Lampson's body shuddered, then he said somberly, "Von Wenzel or Heisen must have written it. What did it say?"
"Steiner has the drug."
"Oh, my God," Lampson muttered.
"I had a… shall we say, run-in with one of his men. All he managed to tell us was that we were too late. That's gotta mean that Steiner is on his way or is already in Moscow." Grant stared at his black shoes that were in desperate need of a spit shine. Blowing a long breath through tight lips, he continued, "All we've got is your description." Once again he looked up at Lampson. "If he wants to get into that meeting tomorrow, he'll probably be wearing a uniform. Christ! I hope Grigori was able to get something more for us."
Both men turned their heads hearing giggles from the little boys. They had pulled Grant's jacket from the back of the sofa and were trying to hide underneath it. "You've gotta be thankful they've come through all this, Rick, and in good shape. They're a couple of tough little guys." Lampson nodded then got up off the bed, went over to the children, and sat on the floor near the sofa.
A sudden tapping at the door made Grant jump and automatically reach for a .45 that wasn't there. They had to leave their firepower with Manfred. The only means of protection they could rely on was the gun Lampson should have brought from Marie’s. Grigori would have to supply them with everything else they'd need.
“It’s me, boss,” Adler whispered.
"You didn't forget anything, did you?" Grant smiled, glancing at the two bulging paper grocery bags filled to the brim.
Adler put the bags on the dresser and called to the boys. "Josef, Franz." They jumped off the sofa, falling on their hands and knees, but immediately got up and ran to Adler. He bent over and handed each of them a large sugar cookie. "Leo said the kitchen's available. I got us a couple of sandwiches."
"Sandwiches?" Grant grunted, his voice obviously lacking enthusiasm. "I was hoping for a sixteen ounce T-bone."
"But wait! Wait'll you see the suckers! I asked the store clerk to load them up."
"Hope you got your Rolaids," Grant grinned. He turned to Lampson. "Rick, do you know how many other guests are staying here?"
"Only people I've seen are a couple who checked in two days ago and a single, elderly gentleman. This isn't exactly tourist season."
"Okay. Why don't you take the boys downstairs and make them a hot meal. Joe, were you able to get us a room?"
"Next door, like you asked."
Adler handed Lampson one of the grocery bags. Lampson stopped at the door. "By the way, Captain… Colonel Moshenko is quite a man. And one helluva chopper pilot!"
"Yeah, I know; told you not to worry."
"Never thought I'd be saying that about a KGB agent. You won't tell my boss, will you?" Rick smiled weakly.
"My lips are sealed," Grant answered.
Lampson called to the boys. They ran to him, licking sugar from their little fingers. "You can lock the door. I've got my key."
"Rick," Grant called, "before you go… you have the firearm secured?"
"The suitcase is on the top shelf of the wardrobe."
"Okay. By the time you get back, we’ll be next door catching some shut-eye."
Once in their room, Adler started removing his food stash from the paper bag. Individually wrapped pastries, overstuffed sandwiches on hard rolls, and bottles of Coke and ginger ale lined the top of the dresser.
"You want Coke? Skipper! Do you want Coke?" Getting no response, he turned. Grant was stretched out on one of the twin beds, sound asleep, his hands resting on his chest. The Coke fizzled as Adler popped the top with the opener. He carried it and a sandwich over to the sofa and sat down heavily, putting the bottle on the floor between his feet. Eat first, sleep later, he told himself. He glanced at the bed, hearing Grant's steady, deep breathing. “Don't worry, boss. I'll save you a morsel or two.”
The bedroom was in total darkness. Heavy, blue curtains prevented light from filtering through. Grant began to stir. He cracked open one eye and looked across the foot of the bed toward the window then he turned his head, seeing the dark shape of Adler's body sprawled out across the other twin bed. A muffled sound of voices made him bolt upright. Christ! What the hell time is it? He reached for the lamp on the nightstand.
Adler's body jerked, and he pushed himself up, shaking the cobwebs from his head.
"Reveille, Joe."
"Yeah, right," Adler groggily answered, his voice sounding husky from sleep. He rolled over on his back and rubbed the back of his hands across his eyes, squinting as he tried to focus. "What the hell time is it?"
Grant slid his legs over the edge of the bed. He held his arm up toward the light. "Sixteen hundred hours."
"Yeah, but what day?" Adler groaned.
"Continuation of the same one, I'm afraid," Grant answered as he stood up and stretched his arms overhead. "Think I'll skip sit-ups," he mumbled.
Lampson's room was as quiet as a tomb. There was the sound of a door closing somewhere down the hallway, followed immediately by a set of heavy footsteps pounding across the carpeting, then the distinct sound of those footsteps descending the staircase. Grant whirled around, hearing a piercing double ring of the phone. He shot a glance at Alder and motioned for him to answer.
"Ya?" Adler replied into the handset. He raised his eyes to meet Grant's, mouthing the word ‘Grigori,’ then handed the phone over. He slid off the bed and rubbed his face, feeling the scratchy stubble of beard.
With all the precautions being taken, Grant and Moshenko weren't about to assume their conversation wouldn't somehow be monitored. They’d leave out specific information and would again converse in Russian. Moshenko was in a phone booth that was nothing more than a three-sided glass enclosed box, making the background noises of car horns and clanging tram bells impossible to drown out. Grigori used a sequence of numbers to make the call, eliminating the need for coins.
"I'm here," Grant answered, as he watched Adler leave the room. His leaving wasn’t to give Grant privacy, but to check out the lobby and office. He and Grant had made a sweep of their room before sacking out, and even though it was Leo who put the call through from his office switchboard, it was an extra measure of safety.
"My friend, I have some news."
"Hope it's good."
"Yes and no," Moshenko sighed deeply, turning his back to the traffic and pedestrians. The temperature was dropping. Ice crystals started forming on the thawed, mushy snow. He pulled fur-lined suede gloves from his coat pocket. "I have the name that our expected visitor will be using."
"Outstanding! That should eliminate the need for us to bring 'papa' tomorrow, right?”
"Da."
Grant took slow, deliberate steps back and forth between the beds. "And now… the bad news?"
"Let me ask you a question first," Moshenko said, noticing a reflection in the glass of a woman wearing a long, sable coat passing the phone booth. He followed her with his eyes as he asked, "Did you find the woman?"
A picture of Greta, blood-covered, passed through Grant's mind. "She's out of the picture, my friend." Squeaking springs sagged along the edge of the mattress as he sat down heavily.
"Hmm. I'm afraid all I've been able to confirm is that she was employed at the university, which we already knew."
"Well," Grant said with disappointment in his voice, "at least you got what was really important.”
Moshenko understood, then asked, "What time can I expect you?"
"We're leaving here tonight at eight thirty. I'll call when we get there."
"Safe trip, my friend. Do svidaniya.”
"Do svidaniya," Grant answered, then he put the receiver into the cradle. He walked toward the window, scratching his head. He separated the curtains slightly. The sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving a deep shade of orange to paint the drifting clouds. Street lamps glowed. He hammered his fist against his forehead. "Think, Stevens! What the hell's wrong with this picture?"