Grant leaned closer to the open window, putting a hand on Moshenko's shoulder. "This is it," he said, his voice low and deep, filled with obvious concern.
"Yes, my friend. Do not worry. We will find him in time."
Even though the moon was hidden behind heavy cloud coverage, bright floodlights cast long shadows across Red Square. Around the base of St. Basil's Cathedral, white lights directed their brilliant glow upward onto the colored domes. The streets were nearly deserted, except for city buses and taxis. But the conditions were still less than perfect for Grant and Adler.
Trying to conceal themselves was becoming increasingly difficult. They stayed close to the buildings on their way to the river, ending up across from the southeast corner of the Kremlin wall. Their timing would have to coincide with the movement of the guards around Spasskaya Tower and Lenin's Tomb. From the river to the cathedral was all open territory.
They stood in an alley with their backs flattened against a building. Adler poked his head around the corner, judging the distance to the grate to be about seventy-five yards. He talked softly into his throat mike. "Seventy-five yards; open ground."
Grant's eyes shifted from Adler to the corner of the wall. Adler jerked his head around, seeing a city bus coming toward them that was preparing to make a left turn. He gave a thumb's up. As the bus made the corner, the two men took off, staying as low as they could, then they jumped onto the back bumper, desperately trying to gain a handhold along the protruding taillights. Following the curving road around the cathedral wall, the bus leaned slightly to the right. Grant motioned with his head and they both jumped off the bumper, doing a touch and roll as if they'd completed a parachute landing. The thick parkas were awkward, slowing their progress, but they were warm and offered some protection from the rough cobblestone. Staying on their bellies, they hugged the ground as if they were crawling under barbed wire. Crabbing their way along the dirty pavement another ten feet, they reached the wall around the cathedral, in direct line with the grate.
Grant cautiously got up, staying close to the wall. His eyes continuously scanned their surroundings. Overhead, barren, drooping branches of shrubbery rustled against the wall. Suddenly, harsh sounds of voices made the Americans go stone-still. Guards, Grant thought. The voices gradually grew weaker as the two Russians made their way inside the short tunnel leading to Spasskaya Tower.
Adler got on all fours then reached for the grate and pulled. It didn't budge. He reached between the bars with one hand, trying to grasp the slide bolt Moshenko had told them would be there. It was stuck. Shit! He quickly reached for his belt, stripping it off. He folded it in half, formed a loop, and gingerly reached in again, slipping the loop over the slide bolt's handle. Giving a quick look around and seeing it was clear, he jerked hard on the belt. The bolt slid back with an abrasive sound. Gotcha! He grabbed hold of the grate again. With a jerk, he pulled it from the ground, laying it to the side of the opening.
Grant scrambled around him and climbed down the steel ladder backwards, jumping off when he was about six feet off the ground. Adler climbed down just enough so he could slide the heavy grate over his head, feeling it settle into the lip of the opening. He met Grant at the bottom. Their eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness as they moved farther away from the opening.
The wall was damp and rough; small protrusions caught on their clothing. Grant finally pulled his penlight from his pocket and shined the light on his watch. Oh six hundred hours. They had about a hundred fifty feet to go before they'd be at the tower. Grant whispered the time to Adler, then, "We'll wait here till we talk with Grigori." Adler nodded.
The members of the People's Congress would start arriving in another couple of hours or so, unwittingly setting the stage for the plan. Moshenko indicated the conference was to be held in the Meeting Hall of the Supreme Soviet, part of the same building as the Grand Kremlin Palace. Located opposite Spasskaya Tower, the hall was on the southwest side of the Kremlin, facing the Moskva River. With a history of revolution and war, the Soviets strived to protect its members of the Politburo. Beneath each building a shelter had been constructed, each one linked to a passageway leading to Spasskaya Tower.
Moshenko would be wearing civilian clothes. The only indicator that he was KGB was a small lapel pin. He'd wait alongside the guards at the checkpoint in Spasskaya Tower, already having given them specific orders to exam every identification more thoroughly. They were to be on the lookout for an East German named ‘Major Zeigler.’ Once he was identified, they were to give a signal to Moshenko. As KGB, Moshenko's reasons for his request would not be questioned. He would then follow Steiner, whether by car or foot, making contact, if possible, before he entered the Meeting Hall of the Supreme Soviet.
Grant's radio sounded. He answered, "Da."
Moshenko responded, continuing in Russian, "I am at the Tower. When I have the perpetrator, I will bring him to you." Exiting back through the main Kremlin entrance with Steiner might draw too much attention, so Moshenko decided to use one of the shelter accesses leading to the tunnel. Once Steiner was in Grant's hands, Moshenko would return to get his car, then drive it back outside the Kremlin walls, parking near the grate. The three men would crawl out then get into it without being seen. He counted on normal, everyday tourist and citizen activity for them to blend into the scenery.
Grant's voice went low. "You contact me if you run into trouble."
Moshenko smiled to himself. "My friend, just being here you are taking enough of a chance. Be patient."
A strange feeling went through Grant as he answered, "Keep me posted."
"Do svidaniya."
Grant switched off the radio, checked his watch, then tapped the radio against his forehead. "I don't know, Joe."
"Problem, sir?"
"Let's move farther down the tunnel."
There was silence between them as they made their way along the corridor, trying to sidestep puddles of filthy water. Rancid smells overpowered their senses at times. Their pace slowed as the penlight beams moved from the pavement to a heavy metal door twenty feet ahead.
Adler asked, "You think something'll go wrong, Skipper?"
"Odds aren't exactly in our favor, Joe." He switched off his penlight. "I can't put my finger on it," he said as he shrugged his shoulders. "We've gotta be ready for anything."
"So, what's new?" Adler grunted.
In their homes, the people of Moscow began to stir, struggling to get out of warm beds, then dressing and eating typical breakfasts, all before bundling up and taking to the streets.
While the hustle and bustle of everyday life was taking place at street level, two Americans waited in the filth and stench of the Moscow underground. As cars and buses drove by Red Square, their exhaust fumes descended into the tunnel where they waited, cold and hungry.
Grant was pacing while Adler picked out a dry spot on the floor next to the wall, making himself as comfortable as possible, trying to pull his parka down far enough to cover his butt.
"Can't you keep that thing quiet?" Grant chided.
Adler patted his growling stomach. "Mmm, want food! Need food!" he grinned.
Grant squatted down next to him. "Well, then, it looks like you're gonna have to catch something down here."
Chapter Seventeen
A thin layer of ice began forming along the banks of the Moskva River during late October. For the past week, the gray thickness stretched itself outward like an icy hand, reaching toward the opposite shoreline. Along the riverbanks the ice was already three inches thick, thinning down to only one inch at the midpoint of the river. The yellow-white light of the morning sun hung like a shield, covering the eastern horizon. Shadows created by the spires of St. Basil's Cathedral began to stretch toward the Kremlin wall.