Grigori Moshenko stood by his office window, one floor above Lubyanka prison, looking out at the square and statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky, founder of the KGB.
He’d been up since well before daylight, unable to sleep. His wife, Alexandra, questioned his restlessness during breakfast, but there wasn’t anything he could tell her. Until he was certain, until he talked with Grant, he would have to keep his emotions in check, choose his words carefully, both at home and at KGB.
In their twenty-seven years of marriage, he and Alexandra never kept secrets from one another, except State secrets, of course. This current situation he had become involved in, even though it was by his own choosing, had to do with Russia and KGB. Whatever the outcome, it would affect their lives beyond what they could imagine.
If he decided to make the critical decision, he had faith that Grant would stay true to his word, true to their friendship. But foremost in his thoughts was Alexandra. Even if it didn’t work out for him, for whatever reason, he was confident Grant would see to her safety.
He turned and went to his desk. There couldn’t be any notes, any traceable phone calls. Whatever he learned would remain in his head. He sat in his chair and looked up at the ceremonial sword once worn by his father during the reign of Nicholas II.
Resting his elbows on the desk, he leaned his chin on his fists, keeping his gaze on the sword, as he wondered what his father would think of him. If he were still alive, would he try to prevent him from going through with his plan? It hardly mattered now.
He pulled opened the middle desk drawer and lifted out a cigar, a Davidoff, from its wooden box. Swiveling his chair around, he got up and went to the window again. Rolling the unlit cigar between his fingers, he couldn’t help think about the years he’d known Grant.
How different would his life be if he had never met him? He’d still love Russia and being part of the KGB, but would he have the ability to think beyond Russia, to another way of life? Grant was not one to criticize nor make any disparaging remarks about Russia, and he never put any thoughts in his head about defecting. He was a true friend. His missed his American friend.
He put the unlit cigar to his lips, thinking about three days prior, when he was called to the office of Mikhail Antolov, Director of KGB. Not unusual, except with Antolov that day was Dmitri Osokin, Minister of Internal Security. Osokin had replaced Alexei Stoyakova, who was now a resident of Lubyanka Prison.
What Moshenko was told that day disturbed him deeply. American POWs from Vietnam were being held by his government, in his country. Neither Antolov nor Osokin gave any explanation why the Americans were brought to Russia. Nor did they tell him who initiated the “plan.” Moshenko knew there really was only one person with that kind of authority. It had to be Premier Gorshevsky.
Initially, Moshenko felt outrage in the act his government had committed, then disappointment in himself for never knowing. How could he have not known, especially being KGB?
He soon realized two things: first, the only purpose for him to be in the meeting was to receive orders, orders that put him in charge of taking the Americans to East Germany; and second, the outrage he was feeling was obviously because of his closeness to his two American friends, Grant and Joe.
A sound of screeching tires below his office window brought his mind back to the present. Looking at his Vostok watch, he still had thirty-six hours before he made the next call. There was more he had to do.
Grant stretched his arms overhead and yawned as he walked in his bare feet down the hallway to the galley-style kitchen. Coffee and water were already in the stainless percolator. All he had to do was plug it in.
Taking slow steps into the living room, he turned on the TV, then went to the double window and raised the blind. Light from an early morning sun reflecting off the Potomac hit him square in the eyes. “Whoa!” he said, rubbing his eyes.
After blinking a few times to clear away the spots, he glanced overhead. Standing out against a clear blue sky were white jet trails, crisscrossing one another. To the right of his apartment he was able to see car traffic crossing bridges and overpasses, as government workers headed into the city.
The aroma of fresh brewed coffee drifted into his senses. The final sounds of the last perks of the brew splashed against the lid. He walked back to the kitchen, and removed a mug from the cabinet next to the stove. Sammy the SEALemblem was imprinted on one side of the white mug. On the opposite side there was a simple inscription, Love, Jenny. His wife had given this to him on their first Christmas together. Somehow it managed to survive all the packing, all the moves, probably from him giving it the extra care.
Giving his head a quick shake, he stood at the kitchen counter and poured a steaming half cup from the pot. He immediately took a couple of sips of the hot potent brew, feeling a need to jump-start his heart. He refilled the cup as he thought, Feels like a peanut butter kinda morning. He grabbed a slice of bread from the cellophane wrapper, and slathered on a heaping tablespoonful ofJif. Folding the bread in half, he took a bite, then went back to the living room.
Sitting on the couch, he propped his feet up on the coffee table, and finished the bread. Sipping on his coffee, he tried to get his mind on the morning news. But a replay of the previous evening with Joe and Tony kept interrupting the broadcast, and he only picked up bits and pieces of what the announcer was saying.
He kept trying to wrap his brain around the fact that POWs were still being held — and not in Vietnam. Even more surprising was Grigori making the call to the Agency. That worried him.
And when he worried, he got hungry. Jesus, he thought, I’m turning into Joe! He got up and headed for the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal, when the phone rang. “Stevens.”
“Captain Stevens, this is Zach, sir.” Red hair, blue-eyed Petty Officer Zach Phillips is the yeoman for Rear Admiral John Torrinson.
“Hey, Zach. Morning. A little early, don’t you think? Did you sleep there?”
“Uh, yes, sir, it’s early, and no, didn’t sleep here, but we’ve been here since 0530.”
“I take it you mean you and the admiral?”
“That’s affirmative, sir.”
“Okay, Zach, lay it on me. What time does the admiral want to meet?” Grant asked, taking a swig of coffee, as he sat on the couch armrest.
“At 0930, sir, but not here. You and Lieutenant Adler are to meet him at the White House.”
Grant nearly choked. “The White House?”
“Yes, sir. You’re to meet with the President.”
“The President?”
The admiral’s yeoman laughed, then apologized. “Sorry, sir, but the admiral had an idea that’s what your reaction would be.”
“Okay, Zach. Look, I’ll call Joe. Do I need to speak with the admiral before I leave?”
“No, sir. He’s meeting with SECDEF and SECNAV at 0730. He’ll meet up with you before you see the President. He said he’d be in that small room off the Situation Room.”
“Okay, Zach. Thanks.” He immediately called Adler.
A gravelly, tired voice answered, “Adler.” He and Grant stayed up until nearly 0130, talking about the Langley meeting.
“Reveille, Joe. Haven’t had your coffee yet?”
“Pouring my third cup as we speak. What’s up?”
“I’m putting you on notice to get out your best ‘Good Humor’ uniform. We’ve been invited to the White House today.” The nickname “Good Humor” uniform applied to the Navy’s summer service whites.