"Good. That's a start." As Grant folded the map, he asked, "Any street address to go along with that by any chance?"

"You must give me some time, my friend. It has been awhile. You have never needed the information before. But. . . I can tell you something about those at the emba.s.sy."

"I'm listening."

"Before I left Russia, I a.s.signed two KGB officers to the emba.s.sy. It is more than likely they are still there."

"Do I hug you now or later?!"

"You can hug Alexandra!"

"And you know I'll take you up on it! Now, who are they?"

"Misha Zelesky and Petya Vikulin." For the next several minutes, Moshenko revealed descriptions, and all he could remember concerning the two KGB men. As grateful as Grant was for Moshenko's help, he couldn't help but worry. As he stood, he held a hand toward Moshenko, helped him up, then continued to grasp his friend's hand. "Listen, Grigori, you need to be extra careful, now more than ever."

"But nothing has changed, Grant. Our conversation will not go beyond your men. . . and the President."

"I know. But now that you've told me you knew the KGB 'boys'. . ."

"Do not worry. I will be cautious."

"Keep an eye on Alexandra, and without arousing her suspicion, okay? I don't want her to worry." Moshenko nodded. "Once this is over, maybe the President can come up with some way to have those two sent home."

"That might be difficult, Grant, although proving them guilty of espionage or threatening your government might work."

Grant gave him a s.h.i.t-eatin' grin through perfect white teeth. "You're scaring me, Grigori! Sounds like something I'd say!"

"Yes. Your way of thinking is smoothing off on me!"

Grant's brow wrinkled before he laughed. "I think you mean 'rubbing off.'"

"I will mark that off my list of sayings to learn!"

Grant put a hand on Moshenko's back. "C'mon. Walk with me to my car."

Grant was ten minutes out from Eagle 8, when the car phone rang. "Speak."

"Skipper! Are you anywhere close?"

"Ten minutes, Joe. What's up?" He turned on the windshield wipers as a car in front plowed through a puddle.

"Ken and Mike are on the move!"

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?!"

"They called in when they saw someone driving out of the emba.s.sy in an older Mercedes. I gave them the go-ahead to pursue."

"It wasn't our suspect, was it?"

"No. Older guy."

"Did they give you a description?" When Adler finished, Grant said, "Sounds like Vikulin, KGB."

"What should I tell Ken and Mike?"

"Stick with him. Grigori said when Vikulin worked for him at KGB Moscow, he was someone who always stuck to a schedule and had favorite 'haunts' in town." Grant glanced quickly at his submariner. "Have them report to you every time that guy makes a stop. And warn them they'd better not f.u.c.kin' lose him!"

"Be happy to!"

"Any word from Frank and DJ?"

"They found the Camaro locked up in a garage, but not much else in the house."

"See you in five, Joe. I've got an idea." Connection broken.

"Why does that not surprise me?" Adler said laughing, as he hung up.

Safe House 2120 Hours Kalinin tucked his Makarov in his back waistband, shut off the living room light, then went out the back door. Once he was inside the garage, he closed the doors, waiting briefly until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Then he went to the pa.s.senger side and removed the cardboard box and a small flashlight from under the seat.

He lowered the truck's tailgate, lifted the camper's window, then crawled inside the bed. Kneeling alongside the crate, he turned on the flashlight, and hung it from a hook directly overhead, before pulling the canvas pouches closer.

He ran a hand over the wooden crate, then touched a strip of thin, but strong aluminum, one of three. s.p.a.ced ten inches apart, they were wrapped around the crate then secured underneath. The wood cover was screwed on.

By the time he'd cut through the strips and removed screws, sweat covered his body. He swiped a hand across his forehead. Then he lifted the top and slid it toward the back. He checked the time. Depending on how long his task would take, he might have an opportunity to examine one of the weapons.

He started digging through foam packing peanuts, grabbing onto a section of heavy plastic. Pulling it out, he held the weapon with both hands, but the plastic was opaque and he couldn't get a good view. He laid the weapon down, then continued digging through foam, until the five wrapped, top secret weapons were laying next to him.

He began filling each of three pouches with the foam, then slid in one weapon at a time, ensuring they were protected from touching or hitting one another. He checked his watch again. He decided against an inspection and would have to wait until he was in Moscow.

Once the weapons were secured inside the pouches, he removed the special seal and rubber stamp from the cardboard box, preparing to cla.s.sify each pouch as "diplomatic." The metal seal, with a hammer and sickle on both sides, would act as the official signature for the Russian Emba.s.sy.

With the truck and garage locked, he rushed back to the house, grabbed a gla.s.s of water, then hurried upstairs.

The evening hours were the best time to broadcast. The "E region"--the Heaviside layer-- is one of several layers in the Earth's ionosphere. Medium-frequency radio waves reflect off it and can be propagated beyond the horizon. During evening hours the solar wind drags the ionosphere further away from the Earth, increasing the range radio waves can travel.

He had to work fast, knowing the U.S. had "ears" listening, especially now. Once he opened the panel, he set a wooden chair in front of the shelf, then sat down. He now regretted not having a shortwave in the leased house, but it was a chance he couldn't take. And he should have asked the amba.s.sador to contact the cargo ship the night the weapons were stolen, instead of relying on the word of mercenaries. Another b.u.mp in the road, but not significant enough to compromise the mission.

It was impossible to use his one-time pad. He'd have to rely on sending the message in Morse Code, except he'd add another code within it. The ship's radioman and the captain would have knowledge of the code.

With his thoughts in order, knowing exactly the wording he would use, he began sending Morse Code. He authenticated the message with his code name: Antares.

Aboard the Igor Brobov The cargo ship Igor Brobov was making her return trip to Russia, having picked up cargo in Cuba. She was a small ship with only four cargo holds. All four holds were filled to capacity with sugar, corn, coffee, rice. With a heavy load, she was riding low in the water, her deck a mere thirty feet above the waterline.

Nearly one month ago, Captain Sergei Ivanov received a coded message from the Russian Emba.s.sy in Washington, D.C. Once he left Cuba with his cargo, he was directed to travel up the coast of the U.S. He would stay within a hundred miles off the coast of Virginia, reduce speed to twelve knots (thirteen mph), then wait to be contacted.

The ship had been "steaming" within the designated range, when he finally received another message. He was to give the ship's coordinates to a man going by the name of "Python," who would deliver special cargo by chopper.

One more message would arrive, requesting final confirmation the special cargo was...o...b..ard, showing no evidence of tampering.

His involvement in this operation would cost him valuable time. His schedule was completely screwed up. With over fifteen years experience in the shipping trade, this "incident" was a first for him. Hopefully, the ship's owners would not question the reason. He a.s.sumed the emba.s.sy in Washington would notify them of his involvement.

Ivanov stood near the magnetic compa.s.s, peering out across the bow. All activity on deck had ceased, returning to normal after the delivery. He brushed a hand over his short, salt and pepper hair.

The door of the radar room opened and Radioman Gremesky hurried to the bridge with a message in his hand. "Captain!"

Ivanov adjusted his wire-rimmed gla.s.ses and reached for the paper. He read the brief, decoded message, and confirmed the code name. He handed the paper back to the radioman. "Send reply the cargo is...o...b..ard, intact. Proceeding on course designated." Ivanov breathed a heavy sigh, relieved he finally had permission to continue the voyage.

Chapter 11.

Washington, D.C.

2115 Hours Glare of headlights from light traffic reflected off wet blacktop along D Street. Every forty-five minutes a city bus traveled the route. Pedestrians were few.

At the corner was a two-story, white brick building. On the lower level was a restaurant, serving traditional Russian food. Patrons entered through a wooden door, with a half moon-shaped canvas awning above.

The car phone rang in the dark blue, four door Ford Torino. "Yeah, Mike," Grant answered.

"Boss, we just saw you go by. We're parked at the top of the street at the corner."

"Is he still inside?"

"Affirmative. His Mercedes is parked our side of street, one block behind us."

"Be there in a minute."

Stalley drove slowly past the building, then stopped briefly as Adler got out of the back seat then hurried across the street.

Grant waited until Adler was at the corner. "Okay, Doc, get movin'."

Stalley continued driving to the next street, then turned left. He rolled through the stop sign, then made another left. As he got to the next corner, brake lights flashed from a parked Chevelle. He hit the brakes, then flashed his lights. Mike Novak raised his hand out the Chevelle pa.s.senger window, as Slade pulled out of the parking s.p.a.ce. Stalley parked the Ford.

Grant set the overhead light to "off." Leaning toward the window, he finally spotted Adler near the street lamp. Stalley flashed the headlights twice. Adler disappeared around the corner and went inside the restaurant.

No matter how long it took, and if everything played out as they antic.i.p.ated, this might be their best chance, their only chance to get some answers.

Grant picked up his .45, released the clip, then shoved it back in. He put on his baseball cap, and as he got out, he slid the weapon into his back waistband, then closed the door. He leaned toward the open window. "Doc, I'm gonna check the main road in front of the restaurant, then take up a position near that bas.e.m.e.nt entrance," he pointed. "Stay here and be prepared if it 'goes south.'"

"Okay, boss," Stalley nodded.

Grant started walking toward the corner, when he heard voices. Cigarette smoke drifted toward him. He turned the corner and kept walking. Three men glanced at him but continued talking and smoking. When he pa.s.sed the restaurant, he glanced over his shoulder, seeing they had crossed the street. He hurried back to the corner, then heard three car doors slamming simultaneously, immediately followed by an engine starting. He glanced at his watch again. So far so good, he thought.

Hurrying up the side street, he ducked into the bas.e.m.e.nt entrance, two steps below street level. He'd be less exposed from this spot, and in a good position to move quickly.

Five minutes later, Petya Vikulin came out of the restaurant and stood briefly by the door, putting on his black leather coat. He made frequent visits to the restaurant since he'd been a.s.signed to the emba.s.sy a year ago. The food was traditional Russian fare. Tonight he treated himself to Sevruga black caviar, topped off with Rublevka Gold Vodka.

He breathed in deeply then started walking toward the corner. As he made the turn, he heard the restaurant door open. Continuing to walk uphill, he became leery as he heard footsteps. He turned around, and walked backwards. The street lamp didn't illuminate the person's face totally, but he recognized the man as the one who had been sitting at the bar.

Adler stopped, lit a cigarette with a lighter, then hurried across the street, pretending to wave to someone as he ran.

Satisfied he wasn't being followed, Vikulin shoved his hands into his coat pockets, then began taking long strides, heading for the used Mercedes parked three blocks away. Only the amba.s.sador had the privilege of being driven in a newer vehicle, another Mercedes.

Adler ducked into a side alley, spit a piece of tobacco from his mouth, then flicked the cigarette against the building. Slowly he eased his way toward the corner, staying in the shadows.

Vikulin was about ten feet from where Grant was waiting. Grant clicked on the miniature recorder attached to his belt, then he suddenly came out of the shadows, and stopped. Vikulin reacted quickly, moving his hand to his weapon in the shoulder holster.

"There's no need for that, Comrade," Grant immediately said in Russian, raising his hands to show he didn't have a weapon.

Vikulin hesitated a brief moment. "Comrade Kalinin!" he said in a loud whisper, as he slowly moved his hand away from the holster. "What are you doing here? Is the amba.s.sador aware you are talking with me?" He swiveled his head, looking to see if they were alone.

"Do not worry. We are completely alone, but I must talk with you. Come over here," Grant indicated, as he moved back into the shadows.

Vikulin followed, but cautiously. He kept a slight distance from Grant as he asked, "This is serious, Comrade?"

"Yes. What we are about to discuss is state secret." (State secret is Soviet term for 'top secret.') "I understand," Vikulin nodded.

"I am here under the direction of the First Chief Directorate."

Even in the shadows, Vikulin's face couldn't hide his surprise. "The First Chief Directorate?! You know who he is?!" Grant simply nodded because in fact, he didn't have a d.a.m.n clue. The FCD's real ident.i.ty was known only to the amba.s.sador.

The position of FCD was well known throughout the intelligence community. Russia's First Chief Directorate was the equivalent of the CIA's Chief of Station. He was a so-called legal resident but who, in fact, was a spy, operating under diplomatic cover, with full immunity from prosecution. While the FCD was responsible for the collection of political, scientific and technical intelligence, Vazov was put in charge of managing covert agents.

Grant's pulse raced. He had to pull this off. "Can we continue now?" he asked, trying to sound annoyed.

"Yes. Of course, Comrade."

They both turned, hearing the restaurant door open, and then a sound of voices, belonging to a man and a woman. "Perhaps we should walk," Grant said, looking over his shoulder at a couple crossing the street. He continued the conversation. "You know my position here, and that I have a mission to complete."

"Yes, an important mission."

"First of all, in case we must meet again in secrecy, we will meet at the safe house. I want you to verify the location."

"I know where it is."

"When I said verify, I meant verify! That means confirm the address!" Grant spoke just above a loud, gruff whisper.