Grant slowly rocked his head side to side, and just smiled.
Chapter 10
Kalinin stood, then stretched his back. He and Zykov had been looking through files for hours, trying to find the slightest detail to lead them to Dotsenko. The trip to Schonefeld proved worthless. They couldn't obtain passenger manifests or flight info. The crew aboard the Russian plane had no recollection of a Gulfstream in their vicinity.
The more he thought, the more something inside him said Dotsenko was snatched by a team of Americans. His "capture" had nothing to do with Reznikov's escape.
The only safe haven had to be the American Embassy, but that particular embassy never had listening devices installed by Russia, and as far as he knew, no other agents kept the embassy under surveillance. And to him that made no sense. For the time being, there was no way to prove Dotsenko was even there.
The biggest question still remained: Why the hell did the Americans give him up to begin with? If they knew about his activities in the States, wouldn't they try and obtain valuable information from him, possibly get him to 'turn'?
"What the hell!" Kalinin snapped loudly, pounding a fist against his forehead.
Zykov closed another folder, then looked up. "What?!"
"Nothing is making sense, Oleg. If Americans took Dotsenko, why the fuck did they exchange him to begin with?"
"Maybe you just want it to be the Americans. Have you thought about that?"
Kalinin realized his partner might be right. Two unanswered incidents, neither one making any sense. Kalinin questioned himself now. Why couldn't he just roll all his effort into one? Each time he started down one path, he was distracted by another.
And as far as Reznikov was concerned, CIA was probably still looking for him, too. But there was something that bothered Kalinin about Reznikov's prior terrorist attacks. What had been the purpose? There was never a reason, no proclamation, just destruction and lives lost. Hmm. Americans, West Germans.
He leaned back against a file cabinet, crossing his arms over his chest, then stared down at the scuffed concrete floor. There had to be more to it.
"Nicolai!"
"What?!"
"I said, what do you think?" Zykov turned over another paper.
"Think?!" Kalinin responded, pounding a fist on the file cabinet. "How about pissed and frustrated?"
"What are we missing?" Zykov yawned, scrubbing his hands up and down his cheeks.
Kalinin went quiet, as his thoughts reverted back to the van, and then the car that most likely helped Reznikov escape. "Shit!" He hurried to the file cabinet, started searching for a particular folder, then pulled it out.
Zykov walked to the file cabinet, and propped his elbow on top. "What?!"
Kalinin kept folding over papers, until he found one in particular. "Here it is." He skimmed over the page. "Our intel guys did something good."
"Are you going to keep it a secret?" Zykov asked with his brow furrowing.
"Two years ago, the night the American barracks were blown up, intel intercepted radio messages, frantic messages between the Americans and West Germans. Here! Look!"
Zykov read the three sentences Kalinin was pointing to. "A green, 1970 Trabant. A description of the car!"
"Right."
"But what makes you think they are using the same vehicle? What are those odds?"
"We have to start somewhere, Oleg, and this is all we have right now. Do you have something to write with?" he asked, slapping his own pockets.
"No, but there must be something upstairs." Zykov hurried to the elevator.
Kalinin waited until the elevator doors closed, then he went to another file cabinet, spun the dial, pulled open the drawer, and took out two files. For a brief moment, he hesitated, tapping them against the drawer. Finally making the decision, he tucked them under his shirt in his back waistband, and readjusted his shirt and jacket. He'd read them when he had private time. Hearing the elevator motor, he slammed the drawer shut and spun the dial.
Zykov copied down information on the vehicle, names of individuals who reported the incident, then handed the paper to Kalinin. "Now what?"
"We go to intel, see if they picked up anything new, and hope they have more info on that vehicle. But I want to come back here later. We need to find a connection between those three men."
Zykov put on his jacket, as they walked to the elevator. "They are a terrorist gang, Nicolai!"
Kalinin stopped short, then grabbed Zykov's arm. "Listen to me! There must be a connection. It could be a town, another person. But something or somebody brought those men together! Somebody financed their operations!"
"I guess we will not be getting any sleep for a while."
Kalinin punched the elevator button. "Not likely."
Just three blocks northeast of Checkpoint Charlie, in the Soviet Zone, was a four-story, standalone concrete building on Kronenstrasse. It was the tallest of its kind within a two-block radius, one of many buildings rebuilt after World War II.
Zykov parked the Volga along a side street. "I hope we are not wasting our time," he said to Kalinin, as both car doors slammed. Kalinin ignored the comment.
The two men showed their IDs to a uniformed guard at the door, even though he recognized them. He snapped to attention, then opened the door.
A wide hallway had elevators to the right, office doors to the left. Black and white portraits of Lenin, Stalin, common workers, paintings of the hammer and sickle were hung on every wall. Straight ahead was a plain, concrete staircase with shiny steel handrails. The two men opted to take the stairs.
Once at the second floor, they walked down a hall to the left, heading for a specific room. Zykov pushed open a heavy wooden door, letting Kalinin enter ahead of him.
On the far wall were blacked out windows preventing light from entering, and prying eyes from seeing. Four rows of desks were in the center of the room. Along both sides were long tables with transcription equipment, teletypes, fax machines. Phones were on each of the 20 desks with a man sitting at each one. Some wore headphones, concentrating on intercepted transmissions, and making notes. Others listened to tape recordings.
A short man, with a dark beard approached the two men. "Comrade Kalinin, Comrade Zykov, is there anything we can help you with?" Boris Yellen asked.
Kalinin unbuttoned his jacket, and removed the paper. "Two things. First we want to look at any information you have on this vehicle. It was involved in the bombing of the U.S. barracks two years ago. Second, have there been any intercepts with reference to Alexei Dotsenko?"
"I will check, Comrade. What timeframe for the Dotsenko intercepts?"
"The past two days."
Yellen glanced at the handwritten note, then went to a file cabinet, and removed a file. He went to his desk and opened a thick ledger, flipped over half of the pages, then ran his finger down columns of dates and names.
Yellen handed him the file. "I could not find any information recorded pertaining to that name, Comrade."
"Shit!" Kalinin said through gritted teeth.
"Comrade Yellen! Sir!" one of the intelligence men shouted. He pulled off his headphones, holding them toward Yellen. "Comrade, you must hear this!"
Kalinin and Zykov hurried across the room, following Yellen. "What is it?" Yellen asked, grabbing the headphones, then holding one side against an ear.
Kalinin stood with his hands on his hips, growing more impatient. Whatever was happening …
"Here! I have never heard of the place!" Yellen said, shoving the headphones at Kalinin.
Kalinin slipped the headphones over his head, pressing both sides tightly against his ears. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, trying to pick up every word. The call was being transmitted from Poland, going directly to Moscow. He listened for over two minutes, hearing questions from Moscow and answers from Drazowe. "Holy shit!" He yanked off the headphones, and dropped them on the desk. "You see to it that we receive a copy of that tape with the entire transcript of that transmission before the morning is over! Do you hear me?!"