"What's that supposed to mean?" Stauffenberg asked indignantly, realizing too late how his response sounded.
"What I mean is I want you to call off your search for Brennar."
Stauffenberg slowly rose out of his chair, bracing himself against his desk. "Do you realize what you're asking? Do you realize the implications if we don't find him?"
"You should have thought about that before you let him escape, General. And lest you forget, you take orders from me, and I'm ordering you to stop your search." A streak of sunlight glinted off one of Moshenko's most cherished possessions, his father's ceremonial sword, worn during the reign of Tzar Nicholas. Moshenko's eyes lingered on the sword momentarily then he continued the conversation. "Now," he said, as he reached for a sheet of paper on his desk, "I have a list that your staff forwarded to my office showing who will be attending tomorrow's meeting."
"Yes," Stauffenberg responded, with defeat in his voice.
"Do you have your copy?"
“I will get it, Comrade.”
As he waited, Moshenko let his eyes scan the list of names. In the background he heard what was probably Stauffenberg's office door slamming.
"I have it," the general said, as he slumped into his chair.
"Do you recognize all the names? Do you know all of the officers listed?" Moshenko could only hope that luck would turn his way.
"This is a waste of time, Comrade. I personally signed the orders for these men."
"Appease me, please, General. Look at the list."
Stauffenberg ran his finger down the list, silently pronouncing each name as if in confirmation. He wiped his upper lip with an index finger. "They're all familiar to me, Comrade." Moshenko threw the paper on the desk then he heard Stauffenberg say, "I signed the orders for each of the nine men."
Moshenko's heart jumped and he grabbed the paper, his eyes zeroing in on the number of names listed. "General, did you say 'nine'?"
"Yes, nine," Stauffenberg repeated. "Nine names, nine sets of orders."
"Do you have the name 'Zeigler' on your list?"
Stauffenberg frantically scanned his list. "Uh, no. Should I?"
"Well, it's the tenth name on my list, General Stauffenberg… the tenth name. And your signature is at the bottom." Dead silence. "General, I'm waiting for an explanation."
"Comrade Moshenko, sir, I will make inquiries immediately and find out how this happened." Stauffenberg's face went from pale to beet red. Fear and anger consumed him at the same time. His left eyelid started twitching.
That's him, Moshenko thought. That was the name Steiner was using. He cleared his throat and eased back in his chair. "I have another inquiry, General." Stauffenberg groaned, bringing a brief smile to Moshenko's lips. "Tell me about Greta Verner? I believe you've misplaced her, also."
"I only know she worked at the university. Once the project began we had an order issued that we be notified when anyone was hired. Her papers were in order, and she had the experience."
Moshenko's voice boomed, "Are you trying to tell me you didn't know she and Brennar were lovers?!"
Stauffenberg blurted out, "No! I mean, not in the beginning. We only found out several months ago."
"Were you aware of the children?"
"Yes."
Again dead silence, only this time it was on the KGB agent's side of the phone. "Did you have them followed?"
"We didn't put a separate tail on the woman, but I saw to it that Brennar was always watched."
"You mean like the night he escaped?" Moshenko taunted.
Stauffenberg swallowed hard. It took all the willpower he could muster to prevent the contents of his stomach from spewing out onto his desk. There's no fucking with the KGB — and he'd just fucked up big time.
Moshenko leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his eyes becoming mere slits. "And what about the FSG, General? Do you watch them as closely as you watched Brennar?" Moshenko wasn't expecting a reply. "I'm sure we'll see each other at tomorrow's meeting, General Stauffenberg. In the meantime, you will not — I repeat — you will not discuss our conversation with anyone. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Comr… " The phone went dead in Stauffenberg's ear.
Moshenko immediately dialed another number, this one to an office inside KGB headquarters located on the first floor and directly above Lubyanka Prison. "This is Colonel Moshenko. I want information on a Major Boris Zuyeva. Specifically, I want to know any unusual skills he may have." He reminded himself not to make his inquiry too obvious. "Oh, let's say, something that might help further his career. Also, see if you have anything on someone named ‘Heisen.’” Moshenko spelled the name then added, "I'll expect the information in fifteen minutes." He hung up.
The KGB officer slowly rubbed his fingertips back and forth over the handset. He swiveled his chair around, then got up and went to the window behind his desk. He leaned toward the glass, tilting his head to see overhead. A scattering of clouds drifted across the sky. The sun's rays glared off the snow. Constant traffic along the roadway turned the once pure white snow into dirty black piles.
Was Stauffenberg being truthful? How could he not know more than what he admitted? Moshenko was rerunning the tape of the conversation he'd just had with the East German when he noticed the time. Grant and Joe should be on their way. That will give him some time to think this through. He was prepared to place a call to Grant in Gdansk later that day. The phone booth on the corner of Teatralny would have to be used. Talking to his East German comrades from his office was one thing, but talking to his American friend was quite a different matter.
He glanced at the horizon, a slight smile crossing his lips as he thought, Stauffenberg! A genuine sour Kraut! But his smile quickly faded. Something nagged at his brain, actually, two things — a movie projector and a folder with the name “Heisen.”
Chapter Sixteen
The early morning storm dumped snow on Moscow but had by-passed Gdansk. Situated at the mouth of the Vistula River on the Baltic Sea, Gdansk's climate was much more favorable than its neighbor to the east.
Aeroflot flight 853 touched down on runway 21, smoke and debris flying outward as the screeching tires hit the concrete runway. It taxied toward the one-story terminal then came to a rolling stop about one hundred feet from the passenger entrance. Maintenance personnel rolled portable steps up to the open door of the aircraft.
Only ten passengers had booked reservations on the flight from East Berlin. A Russian businessman and an East German with two small children would be the last to leave the plane. Grant Stevens and Joe Adler had current passports identifying them as Yuri Borisov and Wilhelm Schwimmer.
A slim, dark haired stewardess dressed in a red jacket with matching skirt, stopped by the tall, handsome man. "I hope you had a pleasant flight," she smiled up at him.
He put on his black leather jacket and returned her smile. "Yes, thank you." He pulled an overnight bag from the shelf above the seat. "Are you from Odessa?" he asked, looking down at her surprised expression.
"Why, yes, well, actually, about eighty kilometers from there. How did you know?"
"Your accent," he smiled, as he started walking away.
She leaned against one of the seats. "Perhaps we'll meet again sometime."
"Perhaps." He took long, slow strides down the aisle toward the front of the plane, eyeing two men putting on their coats near the front row. He stopped next to the fourth row of seats behind the bulkhead. "Can I help you," he asked in broken German as he smiled, watching the man trying to bundle up one of two little blond-headed boys. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the last passengers leave the plane.
"I could use the help," Adler responded in German. He picked up one of the boys and stood him on the seat, the little boy continued to gyrate and sing. He managed to put the boy's red jacket on him then he looked across the aisle as the man tried his hand at playing 'daddy’ with the other twin.