In less than fifteen minutes, three men walked out through the same door, each dressed in paint-splattered, long sleeve overalls and caps. Under the tarp draped over their shoulders, Grant and Adler had their suitcases concealed. Moshenko led the way.
The guard turned then took several steps in their direction. Grant immediately started talking loudly in Russian, complaining about the long hours he and his partner had been asked to work that day. Grigori Moshenko shouted back, as they threw the paint buckets and tarps into the back of the truck. The arguing continued as the three men slid onto the front seat. The passenger and driver doors slammed simultaneously. Moshenko started the engine. The truck stalled. Adler glanced in the side mirror at the guard stepping off the curb, walking toward the rear of their vehicle. Moshenko turned the key again. A backfire sent a puff of black smoke out the tailpipe, and he immediately threw the gearshift into first. The guard stopped dead in the middle of the one-way road as the truck lurched forward. Another disturbance at the front of the terminal between two taxi drivers made him quickly turn his attention from the truck. Moshenko kept driving.
Lights from passing vehicles glared through the windshield as Moshenko weaved the truck in and out of traffic. A normally twenty minute drive had taken nearly forty-five minutes as he took side streets and alleys, in an attempt to shake off anyone that might be following. He turned onto Pokrovo, then at the second block turned into an alley that was flanked by two-story buildings. He shut off the headlights, leaving only the parking lights on, then slowed down. The sound of hard-packed snow crunching beneath tires was clearly audible inside the truck, as it drove across patches left untouched by wider vehicles, probably delivery trucks.
A side door of a building off to the right opened. Something was tossed directly into their path. A thick gruel-like substance splashed across the truck's hood. In his rearview mirror Moshenko noticed a man stepping into the alley who was holding a bucket. He briefly looked in the truck’s direction then turned and reentered the building that housed a stolovaya, a Russian workers' cafeteria serving what could only be described as cheap slop. Daily fare would be a dish of rice topped with pieces of fat and a ladle of grease. Adler rolled down the window, trying to rid the cab of the foul smell.
They'd traveled the equivalent of three blocks when they reached the end of the alley, where a row of run-down, vacant garages beneath abandoned stores lined the right side of the road that was in itself barely more than a wide bicycle path. Moshenko stopped the vehicle and Adler immediately jumped out and pulled one of the door's open, its rusted hinges barely holding it in place. He had to grab the edge and lift up, walking backward with it until it was fully open. Moshenko drove in and pulled alongside his Volga.
Somewhere in the distance a sound of howling stray dogs generated an eerie sensation on human minds and souls. The lamenting cries continued as the pathetic animals searched for food in dark, cold alleyways. Adler glanced in the direction of the howling, trying to see beyond the darkness through squinted eyes. He closed the door.
Very few words had passed between them during their hectic journey, allowing Moshenko to concentrate on his driving.
Finally, Grant grabbed Moshenko's outstretched hand tightly. "Nice ride!"
"Colonel Moshenko, sir," Adler said.
Moshenko reached for Joe's hand. "Joe! Welcome to my country," he laughed.
"Thanks. Too bad we won't have time for sightseeing, though."
"Ahh, yes. But, maybe next time," he winked. He reached under the driver's seat and pulled out a flashlight, then opened the Volga's trunk. "You might need these," he commented, as he reached in and lifted out two heavy, black parkas. "They may be more cumbersome than what you are used to, but they will keep you warm."
Grant and Adler took them, Grant saying, "You know us California boys pretty well. We freeze if the temperature drops below twenty Celsius!"
Moshenko removed a briefcase then led the way up a set of wooden ladder-type steps then through a heavy door. He directed the beam of light around the makeshift safehouse, settling it on a kerosene lamp hanging from a hook on the far wall.
Adler glanced around, seeing boarded up windows at the front of the building and three straight-backed wooden chairs placed near the kerosene lamp.
Grant laughed, watching Adler's expression. "Not exactly home, but it's safe to talk." He pulled a chair around and sat backwards, resting his arms on the backrest. "We've got a busy day ahead of us, Grigori."
"We do indeed… a busy and perhaps dangerous day."
"You said you have the name Steiner will be using?"
Moshenko reached inside his coat pocket and handed Grant a piece of paper. "It's the last name on the page. General Stauffenberg could not identify it, and he confirmed his original list only had nine names. As you can see, the list sent to me has ten. We will find out who from Stauffenberg’s office has helped Steiner."
"Right, but we need to stick to this first,” Grant said as he glanced at the paper, seeing the name ‘Ziegler.’ He handed the paper to Adler, commenting, "This is sounding way too simple."
Adler tapped Grant's arm with the paper, handing it back to him, saying, "Simple, as in notifying the guards at the Kremlin's entrances to keep an eye out for someone carrying ID papers with the name 'Zeigler'?"
Grant nodded, "Yeah. But we've gotta hope that he hasn't somehow found out his cover's been compromised. If he has, we're up shitcreek."
Moshenko withdrew a cigar from his pocket. He stuck it in the corner of his mouth, but didn't light up, as he stated matter-of-factly, "We have to go with what we know for the moment. Do you think he'll try and get the drug into KGB Headquarters today, also?"
"With all the top dogs at the Kremlin, I'd say that's gonna be his main objective."
Adler asked, "What if there's more than one of 'em with the drug, one person for each location?"
"I don't think so, Joe. According to Lampson, Steiner doesn't trust anybody. His profile fits an egomaniac's perfectly. He'll want all the glory. Besides, I'd say we took care of most of the top echelon of the FSG, leaving just the worker bees."
"You mentioned Lampson before," Moshenko said. "The children… they are alright?"
Grant smiled. "Yeah, they're okay. They're good little kids." He suddenly went silent, seemingly staring right through the Soviet.
Moshenko looked hard at Grant. "What is it, my friend? You are thinking about their mother perhaps?"
Grant stood and rubbed his forehead. He propped his foot on the chair. "I don't think she's dead, Grigori."
"Didn't you say… "
"I know, I know. Look, from the very beginning we suspected there might be more to this woman than anyone knew about. She's got no past history; she appears, disappears then reappears. And now… " He cut himself off, before finally continuing. "Grigori, before the meeting gets underway, can you check with your black ops… "
"You actually think…?"
"Please, just check. We’ve gotta look at every angle at this stage of the game."
"When he gets a wild hair, sir, there's no stopping him!" Adler laughed.
"Wild hair?" Moshenko frowned.
"I'll explain some other time,” Grant said. “Will you?"
"Of course. But there will be very little time for me to do it."
"I know. Just do your best."
"This may or may not mean anything," Moshenko said, first looking at Adler then up at Grant, "but I met someone in Alexei's office, a Major Zuyeva. They had just finished looking at a movie that the major eventually stashed in his briefcase. Then Alexei introduced Zuyeva as an interpreter." Grant and Adler hung on every word, hoping that whatever Moshenko offered up would help them figure out the puzzle. Moshenko continued. "During this same time, I noticed a folder on the desk labeled with the name 'Heisen.’"