"As I said, General, there had to have been a leak, but if it were me, I would have determined Moscow wanted Comrade Dotsenko returned as quickly as possible. Schonefeld was the nearest airport."
"Perhaps," Komarov nodded, before bringing up another disturbing question. "But what was their reason for taking him? Ransom?" Kalinin didn't respond. Komarov continued reviewing the incident. He mumbled softly, "Seven men pulled off a perfect operation. Who were they?"
Kalinin resisted the urge to hit the brakes, as a strange chill ran up his spine. "How many men?!"
"Seven. Why?"
"I … I must collect all details in order to proceed with the investigation, General."
Komarov suddenly remembered the distant gunfire and explosion when he and his men were attacked. "Do you know anything about an explosion that happened earlier this evening?"
"Not much. The East German police were handling it. But we were going to investigate the area. It was confirmed two men were in hospital and two others were killed."
"Well, maybe I can point you in the right direction, Comrade Kalinin. That timeframe was close to when the CIA agents were transporting Reznikov."
Kalinin rolled the suggestion around in his brain. "Very possible."
Lights of Berlin were on the horizon, slowly fading as daylight approached. Kalinin turned on the motorway, then stomped on the gas, speeding toward East Berlin.
After transferring Baskov to the emergency room at Friedrichshain Municipal Hospital, Kalinin drove Komarov to the embassy. He pulled the Volga next to the curb in front of the main entrance, and kept the engine running.
Komarov got out, then leaned toward the car. "I was expecting you to accompany me."
"Sorry, sir, but Comrade Borskaya expects us to start the investigation. We must inspect the scene of that incident as soon as possible. Then we must report our findings to him." Without saying anything further, the officer showed his ID to a guard, then walked through the gated archway.
Zykov finally got in the front seat, and brushed a hand over his short, black hair, before asking with concern, "You think he will report our leaving him?"
Kalinin didn't waste any more time, and drove away. "Do not concern yourself with that, Oleg. We have more important work to do."
"If you say so."
Driving through East Berlin, Kalinin couldn't help but think about the Russian embassy's private jet, still waiting to transport Komarov and Dotsenko to Moscow. Just the thought took Kalinin back through memories of his years in the U.S. He had a mission to bring stolen U.S. weapons to Russia, weapons that never reached their destination, because seven men pulled off a successful mission. Now, troubling but curious questions raced through his mind. Was it you, my friend, you and your men? Are you here, Grant Stevens?
Chapter 7
Cabin shades were lowered, filtering the morning sunlight, as most of Team Alpha Tango slept. A sound of screaming jet engines couldn't wake them, as they stretched out on bench seats, slumped over tables, slouched in seats. While it may have been for only a few hours, that sleep might be all they'd get for a while.
Grant and Adler were already pulling out coffee mugs from cabinets, while eating peanut butter sandwiches.
"So, what's the plan of attack for today?" Adler asked, licking peanut butter from his fingers.
Grant brushed strands of brown hair from his forehead, then sniffed the hot coffee, trying to get his eyes to focus on his submariner. "I told Scott I'd call him at 1000. In the meantime, we'll start getting our gear ready, and go over our plan."
"A plan, he says," Adler snorted. "She sure as hell better still be there."
"What's for breakfast?" Slade interrupted, as he rubbed his hands briskly over his bald head, feeling the beginnings of new fuzz.
"We have peanut butter, and peanut butter. Take your pick," Grant grinned, handing him a mug of coffee. Then, responding to Adler, Grant answered, "Guess we can't be sure, Joe. We've just gotta go with what we know. There's always a possibility for another intercept, but I have my doubts we'd be lucky enough."
"Think the Russians have her guarded?" Slade asked, sitting on a bench seat.
"With the unrest going on, you can bet your ass they do, Ken." He looked toward the front of the cabin. "Maybe it's time for reveille."
"I'll go," Slade volunteered.
"That's okay, Ken. I've gotta talk with Matt and Rob." He poured coffee into two mugs, then started walking down the aisle toward the cockpit. "Reveille, guys! Up and at 'em. Coffee's ready." He flicked a finger against Novak's head. "Hey!!" Moans, groans, and grunts precipitated body movement.
Grant moved on to the cockpit. "You guys awake?"
Garrett stretched his arms overhead. "Best night's sleep I've had in a while."
"Bullshit," Draper laughed, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
"Have some java." Grant handed each a mug. "There're some peanut butter sandwiches aft. When Joe and I call Scott, we'll make a food run in the terminal."
Garrett blew a short breath into the coffee. "What'll you be talking to him about?"
"We've gotta have that chopper and boat in order to make this op work, Matt. He should confirm either way when I make the call."
"So we don't know if we're staying here or … "
"I think we need to haul ass from Schonefeld asap. I don't want to leave you guys or the plane here much longer. Too many questions might be asked. So if you hang tight, I should know soon enough."
A three-story, red brick building, Friedrichshain (Vivantes) Municipal Hospital, was the first municipal hospital in Berlin. Located at Landsberger Allee, on the east side of Friedrichshain Park, it was approximately one mile from busy Alexanderplatz.
An East German ambulance driver stood by a window near the emergency entrance, noticing two men approaching the vehicle. One man opened the rear doors, and climbed inside, while the other first inspected the driver's side, then walked around to the passenger side.
The driver rushed outside, throwing a cigarette to the ground. Without even thinking, he angrily shouted, "Get away from that vehicle!"
Kalinin was standing next to the passenger door. As he swung around his jacket opened, revealing a holstered Makarov and his KGB badge hooked to his belt.. The driver abruptly came to a stop within a few feet of the ambulance.
Kalinin readjusted his jacket. "Are you the driver?!" The worried man nodded. "Who did you bring in recently?"
"Two men."
Kalinin stepped closer. "Do not make me ask you one question at a time."
"There … there was an accident, but they were not injured because of the accident. They had gunshot wounds."
"Do you know if they are alive?"
"They are in intensive care, barely alive. The other two are in the morgue."
Kalinin motioned with a hand, "Go." The driver rushed into the hospital, then backed farther away, trying to stay out of sight.
Agent Zykov climbed out of the ambulance, secured the doors, then walked toward Kalinin, who asked, "Did you find anything that could help us?"
"Nothing."
They walked into the emergency entrance, scanned a plaque listing departments and floor numbers, then took the elevator to the second floor.
Footsteps and voices echoed in the long, narrow corridor. Everything was sterile white, except for stainless hand rails fastened to both sides. Gurneys with crisp white sheets were outside three rooms. Doctors filled out charts. Nurses carried trays with medicine, syringes.