Navy SEAL Grant Stevens: Code Name Antares Part 25

"He was nearly shot by a 'comrade,' Mr. President. That had to give him something to think about, something to question, along with the 'connection' I mentioned the other day."

"You know, gentlemen, everybody, and I mean everybody, was looking for that Russian."

"Agent Mullins notified us the Russian plane departed Dulles yesterday, and . . ."

"Kalinin was...o...b..ard. Yes, I know, Grant."

Silence again, until Carr said, "I'm sure you heard that the other Russian plane had been located in the North Sea, along with the black box."

"We have."

"I've contacted the Russian premier and offered America's condolences."

"I hope they find answers soon."

"Is there anything else you gentlemen need to add--or want to add?"

Grant looked at Adler, who gave a slight shake of his head. Grant responded, "No, sir."

Carr stood, immediately followed by the two men. The meeting was over.

Carr offered a hand to Adler. "Joe, thanks for your help in finding those weapons, and finding your buddy."

"Mr. President."

Carr then extended his left hand to Grant. "Take care of that arm."

"I will, sir."

"Oh, by the way. Have your sniper--'Mike' is it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have him report to Indian Head next week. I've arranged for him to do some of his own testing with one of those prototypes."

"Be happy to! Does he get to keep it?"

Carr smiled. "We'll see, Grant."

"I'll guarantee that weapon will never fall into the wrong hands, Mr. President."

"One final word, gentlemen. You both need to lose that guilt you're carrying around for Mrs. Henley."

"We'll work on it, sir," Grant answered, then turned to leave.

Adler opened the door, and took a step into the outer office, when he heard Grant call quietly, "Joe, wait up."

He saw the expression on Grant's face. Shaking his head slowly, he whispered, "No. Don't do it."

Grant kept his eyes locked on Adler's, and without replying, he closed the door. No matter what the outcome, he knew he couldn't live with himself unless he cleared up the facts.

Carr stood by his desk, watching Grant, waiting, when the intercom buzzed. "Yes, Rachel."

"Mr. President, there's . . ."

"Give me a few minutes, Rachel."

"All right, Mr. President."

Carr switched off the intercom, then looked at Grant, who was still by the door. "Grant?"

Grant exhaled a long breath, then turned and walked to the desk, standing in front of Carr. "Mr. President, I have a feeling you know what happened, how Nick got to the emba.s.sy. It was my decision, mine alone, and I take full responsibility for my actions."

"Why, Grant? Why the h.e.l.l did you do it?"

Grant rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I. . . I just had a feeling in me. Something told me I had to."

"That gut of yours?"

"Maybe, but maybe there was more to it."

Carr looked at Grant through narrowing eyes. He'd seen the pictures of Kalinin. Suddenly, a thought registered, a thought almost too hard to comprehend. "Grant, you don't seriously believe Kalinin's . . ."

"I thought I'd shaken the idea, but apparently not. And it wasn't just our appearance. We seemed to think alike, too."

"But. . . how in the h.e.l.l could it even be possible?!"

"My dad was stationed in Europe."

Carr turned away, then walked behind his desk, a.n.a.lyzing an explanation he never expected. "And did you discuss this with Kalinin?"

"Negative, sir."

Glancing down at an open folder, Carr finally asked, "It was Kalinin that called Joe, wasn't it?"

"I believe Joe when he said the caller didn't identify himself as 'Nick.'"

"I believe him, too, Grant. But what name did he use?"

"'James Broyce.' He called himself 'James Broyce.'"

Carr gave somewhat of a smile. "So, Joe only gave me part of the truth then."

"Not really, sir. Neither one of us knew his American name."

Carr picked up a paper and handed it to Grant. "Take a look at this."

The report confirmed what Grant had suspected all along: fingerprints on file with the Department of the Navy, a 'Secret' security clearance, a copy of an official Navy ID card for 'James Broyce.'

"You were right on target with your a.s.sumption," Carr commented.

Grant didn't feel a need to respond and handed the paper to Carr who put it back in the folder. He tapped a finger against it before looking up at Grant's pained expression.

"Mr. President, I apologize, and again, I a.s.sume full responsibility. I'm prepared to accept any punishment you deem fitting."

Carr came around the desk, stood less than an arm's length away from Grant, then with a low, stern voice, he said the words slowly. "You aided and abetted a Russian operative, Grant."

Grant was quiet, and then, "Yes, sir. I did." Even though he'd said the same words to himself, hearing them from the President cut into him like a jagged knife.

"Can I just let that go?"

"No, sir. You can't."

Carr's eyes met Grant's. "Once again you risked your life, you recovered top secret weapons, you saved a life, and you were instrumental in uncovering two traitors, although probably not in a manner you would have preferred."

Grant's brow furrowed. He was having difficulty comprehending what Carr was implying. Maybe those d.a.m.n drugs were still in his system!

"I. . . I don't understand, Mr. President."

"Listen, Grant, in this case, I believe the good definitely outweighed the bad." He patted Grant's good arm, and offered a smile. "Relax. I'll delay my decision about Leavenworth for the time being." Obvious surprise showed on Grant's face, then Carr laughed, "Bet your gut didn't see that coming!"

"Sure didn't, Mr. President."

"C'mon. I'll walk you to the door." Carr had a hand on the doork.n.o.b, but before turning it, he offered a suggestion. "You know, Grant, there's a way for you to resolve your issue."

Grant nodded. "DNA testing."

"Think about it."

Grant closed the Oval Office door, seeing Adler pacing in front of the windows. "Joe, let's go."

Adler spun around, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. He caught up to Grant. "No handcuffs?" he asked quietly.

"I'll talk to you outside." He didn't see Claudia, and a.s.sumed she'd gone to lunch.

On their walk to the car, Grant told Adler the entire conversation he had with the President. Adler unlocked the doors to his Mustang, then peered over the roof at Grant, who was putting on his aviator sungla.s.ses. "Listen, Skipper, I'll admit you scared the h.e.l.l outta me when you went back in the Oval Office. But, I guess you did the right thing all the way around."

"Couldn't keep it inside me, Joe."

Adler understood completely. Time to lighten up the conversation. "Lunch! What about lunch?!"

"Did you forget Grigori and Alexandra invited us over?"

"Oh, yeah! I'd never pa.s.s a chance to sample Alexandra's cooking! Hey! What say we contact the guys? Maybe we could all head up to the mountains for a couple of days of R&R, you know, the cabins you go to in the Blue Ridge."

"Sounds good, Joe. We sure as h.e.l.l could use it."

They got in the car, and Adler asked, "Wanna invite Scott?"

"Sure. Wonder if he'd want to bring his girlfriend."

"They'll have to get their own cabin!"

"I'll call Grigori and let him know we're on our way. Then I'll call the guys."

Adler turned the key in the ignition, then shifted into first, noticing Grant's hand lingering on the phone. The setting of the square jaw, grinding of teeth again. Adler shifted into neutral, and rested his arms on top of the steering wheel. "Well, what the h.e.l.l are you thinking about? The DNA thing?"

"Yeah."

"You want my opinion?"

"You'll give it to me anyway, so, sure."

"Get it done."

"I'll think about it--seriously." He looked at his good friend over the top of his sungla.s.ses. "Aren't you curious what sort of reception Nick might've gotten?"

"Well, sure."

"He failed his mission, Joe."

"Yeah, but not for lack of tryin'. You even admitted it was a h.e.l.luva plan." He closed his eyes as if in thought. "I can just picture it now."

"What?"

"The next time the two of you meet up. I'll pay big bucks for tickets to that one!"

"I wouldn't hold my breath! C'mon!" Grant said, as he picked up the phone. "Let's get the h.e.l.l outta here. I'm hungry!"

Epilogue.

Moscow, Russia.

After four days of near spring-like temperatures, the weather had taken a downturn, dropping well below freezing. Rain overnight left slick patches of ice on roads and sidewalks. Traffic had remained heavy, constant, but by noon, the sun broke through the cloud layer, melting most of the hazardous ice.

He sat in the car with the engine running, continually wiping a gloved hand in a circle against the windshield, waiting for the defrosters to kick in. An open window wasn't helping much.

Gradually, the fogged windshield cleared. He backed out of the parking s.p.a.ce, then shifted into first, slowly driving around the circle.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, he noticed the building's yellow facade, mimicking gold bricks. Lubyanka. Headquarters of the KGB, with its notorious prison in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Where he'd just been, who he'd spoken with, and what was offered to him, left Nicolai Kalinin astounded. Director Mikhail Antolov, at the recommendation of Defense Minister Troski and Amba.s.sador Vazov, told him he was to report in two days for training at the USSR KGB Krasnoznamennyi Inst.i.tute (KI). Upon graduation, he'd take part in countering foreign intelligence services and conduct operational and combat activities. As honored as he was, learning he wouldn't be returning to the U.S. left him disappointed. But he understood the reason. Agencies would be on the lookout for him. . . again.