Grant shot off another round. Victor Engels stumbled, fighting to retain his balance but his legs buckled. He fell to his knees then crumbled on the ground in a heap, landing about six feet from the door and moaning in pain.
Rapidly ejecting the empty clip from the .45, Grant reached into his vest then rammed a fresh one up into the handle, slowly raising himself up, keeping the gun gripped in both hands. He took side steps, cautiously approaching the body from the back. He kicked at the Luger, sending it spinning across the dirt. He stood over Engels momentarily, when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a small object just under the door sill that resembled a large gun casing. As he picked it up, a noise off to his left made him freeze. He spun around, with his gun poised, nearly falling back on his butt. "Christ! When the hell are you gonna start following orders?!"
Adler came running up to him with gun drawn, briefly glancing down at the German. "It's good to see you, too.”
Fire leapt through the lab's ceiling that had been blown out, flames licking at pieces of furniture on the floor above. Window glass cracked and popped.
Stuffing the object he found inside his vest, Grant searched Engles' pockets for identification. He withdrew folded papers from a pants pocket, then rolled Engles over on his back. The German's eyelids fluttered, but he was too weak to keep them open. A blood stain on his chest was spreading. Grant handed the papers to Adler.
Alder illuminated them with his penlight, then knelt down on one knee, leaned close and asked in German, "Where's Steiner, Victor?" Engles coughed, a trickle of blood dripped out of the corner of his mouth. His voice was barely a whisper, making Adler lower his head even closer. Engles' body went limp.
Grant and Adler stood simultaneously, as Adler said, "According to him, we're too late."
"Shit! He's on his way to Moscow."
"You sure?"
"I'll explain later.”
An unmistakable sound of sirens punctuated their urgency as Adler grinned, “Polizia!”
“Let’s get our asses outtta here."
They ran full bore across the vacant field, hurdling obstacles in their path, racing to make their rendezvous with Manfred and the children.
Torrinson sat at his desk with his back pressed against his chair as he swiveled it back and forth. His fingers formed a teepee and he tapped them against his lips. He was worried and pissed at the same time. No word had come out of West Berlin. It was all too quiet. What the hell's going on over there? He said quietly, “Where the hell are you, Captain?” There was a knock at his door. "Come!"
"Sir," Zach Phillips said as he stuck his head around the door, "there's a call on the scrambler, from the West Berlin Embassy."
Torrinson all but lunged for the phone. "Matt!"
"Sounds like you missed me," Wharton laughed.
"No time for jokes, Matt. What the fuck's happening over there? Are Stevens and Adler okay?"
"The last time I talked with them, they were."
Torrinson's voice was rising with each question. "What the hell's that supposed to mean? And where are they?"
"Look, John, cut me some slack, will ya? It hasn't exactly been easy for me lately."
"Okay, okay. Point taken. What's the straight skinny?"
Wharton stood by his office window then pulled his chair around, finally flopping down into it. "Your Captain Stevens is quite the detective, John. He put a little scheme together that trapped our… Jesus, it still doesn't seem possible!"
"He found your mole, didn't he, Matt?"
"Yeah, he sure as hell did. It was Kelley, Blake Kelley, one of my crypto guys."
"Christ, Matt, I'm really sorry." He realized the pressure Wharton was under, and for the next several minutes let him detail, uninterrupted, the plan that Grant had devised to flush Kelley out. When Wharton finished, neither of them spoke until Torrinson asked, "Why, Matt? Did you find out why he did it?"
"The bastards were blackmailing him, John."
"Blackmail? What the hell did he do?"
"Not what he did, but what he was. They found out he was a homosexual."
Torrinson's head dropped back and he stared blankly up at the ceiling. "Christ," he mumbled softly.
"Ya know, when I confronted him that night, I wanted to rip his goddamn head off. I don't remember ever, ever, being so pissed in my whole life."
"Any indication he passed any other information, Matt, like your codes?"
"He hasn't admitted to it. He said all the group wanted was info on Lampson." He reached for a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out with his lips, then flung the pack across the desk. "Ya know, John, it makes you wonder how something like this could happen right under your nose. Goddammit!"
"How'd he pass all this info to begin with?"
"A driver that picks up dinners for the train station in the East was Kelley's drop man. Kelley would leave a message in a paper bag in the trash at the corner of Steinstrasse. It was always in a movie house popcorn bag. Horst Rhinehart would make the pickup and deliver it to Steiner."
"What's gonna happen to him now?"
"He's on a MAC (Military Airlift Command) flight to Andrews. I'm sure the 'plumbers' will get what they're looking for to hook his ass. From there, further investigation, then trial." He pulled open his middle drawer, shoving aside papers till he found a book of matches. He folded back the cover and bent one of the matches over half way, flicking it against the striker with his thumb. A spark of sulfur flew against his tie. Another burn hole! Shit! He took a deep drag from his cigarette, then with smoke pouring from his nostrils, he finally said, "Getting back to your boys — we got word from their contact in the East that they'd succeeded in rescuing Lampson's kids and set off the explosives in the lab and tunnel."
Torrinson let out a deep sigh, his body going slack in the padded leather chair, then his brain registered and he sat up. "Where are they, Matt?"
"Don't know."
"Shit!"
"Don't get your ass in a twitter. You know they had to get the kids to Lampson."
"And where's Lampson?"
"Uh, don't know that either."
"You're sure a goddamn wealth of knowledge!" Torrinson roared back.
"Well, here's something else for you! The contact said that the group's leader, Klaus Steiner, had the drug. All indications are he's on his way to Moscow."
Torrinson groaned. "They're going after the bastard!"
"You can't be certain of that, John."
"Oh, no? Would you like a side bet?"
Wharton laughed, one of the few times since the shit started. "Listen, if I hear from them, I'll let you know, if you'll do the same. Deal?"
"Yeah, sure, sure."
"Good talking to you, John. Listen, you know your boys better than I do. But from what I've seen, you shouldn't worry."
Torrinson knew Wharton was right. He just didn't like being out of the loop.
Chapter Fifteen
Blasts of bitter cold wind whipped heavy, wet snow against a window in the study. The storm had descended on the city with the same ferocity as a pride of lions attacking prey. Inside the apartment, a black mesh folding screen was balanced against the stone hearth, stretched across the opening. Behind it a scattering of white hot nuggets of oak were among the pile of ashes in the fireplace, the simmering wood sporadically letting out pops and cracks as the fire slowly died.
Asleep in the second floor bedroom, Grigori Moshenko lay on his back in the overstuffed bed, a sheet and three heavy blankets pulled up tightly under his chin. In a quiet, peaceful slumber, a steady sound of snoring streamed from his open mouth. But a familiar noise was trying to reach into his subconscious mind and he began to awaken.