Dressed entirely in black, the Team arrived one hour after sunset, well before the time the targets were due. The Audi with Diaz, Slade, and Novak was within 200 yards of the bridge with its headlights off. Feeling confident they or the Audi wouldn't be noticed, Diaz parked beneath a canopy of trees along a dark, single lane road. The men had a clear view of the route the Russians would be traveling.
Three miles farther east, Grant, Adler, James, and Stalley were near the first turn coming from the airport. Adler parked the Audi well off the road, still giving them a view of any car traveling the route.
"Headlights," Adler reported. He raised the binoculars, and waited for the vehicle, knowing it had to slow down when it reached the turn. As expected, the Mercedes slowed just enough for him to spot its occupants. "Five inside, four wearing uniforms. UF (unfriendly) in rear wearing a hood."
"Reznikov," Grant said, as he pressed the PTT. "Three-Six, targets heading to you."
"Roger," Diaz replied. Not long after, a Mercedes sped by the Audi's location. Diaz notified Grant. "Vehicle just passed."
Novak and Slade left the Audi, maneuvering their way closer to the bridge. Positioning themselves 100 yards east, they took cover behind a concrete wall that ran parallel to Konigstrasse. Using high-powered binoculars, they kept their attention on a black, four-door Mercedes. It was parked east of concrete barricades that were set up in a zigzag pattern, thereby controlling the speed of vehicles.
Grant glanced at his illuminated submariner, showing 2349. "They should be getting ready to make the swap." He pressed the PTT. "Four-One, update."
While Novak continued surveillance, Slade responded, "Eyes on four uniformed UFs outside vehicle. One UF inside with hood."
Grant glanced at his watch. "Head back once parties have met. Copy?"
"Copy that." Slade and Novak continued surveillance.
Adler leaned against the driver side door, adjusting his holster. "Unless shit happens, 'company' should be arriving soon."
Grant nodded, then pulled his Makarov from the shoulder holster. As he tightened the silencer, he turned in the seat, looking at Stalley and James. "Good to go?" The two gave a thumb's up. Their Makarovs were secured in holsters. AKs rested across their laps.
No other traffic had passed in either direction. A.T. counted on the strict travel restrictions.
Security pole lamps, positioned near guard houses on both east and west side of the bridge, illuminated the entire bridge area. Three Russian KGB officers, and one regular Army enlisted, stood together by the Mercedes. Across the bridge two CIA agents exited a black, mid-size, panel van, while two more remained inside with their passenger. Everyone waited for the stroke of midnight.
Lieutenant General Nikita Komarov and Lieutenant Colonel Vlad Petrova, flicked cigarettes behind one of the vehicle barriers, then they walked closer to the guard house. Both officers were highly trusted, highly trained in the "world" of KGB.
Petrova raised a set of binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck, focusing them on the van. "I see two agents outside the vehicle, Comrade General."
The stocky-framed Komarov stood with his arms behind his back, slapping one hand against the other. "Any sign of Comrade Dotsenko?"
"Not yet."
At 2355 a sliding door on the van opened, and Dotsenko stepped out, nervously adjusting his suit jacket. Four CIA agents walked with him toward a pole barrier. Special Agent Carl Traimore headed up the mission, accompanied by Special Agents Steve Leamon, Marty Fitzgerald, and Blake Torres.
"There he is." Petrova lowered the binoculars, just as Komarov turned slightly, signaling for Reznikov to be brought forward.
A car door opened. The hooded passenger was handcuffed and continued resisting. He had to be forcefully pulled from the vehicle. Then, Sergeant Baskov and KGB Major Kozlow each grabbed an arm, leading him closer to the point where he would begin his 75 yard walk to the dividing line at bridge center. The five men waited.
Chimes from a distant bell tower signaled midnight. Guards manually raised the pole barriers. Baskov and Kozlow accompanied Reznikov, who stumbled and kept resisting.
Dotsenko started walking east. Special Agents Fitzgerald and Torres followed close behind him, not so much as guards, but prepared to assume control of Reznikov.
Dotsenko gave the hooded Reznikov an emotionless glance, but his attention immediately was drawn to the white dividing line. As soon as he stepped across, Baskov and Kozlow fell in next to him.
The two CIA agents took control of Reznikov, with Torres immediately pulling off the black hood. The thinning black hair, and scarred hands and face ("earned" while spending time in one of Russia's toughest prisons), completed the identification process.
Blinking several times, he finally caught sight of the end of the bridge, a guardhouse, and waiting Americans. Before he was taken from his prison cell, he was handcuffed and the black hood put over his head. He had no idea where he was being taken.
Once near the Mercedes, Komarov greeted the returning Russian with hand extended. "Comrade Dotsenko! Welcome!"
Dotsenko returned the handshake, and replied simply, "Spaseeba, Comrade." Being back under the control of Russians left him with a very unsettling feeling. He reminded himself he was doing this for Sophia, but so much could go wrong, especially when it involved the KGB.
He climbed into the back seat, with Komarov and Petrova sitting on either side of him. Baskov slid behind the steering wheel, and moved the seat forward, as Kozlow settled into the passenger seat. Baskov started the engine, then looked in the rearview mirror. Komarov kept his eyes on the Americans, who literally dragged Reznikov into their van. Komarov finally gave a nod, the signal to proceed to the airport.
Slade tapped Novak on the shoulder, whispering, "Let's go." They ran in a zigzag pattern, maneuvering through the trees, heading for the Audi.
Slade notified Grant: "Exchange complete. Comin' back."
"Roger," Grant responded, continuing to hold the PTT, calling Diaz in the second Audi. "Three-Six, fire it up."
"Roger," Diaz responded.
Novak and Slade slid across the rear seat, just as Diaz started the engine. He slowly drove the Audi toward the main road, looking for any sign of headlights. He lowered the window, listening. "They're comin'!" The Mercedes roared by.
"Jesus! What the fuck have they got under that hood?!" Novak blurted out.
Slade pushed the PTT. "Zero-Niner, targets headed to you, high rate of speed."
"Roger," Grant responded.
Diaz put the car into gear, eased forward until he could barely see red taillights, then he pulled out, but kept the headlights off. He 'hit' the gas. At the speed the two cars were traveling, they'd reach the point for the intended snatch in no time.
Slade pressed the PTT, notifying everyone. "Approaching marker two."
"Time to move," Grant said.
The four men pulled down black, one-hole masks, then quickly exited the car. Standing alongside the asphalt road close to turn number two, they were getting ready to take their positions, when headlights appeared on the horizon, the high beams growing brighter.
Baskov slowed and made the right-hand turn, anticipating the next turn one hundred yards away.
"Now, Frank!" Grant said under his breath.
The Audi fishtailed as Diaz made the sharp right turn. Immediately bringing the car under control, he flipped on headlights then high beams, driving the Audi within a car's-length of the Mercedes.
Glare in the rearview mirror momentarily blinded Baskov, and he grabbed the wheel with both hands, expecting a rear end collision.
Kozlow braced his hands against the dashboard, warning, "Look out!"
Baskov hit the brakes. The back seat passengers were thrown forward. They braced themselves, trying not to hit the front seats. The Mercedes came to a screeching halt, directly in front of four men blocking the road, each one in a shooter's stance, with pistols and AKs aimed straight at the Mercedes.