Navy SEAL Grant Stevens: Code Name Antares Part 21

Chapter 18.

Russian Emba.s.sy 1530 Hours Friday - Day 5 Amba.s.sador Vazov stood by the desk in the lobby, still unbelieving Kalinin was alive. He was more than curious, though, to hear the entire story.

Zelesky drove the Mercedes close to the entrance, trying to give Kalinin some cover, allowing him to stay in the shadow of trees. A black van was parked across the street, undoubtedly FBI.

Kalinin walked into the lobby, looking tired and obviously injured. Vazov reached for Kalinin's extended hand, but immediately put a finger to his own lips, then pointed to the elevator.

Once the elevator motor started, Vazov said, "Nicolai, we thought you were dead!"

"I am sorry that I was unable to contact you."

"You are hurt."

"Nothing serious, sir."

"We will go to my residence. I will give you food and drink."

As they rode the elevator, Kalinin felt it strange to be inside the Russian Emba.s.sy. The closest he'd been was the morning he left the newspaper, the start of his mission, a mission that ended in failure. It was not easy for him to face the amba.s.sador now, a man who had expressed such confidence in him, depended on him to get the weapons to their intended destinations. But Grant Stevens and his team of specialists derailed the entire plan.

Vazov interrupted Kalinin's thoughts as he opened the door to the residence. "Go in, Nicolai." Kalinin entered the apartment. The lavishness of the decor surprised him. Red velvet-covered sofas, chairs, expensive mirrors, paintings, crystal chandeliers, heavy red drapes. He remembered his parents telling him about the harsh conditions most Russians had to deal with, then seeing this. . . But perhaps that was part of what made Russians such a strong, proud people. . . the little they did have.

"Nicolai, sit over here," Vazov said, indicating an ornate wooden chair by the ten-foot rectangular dining room table. "I am having hot food prepared."

Kalinin pulled the chair from under the table, then sat down.

Vazov reached for a bottle of Stolis Vodka. He poured the clear liquid into his gla.s.s, then Kalinin's. He raised his gla.s.s. "A toast, Nicolai, for your return to us." Kalinin raised his gla.s.s, then drank a small mouthful.

Vazov sat at the head of the table. "Now, Nicolai, do you want to talk about what happened?"

Kalinin leaned back, and began. When he finished, Vazov asked, "And those men were the same who took the weapons from the cargo vessel?"

"While I am not positive, it seems to be the most logical."

"And Comrade Vikulin. Was his body left at the airfield in Shannon?"

"No, sir. His body was put onboard. Oh, Mr. Amba.s.sador, my American pa.s.sport was on the aircraft, and the agents confiscated my Russian one. I. . ."

"Do not worry. I will see that a new diplomatic pa.s.sport is ready." Vazov took another sip of his drink, wondering if it was the right time. He needed to know more. "Did the agents identify themselves when you landed?"

"No, sir. I didn't see any badges, and they remained quiet during the whole trip."

"Hmm. They must have been FBI. Do you know what airport?"

"The airport didn't look familiar, and as soon as I was turned over to them, I was immediately put in a paneled van."

"Do you remember where you were held?"

"Not specifically. I just remember the sound of traffic on the way. We stopped at, what I a.s.sume, were a lot of traffic lights. When we arrived at the destination, the van was parked in a garage, but it wasn't a typical garage, more like a large, empty, concrete room. We took an elevator to a lower lever, then I was taken to a room and left there for hours."

"Were you tortured, Nicolai?"

"No. Not at all, sir."

Vazov sounded relieved, as he asked, "And what about interrogation?"

"Two agents questioned me, but they seemed to be pretty standard questions. I was fingerprinted, and had my picture taken." He rubbed a hand over his face, then commented, "It was all very strange, Mr. Amba.s.sador. It was as if they already knew. . . everything."

"Do you know where they were taking you when you escaped?"

"No. They used the same type van. We had traveled perhaps twenty minutes when the accident happened. I remember seeing a road sign for Route 27 when I escaped." Kalinin finally gave a very slight smile. "Is there a special place where they take 'sleepers' like me?"

Before Vazov could respond, a door from the kitchen opened, and two women, wearing housekeeper-type clothes, walked into the dining room carrying silver trays. Two serving plates each held shashlik, marinated lamb on skewers; pelmeni, dumplings with meat filling wrapped in thin pasta dough, and knish, a baked potato dumpling. For dessert, lymmonyk, a type of lemon pie.

A dinner plate was placed in front of Vazov who sniffed the aromas. "Ahh, Nicolai. Now you will experience good Russian food. How long has it been since you have eaten our food?"

"When my mother was alive, she would occasionally prepare my father's favorite meals. But I have not eaten any since they died." Kalinin glanced at the plate of food. His appet.i.te was practically nil. The past couple of days had drained his mind and body. But, he ate slowly and what he could manage, if only to please the amba.s.sador.

As they ate, Vazov continued asking Kalinin questions, and Kalinin answered as honestly as possible. . . for the most part.

"Nicolai, you are remarkable."

"Sir?" Kalinin asked with eyebrows raised.

"Your escape from the Americans, then managing to come all the way into the city. Tell me how you managed to get here?"

"I rode with truckers. It was easy to stay out of sight riding with them. And with the possibility of the Americans watching the emba.s.sy, I felt the safest place to call from was the parking garage."

"I see," Vazov nodded, then pointed to the cuts on Kalinin's face. "How did you manage to care for your wounds?"

"A trucker made a fuel stop at one of those large facilities. I was able to, uh, 'lift' a package of Band-Aids then cleaned up in the restroom."

"Well, we will have our doctor check you over. You must relax, Nicolai. You are safe. Your country will protect you."

"Sir, may I ask you something?" Vazov nodded. "Have you discovered the ident.i.ty of the American traitor?"

Vazov wiped his mouth with a white linen napkin, then dropped it next to his plate. "As a matter of fact, we have."

"Who? Who is he?"

"While we do not yet know his name, Misha followed him to his place of residence last night. Do you know, Nicolai, he actually demanded fifteen thousand American dollars for his information?"

"Am I to a.s.sume you refused?"

"Yes. Instead of money in the envelope, I left a note, telling him--as the Americans would say--to go to h.e.l.l! We did not get our weapons, our brave comrades died. No! He would not get the money. And since we know where he lives, I am considering contacting him, making him aware we have d.a.m.ning information, with the threat of turning it over to the CIA or FBI, or maybe both."

The two men continued talking throughout the meal, each surprising the other with news and information. Vazov leaned toward the table. "Nicolai, you are not looking well."

"Just very tired. Is there a place in one of the offices where I could get some sleep?"

"Nonsense! There are four extra bedrooms here. Come. I will show you." Vazov laid a hand on Kalinin's back, noticing the soiled, blood-splattered clothes. "I will see that Comrade Yudin gets you new clothes tomorrow. Then perhaps we can discuss your ordeal further."

Washington, D.C.

Friday 2225 Hours Grant pulled his blue sweatshirt over his head, picked up his gym bag, then walked into the lobby of the Y. "Night, Charlie," he waved to the manager.

"See ya, Mr. Stevens. I'll lock up right behind you."

Grant jogged down the steps then walked across the parking lot, digging his keys from his sweatpants. It wasn't unusual for him to "help" close the facility. Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights meant time for partying for thousands of D.C. workers, relieved the week was over. Tonight he had the entire pool to himself.

Lap after lap, his strong arms and legs had propelled him forward in the fifty meter pool. Clear, cool water streamed over his shoulders. His mind was free of worries. He wasn't going for any record, and kept his breathing controlled, steady, as he swam thirty continuous laps. It wasn't even close to his days in BUD/S, but he was a h.e.l.luva lot younger then.

He tossed his gym bag on the pa.s.senger seat, then slid behind the wheel, glancing at his watch under the overhead light. He promised to call Adler when he got back, planning to discuss an upcoming meeting with President Carr. They wanted to be prepared for a serious G2.

He turned the key in the ignition, and the 'big block' engine roared to life. Shifting into first, he drove out of the parking lot and headed for his apartment. With the current traffic, it was going to take at least twenty-minutes. He reached for the radio dial, then put his hand back on the steering wheel, with the day's events creeping back into his mind.

Twenty minutes later he pulled in front of the apartment garage gate, punched in a code on the box, then waited for the gate to lift. Parking was also available to non-residents, but they were required to deposit dollar bills into a slot, then park on the second level and above. Once parked, they had to leave through the entrance or back exit door. The elevator to the apartments required a code.

He drove slowly to the end slot, his a.s.signed s.p.a.ce, then turned in next to a Ford wagon, belonging to a family on the third floor. In his rearview mirror he saw the elevator doors closing.

Getting out, he stretched his arms high overhead, then reached for his gym bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he walked to the elevator, and punched in the code. The elevator light showed floor number seven.

He heard footsteps and turned seeing a man hurrying toward the elevator. The man was middle aged, brown short hair, with streaks of gray.

"Evening," Grant said.

"How are ya?"

"I'm good, thanks. How 'bout yourself?"

"Fine. Fine." He glanced up at the lighted number, then turned again to Grant. "I'm visiting my daughter and grandkids. Got here from Ohio this morning."

"Sounds like you're going to have a busy stay. Hope you have a good visit," Grant smiled. He looked up. The light showed "six."

"Say, you don't think my daughter will get in trouble for giving me the code to this place, do you?"

"It shouldn't be a problem, sir."

As Grant looked up at the lighted numbers, a blow to the back of his head knocked him unconscious. The "visitor" grabbed him before he hit the deck. Lifting Grant's arm over a shoulder, he struggled walking to the exit door, as "Primex" held it open, carrying Grant's gym bag. Keeping in the shadow of the alley, he backed up near the brick wall, trying to keep Grant upright, who was a good six inches taller.

"Primex" ran to the next street. Within a minute, he'd started the engine, then turned a corner, driving toward the alley. He threw the gearshift into park, then rushed to open the back pa.s.senger door, throwing the gym bag on the floor. Suddenly, a glare of headlights, and a sound of an engine made him duck. The other car kept moving toward Virginia Avenue.

When it was clear, he ran back to the alley, helping to get Grant to the car. They shoved him in the back seat, and working quickly, "Primex" removed a syringe from inside his jacket pocket, and took off the protective plastic cover. Pushing up Grant's sleeve, he injected the solution.

"Let's go!"

Doors slammed, and they drove away.

Grant's Apartment Sat.u.r.day - Day 6 0030 Hours Adler punched in the code numbers, shoved the heavy gla.s.s door open, then walked through the brightly lit lobby, going directly to the elevator. It was already on ground level, but his impatience was obvious, as he stepped in then constantly kept pressing the b.u.t.ton for the fifth floor. Keeping his eyes on the lighted numbers, he worried. He'd tried repeatedly to call Grant's apartment and his car phone. Then, deciding enough was enough, he drove to the apartment building.

When the doors parted, he cautiously stepped into the hallway, glancing in both directions. Somewhere down the hall, he heard voices. Only a TV, he thought, letting out a breath.

As he went toward Grant's door, he pulled a key from his pocket. Looking around one more time, he inserted the key in the lock, then turned it slowly, feeling the deadbolt beginning to give. Grabbing hold of the doork.n.o.b with one hand, he pulled his weapon from the holster, then he opened the door just wide enough to slide around. He immediately closed it. Just enough light filtered through slats in the blinds, but still, he waited as a precaution.

The apartment was eerily quiet. The only sound came from the steady drone of the refrigerator in the galley-style kitchen. Holding his weapon close, he began walking toward the living room, then stopped, turning his head to peer down a hallway leading to the only bedroom and bath. He went just beyond it, swiveling his head, trying to see any telltale signs of a struggle--or body. Nothing. n.o.body. His mind was telling him Grant wasn't here, but he needed to check the bedroom anyway. Again, nothing. He put the weapon back in the holster, then flipped on the hall overhead light.

Standing near the front door, he scanned the room again. Nothing was out of place, but there was definitely something wrong. "G.o.ddammit," he said through clenched teeth.

He shut off the light, locked the door, then took the elevator to the garage. Pulling his jacket down over his holster, he kept watching the lighted floor numbers above the doors. The elevator lurched to a stop. "C'mon!" he said, impatiently waiting for the doors to open. He rushed off, taking a quick look around. n.o.body was in sight, no engines running. He spotted the Vette, parked in its usual s.p.a.ce. "Oh f.u.c.k!" he said quietly. In a way he'd hoped the car hadn't been there, but this reinforced the fact--something had happened to Grant.

He made a visual inspection around the car. No signs of forced entry. He rubbed a hand over his head. "Maybe his keys, or maybe he dropped something," he said quietly. Getting on his hands and knees, he started crawling on filthy concrete, looking around the tires, feeling behind them. Nothing. He rolled on his back, frustrated and extremely worried. A sound of a car coming into the garage made him scoot sideways under the Vette. Tires screeched as the unknown vehicle rounded the curve going to the second level. It grew quiet again.

Suddenly, a thought hit him. "Can't be!" He squirmed under the frame, then began reaching, feeling along and behind door sills. His fingers touched something just behind the pa.s.senger door sill. He yanked it off. A homing device. He sat up, staring at the small black box. "What the f.u.c.k?"

It didn't answer the question where Grant was, but now it confirmed the fact that whatever happened to him, he didn't go voluntarily. It also brought up another disturbing question? Who and why was someone following him? The Russians were a real possibility. But why?

He got up slowly, checked it was clear, then he ran down the ramp, heading for the Mustang. Tires squealed as he pulled away from the curb. He had to get to his apartment and contact the whole Team, maybe even Mullins. There wasn't any use to call the cops. They'd just tell him he'd have to wait twenty-four hours to report Grant missing. He wasn't about to wait. But where the h.e.l.l would he start?

"C'mon, Adler, get your f.u.c.kin' brain working!"

A traffic light turned red, and he hit the brakes. The car skidded on the blacktop, coming to a stop in the crosswalk. He squeezed the steering wheel, then started talking to himself. "Is it possible?! Did 'Primex' have something to do with it?" No matter who was involved, there wasn't a f.u.c.king clue to go on. Grant was out there somewhere. How the h.e.l.l were they going to find him?

The light turned green. He stomped on the gas. The Mustang's tires smoked and screeched, before grabbing hold of blacktop, leaving a black trail of rubber.

He hadn't experienced it often, but the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was not a good sign.

Washington, D.C.

Sat.u.r.day - Day 6 0115 Hours Grant started regaining consciousness, unaware of the cold, hard, rough concrete under him. His head throbbed. His body ached. He felt nauseous, dizzy. Just trying to open his eyes was difficult, and when he did, the room would spin wildly. Keeping them closed didn't help much. Somewhere in the distance a horn blared, the sound penetrating his brain like a knife, and he clamped his hands over his ears, waiting for the sound and pain to stop.

Just as it subsided, he let out a moan, crossing his arms over his stomach, as sudden, excruciating pains made him ball up and roll on his side. He couldn't prevent the vomit creeping up into his throat, then spewing out his mouth. Gagging, choking, he swiped a hand over his mouth and rolled on his back again. Sprawled out, he looked through half-opened eyes, trying to focus on the overhead, but dizziness prevented that. Even with his sweatsuit, low blood pressure caused chills to shake his weakened body.

Pure instinct made him attempt to get up, to move. Struggling, he rolled on his side again, then using every ounce of strength he could muster, he managed to get on his hands and knees. He wasn't able to focus through the dizziness, but he thought he detected something ahead. A wall. He started crawling, barely able to stay in a straight line. But he had to get close, needing it for support, or else he'd never be able to stand. Beginning to feel nauseous again, he stopped and took some breaths.

The crawl seemed to take hours, but finally he reached out and touched the damp, rough, cinder block surface. He swallowed hard, trying to prevent puking. Pressing both palms against the wall, with his head hanging and eyes closed, he slowly, unsteadily started to stand, but his legs wanted to buckle. He leaned his forehead against the blocks, waited, then rolled on his back, spreading his legs apart for balance. Resting his head back, and keeping his eyes closed, he took short, slow breaths. Between the dizziness, constant puking, and low blood pressure, he wasn't able to think clearly.