After five days of national mourning, Gorshevsky would be given a state funeral. Burial would be at the Novodyevichy Cemetery, adjoining an ancient monastery, and considered to be an honored burial ground, second only to the Kremlin Wall.
Relieved the terrorists were dead, the Russians never questioned the East Germans as to the actual cause of death. The assumption was enough.
By order of Minister Vasily Sokoloff, the remains of the three terrorists were cremated, and their ashes dumped in the cold Spree River.
Chapter 17
Wearing a pair of blue gym shorts, Grant stretched his arms high overhead, and leaned side to side, as he walked to the living room window. Tomorrow he'd resume his sit ups and push ups, and maybe do some laps at the pool.
He raised the white blinds, in time to catch a brilliant sunrise. Waters of the Potomac glistened. Boats were already traversing the river, most on a course to the Chesapeake Bay and the waters around Virginia. This time of year blue crabs were plentiful.
"Time for breakfast," he yawned.
Padding across the carpet in his bare feet, he went to the kitchen. Cheerios would be the morning meal. He poured a bowlful, added ice cold milk, and eyed fresh coffee still splashing into the clear glass pot. He ate a spoonful of cereal on his way to the window.
The phone rang. He glanced at his watched, then picked up the receiver. "Stevens."
"Hey, Grant!"
"Morning, Scott! You're up kinda early!"
"Yeah, one of those nights. But I knew you'd be up!"
"What can I do for you?"
"Just wanted to see how you and the guys were doing, whether you all recuperated after your trip."
"Yeah, we're okay, buddy. Sleep does wonders for the old body. Appreciate you asking."
"Are you still having a meeting with the President?"
"It's scheduled for 0900."
"Can you give me a hint on its purpose?" Mullins laughed.
"Don't mean to sound so clandestine, but I'd rather wait. Listen, Scott, can you come to Eagle 8 today?"
"Sure. What time?"
"I'll call you after Joe and I are out of the meeting. Why don't you drive to my apartment, then you can follow us?"
"I'll wait for your call. Good luck with the meeting."
Grant turned on the TV, then sat on the couch. After 15 minutes of switching channels, nothing new was being reported. Russia was still preparing for Gorshevsky's funeral. Discussions were ongoing over the resignations of Bancroft and Platt. Reporters were waiting for a White House press conference, anticipating an explanation. Positive reactions were expressed with the President's nomination of Ray Simmons as the new director.
No one had mentioned CIA Special Agents Steve Leamon and Marty Fitzgerald. But at Langley, inside the main building on the north wall, a star for each of them had been carved into the Memorial Wall. Beneath the stars, in the "Book of Honor," their names were added to a list arranged by year of death. The book was encased in stainless steel and topped by an inch-thick plate of glass.
Grant switched off the TV, and carried the empty bowl to the kitchen. The strong coffee smelled good. "This should get the old 'pump' going."
Blowing a breath into the hot liquid, he sipped slowly as he leaned against the counter, thinking about the mission. But Gorshevsky's death still bugged him. There had to be more to the story. He needed to think, and the shower was a good place to do it.
Hot water beat against his broad shoulders. He tilted his head back, trying to get the "gray matter" to function more efficiently.
But it was his gut that was trying to tell him something again. What? Did Nick present his evidence to Antolov? Was it possible he got even further up the "food chain" and confronted Gorshevsky?! The Russian media reported the Premier had a stroke. How convenient. The Kremlin could be lying its balls off.
Too much frustration was setting in. "Dammit!" It was time to give up trying to figure it out. He shut off the water, and grabbed a towel from the hook. There was only one way he'd ever find out the truth — Nick. But that in itself was nearly an impossible mission.
"Time to rest the old brain, Stevens." As he stepped out of the shower, he heard the phone. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he hurried into the living room, as he swept away water dripping from his hair. "Stevens."
"Mornin', skipper!"
"Hey, Joe! Morning!"
"I take it our meeting at the White House is still on."
"Haven't heard otherwise. Listen, maybe we should ride together. Can you pick me up at 0830? Traffic might be a bitch that time of morning."
"Not a problem. Hey, are we gonna meet the Team at Eagle 8?"
"That's the plan. I'm hoping Matt had luck getting our benefactors 'on board.' He hasn't called so that might be a good thing."
"Guess we won't have time to stop for breakfast."
"Not even a possibility. Besides, I just had some cereal."
"So! I had frozen waffles."
Grant laughed. "Why don't we do this? On our way to Eagle 8, we can stop at the Italian restaurant you've been raving about, and pick up lunch for everyone."
Sounding pathetic, Adler moaned, "If I have to wait, I have to wait."
Pushing strands of wet hair off his forehead, Grant said, "Scott's gonna meet us here after the meeting. He'll follow us out to Eagle 8."
"Sounds good. See you at 0830."
Wearing T-shirts, and jeans or cutoffs, Team A.T. was prepared for a hot day. The temperature was already approaching 88 degrees, but inside the triple garage and the below ground storage magazine, the a/c kept the temperature at a cool 72 degrees.
In the shade of the garage, an oval metal tub was filled with ice, surrounding bottles and cans of Coke, Pepsi, and beer.
Stalley grabbed a Pepsi, popped the top, then sat cross-legged on the dirt. "Anybody have an idea why boss wants to talk with us?"
James squatted down in front of him, grinning. "Did you finish your homework like a good boy?" Stalley gave him a shove, knocking him on his ass.
"Here they come," Diaz said, walking closer to the front of the house. "You'll get your answer soon enough, Doc."
A red Mustang, black Vette, and a red Pontiac Trans Am followed one another, then pulled behind the other vehicles.
"Who's got the 'hot' Trans Am?" Stalley asked, trying to stand up quick, brushing dirt from his cutoffs.
"It's Scott," Slade answered. "Wonder why he's here?"
Doors slammed. Adler shouted, "Listen up! Lunch!" James and Slade grabbed the ice-filled tub, hauled it into the house, and put it on the kitchen counter.
As soon as everybody was inside, Grant motioned for Draper. "Hey, Rob, I don't think you've met Scott Mullins."
"Our 'go-to-man' at State!" Draper laughed, shaking Mullins' hand. "It's good to put a face to the voice."
"Nice to meet you, Rob," Mullins responded. "How'd you get yourself involved with this bunch?!"
"The power of persuasion, I suppose!"
Smelling food, the men gathered close to the counter. "Joe found a great Italian restaurant," Grant said, as he and Adler started taking wrapped subs out of paper bags.
"No surprise there!" Slade laughed, looking over Grant's shoulder.
"These are some of their specialties. We asked for a variety, so take your pick." Grant pulled Mullins' arm. "C'mon, Scott! These guys mean business when it comes to food. You snooze, you lose, buddy!"
Everyone was still eating, talking, having a good time, when Grant got up, went to the kitchen, and started making two pots of coffee. Once he'd finished, he let his eyes go from man to man, wondering what their reactions would be.