Out of the corner of his eye, Moshenko saw Grant's movement forward. He reached out and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back. "It's too late. She's dead, I'm sure."
Sounds around the three men faded into the background, as they stared at the empty, bubbling space for what seemed like several long minutes. It was Moshenko who spoke first after finally hearing the hi-low pitch of the two-toned police sirens. "We'd better go, my friends." He placed a hand on Grant's snow-covered shoulder. "There's nothing left for us to do here."
Grant glanced over his shoulder one more time before following Moshenko and Adler back across the road. More and more curious onlookers were rushing toward the bridge. Sirens became louder.
Grant spoke softly. “Who was she, Grigori?”
"You and Joe were right all along. She wasn't who she pretended to be." For several minutes Moshenko repeated the story Natasha Ostrova had told to him.
"And Lampson never knew," Adler said, surprised.
"She was very good at her job, Joe,” Moshenko responded. "Although she didn't tell me, I am sure she loved him."
Grant thought out loud. "The uncle's farm."
"What about it, Skipper?"
"Russian setup, Joe. That's why we didn't find anything. Antolov was taking care of her."
They walked along the south Kremlin wall with the Moskva River in full view to their right. The ribbon of frozen water, stretching through the city, seemed oblivious to the fact that it had just become an icy grave. Grant stopped suddenly and looked squarely at his Russian friend through compassionate eyes. "There must be something you can do for her, Grigori."
"I will see to it that her body is recovered. She will receive the recognition she fully deserves."
Grant shoved his gloved hands into his coat pockets, as he walked with his head down, finally saying to Moshenko, "You're going back to the meeting, aren't you?"
"It would be best if I did. I'll have to confront Antolov and explain my position." He reached into his pocket, withdrew the eyeglass case then handed it to Grant.
Adler leaned closer, remarking, "So that's the stuff that dreams are made of."
Moshenko answered quietly in English, quickly assessing that no others would hear. "Yes, Joe."
Grant snapped the case closed and handed it back to Moshenko. "You're gonna need this in case there are questions. We've got Lampson and his brain."
Moshenko glanced at the case in his palm, slipping it back into his pocket before continuing his original thought. "Of course, after seeing me leave with Natasha and Steiner, Antolov probably has put everything together. And, if he had Stoyakova’s office bugged… "
"If he did? Hell! You know he did, Grigori,” Grant responded emphatically. “When you went through the proper channels, everybody knew. You guys aren't any different than us in that regard. And in the end, you were the one who prevented Steiner from carrying out murder."
Moshenko gave a wry smile, as he brushed a snowflake from his dark eyelashes. "And shall I tell him about the minor role you and Joe played?"
"Your discretion," Grant laughed. As they rounded the south corner, heading back toward Red Square, he asked with concern, "You think the powers that be will pull the plug on the project?"
Moshenko spread his hands out in front of him. "Only time will tell, Grant. We were very lucky this time. I will do my best to drive that point home. But even if they decide to pull it out from under the East Germans, that is not to say the project won't continue here."
"And pretty soon," Grant said, shaking his head with disgust, "the CIA will have Lampson. Jesus! We're back to the old standoff routine, aren't we?"
"With any luck, my friend, maybe it will go away and we won't have any more secrets."
Grant answered, "That’d work for me." He glanced up ahead, seeing Spasskaya Tower and the guards at Lenin's Tomb. "Let's go over there," he pointed to an area to the side of the cathedral. "We'll take a taxi back to the hotel when we're finished. Then we'll try and get a flight out of here." He looked up as his eyes tried to penetrate the blur of snow, hoping to spot a patch of blue sky.
"Russian planes fly in all weather!" Moshenko boasted with a grin.
"Yeah, but do they stay up?" Adler mumbled.
Once out of the path of traffic and away from curious guards, Grant reached into his pocket, withdrawing the firearm. Adler followed with his, and they inconspicuously handed them to Moshenko.
"If it weren't for you, my friend,” Grant said, “many of your comrades wouldn't be around to enjoy the remainder of your white winter. It could have been a red one."
Moshenko acknowledged with his head slowly bobbing up and down. "You are the ones who deserve the credit."
The three men looked at each other, knowing that true professionals have no ideological stamps on their hearts. This was their true reward — success, and nothing less than victory. It's their "warm and fuzzy,” their reason for being who they are. When the warning order comes, it's men like these — the Stevens', Adlers and, Moshenkos — who can quietly and quickly close the book.
Moshenko extended his hand toward Grant who grasped it firmly. He stepped closer to Moshenko. "Spaseeba, my friend." They threw their arms around each other, slapping one another on the back.
Adler reached out for Moshenko's hand. "Take care of yourself, sir. Thanks for your help."
"Joe, maybe one day you will be able to tour my country freely."
"I'd like that, sir."
Moshenko turned away. His large bulk trodded through the snow as he headed for the Kremlin grounds.
"Let's go, Joe," Grant immediately said, as he glanced out of the corner of his eye, seeing Moshenko walk into the alcove and disappear under Spasskaya Tower.
Grant and Adler walked away from the parked rental BMW. As they reached the steps to the hotel, Adler touched Grant's arm. "Are you gonna tell Lampson about Greta?"
Grant looked down momentarily at the scuffed and cracked ground before responding, "Yeah, Joe. He has a right to know who she was and what she did for her country, maybe even the world. I'm sure he'll want to tell the kids one day." He stepped toward the door, reached for the handle, then said quietly, "The kids are Lampson's, right, Joe?"
Adler studied Grant's eyes, noticing a sadness in them, as he responded, "Yes, sir. They are."
They checked in with Leo at the front desk, who informed them that Lampson and the twins were in the park behind the hotel. After dropping their luggage in the room, they walked to the park.
"I’ve gotta say, Skipper, that it’ll sure be good to step back onto good old U.S. soil."
"Roger that, Joe."
Their flight from Gdansk would take them to Tegel in West Berlin, where Torrinson had booked all of them on a Pan Am flight to Dulles in Washington, D.C. Two special agents would be waiting to pick up Lampson and the boys.
As they rounded the corner of the hotel, there was a sound of children's laughter. Grant and Adler stepped onto dirt and coarse, brown grass at the edge of the park grounds. They spotted Lampson, sitting on a black wrought iron bench beneath a bronze statue of a horse with rider. Lampson leaned back then stretched his arms across the backrest. Playing in front of him were Josef and Franz, who laughed in delight as they kicked a red, rubber ball.
Adler glanced at Grant, detected the setting of the square jaw. "I'm with you, Skipper." They stood quietly, seeing a father reveling in the pleasures of being with his sons.
Feeling someone watching him, Lampson turned. He spotted the two men, and without saying a word, the most heart-filled "thank you" passed between the trio.
Grant looked at Adler and gave a half smile. "Time to fill in Lampson's 'dance card,’ Joe. This one's over."