"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 ships 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.

Adler stood by, waiting. Finally, Grant handed him the paper. "Joe, contact Matt and the other guys. Give them this."

Adler read it quickly. His expression showed he was in complete agreement. "I like it!"

"Yeah. We'll talk later." Grant dug his keys out of his Levis' pocket. "Scott may call, and when the guys get back, you'll need to fill them in." He walked to the hall closet for his jacket. "I'm a.s.suming the Gulfstream and chopper are ready to go."

Adler gave a thumb's up. "Fueled and 'froggy.'" As Grant slung his jacket over his shoulder, Adler asked, "Do you want Ken and Mike to cover the emba.s.sy?"

"Yeah. I know there's a car phone, but make sure they have a radio just in case they end up 'hoofing' it. Oh, and check the money in the safe. There should be enough."

"Any particular 'brand'?"

"Pounds, deutsche marks, rubles for now." He turned toward the door, waving a hand overhead. "I'm outta here."

As he drove through D.C., Grant couldn't get the picture of the Russian out of his mind. Who the h.e.l.l was he? Why couldn't he remember where he saw him? Even though the photo hadn't been completely in focus, he couldn't deny the fact the two of them appeared to be similar in looks, height, close in age. Come on, Stevens! Think! He was positive it wasn't at the Academy. And more than positive the guy wasn't with the Teams. So where? One of the many ships he'd been aboard? The encounter had to have been brief. And probably from a distance. Time for direction change, he told himself, preparing to meet Moshenko.

A half hour later he turned into Moshenko's neighborhood, drove to the dead end then turned around, parking on the shoulder. Looking out the pa.s.senger side window, he spotted his good friend standing on the steps of the gazebo, a white, wooden octagonal structure.

At 5'10" Moshenko was easy to spot, with his muscular build, short, jet black hair that had some grey streaks at the temples, and the ever present cigar.

Once Grant locked the car, he took off jogging across the gra.s.s, noticing several small children playing in a sandbox at the opposite end of the park. Two women sat on a bench, keeping a close watch on them.

As Grant got closer to the gazebo, Moshenko blew cigar smoke from the side of his mouth just as he stepped on the pebble walkway. "My friend!"

"Hey, Grigori!" Grant said with a wide smile. The two friends grabbed each other's hand, then slapped each other on the back.

"Come," Moshenko said, as he walked up the three steps and motioned to the curved bench seat. "You are looking well," he said as he sat down.

"You just saw me last week!"

"And you are still looking well!"

"How's Alexandra?"

"She is fine, and hoping you will share some food with us. She is preparing beef stroganoff."

"Wish I could."

Moshenko noticed Grant's expression had changed. He watched him briefly before laying a hand on his shoulder. "You are troubled. What is it?"

"The Team's involved in another mission. It's been cla.s.sified top secret."

Moshenko nodded. "I understand."

"No, no! It's okay. The President gave me the go-ahead to discuss this with you, so don't worry."

"All right, Grant. Is there something you want me to do?"

Grant gave somewhat of a grin. "No flying choppers this time, but I'm hoping you can reach into your brain and pull out some information that might help us."

"I will try," Moshenko responded, flicking an ash over the railing, before scooting forward on the seat.

Grant unfolded the photo. "This is a photo Frank and DJ took in front of the Russian Emba.s.sy." He handed it to Moshenko.

"You could be brothers!" Moshenko said with surprise, as he stared at the photo.

"That seems to be the consensus."

"Who is he?!"

"Don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."

Moshenko studied the man's face more closely, but then shook his head. "I would surely remember him, my friend. I am sorry." He handed the photo to Grant. "But why did they take his picture?"

"My suspicion is he may be a 'sleeper,' Grigori," Grant responded, smacking the paper against his hand.

Moshenko stood, walked a couple steps away, then turned around. "So he has been in your country since he was a child?"

"Yeah, if I'm right. Why?"

"I had access to files at KGB that listed all such people."

Grant leaned back against the railing. "Something tells me that list was several pages long."

Moshenko sat down. "Yes. I am afraid it was. The names were listed according to the country they were a.s.signed to. I just cannot remember right now."

"Well, it was worth a shot," Grant responded, folding the paper, then putting it in his jacket pocket.

"I will continue to. . . what did you say? 'Reach into my brain.'"

"In the meantime, let's try this. Do you know where the safe house is located, either in D.C. or at least someplace close? Or if there's more than one?"

Moshenko rubbed his chin in thought. "There was one only. But the location . . ."

"Wait one," Grant said. "I've got a map." He hurried to his car.

While he did, Moshenko got up and walked the inside perimeter of the gazebo, trying to remember. He wondered if the KGB had the forethought to make changes since he defected. For Grant's sake, he hoped not. He would help his friend in any way possible.

"Okay, here's a map of the metropolitan area," Grant said, spreading the map open on the bench. He remained quiet as Moshenko leaned over, looking at town and city names.

"Here!" he finally said, jabbing his thick index finger on Alexandria, Virginia.

"You sure, Grigori?!"

"Yes. I remember a.s.sociating 'Alexandria' with Alexandra's name. Yes. I am sure!"