Warning Order

Chapter Eight

A U.S. Navy helicopter lifted off the deserted end of a runway at West Berlin's Tegel Airport. The pilot rotated it ninety degrees, then headed in a southeasterly direction. In the cargo area, Grant and Adler were checking each other's gauges and hoses of their oxygen equipment.

"I don't know, sir," Adler shouted above the chopper's engine, "two vacations to East Berlin in less than a week… you must really love the place!"

"Near and dear to my heart, Joe." He checked his watch, signaled Adler, then they both slipped the straps of the oxygen masks over their heads, letting them hang from their necks.

The co-pilot, Lieutenant Samuels, with his head half turned, shouted from the cockpit, "We’re passing fifteen thousand now! Time to go to oxygen! Twelve minutes to DZ!"

Grant gave a thumb's up. He and Adler put on their rubber aviator masks, adjusted the straps and turned on the O2. The last thing they did was secure their rucksacks to the D-rings attached to their reserve chutes. Minutes later they were standing by the open door. The weather was on their side, bringing in heavy cloud coverage that would prevent the possibility of moonlight giving them away as they made their drop. They looked out into the night, unable to see above or below as the chopper passed through a thick cloud bank. They grabbed hold of the overhead as the chopper was buffeted by air turbulence.

"Get ready for my signal!" Samuels yelled and held his fist in the air, ready to count down.

Grant quickly glanced at his wrist altimeter. His eyes shot back to Samuels' hand, anticipating the ‘go’ sign. The light went green just as Samuels pointed toward the door and shouted, "Go!"

Adler and Grant left the door in unison, diving head first into nothing but space, arching their backs to attain a good tracking position. With their arms and legs out slightly, they shot through the cold, damp clouds, traveling at nearly 130 miles an hour.

Grant eyed the backup altimeter on the top of his reserve chute. He maneuvered farther away from Adler, getting ready for chute deployment. At 13,000 feet he took another bearing on Adler. As they broke through the clouds at nine thousand feet, they popped their chutes simultaneously. Glancing over his shoulder, Grant spotted Adler swinging in his harness no more than fifty yards away. The ram air chutes floated them gently into the wind as both men checked their coordinates to make the LZ.

Grant tried focusing on the ground as he pulled on the toggles. Come on, come on! Where the hell are you? Somewhere in the surrounding area was supposed to be the signal light. His altimeter showed 5,000 feet. They had gone almost two horizontal miles when he began to pick up three faint white lights showing up off to his right, a little between him and Adler. Joe signaled that he'd seen them, too.

Thanks again, old friend, Grant smiled as he watched the lights on Manfred's farm guiding them in. It was the same as last time — three lights in the shape of the letter L.

Spotting the two jumpers moments before they hit the ground, Manfred extinguished the small lights on the roof of his house, then cautiously climbed down the ladder. Grant and Adler both did a standing landing within twenty yards of one another in the north corner of a plowed field. They quickly unhooked and began figure-eighting their shroud lines.

Manfred hobbled over to them. His left knee was riddled with arthritis, stemming from an injury received during World War II. He patted Grant on the back. "So, Captain, we meet again, and sooner than we both expected. And this time you've brought company, I see."

Grant gathered up his chute. "Manfred, this is Joe Adler."

"Nice to meet you, sir," Adler said, peering over an armful of black parachute silk. He used the shroud lines to tie the chute into a tight package.

"So, did Herr Captain promise you anything special for making the trip with him, Joe?"

Deep creases formed in Adler's smiling, rugged face. "We've yet to work that out, sir." After a brief pause, he winked and added, "But he knows I won't forget!"

They stored their gear in the safe room under the shed and changed their clothes. "Come then," Manfred said as he motioned with his arm, "I have some food for you in the kitchen."

"Maybe we'd better just stay in the safe room, Manfred," Grant replied, ever wary.

"No, no. It will be all right. At this late hour it is unlikely we will have to worry."

Grant gave a half smile. "You know I don't like surprises."

The hinges squeaked as Manfred opened the solid wood front door covered with scratches. A panel at the bottom had turned a weathered gray color. Dampness pervaded the small house, partly from lack of sufficient heat. One source of heat was an inefficient, small coal burning fireplace in the living room.

"Wait here," the elderly man said as he closed the door. A moment later he returned with a lighted kerosene lamp. Dark curtains had already been drawn across windows. Manfred removed his cap, revealing silver hair that curled over the tops of his ears. He handed the lamp to Grant as he hung the gray cap on a peg next to the door then took off his gray tweed jacket. "Come into the kitchen," he said as he reached for the lamp. The dim light cast eerie shadows across the walls, ceiling and meager furnishings in the kitchen as Manfred led the two men toward the kitchen table. Motioning towards the chairs he said, "Sit down, sit down.”

The two Americans complied, pulling out straight-backed wooden chairs from beneath a wobbly, hand-hewn table. Grant unzipped his leather jacket part way, then pulled out a sealed paper bag, putting it in the center of the table. "Thought you might need a refill, Manfred."

The old German picked up the bag of his favorite Chase & Sanborn coffee and brought it close to his nose. He inhaled the contents' aroma. "Ahh. Your timing could not be more perfect, Captain! Danke." He lifted the kettle from the stove and placed it on a metal trivet. "Help yourselves, my friends, and I will make some of this wonderful coffee. You will eat, warm up, and then we will talk."

Adler looked at Grant as if to ask, "Where the hell did you get that coffee?"

Grant used the ladle and spooned steaming porridge into chipped, blue pottery bowls. "Coffee's one of the premium luxuries here, Joe; costs almost as much as a bike." He winked, adding, "The Embassy cook is Fritz Landen. He was President Kennedy's old yacht chef. He assured me the staff will never miss it."

The porridge was hot and sweetened with honey. Adler ate two bowls, grateful Manfred had insisted. Grant made a note to himself to leave some East German Marks for the old man, even though he anticipated there'd be protesting.

He pulled back his jacket sleeve just enough to be able to see his watch. At 0530 hours he had to make contact with Torrinson.

After freshening up their coffee, Manfred placed the pot back on the wood burning stove and asked enthusiastically, "So, my friends, how can I help?"

"Manfred, does the name 'Greta Verner' wouldn't happen to ring a bell, would it?" The more he had thought about Lampson's relationship with the woman, the more his instincts started to set off a distant alarm. At the moment he couldn't explain why it was trying to warn him.

The old man shook his head. "No. Who is she?" Grant responded, keeping the explanation brief, and then Manfred said, "These are strange, difficult times, Captain. It is understandable why so many of the young people do what they do. Lampson was an intelligent man and held a prestigious position at the university. Perhaps she saw a way to lift herself out of the mire. Who knows?"

Adler leaned forward, his blue eyes staring at Grant as he pointed a finger at him. "Yeah, or just maybe she had a deeper ulterior motive."

The distant alarm suddenly sounded loudly in Grant's head. "Think you may be onto something, Sherlock. It might be a long shot, but, shit! It's all we've got right now." It was obvious the two men were heading down the same path, one of the reasons they worked so well as a team.

"Of course," Adler said, "if that's the case, why the hell wouldn't she have protected herself, you know, taken the pill or something? The kids couldn't have been part of the plan, if there was a plan."

"I didn't go into that with Lampson, but it's possible she could've been taking it. I don't think those things are completely foolproof." Grant slowly held up his hand, with the palm facing Adler. "Wait a minute, Joe, wait a minute. I know this'll sound like it's coming out of left field, but what if, and I do mean a big what if, the kids aren't Lampson's?"

Manfred sat quietly and listened, swiveling his head back and forth from Grant to Adler. Just by the conversation taking place, he knew the two Americans shared a special bond, like brothers.

Adler's first response was a statement not a question. "You think she was a 'plant.’ Whadda ya think… East German military or the dissidents?"

Grant shrugged. "Could be either. Or maybe the East Germans have a hold on her, too. From what Lampson said, anyone working on the project was constantly watched and threatened, even though she had a minor role acting as an assistant. Actually, the way Lampson described her job, it was more like she was just a gopher. But with what he brought to the table, he was probably the most valuable. What better way to keep him reeled in, and since he was the only unmarried person among the scientists, they had to come up with a way to be assured he'd be thorough with his work and wouldn't skip town." He leaned back in the chair, momentarily stared up at the rough-hewn beams on the ceiling, then looked at Adler again. "Still got some holes in the plot, Joe, but I'll bet your ass we're onto something."

Adler laughed, running his hand back and forth across his crewcut. "Oh, so it's my ass!"

A laugh escaped from deep within Manfred and he rocked back in the chair. He briefly recalled his days at the German field command as one of the officers in the Infantry War Plans Department and how he slowly grew to hate Hitler and all tyrants. It was times like these that made him feel so alive.

Grant swallowed a last mouthful of coffee, then stood as he said, "We've got to make a call, Manfred. Sorry that Joe and I got off on a tangent. Give us about a half hour, then join us and we'll go over some plans."

Manfred extinguished the kerosene lamp before opening the door. Then Grant and Adler made a dash across the yard, vapors from their breath dissipating in the air as they ran. A cold wind had started blowing down from the north, causing the temperature to drop to thirty-four degrees. Clouds began to deteriorate. A new moon broke through the heavy gray.

Grant made contact with Torrinson, who said sources had confirmed a clean check on Professor Schmitt. Not to Grant's surprise, they were unable to find a complete background on Greta Verner. The path seemed to begin at the university and went as far as Lampson. "Does that help any, Grant?"

"Well, sir, Joe and I came up with our own scenario, and you've just allowed us to fast-forward to Chapter 2."

"Can you tell me how the chapter will begin?" Torrinson smiled.

"Not completely sure, sir, but I do smell something fishy. I think it's going to go in two directions, just like Joe and me. I've gotta find that lab and I've got a suspicion where it might be. On my way in to extract Lampson, I spotted a large pipe, probably about seven feet in diameter. It just seemed to be out of place, like it didn't belong there. So I had one of my sources research some old blueprints of the city before it was divided. The Nazis put in a lot of time and effort excavating under the streets, putting in escape routes. As I was looking at those blueprints, there were two in particular that got my attention. It’s a longshot, sir, but we’ve gotta start somewhere. Manfred will drive us into East Berlin to… "

"Excuse me? Did you say you're going into the city again?"

"You’ve got to trust me, sir. We've still got a long way to go. In the meantime, can you confirm that you want Lampson to remain in Germany or do you want us to get him out?"

"Let him stay where he is for now, unless those instincts of yours start telling you something."

"Understand, sir. And I've still got to make contact with Grigori."

Torrinson hesitated but decided to ask anyway. "And when do you plan on contacting Colonel Moshenko?"

"I'll wait till I find the lab." Grant looked overhead when he heard the sound of footsteps. "Wait one, sir," he said in a hushed voice. Adler drew his "hushpuppy" and backed up into the shadows, then slowly brought back the hammer to full cock. Grant lowered the light on the kerosene lamp.

"Captain?" Manfred called softly as he tapped on the makeshift trapdoor.

Adler eased the hammer back, then holstered the firearm. Then he moved the portable wooden steps under the door, climbed up and slid the metal bar out, allowing Manfred entrance. The old German leaned over and handed him two cups.

"It's okay, sir," Grant continued. "Manfred's here. It's time we get to work. Will make contact again but can't say for sure when."

"I'll call SECDEF with the update. Good luck, Captain."

Grant switched off the radio and pulled the headphones off. A strong smell of coffee hit his senses, as Manfred poured the brew into each mug.

"Something hot to begin the day with, my friends."

Grant raised the mug in thanks. "I’ve got a big favor to ask, Manfred, above and beyond the call."

The old man's creased, pale face seemed to light up with the prospect. Grant was giving him a new sense of purpose. "At last!" he exclaimed excitedly as he slapped his knee. "Tell me."

Adler rested his back against the narrow wooden shelves, obviously rough cut with a hand saw. His eyes settled on Manfred, thinking the man was just the way he pictured him. Grant described the old German as someone full of life with a deep sense of pride and patriotism, willing to take the risks necessary to help bring freedom back to the people of East Germany. Adler liked Manfred right off.

"We need to find out more about this Greta Verner,” Grant said. "Lampson gave us the location of her uncle's place. It's about five miles from Bernau. How far is that from here, Manfred?"

After thinking a moment, Manfred responded, "About twenty-five kilometers." He quickly added, "Patrols should be minimal."

Grant nodded. "What's the countryside like around there?"

Manfred scratched his unshaven cheek. "Mostly flat, with some small rises and stands of trees."

"Any ground cover, you know, like bushes?"

"Some scattered clumps, but there are large boulders in that particular area, if that helps you."

"Sure does." Grant sipped his coffee. "We've also got an address of the flat she had in East Berlin."

Shaking his head, the old German responded, "Apartments are at a premium in the city, Captain. Once they are abandoned, new tenants quickly move in."

"I believe it, but Lampson said he continued paying her rent right up until we snatched him."

"That may not have been very wise."

Grant shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, I know, but it may be just what we need now. The address is 331 Hufeland Strasse, Flat C."

Manfred shifted his weight and rubbed his leg. Grant sensed the old man was getting uncomfortable. He rose from the chair, pushed it closer, then patted Manfred's shoulder. "Sit down while Joe and I check our gear."

They dragged two rucksacks toward the wall opposite from where Manfred was sitting, then knelt on the compacted dark, brown earth. Their planning continued as they checked each item, skillfully preventing Manfred from getting too close of a look. Adler examined one of the five concussion grenades. Each device measured about 1–1/2" high and wide and 6" long. Black, hard pressed paper made up the shell that enclosed the explosive material inside. There wouldn't be any shrapnel when the grenade exploded because of the paper shell. He glanced at several quarter pound blocks of C4. The C4's color and substance resembles white modeling clay. Det cord could be used to connect multiple blocks of C4. The explosive could be formed to almost any shape, then exploded with something like a blasting cap or chemical pencil. The three inch chemical pencils contained a one inch ampoule of acetone, that when crimped would allow the acetone to eat away a plastic washer holding back a striker under spring tension. When the washer erodes, the spring drives the striker into the explosive detonator, setting off the device.

"So what’s next?” Adler asked.

"I think we should make a sweep of the uncle’s place. Manfred can drop us off and keep our gear in the truck."

Adler winked at Manfred and said, "Clever of you to have that false bottom in the bed of your truck, sir."

Manfred acknowledged the comment with a bow of his head and smiled. "It has come in handy many times. When I'm not carrying potatoes into Berlin, I bring in coal." A deep, hearty laugh exploded from within him. "You, my friends, will become coal miners, hidden beneath layers of black coal."

Adler grinned. "I can think of some worse places I've been, sir!"

Grant zipped up the rucksack, stood and walked over to the cot, propping his foot on the edge and resting his arm on top of his knee. "After Manfred picks us up from the uncle’s place, he can drive us into the city. Once we've made it past the guards, we'll head for the factory. Manfred's already checked it out and said there's plenty of activity and that’ll be to our advantage. Welders are putting in long hours working on barge components. So we should be able to get away unnoticed. While you check out the flat, I'll check that tunnel."

"You got the key to the flat that Lampson gave you?" Adler asked.

"It's in that leather case," Grant answered as he pointed at Adler's gear.

"You think she's made any appearances there since we got Lampson?"

Grant shook his head. "Doubt it, unless there was something special she needed."

Adler rubbed his eyes, eyes that were tired and bloodshot. "What kind of timeframe are we talking?"

"I'll meet you at the flat. We'll hang out there till just before daylight and Manfred can meet us." He pulled his knife from a leather sheath and ran the razor-sharp edge across the back of his wrist.

"Think we'll have any unexpected company while we're there?" Adler smirked.

With the tip pointed toward the ceiling, Grant swiveled the weapon back and forth in front of his face, a weapon that had seen him through a few life and death encounters. With a cold stare that could send a violent chill up anyone’s back but Adler's, he responded in a deep, low voice, "If we do, then that'll just be their bad luck, won't it?"

He looked at the old man, who'd drifted off to sleep, his head sagging down. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm with his snoring. Grant poked an elbow against Joe's arm, motioning with his head. "It's been a long day for all of us. We'd better catch some Zs, too."

Adler stood and brushed dirt from his pants. "Should we wake him up?"

Grant shook his head, then reached for a blanket on the end of the cot. He draped it over the front of Manfred, drawing it up to the man's whiskered chin.

"Why don't you take the cot?" Adler said, as he was spreading another blanket on the ground. "You know I'm the camping type. Besides, you senior officers do need your Sealy's."

Grant reached for his flashlight and shot its beam directly into Adler's eyes. "How's your night vision?"

Adler blinked and chuckled. "Smart ass… sir!"

Grant dimmed the kerosene lamp, then tucked the flashlight under his pillow. He folded his arms behind his head, staring up towards the trapdoor that concealed their presence. Shards of light from the early morning sun penetrated irregular spaces between the weathered roof timbers covering the shed, making their way down through knot holes in the trapdoor. Grant stared at the beams of light, feeling his body breaking out in a cold sweat, and hearing his heart pounding in his ears. His eyes locked onto the pencil-thin light beams, bringing back images in his mind that were all too real, all too unsettling.

As a kid living in California, he and two friends had been buried in an underground pipe by a rockslide. A grate had covered an old water shed drain that had been condemned. As soon as the kids went in, it collapsed.

Grant's mind went back to that time, seeing again the light beams through the rocks and the crumpled grate that had caused a slight air space for them to survive until they were rescued nearly twelve hours later. It wasn't the only time Grant Stevens had felt as though he was trapped like an animal.

In February of 1969, Grant and Chief Marty Kilborn parachuted behind enemy lines into North Vietnam, just above the DMZ (demilitarized zone). Their mission — locate and destroy an NVA (North Vietnamese Army) communication's and mortar site set up inside a former POW camp. But something went terribly wrong. Their mission had been compromised — a leak. The NVA had laid a trap. The two SEALs had hidden themselves just outside the perimeter of the camp, observing the activity for a full day and night. The plan called for them to set off the explosives by 0200 hours, then get the hell out before the air strike.

After the guards around the main hut had been eliminated, they were preparing to set the explosives when Grant's instincts started talking to him. But it was too late. A booby-trapped floor blew up, throwing him and Kilborn into a ten foot deep pit, both of them knocked unconscious. Debris of wood, palm fronds, and dirt rained on top of them, covering their existence. But the hole would become their safe refuge, and as they regained consciousness, the air strike began. Minutes later, an eerie quiet settled over them. The filth and smells of the hell hole made it obvious they weren't the first to occupy the pit. American POWs suffered and probably died there. That's what touched Grant Stevens so deeply. As the dust cleared, the SEALs scrambled out of the pit, racing through the thick jungle to the LZ, waiting for extraction.

When Manfred first brought him to this safe room, he had fleeting moments of those same memories, those same feelings. Thanks to Manfred's company and all the years that had allowed him to deal with his personal monster, he was able to shake off those feelings — but never completely.

Two figures, with rucksacks slung over their shoulders and running in a zigzag pattern, came down a knoll on the western side of the property. Covering the ground beneath drooping boughs of fir trees, patches of ice crystals from an early morning frost crunched beneath their shoes. Grant and Adler finally lodged themselves in between two rock formations approximately 1,200 yards from the farmhouse.

The tree line came within one hundred fifty yards of the cottage where Lampson and Greta had stayed. The shingled main house was situated a hundred yards in front of it. Access to the house was provided by an irregular, compacted dirt drive, stretching fifty feet from the house to as far as the eye could see. Firewood was stockpiled the whole length of the house on the southern side.

Adler had the binoculars pressed against his eyes, watching for any movement in and around the farm. "Don't see any sign of life," he confirmed.

Manfred told them that if the farmers wanted to make their living off the land, they had to join an agricultural co-op. Grant pointed to a section of land directly ahead of them, on the southern side of the property. "Looks like that area was farmed at one time, but not lately. Any farm equipment?"

Adler made another sweep with the binoculars. "No barn, no equipment."

The smell of pine and smoke from distant fireplaces mingled in the air, being carried on a northerly breeze. "On a cold morning like this, wouldn't you expect to see some smoke from that fireplace?" Grant asked.

"Yeah, I caught a whiff as we came over the rise, but it must've come from the place we passed in the truck."

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Adler secured the binoculars in the sack. "You bet. You wanna go knock on the door?" he grinned.

"Let's not get carried away here," Grant responded as he pulled a .45 from his shoulder holster. He ejected the clip, checked it, rammed it back up into the handle, then jacked back the slide. He gave Adler a sideways glance. "Leave the gear here. You go first."

"Well, shit, I guess your rank still has its privileges," Adler responded. "I'll take the northern route." Grant nodded his acknowledgment.

Adler took off first, crouching low as he ran toward the north side of the main house. When he reached the building he pressed his back against the wooden planks, holding the Uzi close, its muzzle pointed upward. He watched Grant running across the field and waited till he’d disappeared on the opposite side of the house.

Grant backed up as close as he could to the pile of firewood, inching closer to a single, shuttered window. He shot a quick glance around the property before peering into the window. Except for basic furnishings, the house appeared to be unoccupied. Still wary, he crept toward the front, seeing Adler poke his head cautiously around the corner.

Both men edged their way slowly toward the front door. Adler reached for the door handle. As he started to depress the latch with his thumb, he glanced at Grant, who nodded, giving him the go ahead. The latch offered no resistance; the door was unlocked. Adler entered first, stepping in at a forty-five degree angle, scanning the room, sweeping his Uzi side to side. Grant came in directly behind him, moving off to the left. After a brief search, they were satisfied the place was empty.

"Check the bedrooms," Grant motioned with his firearm. "See if you can find anything with a name on it. Lampson said the uncle's was 'Karl Verner.'" Adler nodded, checking the one bedroom on the first floor, then he cautiously climbed up the narrow wooden stairwell leading to the loft.

Grant lifted the oven door latch and opened the square iron door. Piles of cold ashes lay on the bottom. He reached for a poker, then sifted through the ashes but found nothing. He turned his attention to the cupboards and began opening and closing doors. In the last cupboard he spotted what looked like the corner of an envelope that had been pushed to the back of a shelf at eye level. He slid it toward him. "Joe!"

Adler came down the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Find something?"

“Bingo!” He handed the letter to Adler.

Adler read the name and address. “So, who do you think this 'Eberhard Weimar’ is? Wait a minute. Son of a bitch!" Adler blurted out. "If this guy owned the property, what the hell do you think they did with him?"

Grant shrugged his shoulders. "Anything's possible."

"Maybe Manfred was able to find out something more in town."

"Maybe. Look, you go scope out the cottage and look for any indication there might be a grave. I'll keep looking in here."

Fifteen minutes later, Adler came back. "Any luck?" Grant asked as he walked toward the door.

"Only these." Alder opened his hand, revealing a pair of white baby socks. "Found them under a dresser."

"That just proves they were here, but we don't know much more than when we walked through the door. Any sign of a grave?"

“Ground looks like it hasn’t been disturbed for a long time.”

Grant brushed past Adler. "Come on. Let's get the hell outta here and meet Manfred."

An old flatbed truck sped along the roadway, heading west. Stacks of wooden racks were piled as high as the truck's cab. Fragile blocks of pressed coal (briquettes) were packed tightly inside each two by three foot rack to prevent them from disintegrating if the truck encountered rough terrain. Stretched out like fallen statues in a concealed compartment beneath the bed of the truck, the two Americans felt as if they were in a coffin. Already prepared for any heavy gas fumes that would be invading the confined space, they had their oxygen masks in place.

The truck began to slow, the sound of the engine winding down as Manfred shifted gears. A sudden backfire jolted the two passengers. They automatically gripped the handles of their .45s on their chests. The vehicle came to a complete stop at the checkpoint. Voices could barely be distinguished above the din of the engine. One of the East German soldiers, part of the German Democratic Republic Border Command, checked Manfred's papers, while the other walked slowly around the truck. The stop and inspection was cursory on their part, since the old German had become a familiar subject to them. Balancing his AK47 against the truck, Private Stoltz hopped up onto the rear of the bed. He bent down and lifted one of the coal racks then yelled to Corporal Voigt, "Here! Take this!" The corporal slung his rifle over his shoulder, and reached up to take the rack, holding it high as another was placed on top.

Grant and Adler kept their breathing slow and steady, ready to react, until they felt the truck lurch forward and heard the gears grind.

As Manfred passed through the checkpoint, he broke out in a wide smile, stretching from ear to ear. Maybe tonight he had lost another two racks of coal, but they were certainly the most satisfying loss he'd experienced to date. He whistled a tune from his boyhood years, remembering days of freedom.

The truck made numerous sharp right- and left-hand turns, traveling at no more than 25 kph, eventually coming to a stop. Manfred parked the truck at the back of the factory where vehicles were being loaded. He opened the door, then slid off the seat, wincing when his feet landed on the hard pavement, the jolt sending a shooting pain up his leg. Taking a final look around, he tapped twice on the truck bed. A side door on the hidden compartment opened then hung from its hinges. Grant and Adler rolled out, and quickly made a dash into the shadows. Manfred, meanwhile, unloaded two coal racks, taking them one at a time into the factory office.

Once they were clear of the factory, Grant said, "See you at the flat." Adler gave a thumb's up then headed toward the eastern part of the city. Grant tugged on the baseball cap, then slung a burlap sack over his shoulder, his facemask and snorkel hidden inside. He opted not to take his large swim fins. It would be easier and faster without them when it came time to exit the water. His powerful legs would be more than adequate.

There was still a lot of traffic. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. Grant maneuvered through the crowds, finding his way through the city as if he were reading a map in his mind. He paused momentarily at a bridge overpass, glancing casually up and down the river, trying to visualize the blueprint. Then he proceeded to follow the river in a southeasterly direction. After nearly twenty more minutes of walking, traffic had thinned to practically nil. He hadn't passed another pedestrian for over a half mile. Along the route he noticed that most of the small shops were boarded up. Obviously, this wasn’t a popular place. Not far ahead of him, just beyond the shops, were two apartment buildings. Two to one that was the place. All he had to do was find that pipe and see if it led to the lab. Simple. Right!

For several blocks the entire area was void of lighting. He scoped out the riverfront, eyeing several tree limbs overhanging close to the water. He circled around and came in from the opposite side of the trees, staying in their shadows. With a final look around, he stripped off his outer clothes, removed the facemask and snorkel from the bag, then shoved his clothes into it. His black wetsuit allowed him to blend into the darkness even more. He looked overhead, then crammed the bag into a crook of the tree, ensuring it was wedged in tightly. It was time to hit the water. He got down on his belly and crawled toward the water, disappearing beneath the surface in an instant.

Staying close to the shoreline, he went down as deep in the river as he could, anticipating the pipe to be within fifty yards. Squinting through his mask, he pulled up suddenly, seeing the object of his search directly in his path. Still having plenty of air in his lungs, but not knowing how long his swim through the pipe would take, he slowly ascended, until his eyes cleared the surface. Seeing no one, he exhaled sharply, expelling a fine spray of water from the snorkel. Sucking in a fresh lungful of air, he disappeared beneath the surface again.

At the entrance of the pipe, he pulled a flashlight from a hook on his belt then pointed the light ahead of him, swiveling it side to side. He felt a slight current flowing into the pipe. He reasoned there shouldn’t be any current, unless there was an opening up ahead.

He would allow himself a round trip swim time of three minutes. Throwing caution aside, and considering what he had to accomplish, he kicked his legs hard. The tiny beam from the flashlight didn't allow him to see too far in the distance, but he'd been in worse circumstances than this. He continued kicking and glanced at his watch. Ninety seconds, he thought. Already past the time he had allotted himself, he was about to stop when he heard a noise in the distance that sounded like rushing water. The sound increased as he continued on. Aiming his flashlight off to the right, he spotted a ladder rising out of the darkness. He grabbed hold of a rung, and looked up to see a metal hatch. He had seen plenty of those. The hatch resembled an escape hatch on a submarine.

Without wasting any more time, he climbed four rungs, finally able to bring his head out of the water. He grabbed hold of the wheel and gave it a couple of turns. All he could hope was that no one was standing on the opposite side. From what Lampson was able to get out of Steiner, work in the lab was allowed only during daytime hours; but that didn’t mean Steiner told him the truth.

Gradually raising the heavy cover, he stood on the top rung and poked his head through the opening. Letting the snorkel dangle from its strap, he breathed in, recognizing a faint odor. Chemicals. Scrambling through the hatch, he crouched low, finding himself inside a tunnel made up of the same type of pipe he just swam through. Overhead, bare light bulbs were strung from wire every twenty feet down the tunnel as far as he could see. This had to be one of their escape routes. He sealed the hatch, then started making his way through the pipe, all his senses on full alert. He was grateful that a smooth walkway had specifically been laid inside this portion of the pipe, his bare feet feeling its cool dampness.

He'd only traveled about fifty feet when another passage broke off to his left, lights strung from it as well. "Shit!" His voice echoed inside the metal casement. He tried to picture in his mind the route he'd been following as if he were above at ground level. It made sense that an escape route would lead under a road then probably exit in another basement. It wasn’t likely they'd take a water route like he just did.

After another five minutes of half-jogging through the tunnel, he spotted less than twenty-feet ahead of him a plain, steel door with a ball-type doorknob. A steady humming noise somewhere overhead made him direct the flashlight beam along the top curve of the pipe. An exhaust fan was left running, drawing odors out of the room and into the tunnel, explaining why he smelled the chemicals early on.

He closed his eyes, trying to listen for the sound of any human voices coming from the other side, but all he heard was the steady drone of the fan. He had to take a chance and hope luck was with him. He unzipped his wetsuit then removed a waterproof plastic case containing an electronic lock-opening device. He selected a pick from the carrying case, inserted one end into the device, the other into the lock, then switched on the device. Inside the lock, pins were being bounced around until they were in alignment. Piece of cake, he quipped. The lock clicked. He put the device back inside the case then slipped it into his wetsuit. Cautiously turning the knob, he pulled on the heavy door, cracking it just enough to able to take another listen. The room was pitch black and quiet as a tomb.

He stepped in, making a quick 360-degree scan with the flashlight's small beam. He guessed it to be barely fifteen feet square, but every inch was jam packed with tables and lab equipment. There weren’t any closed cabinets, only open shelving, leaving everything in full view. He moved the light across the ceiling and focused on a set of collapsible steps. They were encased in a wooden framework that was anchored to the ceiling in the middle of the lab. From what he could figure, the steps led to the basement of the building. He walked over to the counter and began picking up glass canisters, reading each label. "All the right ingredients," he mumbled. He lifted the lids of cardboard boxes, looking for notes but found none. He shone the light on his watch. It was already 2215 hours. It was time to make that call to Grigori then head for the flat.

Paramount in his mind was the fact that civilian casualties had to be avoided. Then again, from what he could see during his little jaunt to this place, civilians seemed to avoid this end of town like the plague. He already decided on the explosives he’d be using. As soon as he closed the door of the lab, he took a reading on his compass, and then jogged back through the tunnel effortlessly, making mental notes of distance and direction, finally reaching the hatch. The swim back to the Spree and his original point of departure would be a breeze. He could only hope he didn't drip too much water once he had on his civilian clothes.

He made his way down alleys, around the backs of buildings, trying to stay out of sight as much as possible. Traffic was merely a trickle. Twenty-five minutes after leaving the river, he was in a phone booth on Kruegstrasse. He took a quick glance around before dialing a twelve digit number that would ring a phone in Moscow.

After three rings, there was a series of beeps. Once they stopped, Grant spoke in impeccable Russian, leaving a coded message made up entirely of a series of numbers. There was no need to expect any voice response from this particular phone call. It was similar to what was known as a 'blind transmission,’ when a person transmits a message without expecting a response. He immediately hung up and left the phone booth, making haste for his rendezvous with Adler.

Seated at the mahogany desk in his study, Grigori Moshenko listened to the familiar voice on the tape. He deciphered the message as each number was spoken. There was the sound of the connection breaking, then a steady dial tone. He immediately pressed the erase button on the recorder then pulled the cassette from the machine. He pushed the chair away from the desk, and then walked toward a massive fireplace, built of irregularly shaped brown stones. Pulling a length of the magnetic tape from inside its protective case, he tore it in half. He felt the warmth on his hands from the intensely burning logs as he tossed in the tape then watched the plastic case melt.

Dangling from the side of his mouth was a Davidoff Grand Gru cigar, with an inch long charred gray ash hanging precariously from the tip. After flicking the cigar ash into the fireplace, he rested his hand on the rough hewn hardwood mantel, made from the piece of Russian oak he'd brought back from a trip to Odessa. Staring at the burning, orange embers, he seemed mesmerized as he watched them flutter like fireflies, floating upward, finally disappearing in the chimney. Once he had assured himself the tape was entirely destroyed, he took a step away from the fireplace and sat down slowly on a large upholstered chair. A good warm fire, with its crackling and hissing, relaxed his mind and body.

A light tapping on the door made him turn. "Yes?"

The door opened and his wife, Alexandra, called quietly, "Grigori?"

"Come, Alexandra," he smiled and waved her over to him.

She carried a glass of hot Russian tea then placed it on the table by his chair before leaning over and kissing him lightly. As she did, a wisp of her dark brown hair caressed his cheek. He reached for her hand, feeling the smooth wedding ring, one she'd worn for twenty-six years, twenty-seven next January.

"You've spent so many hours working and worrying these past months," she said in nearly a whisper. She tenderly ran a hand across his receding hairline, smoothing back jet black hair.

He took her hand in both of his, caressing her long, slender fingers, then looked up into her gentle, brown eyes. "You go to bed and stay warm," he smiled. "I'll be with you shortly."

When she reached the door, she turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder, saying demurely, "I'll be waiting." He responded with a smile.

After the door closed, he picked up the cigar from the ashtray. He stared at the burning cigar with its tawny brown wrapper, rolling it between his fingers as his mind started creating a plan. An inspection tour will do nicely. One of the early Aeroflot flights would get him to East Berlin in plenty of time. His American friend, Grant Stevens, needed his help.

A familiar aroma from the hot tea drifted into his senses. He breathed in then reached for the glass, picking it up by its gold-plated handle. The rim of the glass was hot against his lips as he sipped the tea. He immediately tasted the Ryabinovka-flavored vodka, steeped with ash berries. He smacked his lips then raised the glass and said softly to himself, "Ahh. Thank you, my dear Alexandra."

His eyes strayed to the crackling fire as a spark leaped onto the fieldstone base skirting the fireplace. He sipped again on the vodka-laced tea, then let his head fall back against the chair. Appearing in his mind was a visual replay of his first encounter with the then Lieutenant Grant Stevens.

The British Navy had requested assistance from the Americans following the crash of its sleek British bomber, the delta-winged Vulcan, in the northern Mediterranean. Remnants of the aircraft began to surface off the coast of Portugal. Initial reports released to the media were sketchy, at best. The crew was presumed dead, but the search was continuing. The U.S. Navy sent in its DSRV (deep submersible rescue vehicle). Grant was the OIC (Officer in Charge) of the dive team.

The Kalinin, a Soviet Kresta-class cruiser, had been tracking the British and American ships. As expected, the Soviets offered their assistance and were diplomatically turned down by the British. But it was much more than just concern or morbid curiosity that brought the Russians to the scene. The Vulcan was carrying a nuclear bomb, still yet to be recovered.

At the time, Moshenko was working with the Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU, in their special services unit, the Spetsnaz. He was assigned to intelligence duties aboard the Kalinin, using the cover of a helicopter pilot, in that his background included 1500 hours of flying the KA-25. The chopper was equipped with search-radar in an under nose radome. After lifting off the cruiser, Moshenko hovered the chopper close to the recovery site.

Grant, dressed out in his wetsuit, was in a rubber boat, directing operations. He glanced up at the chopper for an instant, and shook his head in disgust as if to say, "Back off!"

His eyes were still glued to the helicopter when a noise like an extremely loud backfire echoed across the sky. Smoke began billowing from the chopper's motor. The KA-25 suddenly started rocking back and forth, nose up and tail down. Moshenko lost total control as it began to gyro-rotate, its body spinning the opposite of the rotor blades. The Mediterranean, ninety feet below, was approaching at what seemed like blinding speed. The engine sputtered and died just as the aircraft hit the water, belly first. An explosion of sea water burst outward. Moshenko felt as if his spine was being rammed up into his skull from the force of the impact. One of the tail fins snapped off, back-spinning across the water, but somehow, the rest of the aircraft remained intact. The lock on the sliding cargo door snapped from the force, sending the door back on its track. Water rushed in through the wide opening, causing the chopper to list to starboard. Moshenko hit the release on his safety belt but it jammed. Pulled in tight against the backrest, he had no way to wriggle out of the harness. The more he struggled, the tighter it got, and water was gurgling all around him.

As soon as the chopper started going down, Grant ordered the coxswain to fire up the engine and head for it. He shouted to Chief Cole in the other boat to take over operations. As the rubber boat skimmed over the two foot swells, Grant knelt down in the center, steadying himself as he worked quickly to put on his scuba tank, fins and mask. The coxswain pulled back on the throttle. The boat was still fifty feet from the chopper when Grant hit the water.

By now, the helo was almost totally underwater, only the tip of a red star on its remaining twin tail fin was visible. One rotor blade poked up through the water's surface. Grant stroked like hell, finally coming close to the front starboard side of the chopper. Sunlight filtered through the blue-green sea water, making visibility crystal-clear. He immediately spotted someone in the cockpit. Recognizing the chopper as a KA-25, he knew it would be fruitless to try and open the pilot-side door. He swam directly for the open cargo bay, propelling himself to the forward section, pulling his knife from his thigh strap. The chopper was beginning to sink faster, as if being drawn downward by a powerful magnet.

Moshenko was still struggling when Grant swam up behind him. He floated in next to Moshenko, sucked in another lungful of air, then pulled the mouthpiece from his mouth and shoved it against Moshenko's. The Soviet breathed in deeply and quickly while Grant slashed at the safety belt with his knife. Moshenko handed the mouthpiece back to Grant as Grant pulled him from the seat. They swam back through the cargo bay toward the open door. They were seconds away from being at the hundred foot depth, when oxygen from the tank would be useless. The bends, every diver’s fear, could soon become reality.

Grant had just guided Moshenko through the opening when the chopper suddenly listed to port. The motion of the chopper caused the flexible blades to shimmy. A tip sliced through the flesh of Moshenko's right calf. The Soviet's mouth opened in a scream, air bubbles gushed out. Grant pulled him closer, shoving the mouthpiece back into his mouth. He glanced down, seeing the blood being diluted by sea water, pouring from the deep wound. He pointed up, motioning for Moshenko to continue breathing as they ascended. He could only hope the Soviet understood and didn't hold his breath during the ascent. Moshenko nodded, acknowledging Grant's instructions but he was in obvious pain. With one hand hanging onto the Soviets sleeve, Grant did a 'blow and go,’ sending out a steady stream of bubbles, releasing all the air in his lungs as they made their way to the surface.

Now, in the sanctuary and comfort of his own home, Grigori Moshenko found himself sweating. Whether imaginary or real, he reached down and massaged the ache in his calf. Even Soviets have their own demons to confront every now and then.