Part 8 (1/2)
”Yes, Grant?”
”I was just wondering if the thieves would put all their 'eggs in one basket.' Maybe they'd separate those crates, loading each one on different modes of transportation.”
”So, you're thinking a plane and a boat?”
”I'm just trying to cover all bases, Mr. President.”
”Do you have anything to substantiate your request regarding the NSA?”
”No, sir, but those folks may need to listen for traffic from here, also.”
”I'll call General Prescott, and I'd better let Secretary Daniels in on this conversation. SECNAV will have to be briefed.”
”One final question, sir.”
”Go ahead.”
”I know you want the weapons returned to the States, but what if we don't have any option and . . .”
”Grant, we have no way to tell whether blueprints or specific instructions for their use were included. But I don't want those ten falling into the wrong hands again, so you do anything you have to so that doesn't happen.”
”Yes, sir. We'll take care of it either way.”
”If that's all, Grant, I'll let you get back to work.”
Grant detected a smile in Carr's voice, and he responded, ”Thank you, Mr. President.”
Carr hung up. Swiveling his chair side to side, he considered everything Grant reported, everything he asked for. The situation had taken a turn for the worse. A mole. A 'sleeper.' ”Jesus,” Carr mumbled, as he loosened his tie.
It was a known fact that spies worked out of the Russian Emba.s.sy. But how long had this guy been in the States, waiting to act? Where was he working, living? A chill ran up the President's back, as he wondered how many more 'sleepers' could be in the U.S.
It was time to make those phone calls.
As soon as Grant ended the call, he phoned Moshenko. ”Hey, Grigori. It's me.”
”My friend, how are you?!”
”I'm good. Listen, Grigori, don't want to talk on the phone. Can we meet someplace, say in an hour?”
”Of course.” Moshenko walked to the front window, checking the weather. Blue sky was beginning to break through fast moving clouds. ”The park at the end of my street is a good place. There is a gazebo on the south side.”
”Sounds good. See you later.”
Moshenko hung up. Standing by the window, he rolled the Davidoff Grand Cru cigar between his fingers, wondering about the upcoming meeting. Since he and Alexandra had been in America, he and his good friend never had any secretive meetings. If the meeting concerned Alexandra and him, Grant would have been more specific.
Noises and aromas from the kitchen told him Alexandra was preparing their upcoming meal, beef stroganoff and noodles. As he walked to the kitchen, he continued wondering about the meeting.
Eagle 8 Virginia Diaz, James and Adler stood near the sofa. Grant was on the phone with Mullins. ”Fax that to me, Scott,” Grant said, as he motioned Adler toward the machine.
”Before you ask,” Mullins said, ”I made contact with the Coast Guard's Command Senior Chief Phil Borrman in Baltimore. That command handles the Chesapeake Bay region. He and Tony were acquaintances, so I took a chance to see if he could offer up some info not already published in the news. But he couldn't tell me much more. They still had their chopper and a boat searching off the coast. Heavier sections of that Huey sunk, and any pieces that hadn't already been collected had probably drifted away in the Gulf Stream. They're almost positive, though, that some type of explosive took it out.”
”Bodies? Weapons?” Grant asked, hoping he'd get some positive feedback.
”Some body parts, but identification won't be easy. There's a possibility something, or pieces of something, might eventually wash up on the eastern seaboard, but don't count on it.”
”s.h.i.+t!” Grant said, rubbing a hand briskly over the top of his head.
”Look, I asked Borrman to contact me if they find anything. Okay?”
”Yeah. By the way, NSA is gonna start flagging all unusual or suspicious transmissions. The President will most likely be contacted first. See what you can do to get on that contact list.”
”I'll make a call right now.”
”One more request.”
”Gotta sharpen my pencil,” Mullins laughed.
”Find out if any Russian cargo s.h.i.+ps were steamin' that day between Maryland and North Carolina, maybe no more than a hundred miles off the coast. There had to be something going or coming out of Cuba.”
”Loaded or empty?”
”Could be either.”
”Will do.”
”Gotta go. And thanks, Scott. I know you're doing your best.”
”I'll be here if you need anything else.” End of conversation.
Adler held the fax toward Grant, who felt as if he finally had something to go on. He perused it briefly before handing it to Diaz. ”Looks like we know what those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds transferred the weapons to.”
”A d.a.m.n Toyota pickup?” Diaz asked with surprise.
”Look at the owner information, Frank. Both the Camaro and Toyota were registered to 'William Goldman' who died five years ago.”
”Should we still check out this address, boss?” James asked, pointing to the paper.
”That's the first one on your list, DJ. I have my doubts you'll find anybody home. So. . .”
”We'll do a thorough search, boss,” Diaz said, motioning with his hand as if he was unlocking a door. Both he and James headed for the garage.
”Wait!” Grant called. ”Leave the shotgun mike. You two have enough on your 'plate.'”
”Roger that!” James responded, with obvious relief in his voice.
Grant picked up one of the photo's, then folded it. As he slipped it in his pocket, he started having one of his ”go quiet, ignore everything” moments. He grabbed a pen and notepad from the table and started writing.