the corner, the two men took off, staying as low as they could, then they jumped onto the back bumper, desperately trying to gain a handhold along the protruding taillights. Following the curving road around the cathedral wall, the bus leaned slightly to the right. Grant motioned with his head and they both jumped off the bumper, doing a touch and roll as if they'd completed a parachute landing. The thick parkas were awkward, slowing their progress, but they were warm and offered some protection from the rough cobblestone. Staying on their bellies, they hugged the ground as if they were crawling under barbed wire. Crabbing their way along the dirty pavement another ten feet, they reached the wall around the cathedral, in direct line with the grate.

Grant cautiously got up, staying close to the wall. His eyes continuously scanned their surroundings. Overhead, barren, drooping branches of shrubbery rustled against the wall. Suddenly, harsh sounds of voices made the Americans go stone-still. Guards, Grant thought. The voices gradually grew weaker as the two Russians made their way inside the short tunnel leading to Spasskaya Tower.

Adler got on all fours then reached for the grate and pulled. It didn't budge. He reached between the bars with one hand, trying to grasp the slide bolt Moshenko had told them would be there. It was stuck. Shit! He quickly reached for his belt, stripping it off. He folded it in half, formed a loop, and gingerly reached in again, slipping the loop over the slide bolt's handle. Giving a quick look around and seeing it was clear, he jerked hard on the belt. The bolt slid back with an abrasive sound. Gotcha! He grabbed hold of the grate again. With a jerk, he pulled it from the ground, laying it to the side of the opening.

Grant scrambled around him and climbed down the steel ladder backwards, jumping off when he was about six feet off the ground. Adler climbed down just enough so he could slide the heavy grate over his head, feeling it settle into the lip of the opening. He met Grant at the bottom. Their eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness as they moved farther away from the opening.

The wall was damp and rough; small protrusions caught on their clothing. Grant finally pulled his penlight from his pocket and shined the light on his watch. Oh six hundred hours. They had about a hundred fifty feet to go before they'd be at the tower. Grant whispered the time to Adler, then, "We'll wait here till we talk with Grigori." Adler nodded.

The members of the People's Congress would start arriving in another couple of hours or so, unwittingly setting the stage for the plan. Moshenko indicated the conference was to be held in the Meeting Hall of the Supreme Soviet, part of the same building as the Grand Kremlin Palace. Located opposite Spasskaya Tower, the hall was on the southwest side of the Kremlin, facing the Moskva River. With a history of revolution and war, the Soviets strived to protect its members of the Politburo. Beneath each building a shelter had been constructed, each one linked to a passageway leading to Spasskaya Tower.

Moshenko would be wearing civilian clothes. The only indicator that he was KGB was a small lapel pin. He'd wait alongside the guards at the checkpoint in Spasskaya Tower, already having given them specific orders to exam every identification more thoroughly. They were to be on the lookout for an East German named ‘Major Zeigler.’ Once he was identified, they were to give a signal to Moshenko. As KGB, Moshenko's reasons for his request would not be questioned. He would then follow Steiner, whether by car or foot, making contact, if possible, before he entered the Meeting Hall of the Supreme Soviet.

Grant's radio sounded. He answered, "Da."

Moshenko responded, continuing in Russian, "I am at the Tower. When I have the perpetrator, I will bring him to you." Exiting back through the main Kremlin entrance with Steiner might draw too much attention, so Moshenko decided to use one of the shelter accesses leading to the tunnel. Once Steiner was in Grant's hands, Moshenko would return to get his car, then drive it back outside the Kremlin walls, parking near the grate. The three men would crawl out then get into it without being seen. He counted on normal, everyday tourist and citizen activity for them to blend into the scenery.

Grant's voice went low. "You contact me if you run into trouble."

Moshenko smiled to himself. "My friend, just being here you are taking enough of a chance. Be patient."

A strange feeling went through Grant as he answered, "Keep me posted."

"Do svidaniya."

Grant switched off the radio, checked his watch, then tapped the radio against his forehead. "I don't know, Joe."

"Problem, sir?"

"Let's move farther down the tunnel."

There was silence between them as they made their way along the corridor, trying to sidestep puddles of filthy water. Rancid smells overpowered their senses at times. Their pace slowed as the penlight beams moved from the pavement to a heavy metal door twenty feet ahead.

Adler asked, "You think something'll go wrong, Skipper?"

"Odds aren't exactly in our favor, Joe." He switched off his penlight. "I can't put my finger on it," he said as he shrugged his shoulders. "We've gotta be ready for anything."

"So, what's new?" Adler grunted.

In their homes, the people of Moscow began to stir, struggling to get out of warm beds, then dressing and eating typical breakfasts, all before bundling up and taking to the streets.

While the hustle and bustle of everyday life was taking place at street level, two Americans waited in the filth and stench of the Moscow underground. As cars and buses drove by Red Square, their exhaust fumes descended into the tunnel where they waited, cold and hungry.

Grant was pacing while Adler picked out a dry spot on the floor next to the wall, making himself as comfortable as possible, trying to pull his parka down far enough to cover his butt.

"Can't you keep that thing quiet?" Grant chided.

Adler patted his growling stomach. "Mmm, want food! Need food!" he grinned.

Grant squatted down next to him. "Well, then, it looks like you're gonna have to catch something down here."