The clock above the door showed 1315. He went to the outer office. "Margaret, do you know if George and Blake are in the crypto lab now?"
"I know Blake is. When George left for lunch, he said he had an errand to run and would probably be back by two," she answered as she curled a strand of chin-length black hair behind her ear.
"Okay. Think I'll go take a walk around the building. Whatever I ate for lunch is sitting pretty heavy on my stomach," he said as he patted his belly.
"Hope you feel better, Matt." She turned toward the IBM Selectric typewriter and started filling out the daily report.
Instead of going outside, Wharton made a detour and went to the crypto lab, giving the same instructions to Blake Kelley as he'd given to Bradley, except the drop zone was different. Fifteen minutes later he was outside smoking a cigarette, waiting for George Canetti to return. Canetti would be given the third drop site.
All three sites were in secluded areas in the southeastern section of East Berlin where there was plenty of tree coverage. Grant, Joe and Manfred would be close enough in proximity to one another in order to pair up quickly when it was time to head out for the lab. Afterwards, Manfred would drive to a designated site and wait for Grant and Adler to bring the children.
After his discussion with Canetti, Wharton walked over to the iron gate. The Marine guard snapped to attention. "At ease, son," Wharton smiled. The guard relaxed to a stiff parade rest. Wharton leaned against the gate, staring across the busy four-lane road. Business as usual. He blew a mouthful of smoke between the iron bars while he mentally reviewed the intended plans for that night. All three men — Bradley, Canetti, Kelley — would be waiting for a confirmation call from the Navy boys, but that call would never come. Instead, he'd be getting that call, a verification that one of his men had turned. Whatever site the FSG showed up at would point the finger directly at one of them. Christ!
Stevens was leaving it up to him to decide what to do next. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Stevens and Adler were going after the FSG's lab to destroy the formula. He flicked the cigarette through the bars. What the hell was it that Torrinson said? Save the Kremlin? "Holy shit!" he shouted. The Marine jumped to attention as Wharton flew past him. He started running up the stairs, then nearly stumbled when he tried to stop on a dime. Now wasn't the time to draw attention or raise suspicion. He ran his palms along the sides of his head, smoothing down disheveled strands of hair.
"How are you feeling?" Margaret asked before popping a peppermint candy into her mouth.
He reached into the cellophane bag and pulled out one of the wrapped candies. "Better, thanks."
"That should help," she smiled. "Peppermint's supposed to be good for the tummy."
He grabbed another one, then went into his office, closing the door behind him. Standing near the desk, he dialed a number then sat down. Torrinson's yeoman answered and Wharton responded, "Matt Wharton here. Let me speak to the Admiral."
"Wait one, sir."
Within a matter of seconds, Wharton heard, "Hey, Matt!" Torrinson scooted closer to the edge of his leather swivel chair, bracing his arms on the desk. "What's happening?"
"Do you remember our conversation a couple nights ago?"
"Yeah," Torrinson replied, drawing the word out slowly.
"More specifically, about a certain place in the world that's near and dear to our hearts?"
Torrinson knew the place was Moscow but didn't know where the conversation was going. He wanted to clear up one point immediately. "Lay it on me, Matt. Are the boys okay?"
"Sure, sure. Now, tell me, John, the info they got from my boy has something to do with how the group plans on using the new 'candy,’ right?"
There was a brief moment of silence before Torrinson answered, "Affirmative." Before Wharton could reply, he added, "As a favor, Matt, leave them to their game, okay? They'll handle it."
Wharton pressed his back against the chair, rocking it back and forth. "From what I know of them, I'm sure they will, John. But if things start to turn to shit, you've gotta pull me in on it. Deal?"
The game was too far along. Torrinson didn't expect to hear from Grant till it was over, one way or other. If it went wrong, they'd all be up shitcreek. "Yeah, Matt, it's a deal."
"Good. Thanks. Hate to end our cheery little talk, but I've got a busy day and probably a busier evening. I'm sure we'll be talking again soon."
"For all of our sakes, I hope not real soon, Matt."
Chapter Fourteen
Closing time for the park was seven o'clock. A heavy chain had been pulled across the road then attached to a five-foot high concrete pillar on the opposite side, prohibiting entry. A gravel road traveled approximately one mile from the entrance then made a loop and returned. This was the only way in and out.
Within ten minutes after hitting the ground, Grant had buried his jump gear and chute deep within the woods. He was outfitted completely in black with a black watch cap pulled low on his head. He retrieved the rucksack, then crouching low, he ran halfway down a knoll, weaving in and out of pine trees, finally taking up a position about a hundred yards from the park’s entrance. A fifty foot pine was broken seven feet above its base, a recent victim of a lightning strike. A few lower branches close to the stump still had their needles intact. Good cover, he thought as he scooted behind the stump, dragging the rucksack as he went. Resting on one knee, he unzipped the sack. He took a quick look around the tree trunk, then removed a standard issue, drab green walkie-talkie. The thin band of its antenna flopped back and forth. "Panther calling Timberwolf. Come in Timberwolf."
"Timberwolf. Go 'head, Panther," Adler replied.
"Confirm contact with Silverfox."
"Confirmed and secure." Once Adler had secured his own position, he made contact with Manfred. The old man had instructions to contact Adler if anyone appeared at his location. If not, he was to wait until 2345 hours then drive to a predetermined location and wait.
"Roger," Grant answered, keeping his voice to just above a loud whisper. "Over and out."
It was understood that unless they encountered a problem, their next transmission would be at 2330 hours. He put the walkie-talkie back into the rucksack, pulled out his "hushpuppy" and screwed on a silencer. He slipped it into his front waistband. Taking the rucksack with him, he crept across the grass until he was in the thick of some branches still covered with long needles, then he maneuvered himself in between two large boughs, crawling close to the main trunk. He felt the prick of sharp needles poking through his sweater. The branches gave him enough coverage, even from a kneeling position. Again he opened the rucksack and removed the Starlighter scope. Looking through a Starlighter was like looking at a negative, only instead of black and white, objects showed in light and dark green. He knelt close to the tree and put the scope to his eye, slowly making a hundred eighty degree sweep of his surroundings. Then, he turned around and checked his back.
After nearly twenty minutes of continuous listening and watching, he lowered the scope then pushed his shoulders back, trying to ease the tightness. He glanced overhead, looking up between the surrounding trees through the space left by the fallen pine. It was a moonless, starless sky. How many missions had he found himself looking up into this same type of sky, under the same conditions, in the middle of some goddamn ocean, desert, or jungle. He thought to himself: Christ! Fourteen years of my life. Hold it! This isn't the time to get into one of your philosophical bullshit sessions, Stevens.