Warning Order

Chapter Three

The CIA’s stocky-framed bureau chief had been pacing back and forth in front of his office window for at least fifteen minutes. His eyes were constantly being drawn to the clock hanging above his door, as he waited and anticipated the exact minute when a Navy diver was scheduled to make his move. Cigarette smoke drifted upward as he nervously rolled the Marlboro between his fingers, a half inch long gray ash hanging precariously from the tip. He did an about-face and took long, slow strides across worn, gray vinyl tiles to the opposite side of the room. Wisps of steam leaked from the spout of a percolator coffeepot sitting on the top of a stainless steel credenza. The coffee smell was strong. He lifted the pot and shook it around hearing only a splatter and decided to pull the plug from the wall socket. Just as well. With five cups in him, he’d have to sleep standing up in front of the head. He chuckled to himself.

He flicked the cigarette ash into his palm, then walked over to his desk and dumped it into the ashtray, trying to ignore an array of papers strewn across the green blotter. A folded copy of the military's newspaper Stars and Stripes laid at an angle across his nameplate, where gold letters spelled out “Matt Wharton.” The in and out plastic desk trays contained sizable stacks of manila folders. He was turning into a goddamn paper pusher. Time to retire, Matt old boy, he told himself.

A combined thirty-five years with the Justice Department and the CIA had taken him on assignments around the world. There'd been good assignments and not-so-good assignments. They'd cost him two marriages, but he'd be the first to admit that he wasn't an easy person to live with. His ex-wives and three kids could attest to that.

He'd just made up his mind to make a quick dash to the men's room when the sound of a car engine distracted him. He stepped close to the window, and using the edge of one hand, rubbed away condensation from one of the panes. A black Lincoln Continental was just coming to a stop in front of the security fence. The driver, Pete Bradley, got out and walked up to the gate. The bureau chief watched the proceedings from his bird's eye view from two stories above. Earlier in the day he had personally talked with the Embassy’s Marine Sergeant Major and explained that four men would be returning later that night, one of whom would not have any identification papers.

The Marine guard on duty unlocked the gate and came around for a one-on-one inspection. Satisfied, he pushed open the iron gate and waved the Lincoln through. Bradley parked parallel to the marble steps leading to the Embassy's main entrance. All four car doors opened as if on cue and four men emerged. After shaking hands all around, they entered the building.

Wharton flicked an ash into the ceramic ashtray on the edge of his desk. He took a final deep drag, then crushed the butt into the bottom of the stained ashtray. There was a solid rapping on the heavy wooden door and he responded, "Come in! Come in!"

Lampson entered alone, his blond hair disheveled from being towel dried. He smiled broadly. "Hi, Matt!"

"Rick! Jesus, it's good to have you back!" He rushed toward Lampson with an outstretched arm.

With a warm, dry blanket now draping his shoulders, Lampson reached for Wharton's hand. "Thanks, Matt. After two years, this'll take some getting used to. Just smack me, though, if I start automatically conversing in German!"

"Don't worry about that," Wharton smiled and patted Lampson's shoulder. He backed up and reached for his pack of cigarettes, extending them toward Lampson, then handed him a matchbook. "We're very anxious to hear what you've got to say, Rick, but you've been through hell tonight. Take some time to shower and change into dry clothes. There’s a fresh set of sweats waiting for you at the Hotel Berliner. I personally reserved a room for you."

"That hot shower sure as hell sounds good." Lampson glanced down momentarily, noticing bits of mud that had fallen from his shoes. He looked up into Wharton’s face, his voice still sounding bewildered. "If it wasn't for Stevens and Adler, we wouldn't be talking now. But you already know that."

Wharton nodded several times, smiling. "They're just about the best we've got in the 'snatch' business. Both of them are stationed at NIS (Naval Investigative Service), working for Admiral Torrinson." He puffed on the cigarette, exhaling a steady stream of white smoke. "I'm just sorry we didn't make this happen sooner, Rick."

"Hey, the extra time gave me a chance to whip myself into shape. The daily exercise did me good. As it was, I had a helluva time trying to keep up with Stevens." Lampson smiled weakly, completely exhausted.

Wharton walked behind his desk, then reached underneath, pressing a black button. Within seconds, Bradley walked in. "Pete, see that Rick gets over to the hotel, then make arrangements to pick him up after he's had some time to unwind. Oh, the room's registered in my name." He shook Lampson's hand again. "Go ahead, Rick." He had second thoughts about dragging Lampson back that night and grabbed the agent's arm. "Look, I really need you back here as soon as possible. We've got some serious discussions ahead of us, and Washington's ready to shit cows. But how about you come in, let's say, at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. You've had a rough night. Okay?"

Lampson nodded. "Sounds good to me." He left with Bradley.

Located around the corner from Kurfurstein Strasse and across from Wittenbergplatz stood the stately Hotel Berliner. The six-story structure had been built shortly after World War II in the Gothic style. It had remained a frequent meeting place for diplomats and dignitaries.

The need for security went beyond the ordinary during the time of the Cold War. Every room was swept for hidden devices on a daily basis, sometimes more often. Security cameras were placed throughout the lobby, around the outside perimeter of the building, and always activated just before and during meetings. Paranoia was the driving force that made fools of many on both sides of the Iron Curtain.

The last thing on Rick Lampson's mind was hidden devices as he dragged his fatigued, aching body into the shower. Twenty minutes later, he emerged from behind the white, rubberized shower curtain. The entire bathroom had been turned into a sauna by the hot steam. He wrapped the thick, white bath towel around his waist then grabbed a face towel from a towel ring and rubbed off the haze that coated the mirror. A pale, tired face looked into the mirror through ice blue eyes. He ran his hand across the dark blond stubble on his chin. He was feeling shitty and look like death warmed over. He rested both hands on the curved rim of the white china pedestal sink.

Staring at himself in the mirror, he reviewed a complicated formula for a new, and potentially deadly, mind-altering drug, something he’d done for what seemed like every waking moment over the past several months. Every calculation was inscribed on his brain, giving him the ability to see it word for word as if reading directly from a technical journal, his own private journal.

Breathing a long, heavy sigh, he opened the cabinet, hoping to find some Listerine. An unpleasant taste of river water lingered in his mouth. Wharton usually saw to it that a military-type ditty bag, fondly known as a "douche kit,” was provided to the agents. Lampson smiled with the thought, but that smile was quickly replaced by a sullen, quizzical stare. His eyes focused on a slip of plain white note paper hanging by a piece of tape from the middle shelf. Curious, he leaned closer, reading the words hand printed in German: "Their lives are in your hands, Herr Brennar."

He ripped the paper from the shelf with a trembling hand, feeling the smooth surface of a photograph taped behind it. He turned the paper over. The black and white photo seemed to come alive in his hand. Staring straight into the camera lens were the frightened faces of twin two-year old boys, his illegitimate sons. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, Christ! No!"