Glare of headlights from light traffic reflected off wet blacktop along D Street. Every forty-five minutes a city bus traveled the route. Pedestrians were few.
At the corner was a two-story, white brick building. On the lower level was a restaurant, serving traditional Russian food. Patrons entered through a wooden door, with a half moon-shaped canvas awning above.
The car phone rang in the dark blue, four door Ford Torino. “Yeah, Mike,” Grant answered.
“Boss, we just saw you go by. We’re parked at the top of the street at the corner.”
“Is he still inside?”
“Affirmative. His Mercedes is parked our side of street, one block behind us.”
“Be there in a minute.”
Stalley drove slowly past the building, then stopped briefly as Adler got out of the back seat then hurried across the street.
Grant waited until Adler was at the corner. “Okay, Doc, get movin’.”
Stalley continued driving to the next street, then turned left. He rolled through the stop sign, then made another left. As he got to the next corner, brake lights flashed from a parked Chevelle. He hit the brakes, then flashed his lights. Mike Novak raised his hand out the Chevelle passenger window, as Slade pulled out of the parking space. Stalley parked the Ford.
Grant set the overhead light to “off.” Leaning toward the window, he finally spotted Adler near the street lamp. Stalley flashed the headlights twice. Adler disappeared around the corner and went inside the restaurant.
No matter how long it took, and if everything played out as they anticipated, this might be their best chance, their only chance to get some answers.
Grant picked up his .45, released the clip, then shoved it back in. He put on his baseball cap, and as he got out, he slid the weapon into his back waistband, then closed the door. He leaned toward the open window. “Doc, I’m gonna check the main road in front of the restaurant, then take up a position near that basement entrance,” he pointed. “Stay here and be prepared if it ‘goes south.’”
“Okay, boss,” Stalley nodded.
Grant started walking toward the corner, when he heard voices. Cigarette smoke drifted toward him. He turned the corner and kept walking. Three men glanced at him but continued talking and smoking. When he passed the restaurant, he glanced over his shoulder, seeing they had crossed the street. He hurried back to the corner, then heard three car doors slamming simultaneously, immediately followed by an engine starting. He glanced at his watch again. So far so good, he thought.
Hurrying up the side street, he ducked into the basement entrance, two steps below street level. He’d be less exposed from this spot, and in a good position to move quickly.
Five minutes later, Petya Vikulin came out of the restaurant and stood briefly by the door, putting on his black leather coat. He made frequent visits to the restaurant since he’d been assigned to the embassy a year ago. The food was traditional Russian fare. Tonight he treated himself to Sevruga black caviar, topped off with Rublevka Gold Vodka.
He breathed in deeply then started walking toward the corner. As he made the turn, he heard the restaurant door open. Continuing to walk uphill, he became leery as he heard footsteps. He turned around, and walked backwards. The street lamp didn’t illuminate the person’s face totally, but he recognized the man as the one who had been sitting at the bar.
Adler stopped, lit a cigarette with a lighter, then hurried across the street, pretending to wave to someone as he ran.
Satisfied he wasn’t being followed, Vikulin shoved his hands into his coat pockets, then began taking long strides, heading for the used Mercedes parked three blocks away. Only the ambassador had the privilege of being driven in a newer vehicle, another Mercedes.
Adler ducked into a side alley, spit a piece of tobacco from his mouth, then flicked the cigarette against the building. Slowly he eased his way toward the corner, staying in the shadows.
Vikulin was about ten feet from where Grant was waiting. Grant clicked on the miniature recorder attached to his belt, then he suddenly came out of the shadows, and stopped. Vikulin reacted quickly, moving his hand to his weapon in the shoulder holster.
“There’s no need for that, Comrade,” Grant immediately said in Russian, raising his hands to show he didn’t have a weapon.
Vikulin hesitated a brief moment. “Comrade Kalinin!” he said in a loud whisper, as he slowly moved his hand away from the holster. “What are you doing here? Is the ambassador aware you are talking with me?” He swiveled his head, looking to see if they were alone.
“Do not worry. We are completely alone, but I must talk with you. Come over here,” Grant indicated, as he moved back into the shadows.
Vikulin followed, but cautiously. He kept a slight distance from Grant as he asked, “This is serious, Comrade?”
“Yes. What we are about to discuss is state secret.” (State secret is Soviet term for ‘top secret.’)
“I understand,” Vikulin nodded.
“I am here under the direction of the First Chief Directorate.”
Even in the shadows, Vikulin’s face couldn’t hide his surprise. “The First Chief Directorate?! You know who he is?!” Grant simply nodded because in fact, he didn’t have a damn clue. The FCD’s real identity was known only to the ambassador.
The position of FCD was well known throughout the intelligence community. Russia’s First Chief Directorate was the equivalent of the CIA's Chief of Station. He was a so-called legal resident but who, in fact, was a spy, operating under diplomatic cover, with full immunity from prosecution. While the FCD was responsible for the collection of political, scientific and technical intelligence, Vazov was put in charge of managing covert agents.
Grant’s pulse raced. He had to pull this off. “Can we continue now?” he asked, trying to sound annoyed.
“Yes. Of course, Comrade.”
They both turned, hearing the restaurant door open, and then a sound of voices, belonging to a man and a woman. “Perhaps we should walk,” Grant said, looking over his shoulder at a couple crossing the street. He continued the conversation. “You know my position here, and that I have a mission to complete.”
“Yes, an important mission.”
“First of all, in case we must meet again in secrecy, we will meet at the safe house. I want you to verify the location.”
“I know where it is.”
“When I said verify, I meant verify! That means confirm the address!” Grant spoke just above a loud, gruff whisper.
“It is 6289 Aless Court in Alexandria. I have been there. I installed the scrambler and shortwave.”
“Good. Then you are very familiar with it. Now, I assume you realize the importance of my request?” Vikulin merely nodded. Grant took a deep breath. Under any other circumstances KGB Vikulin would never let anyone get away with this line of questioning and in this tone of voice. “My reason for meeting you tonight is evidence has revealed a possible traitor within the embassy.”
Vikulin stopped short, unbelieving. “This cannot be true. I would surely know!”
“Not necessarily, Comrade. That is why I have been brought in by the FCD. I might add that you had also been under surveillance for… ”
“No! I am loyal to the Soviet Union!”
“Yes, I realize you are. That is why you are here tonight.” As they walked past the Ford, Grant noticed Stalley had ducked out of view.
“Can you tell me what evidence you have or who the traitor is?” Vikulin was still overwhelmed by the news because as a KGB officer, he should have known.
“No. The investigation is ongoing at this time. Everyone is under suspicion. I need your help.”
“Can you at least tell me what this person is being accused of?”