Steiner gestured with his hand. "Good. Good."
"Do you have something on your mind? Anything else I can do?"
Steiner shook his head. "I was just remembering something I read one time that suits what I am trying to accomplish. 'To choose one's victim, to prepare one's plan minutely, to slake an implacable vengeance, and then go to bed… there is nothing sweeter in the world.'"
"Hitler?"
"No. Stalin."
Chapter Thirteen
A cigarette dangled from the right corner of Matt Wharton's mouth. Hazy, weightless gray smoke hung close to the ceiling. He sat behind his desk reviewing the report word for word. The outside of the folder was stamped with the words: TOP SECRET.
His private line rang. He gave the phone a disgusted glance then returned his eyes to the pile of paper. On the third ring he angrily grabbed the receiver. "Wharton!"
"Grant Stevens, sir. You alone?"
"Well, Captain! Yes, as a matter of fact, I am." He pulled off his reading glasses and flipped them onto the desk then squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.
"Can we talk?" Grant asked.
Wharton leaned forward, tensing instinctively. "Sure, sure. This line's secure and most of the staff's gone to lunch. What's the problem?"
"I know Admiral Torrinson's filled you in on our upcoming activities."
"Yeah, we've discussed it." Wharton heard something that sounded like a long breath being exhaled, unsure of what he was going to hear but positive it wasn't going to be to his liking.
"I'll cut right to the chase, sir. I've got every reason to believe somebody there at the Embassy is playing double duty with you."
Wharton blinked. It felt like every ounce of blood in his body had just been shot through a cannon, firing against the inside of his skull. His head pounded. "Oh, Christ!"
"Look, I think we need to talk face-to-face. We're gonna need your help. Can you come out to Tegel?"
"Hell, yes. Name the time." Grant responded with time and place, and then Wharton said, "I'm on my way."
Activity in the outer office alerted him to the fact that his staff was returning from lunch. It was a perfect time for him to leave without any questions being asked.
Not longer after his conversation with Grant, he walked three blocks before ducking into a side street then hailed a cab. Handing a couple of extra Deutsche Marks to the cabby would ensure his swift arrival at Tegel Airport.
Wharton pushed himself back against the seat. Nervous tremors in his right foot started his heel pounding involuntarily against the floorboard. Images of faces flashed through his mind as if he was thumbing through a loose-leaf binder filled with portraits. Employees in the Embassy had worked for him anywhere from six months to the longest, two years. He swore to himself: Jesus Christ! How the hell could this happen on my watch?
He reflected back on the number of times he had observed, with mixed feelings, the exchange of spies at the Glienicke Bridge. How the hell long had the fuckin' shitbird been making a fool out of him, out of all of them?
Suddenly, a white Mercedes shot past the cab, its tires screeching as it cut in front to make a right-hand turn. The cabby leaned on his horn and hit the brakes. Wharton's head snapped forward and he grabbed hold of the armrest out of instinct, because his mind continued spinning on another matter. First, it was shock that held him firmly in its grasp. Now it was complete, unadulterated fury.
The cabby glanced in his rearview mirror, seeing his passenger's face change from white to a shade close to purple. Terrified the man was having a heart attack, he slowed the vehicle and nervously shouted, "Are you sick?"
The sound of the voice startled Wharton, shaking him out of his stupor. "Nein!" He motioned with his hand for the driver to keep going, saying, "Faster!"
Within twelve minutes the cab pulled in front of the Kummel Cafe. Wharton handed the cabby his fare. "Danke." The confused cabby could only watch as Wharton jumped out of the cab, slamming the door behind him.
He stormed into the noisy cafe, then stood just inside the entryway. Several men stood around a billiard table as they anticipated the next shot by a portly man, leaning over the table with his cue stick poised. A crack of a cue ball striking another one on the green felt tabletop caused Wharton to jerk his head toward the source of the noise. He stretched his neck, trying to see above the heads of patrons milling around the bar, trying to tune out other sounds of silverware, clanking glasses and a steady hum of chatter. Finally, near the far wall, he noticed Grant looking in his direction. Wharton bulldozed his way through a throng of boisterous patrons.
Grant sat down as soon as Wharton spotted him. He picked up his coffee cup and looked at Adler. "Batten down the hatches, Joe."
Adler swished a mouthful of Coke back and forth between his cheeks, finally swallowing it as he answered, "Aye, aye, Skipper."
Wharton paused at the bar to order a beer. A young female, with short blond hair, poured a deep gold-colored beer into a tall beer glass. He ignored her smile, dropped money on the bar, and with the stein gripped in his hand, made his way over to the two Americans.
He took a swig of the warm ale as he got to the table. "Gentlemen," he said as he nodded, then pulled a chair out and sat down heavily. The stein rapped against the tabletop. He rubbed his hands together then reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to the two men, who both declined. He took a deep drag, then let the smoke stream out of both nostrils. "Before we get started, are you gonna tell me what the fuck you've done with my favorite boy?"
"Uh, I'd prefer just to tell you that he's safe and in good hands, sir," Grant responded, shooting a quick glance at Adler.
"That's all I get?" Wharton asked with a rising voice, showing his obvious annoyance.
"I'm afraid for now, that's it."
"Listen, you know that if I hadn't already talked with Torrinson we wouldn't be having this goddamn conversation." Grant gave a slight nod, then Wharton added, "But since I did, I assured him I'd give you any assistance you needed, and that was after his shorthand overview of your upcoming operation. All I can say is that you'd better make damn well sure that I get my merchandise back in excellent working condition," he declared gruffly, pounding the tip of his index finger continuously on the table. "Do I make myself clear, Captain?"
Grant nodded, then replied, "Perfectly." He scooted himself forward on the chair. "Look, we did what was necessary to protect Rick. And by the way, one attempt was already made on his life not long ago."
"Don't be fuckin' with me, Captain."
"Wouldn't think of it, sir," Grant shot back.
Adler just listened to the banter, as he thought: This is certainly going so much damn better than expected! Shit!
"Yeah, right," Wharton responded before taking a swig of beer. "Let's get this show on the road. Who do you have under the microscope?"
Noise in the cafe continued at a fever pitch. A thick layer of cigar and cigarette smoke filled the cafe like an early morning fog. Grant took a quick look around, then leaned closer, rolling the coffee cup between his palms. "I can't give you a single name, but I've got it narrowed down to three."
"Just how'd you come up with those three names?" Wharton asked skeptically.
"Part what Joe and I observed after we got back with Lampson, and part from my instincts."
Wharton nearly choked on a mouthful of beer. "Your instincts? Your damn instincts?"
Adler quickly interjected, "You gotta go with his instincts, sir, believe me. You gotta believe in 'em."