He scurried behind the vehicle, then peered through the car windows. Lights came on in the house. Crouching low, he slid his back along plastic siding, then ducked beneath a large picture window. Hearing the American shouting and swearing, Zelesky slowly stood just enough to peer into the window. The American was on the phone.
Zelesky wasn’t able to pick up every word, but what he did hear was more than enough. As the American slammed down the phone, Zelesky took off for his car.
On his drive to the embassy, he had a thought. What if the person the American was talking to was the man in the photograph? The Navy SEAL. The one who looked like Kalinin. He’d report his idea to Vazov, wishing there was more time to investigate.
Chapter 17
Standing by the living room window in his old, blue Navy jogging shorts, Grant opened the blinds, then sipped on his hot, black coffee. It had been awhile since he’d slept a solid eight hours. It sure as hell felt good. Turning his head slightly, he was able to see running lights on a private yacht, heading south along the Potomac. He had to admit there were still moments when he missed the sounds and feels of a ship, the smell of seawater, an overwhelming feeling of wonder when looking at a million stars against a pitch black evening sky from the middle of an ocean. Luckily, those moments didn’t last long.
He turned away from the window, downing the last few mouthfuls of coffee, then went to the kitchen, and rinsed the cup. He started walking to the bathroom, looking forward to a hot shower. Besides driving his Vette, a shower helped him think, sort things out.
Hot water beat against his head and shoulders. He lowered his head, when his thoughts were interrupted by one question that stuck in his craw: Who the hell was ‘Primex’ and would he ever be found?
Today the Team tasked itself in finding a co-pilot for future flights. They compiled a list of names, the same way Grant and Adler made selections for Alpha Tango.
Adler pushed aside a sheet of paper. “Feels likedeja vu all over again,” he said seriously, stretching his arms overhead.
“Hey! I know that one!” Stalley said, pointing his finger in the air. “Yogi Berra, New York Yankees, right?”
Grant was leaning against the kitchen counter, with one foot crossed over the other. “And you can associate that with what, Doc?”
Stalley swung around. “Huh?”
Grant pressed a finger against his ear. “Come in Yankee Five-Two.”
“Really?! That’s where you came up with our call sign?!”
“Not really,” Grant answered, grinning. “It just sounded good.”
“Shit, boss. You guys are always jerkin’ my chain.”
Novak put an arm around Stalley’s shoulders. “That’s because we love you, Doc!”
Laughs died down just as the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Slade said. “Slade here. Yeah. Hold on. Boss, it’s Scott.” Slade covered the mouthpiece. “He sounds hyper.”
“Scott?”
“Grant! I just got word! Kalinin got away!”
Grant jerked to attention. “What?! How?!”
“He was being transferred to another holding facility. The van got T-boned!”
“Oh Christ! Anybody hurt?”
“Word was a couple of agents had broken bones but that van’s ‘toast.’ A witness on scene said he ran to help. Two men in the back were unconscious, but a third was crawling around, trying to get out. He seemed disoriented.
“Two witnesses helped that guy out of the van, then turned their attention to the driver and a passenger. By the time cops and rescue vehicles arrived, Kalinin was gone.”
“Where’d it happen?!”
“They were heading south outta D.C., somewhere along Glebe Road. I think that’s 120.”
Grant was pacing. “I think I know where he’s headed! If you’ve got updates, call Joe’s car phone!”
“Where’s he go…?!” Too late. Connection broken.
“What happened, Skipper?” Adler asked with concern.
“There was a car accident. Nick got away.”
“Holy shit!” was voiced by more than one of the men.
“Everybody hang here. Joe and I are gonna try and find him. He may be headed to the safe house. C’mon, Joe! You drive!”
Twenty-five minutes later, Adler turned his red ’67 Mustang off the main road leading into the neighborhood. “You realize we’ll be in a world of shit if anybody finds out what we’re doing, don’t you?”
“Take the next left,” Grant said. He folded a map and shoved it under the seat. “The next street on the left should be Aless. Drive past it so I can get a look.” Grant raised binoculars, turning in the seat, trying to get a better view. “Don’t see any cars in the first two driveways. Think ‘our’ house is the second one, left side of the street, if I’m reading the numbers on the mailbox correctly. Go to the street behind it.”
Adler made a K-turn, then headed back. “You really think he’s here?”
“Closest place to where the accident happened, Joe, but it’s still just a guess. Don’t even know how he would’ve gotten here, unless he hitched. The agents would’ve taken all his personal stuff, so he wouldn’t have any money on him.”
Adler turned the Mustang at the next street. “Okay. Guess this is good enough,” Grant said.
They tucked the weapons into their front waistbands, zipped up their jackets, then got out.
“Joe, get that emergency medical bag. He could’ve gotten pretty banged up in the accident.” Adler got the bag from the trunk, hooking the strap on his left shoulder.
They perused the neighborhood. So far, not much activity, except for a gray-haired older man across the street digging flower beds behind a chain link fence. A small black poodle yapped and jumped at every shovel of dirt tossed. Most driveways were clear of vehicles. Who and how many were inside the homes was a different story. But at least homes were few, spread out, with enough property between them.
“Let’s go,” Grant said as he started walking.
Adler continued watching their backs, scanning the whole area, until Grant said, “This is it.”
They were behind a rundown, single car garage. Getting as close as they could to the structure, then easing toward the corner, Grant slowly leaned his head forward until he saw the house. Windows were closed, shades and blinds were drawn. No one was in sight.
“Looks clear. You take the door’s port side. Ready?”
“Go!” Adler whispered.
Crouching low, they hustled across the property, taking positions next to the door. They waited and listened, but it was quiet. Grant eased closer to the door. It was closed but not secured. Part of the framework was splintered.
He slowly pushed it open, just enough so he could get close. “Nick! It’s Grant!” Nothing. “C’mon, Nick! Open up. Joe and I are here to help you.” They waited. There was a possibility Kalinin had passed out from a head injury, or he was very suspicious, or he wasn’t here. Grant was ready to enter, when the door opened.
Kalinin had obvious surprise on his face. “What the hell are you doing here?” A S&W .38, taken from an agent, was gripped in his hand.