“That’s great, doctor,” said Hammond. “I’ll get him up here tomorrow morning. If we can get in after lunch, is that enough time?”
“Plenty for the initial test. Of course, if it works, we will need to classify this stuff.”
“Agree. This could change the way we do some things. He says his professor will accompany him. I’ll get what information I can and get it all set up. I’ll call you back with the information and see you on Saturday.”
“Looking forward to meeting you, Admiral. I’ll have everything ready,” Thomas said as he ended the call.
Hammond punched the number for Jeffers again. “Rod, looks like we’ll be working for a while tomorrow,” he said.
“I don’t care what he did, we need to use the situation to our advantage,” screamed Bugayev. An older man had been fired from his job at a local bus company, the MPK, when he could no longer pass a driver’s test. The old man was sixty nine. There had been several older men retired from their jobs lately. Nearly all had been from the old Soviet Union and had come to Poland when the state assigned them there. It was a part of a program the state had to insure a thorough integration of “good Russians” throughout the Warsaw Pact nations.
“We must use any means to garner sympathy for our cause. If we can cause a strike or a number of protests where we are headlining anti-Russian thought, it will help in our plans. Tomorrow, I need you to begin talking to the other workers. Complain that he was really fired because he used to be from Russia. That will strike notes with many in the company. But you need to stress that the next ones fired might be them for some other reason. Portray the leadership and cold and heartless, how they only want higher salaries for themselves. We keep pushing until the general unrest spills out to the media and into the streets,” he said harshly to the men assembled. “Now what of the people at the brewery?” he asked of another man.
“The plan is for them to strike against the management for unfair treatment beginning on Wednesday. We need the time to get things printed up and organized a little more. Everything else is in place,” the man said.
Bugayev smiled. “That is better. It guarantees media coverage and a lot of actions around the streets and the brewery. Just make sure they know what to say,” he said pointing his finger at the man.
“They know. We are going over it again with them Monday night. Will you be there?” he asked.
Bugayev nodded. “I will, but I’ll be watching from the back. If I see something we can take advantage of, I’ll call you,” he said. “Is there any other business?” The room remained quiet. “You have all done well. We are making fine progress. Now, we must keep it up until the stage is set. We will meet again Tuesday night to go over last minute plans,” he said curtly as he turned and left the room.
Bugayev didn’t like these men. They were weak. Besides, they had already deserted Mother Russia and should not be trusted. Unfortunately, they were necessary, at least for the time being. Once his homeland had conquered this nation again, they would ultimately be dealt with.
He made his way out of the building and down the street where he caught the tram towards where the old bus driver lived. After a ten minute ride, he stepped off and made his way down a dingy back street to the old Soviet-era apartments which were now no more than slums. The old man’s flat was on the fourth floor. Of course, the elevator in the building didn’t work. The walk up four flights of stairs didn’t tire him so much. He knocked on the door of the old man’s flat.
Ivan Ileneovich answered the door by the second knock and peered from behind the security chain. He didn’t recognize the young man standing there smiling at him. “What do you want?” he grunted.
“Mister Ileneovich, I am Boris Blonski from the MPK. The directors asked me to talk to you about returning to work,” he said with a smile.
Surprised, Ileneovich slid back the chain and invited the man in. The prospect of getting his old job back was much more than appealing; it would mean the ability to live again. He ushered Bugayev into the small, but neat sitting room and asked if he would like some tea. He turned to heat a pot. Once his back was turned, Bugayev sprung up and clubbed Ileneovich in the head with his pistol. He pulled the old man up to sit in a chair. Placing the pistol in Ileneovich’s hand, he turned the pistol so that it was sticking into the old man’s mouth. Waiting until the nearby tram was noisily clunking along the road, he pulled the trigger.
The bang was not so loud to be overheard over the sound of the tram. The blood had sprayed against the wall behind the table and the old man’s lifeless body was left slumped on the table in an ever spreading pool of his own blood. Bugayev took a towel from the bathroom and cleaned his own hands before he made sure everything he had touched was wiped clean. He left the gun in the old man’s hand. The suicide of a dejected and hurt old man would only inflame the rest of the workers and the public sentiment.
Quietly, he checked to make sure the hallway was empty before making his way down a staircase on the other side of the long hall. Exiting from a rear door, Bugayev made his way into the streets of Krakow. There, he grabbed the next tram and then blended into the crowds, stopping only to get something to eat from a street vendor before making his way back to the apartment.
Hammond exited his set of rooms in the Senior Officers Quarters and waited for Jeffers. He had made sure to get a fresh shower and clean uniform to be ready for this meal. He just hoped the ‘beater’ Jeffers was driving was relatively clean. He saw a vehicle round the corner and come toward him.
Even in the early evening light he could tell this was no ‘beater.’ It was a large convertible, deep blue in color with a white top and interior. It glided silently and effortlessly down the street with only the occasional crackle from the pavement when the tires rolled over something. The car was more than distinctive. It glistened in the late afternoon sunlight, especially off the Palladian style grill topped by the figurine called the ‘Spirit of Ecstasy.’ It proudly proclaimed the car to be a Rolls Royce. Riding with the top down, Jeffers eased the car in front of his admiral and grinned.
Hammond nodded approvingly. “This ain’t no beater,” he said as he opened the door and slid into the soft leather seats. “Where did you get this beauty?”
Jeffers placed the shifter into drive again and eased the car around the circle and back onto the road. “I had always wanted one of these,” he said. “By the time I was ready for graduation, I had saved over $10,000 for a new car. A friend of my father had this car and wanted another. Between my money and a little help from Dad, I got it. It’s my baby. I call her the ‘beater’ so that people won’t be on me all the time for me to drive them around,” he said.
The car left the Navy Yard and Hammond instructed him to take “M” Street until it became Maine Avenue. The two sat back and savored the luxury as they sped along. Even the usual potholes of the DC streets didn’t faze this car. Eventually, they came up to 14th street and turned right. Then they turned left onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Jeffers suddenly got a strange look on his face. “We’re not going there are we,” he asked, shocked.
Hammond chuckled. “Pull right into that gate. They are expecting us,” he said as he pointed the direction.
The guard at the gate stepped out and broke into a wide grin. “Admiral Hammond! It sure is good to see you on the grounds again,” he said as he reached for their IDs. Another guard ran a mirror under the car.
“Jack, it’s good to see you too. How are the kids?” Hammond said with a smile.