Warning Order

Chapter Five

Morning traffic was heavy, with cars and double-decker buses constantly on the move. Trams heading in opposite directions clanged their bells as they glided along smoothly on worn, steel rails. Rods, extending from the trams yellow steel roofs, cracked and hissed as they made contact with electric wires that provided their main source of power.

Two American Navy officers, in dress blues uniforms, stood on the curb at the busy intersection, waiting for the light to change. Grant Stevens stared straight ahead, his square jaw tightening as he clamped down on his teeth. He focused on the building one block away. A twenty-five foot American flag, hoisted to the top of a fifty-foot pole, snapped in a fifteen knot wind, its red and white stripes twisting then unfurling rhythmically. With long strides, Grant and Adler hurried across the street.

Adler looked at Grant. "You think the Admiral will still be at NIS?"

Grant nodded. "You know him. He said he'd hang around till I confirmed we were leaving."

"Do you think he'll go along with your plan and let us go pay a visit on our Commie friends, sir?" The excitement in Joe Adler’s voice was unmistakable. His clear, blue eyes twinkled. He screwed his cap down tighter against the gusts of wind.

"Don't know, Joe. Getting Lampson back was the immediate objective. But nobody considered everything else that's going on. I don't just mean the kids, but we've gotta worry about what the FSG has in its hands, and…."

"And who the hell's sneaking around hotel rooms leaving threatening messages," Adler finished.

"Roger that, Joe."

"Jesus, Skipper! Another possible goddamn mole! Is this shit ever gonna end?"

"Hope not! We'll be out of work," Grant laughed, giving Adler a slap on the back.

A ten-foot high, black wrought iron fence encircled the Embassy grounds. At the top of each iron bar was a spear-like finial. A Marine guard, in full dress uniform, stood rigidly at attention just inside the gate. He stepped forward and scrutinized the ID cards being held by the two Navy officers. Satisfied, he saluted sharply, but quickly scanned the area behind both officers before opening the gate.

Grant and Adler returned the salute then proceeded up the plant-lined walk leading to the front steps of the Embassy, entering through eight-foot high, brass-edged double doors. Their footsteps echoed in the long hallway as they walked along the white marble floor. A crystal and brass chandelier hung from a twenty foot high ceiling embossed with the Seal of the United States. These surroundings were all too familiar for the two men.

Located at the center of the building was one elevator with highly polished brass doors. The doors parted with a slight 'hiss' almost as soon as Grant pressed the black button. He reached into his pocket and removed a small silver key as he and Adler stepped in. Once the doors closed, he inserted the key and opened a small panel located just below the floor selection buttons. Then he fit the same key into a half-round slot. By turning the key to the left, the direction of the elevator was reversed. Instead of going up, it went down two levels. When it came to rest, a panel on the rear elevator wall automatically slid to the left. Using the same key, Grant then unlocked a steel door leading to the cryptology room. Once they were inside the room, he pressed another button next to the door, sending the elevator back up to the main floor.

The room was soundproof, and had ten inch thick walls that were painted stark white. Dull gray linoleum covered the concrete floor and a double row of fluorescent lights blazed overhead. A tall, gray metal fireproof cabinet was propped next to the door. Locked inside were extra batteries, throat mikes, special weapons, and cases resembling briefcases containing Delco 5300 radios for field agents. Small but powerful, the radio could send voice or Morse code transmissions. Messages were transmitted and received on separate frequencies.

The only decoration in the stark room was a foldout color picture of Miss April from Playboy magazine. Making an L-shape along the opposite walls was a long, stainless steel table. Every inch of space was covered with sophisticated equipment consisting of scrambler communication gear, internal walkie-talkies, a short-wave radio system, radio directional finders and receivers. At the smaller end of the table were two recorders that were automatically activated when someone wearing a “wire” energized his unit or when a "bug" in a room picked up sounds.

Tucked away behind the file cabinet was a small safe, containing code books for secure communication. Normally, codes in the Embassy were changed weekly. The bureau chief, security chief, and the men working in the crypto lab are usually the ones the government spends the most money on, specifically for training, salaries and equipment. For intelligence purposes, they're the individuals who have the capability of making the Embassy the most vulnerable with all they know.

Two men, dressed in casual clothes, with the sleeves of their white shirts rolled up, sat at the table. George Canetti and Blake Kelley had been partners for just over two years, with nearly thirty years between them at the Company.

Not quite thirty, the short, heavy set, Brooklyn-born Kelley was the younger of the two. He'd joined the Company after a six year stint with the Navy as a CT (communication's technician). His last two years of military service were spent hidden away at a remote communication's intelligence site in Alaska.

Finishing up a coffee break, Canetti had a set of headphones draped around his neck. His curly salt and pepper hair and goatee were both neatly trimmed. Contrary to the belief that Southerner's speak with long, slow drawls, Canetti's words flowed as fast as a runaway train. He looked up from the September issue of Sports Illustrated Magazine as Grant and Adler approached. "Hey, Captain, Lieutenant! Ya'all back so soon? We thought you'd be on the big silver bird winging your way back to the States?"

Grant tossed his cap on the edge of the table. "Not yet, George; may have a change of plans."

Adler spotted leftover breakfast pastries sitting on a tray in the corner. Motioning in their direction with his thumb, he asked, "Say, George, have those been assigned to anybody specific?"

"Nah. Take what you want, Joe."

Grant just shook his head. All the years he'd known Joe Adler, the man's weight never varied more than a couple of pounds either side of 180 and was solidly dispersed over a 5'10" frame. His best description of Adler was that he was built like a brick shithouse.

Kelley reached for the logbook on an upper shelf then made a notation, recording the time and names of the two visitors who just arrived. He put his ball-point pen next to the log, then rubbed a blotch of black ink off his finger. "Is there something we can do for you, Captain?"

Grant pulled a chair closer to the table, then straddled it backwards, crossing his arms on top of the backrest. "Hope so, Blake. I need to use the scrambler phone to call Admiral Torrinson again."

"Something tells me you want us to make an exit this time," Canetti commented as he stood up. He noticed a surprised look on his partner's face. "It's okay, Blake. It's been real quiet around here; I think we can give them a few minutes. You know the recorders will kick in even if a mouse farts."

"Appreciate your understanding, George," Grant smiled, "but there's no need for you to leave. We'll just close the door, if that's okay with you."

"It's all yours, Navy," replied Canetti. At the same time Kelly frowned. "Hey, Blake, relax. It's Uncle Sam's equipment, remember? The Captain won't break it." He reached over and pressed the buzzer, unlocking the door that led to a small room, not much bigger than a walk-in closet.

Once behind the secure door, Grant placed his call to Rear Admiral John Torrinson at NIS (Naval Investigative Service) located outside Washington, D.C. When Grant made the initial recommendation to the Secretary of Defense for Torrinson to be assigned the job, the forty-seven year old admiral was stationed in Coronado, California at SPECWARCOM. The Special Warfare Command was the western headquarters for SEAL teams.

"Admiral Torrinson's office. Petty Officer Phillips."

"Zach, this is Captain Stevens. Is the Admiral in?"

"Wait one, sir. I'll buzz his desk." Yeoman Phillips pressed the intercom button. "Captain Stevens on the Red 1, sir."

"Patch him through, Zach." Torrinson put his fork down on a plate with half-eaten scrambled eggs, then washed down a mouthful of toast with strong black coffee.

Thank God Trish is an understanding wife, he thought as he glanced at the desk clock that showed 0400 hours. On top of the rectangular timepiece rested a bronze "Budweiser,” the emblem of the SEALs. He dabbed at his mouth with a white cloth napkin before picking up the scrambler phone.

"Grant, good to hear from you."

"Thanks, Admiral."

"Thought you'd be on your way to the airport by now."

"Sir, we've got a problem."

"Does it have to do with Agent Lampson?" Torrinson asked through tight lips. He leaned forward in anticipation of the reply.

"Yes, sir," Grant replied as he was removing his jacket. A screeching noise as annoying as fingernails on a blackboard made him glance over his shoulder. Adler had spun a metal chair around, scraping the legs on the linoleum floor. He sat down, wiping the last remnants of powdered sugar from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Torrinson listened as Grant gave him a quick and dirty concerning the situation with Lampson, then he responded, "That's too bad about the kids, Grant, but you did what you were sent in to do. Lampson's safe, along with the formulas."

Grant pushed the chair out from under him, then stood up and leaned back against the metal table. "Sir, I'd like your permission for Joe and me to go back to East Berlin."

"Not if it means trying to find those kids, Grant," Torrinson replied adamantly.

"It's more than just them, sir. Lampson's life is in danger, too."

"I realize that, and that's why you need to get him the hell out of harm's way. Has any of his information been recorded or put on paper?"

"Not that I know of, sir. He confirmed that he's got it all stashed in his brain." Grant breathed in deeply, rubbing a hand over the top of his head, then pressed further. "Sir, we've got to destroy the FSG’s lab and maybe the East German lab. We've got to act soon to at least try and set them back. As Lampson said, the FSG already has enough of the formula to piece together the last sequence of catalysts, sir. They could be done in two weeks."

"Look, Grant, you know that project is being funded by the Russkies. Your extra curricular activity might be like shoving a hot poker up their butts. I know you realize that the political ramifications could trash all of us. Hell, they'll blame us in a heartbeat. God only knows what the consequences would be. Besides, how can you be certain they're not being kept up to speed by the Germans?"

"I've considered that, sir, but I'm betting the Germans haven't let them in on the whole scenario. I'm also ninety-nine percent sure the Russians won't retaliate against us if we destroy the dissidents' lab. When word leaks out to the rest of the world, not only about the drug, but that the Russians were the ones behind the project from day one, they'll have to think twice. I can get proof of that through Lampson. Besides, sir, I think they'll be grateful for our help, since they're the intended victims scheduled to take the brunt of this."

Torrinson pressed his back against the leather swivel chair, propping a foot against the desk. He noticed a crumb clinging to his black tie and flicked it off. He was quiet for a moment, absorbing what Grant had said. Since he'd been at NIS, Torrinson had learned that Grant didn't ‘stick it out’ without a pretty good chance that he could bring home the bacon. "You're only ninety-nine percent sure, Captain?" he asked with a smile in his voice.

"Yes, sir. Ninety-nine percent. Joe's figured in the other one percent."

"Ahh, I see. Well, with you two, how could I have thought otherwise?" The clear glass jar filled with a supply of Tootsie Roll Pops caught his eye, and he leaned forward and removed its cover. "Have you thought about the Russians maybe having their own agenda on how to make use of these particular items?"

"Yes, sir, I have. Right now it's pure guess, but with them being embroiled in the Mongolian situation, that could be a remote possibility."

Torrinson had read the intelligence reports on the Mongolian border flare-ups. "Like you said, Grant, it's a remote possibility. I'd better run it by SECDEF (Secretary of Defense) anyway." He unwrapped a cherry pop and tossed the paper onto the dirty dish. "Say, do you still have that friend of yours on the other side of the fence?"

Grant winked at Adler, realizing they were about to get the Admiral's verbal authorization. Adler responded with a grin and gave a thumb's up as Grant answered, "Yes, sir. Grigori Moshenko is still active. We've kept in touch. I know I can depend on him and use him as the pivot man. He's helped our intelligence community in the past, sir… along with other things."

"It's the other things you have to tell me about some day." Torrinson smiled, as he rolled the Tootsie Pop over his tongue. "You snake-eaters sure stick together, don't you?"

"Not all of us, sir, only a select few." Trying to ease some of Torrinson's concern, Grant added, "Tell you what, sir. I won't make a decision about the East German lab until I've discussed the situation with Grigori."

Torrinson pulled the pop from his mouth. "Fair enough, Grant. Now, listen, I'll give you carte blanche," he stated while he shook the pop in the air. "But you'd better find a way to keep me in the loop. I want to know what the hell's going on at all times, you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Understood. I'll have Wharton cranked in and he'll keep you on course, sir."

Torrinson was well aware that he was putting his own ass on the line, hoping it all didn't blow up in their faces. He trusted the SecDef and decided at that moment to use a little CYA (cover your ass) and would brief the secretary. But as Grant pointed out, too much was at stake in this game to bring in the National Security Agency folks right now.

Torrinson had put his trust in the thirty-six year old Grant Stevens numerous times over the past couple of years, as had his predecessor, Admiral Morelli. Grant Stevens' instincts under duress were simply uncanny. He was a "steely-eyed" natural born jungle fighter. Torrinson knew that whether God-given or SEAL training endowed, Grant would always have the "mission first mentality." The mission always came first, followed by the safety of his men, with his own safety coming in last place. That attitude had become common knowledge in the small group of exceptional black operators. Grant’s men were aware that his decisions would always be mission- and survival-oriented, so whenever he asked for volunteers, there was always a long line. The men knew their jobs and Grant never failed to ensure their safety. There simply wasn't a better team commander when it came to the planning and execution of difficult missions. Grant's favorite saying to his men was, "I'll bring you back for another attack."

"Okay, Grant. What kind of logistics are we talking about here?"

"Well, sir, at least 10,000 Deutsche Marks and 5,000 East German Marks for bribes and ‘haul ass’ money. We've already got most of our gear, but I'd like to have an Uzi with silencer, extra chemical pencils, two pounds of C4 (plastic explosive) and two MK6 (Mark Six) CS vials (tear gas). If you can put 'em on a helo out of Bremerhaven, we should have them in a couple of hours. I'll pick them up at MILOPS (Military Operations) tower at Tegel Airport." Torrinson nodded to himself, jotting down Grant's request on a pad of yellow legal paper. "We'll put together an ingress and egress plan then schedule to pick up Lampson around 1930 tonight. Joe and I will phone our contacts and set up our 'back doors' in case it goes bad. All things considered, Admiral, I should have a 'dance card' coming to you within two hours of finishing this entire op." A dance card is an after action report, an AAR.

"Oh, sir, to help cut out some time, can you send the warning order for my eyes only?" What others in the fleet call an operation's order that describes the movements and logistics of an operational mission, including who the players are, the SEALs call a “warning order.” It was simple… what, where, how, who, and when.

"No problem, Grant. I'll ask Zach to take care of it and send it while you're there with the Embassy boys. But make sure you fill me in. The CIA's black fund is tied up in this new satellite shit so I might have to dip into another pot, which means I may need to get the money side of it okayed at SecDef."

"Will do, sir."

"Anything else?"

"Oh, yes, sir, one more thing. I'd appreciate your running an intel check on a couple of East Germans."

"Fire away," Torrinson responded as he started writing down the two names. He shook the pen, trying to get the last drop of ink to flow. "Okay. Greta Verner and Herman Schmitt. The girlfriend and the professor."

"Yes, sir." Grant glanced at his watch. "It’s time to give the phone back to the crypto guys."

"Good luck, Captain." Torrinson hung up the receiver, then stood up and stretched. Too late to make any calls, he reasoned. I may as well go home for a couple of hours. He went to the outer office and instructed his yeoman to prepare the warning order for Grant. Fifteen minutes later, he buttoned his jacket then stood in front of the oval mirror with a bronze eagle attached to the top, its wings spread wide. He adjusted his cap over salt and pepper hair, then left for home.

Grant and Adler emerged from the scrambler room. An obviously annoyed Blake Kelley gave a sideways glance in their direction, then immediately adjusted his headset, mentally noting the twenty minute phone call. After seeing Kelley’s expression, Canetti looked in Grant's direction and shrugged his shoulders.

Not wanting to upset the balance between Canetti and Kelley any more than he knew he already had, Grant held back a smile then said, "One more thing… the Admiral's sending me a warning order. It should be here in a few minutes, for my eyes only."

"Be our guest. It'll come in on that scrambler over there," Canetti indicated with a thumb pointing over his shoulder.

Grant waited by the special equipment. The message would be sent over high-speed spurt transmission at eight thousand words per minute. When it arrived at the crypto room, it printed out in code on a special tape. Once the transmission finished, Grant removed the tape and went into the private room where he had used the scrambler phone. Using his code book, he decoded the following message:

Torrinson had confirmed their earlier telephone communication. 'Category III' indicated Grant as having top level White House security. Funding for the operation would be coming out of NIS budget, covering Operations/Black (covert)/Non-Disclosure.

Grant folded the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. Will have to get this to Wharton… one of these days. He buttoned the jacket then adjusted his cap squarely on his head before walking into the crypto room.

Adler stepped closer to him. "Authorized?"

Grant nodded, as he turned to Canetti and Kelley. "Appreciate the use of your equipment."

"No problem, Captain," Canetti responded. "Guess you're both outta here now. Hey, give my regards to Uncle Sam when ya'all get back!"

Grant just smiled. "Will do. Thanks again." He and Adler shook hands with the two men then left.

The wall-to-wall carpet in front of the hotel room window showed a distinct strip of pile that had been beaten down to parade rest. Lampson paced back and forth, occasionally stopping to look out the window at the street below, hoping to see any sign of Grant and Adler. He'd lost track of the number of times he'd glanced over at the phone, wishing it would ring. "Where the hell are they?" he said nervously, with a hint of irritation in his voice.

His sweat suit reeked of cigarette smoke; butts from half the pack were mashed into the bottom of a glass ashtray. He cranked the handle at the bottom of the window frame. Cold, damp air invaded the room, the smell of rain unmistakable. Grabbing a lighter from the end table, he lit up another Marlboro then took a sip of Coke from the sweating bottle. He collapsed into the oversized, plush chair as he mentally reviewed his meeting with the bureau chief that had lasted nearly two hours. Grant would be happy to hear the debriefing was outside the Embassy walls.

Wharton didn't need much convincing and was more than willing to accommodate Lampson after the agent expressed his need to experience true freedom again. They had walked in the late morning fog through the Tiergarten (Animal Garden), with its more than one million trees. Eventually, they parked themselves on the top step of the Bismarck monument. From that vantage point it gave them a bird's eye view of anyone and everyone. Near the end of the meeting, he persuaded Wharton to let him go back to the hotel for some much needed rest. With a complexion that had about as much color as bread dough, Lampson’s excuse was accepted without question. They agreed to meet early the following morning at Wharton’s office.

A rapping at the door gave his heart a jump-start. He had his hand on the polished brass door lever, when he saw a paper sliding underneath with one printed word: Grant. As soon as he opened the door, Grant put his finger to his lips. Understanding that Grant wanted him to keep his mouth shut, Lampson backed up as the two officers entered, closing the door quietly behind them. The two were dressed in civilian clothes, wearing dark slacks and black T-shirts. Grant had on a brown leather jacket, Adler, black.

Grant scanned the room quickly, spotting a door leading to the bathroom. He motioned for Lampson to follow him. After turning on the faucets full blast, both in the sink and shower, he whispered, "Rick, we're going to get you out of here and take you some place safe."

With a worried look, Lampson said, "But Wharton's expecting me. I’m supposed to be at his office… "

"Not your problem. Now, get your shoes. Joe's got some clothes for you to change into. We've gotta be ready to move out quick." Adler stood in the doorway and handed Lampson a black leather satchel. "One more thing, Rick. Could you describe Greta for me?"

"She was tall, came up to here on me," he indicated by putting his hand just below his shoulder. "I guess that'd be about 5'9. She had blue eyes and long, light brown hair. Most of the time she wore it pulled back, you know, like in a pony tail." Lampson spoke as if he was staring at an oil painting.

"Any distinguishing marks?"

"Only a small scar on the left side of her forehead." A light bulb suddenly went off in Lampson’s head. "You're going back to East Berlin,” he asked excitedly, “aren't you?"

"I don't have time to explain everything, but, yeah, we're going."

The two officers privately discussed final plans while Lampson changed. He rolled down the collar of the cable knit turtleneck sweater, then knelt down to tie his sneakers. "You know there's somebody watching the lobby, don't you?"

Adler winked. "Would you like a detailed description of both gentlemen?"

Grant glanced toward the open bedroom window, hearing the rolling sound of thunder. He only had to look at Adler for Joe to act on cue. With a quick nod, Adler turned and headed for his pre-assigned task.

A blinding strike from a powerful lightning bolt flashed against the tree-covered hills, and three seconds later, thunder reverberated across the city. Every light in the Hotel Berliner suddenly went out. Hallways were as pitch black as underground caves, just as was intended.

A single wooden door leading from the basement slowly opened. Joe Adler cautiously emerged, then he immediately made his way to the exit door at the end of the hall. Closing the door behind him, he pressed his back close to the exterior brick wall, looking up and down the alley. Taxi drivers lined their cabs along the curb in front of the hotel. Pedestrians hurried by. Twenty feet across from the hotel was the side delivery entrance of the Bruenhaus, one of West Berlin's main department stores. On their way to meet Lampson, Grant and Adler took a detour through the store, exiting at the delivery door. Adler used an invisible strip of tape to hold back the latch, ensuring they could regain entry.

The hotel door swung open. Grant and Lampson moved next to Adler. Like stealthy objects traveling in unison, the three men made a dash across the alley, quickly disappearing into the department store's basement. Once again Lampson was just along for the ride.

They were grateful the store was still crowded, as they wove in and out of last minute shoppers who were scurrying about before the 8:30 closing time. Large brass, swinging front doors came within sight, fifty feet ahead of them.

Once outside, Adler whispered to Lampson, "Stay with me, sir." Grant dropped back several paces, tugging on the brim of his black baseball cap.

One block away a cream-colored, double-decker bus was slowing. Passengers gathered in the aisles, ready to make a hasty exit from the rear door. An anxious throng of pedestrians waited to board the bus before the threatening storm released its fury on them. The wind was already gusting to twenty knots, making them grab hats and parcels while trying to shield their eyes from swirling dirt and leaves.

The three Americans pushed their way into the crowd, managing to jump onto the platform at the front of the vehicle. Once the bus passed the third stop, Adler inconspicuously grabbed Lampson's lower sleeve and edged toward the rear exit, with Grant hanging close behind. Adler looked out a side window, spotting the rental car he'd registered under an assumed name with fake Austrian identification papers.

Five minutes later and with Adler behind the wheel, their black BMW was speeding down the Autobahn, traveling at 150 kph heading for Bergfeld, a small hamlet just north of West Berlin in the Soviet sector.

Grant reached into his inside jacket pocket, then handed Lampson a manila envelope. "Get familiar with your new identity before we reach the checkpoint. There's an Austrian passport and another set of identification papers."

Lampson thumbed through a new passport with his photo, showing an issue date four years prior and pre-stamped to reflect past travels. "Remarkable," he mumbled as he removed a brown leather wallet from the envelope, containing Austrian and German currency, photos of a fictitious wife and daughter in Vienna, and business cards.

The BMW’s windshield washers swished back and forth, smearing a thin film of road oil across the glass but quickly cleared as rain pelted the car. Reflections of red taillights shimmered on the wet pavement as traffic slowed to a snail's pace as they approached the checkpoint. Adler handed their passports to a guard outfitted in rain gear. After a few questions, he passed them through without incident.

Adler pressed down on the accelerator, never letting up. His eyes constantly scanned the rearview mirror as he purposely wove the car in and out of the thinning traffic. He focused on a set of headlights that appeared to be following every move the BMW made.

"See somebody trying to hitch a ride?" Grant asked without turning around.

"Not sure. Just in case, let's see if we can send him on his way, shall we?" One hand tightened around the leather-covered steering wheel, the other reached for the gearshift.

Grant pressed himself against the black leather seat, turning just enough to see out the back window. "Hang on," he warned Lampson, who immediately grabbed hold of the door armrest.

A steady flow of traffic stretched ahead in their lane. The suspicious auto was three cars back behind a truck. Adler eased back on the accelerator. Heavy spray being kicked up by a Volkswagen's tires brought the visibility down to near zero. The VW's taillights were nothing but a fuzzy, red blur. Adler crept closer, leaving no room for error. He waited for a truck in the middle lane to close in. Then, with one swift move, the BMW shot out from behind the Volkswagen and directly in front of the truck, missing both bumpers by inches. The truck started fish-tailing on the slick road, its driver fighting to maintain control. Cars following it slammed on their brakes, unable to find any means of escape as they went out of control. In his rearview mirror Adler saw the truck slide sideways, finally coming to a stop, blocking all lanes. A sickening sound of metal striking metal could be heard above the roar of the BMW's engine.

"Oops," Adler grinned. Then, immediately taking advantage of the havoc he'd just wreaked, he floored the accelerator. The headlights behind him quickly became nothing more than blurry, white dots in the distance.

Grant turned halfway around in the seat. He took off his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair, then rested his elbow on the backrest, reacting like it was just another day at the office. "Guess you're curious where we're taking you, Rick," he grinned.

Pronounced dark circles under Lampson's eyes were in sharp contrast against his pale skin. He slouched down in the seat, a sense of relief overcoming him, but perhaps that reaction was too soon. He smiled weakly.

Grant continued, "Marie Lutger runs what we know as a boarding house, big enough for three regular boarders, with an extra room in the attic. She's a widow who's been working for the West Germans for the past eighteen years, always ready to lend a helping hand."

"She's good people," Adler commented.

Grant nodded. "You'll have to blend in with the town folk, Rick, but make sure you stay with the Austrian visitor routine. I don't know how long this is gonna take." His voice was firm, his words emphatic. "You've got to be patient and don't do anything that'll put you, or us, in any added danger. In case you're wondering why we're not flying you back to the States right away, it's because that's exactly what your new-found teammates will be expecting. Every airport and harbor is probably being watched. If we were being followed, they most likely thought we were taking you to Bremerhaven. Keeping you here for a couple of days should throw them off." Lampson nodded, already aware that the next days would be even harder than the past few months. "We'll try and make contact with you as soon as we know something."

"This is it," Adler cut in as he eased back on the accelerator, shifted to a lower gear, and started making the turn off the highway. No other car was behind them.

Grant looked through the windshield at a pitch black country road. Beams from the BMW's headlights stretched before them, the only means of light. He turned back to Lampson. "We've got a suitcase in the trunk that’s packed with extra clothes and essentials. In the side pocket are an extra two thousand Deutsche Marks."

"There isn't much you've missed, Captain. Now, are you going to tell me what your plans are?"

"Afraid not. The less you know the better."

"You mean, in case they find me, don't you?"

Without answering, Grant turned around as the car slowed, the flickering lights of the village coming into view. Adler adjusted the windshield washers to a slower speed as the rain turned into a sprinkle. He downshifted into second gear and the sound of the engine became a low rumble. The drive along the old cobblestone street put a slight shimmy in the steering wheel as the wide tires encountered large, irregular, slippery cobblestones.

"There's the street," Grant pointed.

Adler turned the BMW left onto the narrow lane, driving slowly up the winding incline, hugging the curb. The street was lined with shops and private homes, the black and white timbered buildings nestled side-by-side. He pulled up in front of a three-story structure, the number '552' hanging from a tarnished brass plate above the door's archway. "This is it," he said, shifting into park.

A small, dim light came out of nowhere, seemingly suspended in mid-air, bobbing up and down, aiming right for them. Grant instinctively slipped his hand inside his jacket, easing the .45 from his shoulder holster. An old man, riding a bicycle with a white headlight, glanced briefly at the BMW, then continued pedaling past the idling car. Adler stared into the side view mirror until the man and his bicycle disappeared around the bakery shop on the corner.

"End of the line, Rick," Grant said, as he opened the car door. "I'll get your suitcase."

Lampson leaned forward from the back seat, shaking Adler's shoulder. "Joe, thanks for everything you've done… and for what you're going to do."

"Our pleasure, sir," Adler grinned.

"Good luck, Lieutenant."

Lampson met Grant at the back of the car, reaching for the brown leather suitcase. Curious, he asked, "You didn't forget to bring any of your so-called equipment, did you, Captain?"

Grant closed the trunk lid. "Couldn't take any chances that we might be stopped and the car searched. Everything's securely tucked away," he winked.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lampson noticed the front door of the house being opened, a light shining through the crack. "Any last minute instructions, Captain?"

"Stay close to home, Rick. If you feel threatened — by anyone or anything — Marie will help. She'll know who to contact. And she’s got a small 'security blanket' for you with enough ammo that should see you through. There’s the standard hidden compartment in your suitcase, just in case."

Lampson reached out to shake Grant's hand, their grip strong and firm. "Good luck, Captain. I owe you more than my life on this one."

Grant closed the car door and rolled down the window. "Be sure to tell Marie we said ‘danke.’" He flashed a grin and snapped a quick salute as the car pulled away.