He glanced at the wooden crate behind them, then noticed the injured man laying on the deck. Blood had soaked through his cammie jacket. “What happened?”
“Two of the guards opened up on us. Don’t worry. We took care … ”
“Did you have any problem offloading?”
The man who called himself “Python” asked with a scoffing tone, “Are you kidding?! Do you know how many times we’ve hadda do this kinda fuckin’ shit?”
“I don’t give a damn, just hurry up and get that loaded.” When the crate was secured inside the truck, he pointed to the injured man. “See that he gets treatment. Since you’ve done this kinda fuckin’ shit before, you probably know of someone who won’t ask questions.” He reached inside his jacket, then lobbed a thick envelope to “Python.”
“That’s half of what we agreed on, as promised. I expect to get confirmation from the ship within a day. Then, I’ll contact you to arrange final payment.”
“Python” tossed the envelope up and down in his palm. “What are we supposed to do with the chopper?”
“Make sure it’s clean, then leave it at the airfield. I’ll take care of it from there. Now, go!” he shouted, pounding his fist against the side of the chopper.
The pilot checked his coordinates. The Huey slowly began its ascent then turned east and headed toward the coast again. But this time its destination was a small airfield just north of Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.
A couple of minutes later, before he reached the main road, the driver pulled onto the shoulder. Stripping off his mask, he tossed it on the floorboard, then reached under his seat. He grabbed a small black box, raised an antenna, and pressed the red button, setting a timer. Returning the box under his seat, he took a quick glance in his rear view mirror, seeing only darkness. There wasn’t any need for him to wait. He didn’t have any doubt the incident would be reported on the local news in the morning. He put the truck into gear and headed back to D.C.
The dead end side street he lived on had one flickering street light at the corner. He drove past the street, shut off the headlights, then turned left down the narrow alley, passing five homes. Each house had its own single car garage across the alley.
Driving just beyond his house at the end of the street, he put the truck in neutral, set the brake, then got out. As he walked to the garage, he glanced at the other houses, each one dark, quiet. His car was parked on the west side of the garage, in the shadows, less noticeable.
He unlocked the garage door, then slowly raised it. As soon as he backed the truck in, he immediately killed the engine. As an extra precaution, he locked it, and took one more look through the canopy window, ensuring the crate was still covered with the tarp.
As he unlocked the dead bolt on the wood-paneled house door, he glanced around one last time before going inside.
A yellowing shade on the single kitchen window was always lowered, even though he didn’t have too much concern about someone poking around outside. He knew every one of his neighbors, even if only by sight. He’d rented the small, furnished, two bedroom home five years ago, talking the landlord into leasing it on a month-to-month basis, after he paid a hefty deposit.
He dropped his keys on the counter, then hung his jacket on a nail by the door, before getting a can of ginger ale from the fridge. Sipping on his drink, he went into the living room, going directly to the front bay window. One house on the corner had a light on. His neighbor, Glen, was getting ready for his shift at the plant. Every other house was dark. He slowly drew the dark curtains together.
Sitting on an upholstered, high-backed chair by the window, he took a long drink, then leaned back. He focused his eyes on the opposite wall, not looking at anything in particular, but reviewing the evening’s events. It turned out precisely as planned… except for the killing of the Navy guards. But he had no control over the incident, and had to take the word of the men he’d hired. At least they managed to leave the scene before being discovered.
He rolled the cold can between his palms remembering the anticipation he experienced months ago when he, Nicolai Kalinin, was about to begin his mission in the United States.
He first saw the American at Dupont Circle Metro station. Located below Connecticut Avenue NW, the station’s north entrance escalators were 188 feet long. The station had two tracks, with two side platforms, and two entrances: one to the north on Q Street NW and one to the south on the southern edge of Dupont Circle. It was one of the busiest stations in D.C. and that was the reason the American chose it.
Misha Zelesky, assigned to the Russian Embassy, was to meet the American at 2000 hours near the bottom of the north escalator, where the hustle and bustle would keep attention away from them. As a means of recognition, Zelesky wore a black raincoat, black hat, and carried a brown leather briefcase. The American would be wearing a brown leather jacket, jeans, and a Baltimore Orioles orange baseball cap with black brim.
Zelesky usually picked up messages the American left at drop sites, and with a possibility the American had been watching, the decision was made. Zelesky would meet him.
Why the American decided on a face-to-face for delivering the instructions and not leave them at a drop site, was still unclear. Unless the instructions were of the utmost importance.
Maybe out of pure curiosity, and without the knowledge of his “handler,” Kalinin wanted an up close and personal look at this American, who for reasons yet unknown, had decided to become a traitor to his country. Arriving twenty minutes early, Kalinin positioned himself twenty feet away from the bottom of the escalator, trying to blend in with commuters.
For nearly fifteen minutes he waited for Zelesky to arrive, finally spotting him on the escalator, wearing the clothes agreed upon. Kalinin moved farther away, getting behind one of the route maps, keeping his eyes on the Russian.
Zelesky waited near the escalator, constantly looking at his watch. At 1955 hours, he spotted him coming down the escalator, wearing the Orioles baseball cap.
The American gave an almost imperceptible nod in his direction. A sound of an approaching train, and a sudden rush of wind being pushed ahead of it, didn’t draw their attention away from the task at hand.
Backing up, moving farther away from the tracks, both Zelesky and the American continued watching passengers hurrying closer to the edge of the platform as the sound of a train increased in intensity.
From his angle and from passengers constantly passing by, Kalinin wasn’t able to get a clear look at the American’s facial features, especially with the baseball cap pulled down to his eyes. All he noticed was a clean shaven face, hair cut very short, possibly dark brown or black, height just under 5’10”, weight about one sixty.
The American reached inside his jacket, took out a plain white envelope, and handed it to Zelesky. No words passed between the two men. And as passengers exited from the train, hurrying toward the “up” escalator, the American immediately walked away from Zelesky, mingling with the crowd. He removed his baseball cap, and soon disappeared within a sea of people.
Zelesky slid the envelope into his pocket, waited until another train pulled into the station, then he left, heading for a specific drop site where Kalinin would pick it up.
It wasn’t until he returned home that Kalinin opened the envelope. The details on the paper inside were very specific. From those details, “Antares” set in motion his plan to steal top secret weapons from the U.S.