“A damn Toyota pickup?” Diaz asked with surprise.
“Look at the owner information, Frank. Both the Camaro and Toyota were registered to ‘William Goldman’ who died five years ago.”
“Should we still check out this address, boss?” James asked, pointing to the paper.
“That’s the first one on your list, DJ. I have my doubts you’ll find anybody home. So… ”
“We’ll do a thorough search, boss,” Diaz said, motioning with his hand as if he was unlocking a door. Both he and James headed for the garage.
“Wait!” Grant called. “Leave the shotgun mike. You two have enough on your ‘plate.’”
“Roger that!” James responded, with obvious relief in his voice.
Grant picked up one of the photo’s, then folded it. As he slipped it in his pocket, he started having one of his “go quiet, ignore everything” moments. He grabbed a pen and notepad from the table and started writing.
Adler stood by, waiting. Finally, Grant handed him the paper. “Joe, contact Matt and the other guys. Give them this.”
Adler read it quickly. His expression showed he was in complete agreement. “I like it!”
“Yeah. We’ll talk later.” Grant dug his keys out of his Levis’ pocket. “Scott may call, and when the guys get back, you’ll need to fill them in.” He walked to the hall closet for his jacket. “I’m assuming the Gulfstream and chopper are ready to go.”
Adler gave a thumb’s up. “Fueled and ‘froggy.’” As Grant slung his jacket over his shoulder, Adler asked, “Do you want Ken and Mike to cover the embassy?”
“Yeah. I know there’s a car phone, but make sure they have a radio just in case they end up ‘hoofing’ it. Oh, and check the money in the safe. There should be enough.”
“Any particular ‘brand'?”
“Pounds, deutsche marks, rubles for now.” He turned toward the door, waving a hand overhead. “I’m outta here.”
As he drove through D.C., Grant couldn’t get the picture of the Russian out of his mind. Who the hell was he? Why couldn’t he remember where he saw him? Even though the photo hadn’t been completely in focus, he couldn’t deny the fact the two of them appeared to be similar in looks, height, close in age. Come on, Stevens! Think! He was positive it wasn’t at the Academy. And more than positive the guy wasn’t with the Teams. So where? One of the many ships he’d been aboard? The encounter had to have been brief. And probably from a distance. Time for direction change, he told himself, preparing to meet Moshenko.
A half hour later he turned into Moshenko’s neighborhood, drove to the dead end then turned around, parking on the shoulder. Looking out the passenger side window, he spotted his good friend standing on the steps of the gazebo, a white, wooden octagonal structure.
At 5’10” Moshenko was easy to spot, with his muscular build, short, jet black hair that had some grey streaks at the temples, and the ever present cigar.
Once Grant locked the car, he took off jogging across the grass, noticing several small children playing in a sandbox at the opposite end of the park. Two women sat on a bench, keeping a close watch on them.
As Grant got closer to the gazebo, Moshenko blew cigar smoke from the side of his mouth just as he stepped on the pebble walkway. “My friend!”
“Hey, Grigori!” Grant said with a wide smile. The two friends grabbed each other’s hand, then slapped each other on the back.
“Come,” Moshenko said, as he walked up the three steps and motioned to the curved bench seat. “You are looking well,” he said as he sat down.
“You just saw me last week!”
“And you are still looking well!”
“How’s Alexandra?”
“She is fine, and hoping you will share some food with us. She is preparing beef stroganoff.”
“Wish I could.”
Moshenko noticed Grant’s expression had changed. He watched him briefly before laying a hand on his shoulder. “You are troubled. What is it?”
“The Team’s involved in another mission. It’s been classified top secret.”
Moshenko nodded. “I understand.”
“No, no! It’s okay. The President gave me the go-ahead to discuss this with you, so don’t worry.”
“All right, Grant. Is there something you want me to do?”
Grant gave somewhat of a grin. “No flying choppers this time, but I’m hoping you can reach into your brain and pull out some information that might help us.”
“I will try,” Moshenko responded, flicking an ash over the railing, before scooting forward on the seat.
Grant unfolded the photo. “This is a photo Frank and DJ took in front of the Russian Embassy.” He handed it to Moshenko.
“You could be brothers!” Moshenko said with surprise, as he stared at the photo.
“That seems to be the consensus.”
“Who is he?!”
“Don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
Moshenko studied the man’s face more closely, but then shook his head. “I would surely remember him, my friend. I am sorry.” He handed the photo to Grant. “But why did they take his picture?”
“My suspicion is he may be a ‘sleeper,’ Grigori,” Grant responded, smacking the paper against his hand.
Moshenko stood, walked a couple steps away, then turned around. “So he has been in your country since he was a child?”
“Yeah, if I’m right. Why?”
“I had access to files at KGB that listed all such people.”
Grant leaned back against the railing. “Something tells me that list was several pages long.”
Moshenko sat down. “Yes. I am afraid it was. The names were listed according to the country they were assigned to. I just cannot remember right now.”
“Well, it was worth a shot,” Grant responded, folding the paper, then putting it in his jacket pocket.
“I will continue to… what did you say? ‘Reach into my brain.’”
“In the meantime, let’s try this. Do you know where the safe house is located, either in D.C. or at least someplace close? Or if there’s more than one?”
Moshenko rubbed his chin in thought. “There was one only. But the location … ”
“Wait one,” Grant said. “I’ve got a map.” He hurried to his car.
While he did, Moshenko got up and walked the inside perimeter of the gazebo, trying to remember. He wondered if the KGB had the forethought to make changes since he defected. For Grant’s sake, he hoped not. He would help his friend in any way possible.
“Okay, here’s a map of the metropolitan area,” Grant said, spreading the map open on the bench. He remained quiet as Moshenko leaned over, looking at town and city names.
“Here!” he finally said, jabbing his thick index finger on Alexandria, Virginia.
“You sure, Grigori?!”
“Yes. I remember associating ‘Alexandria’ with Alexandra’s name. Yes. I am sure!”
“Good. That’s a start.” As Grant folded the map, he asked, “Any street address to go along with that by any chance?”
“You must give me some time, my friend. It has been awhile. You have never needed the information before. But… I can tell you something about those at the embassy.”
“I’m listening.”
“Before I left Russia, I assigned two KGB officers to the embassy. It is more than likely they are still there.”
“Do I hug you now or later?!”
“You can hug Alexandra!”
“And you know I’ll take you up on it! Now, who are they?”
“Misha Zelesky and Petya Vikulin.” For the next several minutes, Moshenko revealed descriptions, and all he could remember concerning the two KGB men. As grateful as Grant was for Moshenko’s help, he couldn’t help but worry. As he stood, he held a hand toward Moshenko, helped him up, then continued to grasp his friend’s hand. “Listen, Grigori, you need to be extra careful, now more than ever.”