Ducking in and out of passengers, visitors, airline staff, trying to stay out of the agents' view, Grant made it to the left side of the escalator. He cautiously looked past it, seeing Dotsenko standing perfectly still, in between Abbott and Zwick. They were second in line for the ticket counter.
"Behind you, boss," Stalley said quietly.
Grant turned, and handed the folded note to Stalley. "You've gotta get this to Dotsenko."
"Whoa, boss!"
"I know, Doc, but you've gotta do it." Grant leaned his head, seeing Dotsenko still second in line. "Your best shot will probably be right after they leave the counter, when they're walking through the crowd. Approach from the front. Usual routine. Accidentally bump into him, and put it in his hand." Stalley nodded, as Grant continued. "If you say anything, use your French, not English. Then high-tail it to that bathroom," Grant pointed. "Joe's in one of the stall's. I'm sure at least one of the agents will escort Dotsenko, so be prepared. I'll handle the second agent. Once it's clear, you and Dotsenko 'beat feet' and go to the car. We'll be right behind you. You can do it, Doc! Go."
Grant rushed toward the phone booth, as two men exited the restroom. Too fucking much can go wrong on this one,he worried as he ducked into the phone booth.
Somehow Stalley managed to press the PTT. Grant and Adler heard, "Pardonnez-moi!" Five seconds later, Stalley ran into the restroom.
Now, all they could do was wait. The second part was up to Alexei Dotsenko.
Grant looked over his shoulder, then immediately turned and picked up the receiver. Sonofabitch! Dotsenko and the two agents were walking toward the restroom. If any passengers were in there, it was too late to do anything about it.
As Grant suspected, Abbott posted himself in front of the entrance, Zwick accompanied Dotsenko. Abbott checked his watch, then folded his hands low in front of him.
No sooner had he done that, when two passengers, carrying suitcases, walked toward the restroom. Abbott put a hand out, shook his head, then pointed toward the opposite side of the terminal. Without question, the men left.
A sound of a moan, then a shuffling noise in the restroom made Abbott rush to investigate. Grant was close behind him.
Stalley was dragging Zwick into one of the stalls. Abbott had his hand on his sidearm as he shouted, "Hold it!"
Grant's fist was already balled up, when he yelled, "Hey!" Abbott spun around. Grant struck him with a quick, sharp, powerful punch. Blood spurted from the bridge of the agent's nose. He collapsed, unconscious.
Adler was helping Dotsenko put on the jacket and cap, as Grant started dragging Abbott into a stall. "Doc, get outta here … now!"
Stalley grabbed Dotsenko's arm. "Let's go, sir!"
Grant propped Abbott on a toilet. "It suits you, you piece of … "
"Skipper! Move it!" Adler picked up a trash can. As they hustled out of the restroom, he plopped it down at the entrance, hoping to delay anyone from going in.
They hauled ass through the terminal, hearing a commotion behind them, figuring it was the agents. They picked up the pace and ran towards the parking lot. Stalley had the engine running. Dotsenko was in the rear seat, overwhelmed for the second time.
Stalley pointed toward Grant and Adler. "There they are, sir!" He backed out of the parking space.
Grant yanked open the front passenger door. "Doc, let Joe drive!"
Stalley was barely settled in the back, when Adler peeled out of the parking lot. "Where to?!"
"The safe house. No! Hotel Berliner!" Grant looked out the back window, not seeing any sign of the Audi — or police.
"Worried about them recognizing us?" Adler asked giving a sideways look at Grant.
"Abbott barely had time to see my fist! But you know what? I say fuck it! They're gonna have to answer for what they tried to do, along with whoever made the decision."
"Hooyah! Stalley called out, raising a fist.
"Damn straight, Doc," Grant responded before asking Adler, "How's it looking, Joe?"
Adler glanced in the mirror. "Got some traffic behind us, but no 'little agents' or flashing lights following."
Grant turned, setting his eyes on Dotsenko. "Sir, are you all right?"
"I am. Yes, I am."
Grant offered his hand. "Courage again, sir. You did it!"
"And I'm grateful again, to all of you."
"We're taking you to the Hotel Berliner. We've used it before, on 'special occasions.' There's good security, but Doc will stay with you." Grant dug out his wallet from his back pocket, then counted out German Marks. "Here, Doc. That should cover the room for a couple of days. I want you to stay with Mr. Dotsenko the whole time, but I'll put the guys on four-hour shifts to come and give you updates. They'll see that you get three squares a day." As Grant put his wallet back, he reminded Dotsenko to not make any phone calls. "Doc, use the radio in an emergency. It should be back there with you."
Adler had one last question. "Tell me again why we're not going to the Gulfstream instead of the hotel?"
"Can't chance it, Joe. Besides, the more places they have to look, the longer it'll take them. And we need final confirmation on what we're to do next."
With Stalley and Dotsenko safely checked into the hotel, Grant and Adler drove back to the embassy. As Grant closed the car door, he looked across at Adler. "Joe, round up the Team. Have them go to the conference room, then you meet me in the scrambler room." He took out his wallet then handed Adler some dollar bills. "Get them drinks and whatever."
Grant was leaning against the counter in the scrambler room, waiting for the call to go through. Adler came in, and handed him a Snicker's candy bar.
"Everything okay?" Grant asked reaching for the candy.
"I thought they'd go apeshit when they didn't see Doc. I squared them away."
Grant nodded as he heard: "Mullins."
"Scott. Got news."
Without interrupting Grant, listening to his every word, Mullins rocked back and forth in his swivel chair. After ten minutes, Grant went quiet, waiting for Mullins to comment. "Scott?!"
"You need to talk directly with the President! Hold on … "
"Wait! Scott! Before you do that, I need your help with something."
"Go ahead."
"I should've asked for your help on this before, but time got away from me. I've got a list, seven men, all Russians. You may need to 'call in' some markers, though."
"My pen awaits."
Grant gave Mullins the names of the four Russians who were transporting Dotsenko, then Reznikov and his two men's names. "I'm trying to connect the dots, Scott. I need anything that can link all or some of them together."
"When do you need it? Wait! I know — yesterday, right?"
"You got it, buddy."
"Hang on while I dial the White House."
Adler tossed the candy wrapper into the trash can. "Do you think he'll be able to help with those names?"
Grant stood then stretched his back. "Sure as hell hope so. We might be running outta time."
Andrew Carr sat quietly, swirling the black coffee in a white ceramic cup. Scooting farther back in his swivel chair, he sipped the warm brew. His earlier conversation with Grant had to be kept under wraps for the time being. He was worried. What if Grant's theory proved to be correct? What if …?
National Security Advisor Hillman interrupted his thoughts. "Would you like me to call Langley, sir?" Hillman adjusted the leather band of his Bulova watch, glancing at the time, while he waited for Carr's response.
"Yes, and you'd better call NSA." Hillman rolled his chair back, but as he started to leave, a frustrated Carr said, "Stan, tell the director and general to join us. I want to know why no one can give me updates. It's too damn quiet, and that worries me." Hillman left for the Watch Room.