Part 13 (1/2)

He stepped back in order to see overhead, where the man had been shot. Another seaman was was.h.i.+ng down that section of bulkhead.

Ivanov lowered his head, then turned and walked toward the helipad. He climbed the steel steps, then walked to the middle of the pad, standing on a large white X. He glanced out across the darkness of the Atlantic.

Questions arose: Who were those men? How did they know about the crate being onboard? Was it possible they were the same men who made the delivery, and for whatever reason. . .? No. That was a ridiculous option to even consider.

These men acted like a team of professionals. They didn't permanently destroy equipment or machines. The radio and Morse Code key would eventually be repaired. And then there was the helmsman, who was given limited steerage of the s.h.i.+p.

Even though he and his crew were manhandled and threatened, they all survived, except for Officer Yeltzin. But it was Yeltzin who opened fire first. If he hadn't, would he still be alive? Having those AK-47s on board may have been a curse.

But the attackers seemed to be experts, firing their weapons from a moving chopper, managing to kill one, and injuring two.

He was relieved the incident was over. He no longer had responsibility for the crate and its unknown contents. Now he could concentrate on getting his s.h.i.+p and its cargo to Russia.

Walking from the helipad, he remembered the message: no further contact was to be made until he heard from the carrier. He was fully aware the U.S. was always listening to transmissions. He would obey the instructions given to him, and wait for the Minsk.

Chapter 13.

Safe House Alexandria 0500 Hours Laying on the couch, Nicolai Kalinin slowly opened his eyes, then rubbed his hands briskly over his face. The past hours hadn't been restful ones. His sleep was constantly interrupted as he reviewed his plan for part two of the operation.

It was time to begin the same process he had done at the rental house. . .wiping down everything, taking no chances. Even though this place was only known to Russians, leaving fingerprints behind was too risky. He couldn't depend on Vikulin or Zelesky.

His suitcases were already in the truck, stamped as diplomatic pouches. The pilot waiting at Dulles had been notified. All doc.u.ments were in order, along with his Russian diplomatic pa.s.sport. His American pa.s.sport was concealed in the lining of his suitcase.

He finally sat up, holding his hand against his stomach, feeling the ”rumble.” No time to eat, he thought. He'd wait till he was aboard the plane. He went to the fridge and grabbed one of the bottles of c.o.ke he bought last night. He started drinking as he went upstairs to the main bedroom.

Blinds on both windows were closed. He started cleaning from the opposite side of the room and worked his way backwards until he got to the closet, panel and equipment. Time-consuming, but essential.

Russian Emba.s.sy 0600 Hours KGB Zelesky rushed into the emba.s.sy, then ran to the elevator, pounding the b.u.t.ton with a knuckle. Finally, the doors parted and he stepped inside, staying within a few inches of the doors. The elevator stopped with a jolt, and as the doors started opening, he jammed his heavy hands between them, forcing them apart.

A door to the amba.s.sador's residence was just ahead, off a small entryway. Zelesky rang the bell then rapped his knuckles against the door. ”Amba.s.sador!”

”Yes?!” Vazov called, as he sat up in bed.

”I must see you!”

Vazov put on a robe. As he started opening the door, Zelesky hurried past him. Vazov closed the door, then tied his robe. ”What is so important, Misha?!”

Zelesky held a manila envelope toward him. ”You must look at this! I found it at one of the American's drop sites.”

Vazov grabbed the envelope as he watched Zelesky through narrowed eyes. What he removed from the envelope shocked him. ”This cannot be! I will not believe it is. . .”

”Look more closely!”

Vazov drew the official-looking color photograph closer, finally noticing brown eyes, not hazel. ”Who is this?!”

”Turn it over.”

On the back, printed in black ink, was a name: Captain Grant Stevens, U.S. Navy.

Vazov walked slowly to the dining room table, all the while staring at the photograph. He pulled a chair out then sat down heavily. ”The resemblance is remarkable.”

A number of questions ran through Vazov's mind, mostly worrisome ones. Why would the American traitor suddenly release this photograph? He still had not asked for anything in exchange for the information. Did this person have something to do with the weapons?

Continuing to look at the picture, Vazov said, ”Misha, see if there is a dossier on this 'Stevens.'” Zelesky left for the records room in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Vazov dropped the picture on the table. It was most imperative he contact the defense minister in Moscow, and Kalinin. He went to his bedroom to dress.

Heavy footsteps pounded against the tile, echoing in the long, second floor hallway, as Vazov hurried to the comm room. He wasn't about to wait until this evening.

Corporal Brusinsky spun around in his chair, as the amba.s.sador burst into the room.

”Send this coded messages immediately,” Vazov said, stepping near the counter holding the comm equipment. Brusinsky grabbed a pad and pen. ”To Captain Ivanov aboard the Igor Brobov. 'Reconfirm package is aboard and you are proceeding as instructed. Immediate response required.'” Without hesitation, he began dictating the second message. ”This goes to Defense Minister Andrei Troski. 'Merchandise being s.h.i.+pped today. Notify receiver.'”

Vazov left the room, then went to the opposite end of the hallway to his office. He unlocked the door, then turned on an overhead florescent light. No matter how early it was, he had to make the call to the FCD. Since he, Vazov, was the only person to know the ident.i.ty, he'd have to privately communicate with him by phone.

He had his hand on the scrambler, when he decided to call Kalinin, hoping he hadn't left for Dulles. He dialed.

Kalinin was wiping down blinds, when the phone rang. He rushed to the side table, and picked up the receiver with the cloth. ”Mr. Amba.s.sador?”

”Nicolai! Good. You are still there.”

”What is it, sir?”

”Misha found an envelope at one of the American's drop sites.”

”More information or directions?”

”No. A photograph of an American naval officer.”

Kalinin sat on the couch. ”Not him, I a.s.sume.”

”No, Nicolai, it is someone who looks just like you, except for the color of eyes.”

Kalinin never expected that response. ”Like me?! Who is it?!”

”A name on the photograph was 'Captain Grant Stevens.' Does that sound familiar?”

Kalinin was quiet, thinking about his time in the Navy and the defense contractor he worked for. ”I do not recall that name, nor do I remember seeing anyone who looked like me, sir!”

Vazov leaned back, shaking his head slowly. ”Misha is looking through our files to see if we have a dossier on him. I do not understand why the photo was given. . .” A sudden knocking at the office door made Vazov break off the conversation. ”Enter!”

Corporal Brusinsky walked to the desk, handed Vazov a paper, then immediately left.