Headlights from an approaching vehicle made Grant step farther away from the street, trying to keep himself in the shadows. Once the car turned at the next street, he continued. “I assume you know about the American who has supplied us information.”
“Yes. The man who calls himself ‘Primex.’”
“That is correct,” Grant answered, but his brain was saying, Holy shit!
“But I am sure I don’t know any more about him than you.”
“Have you personally seen or talked with him?”
“I have not, but Comrade Zelesky met him very briefly when information was handed over.”
“Describe him.” Vikulin gave Grant a description that Zelesky had relayed to the ambassador. It wasn’t much help. The guy sounded pretty average looking. “It is believed our Russian comrade is making his own deal with this ‘Primex.’”
Grant was a couple of paces ahead, when he turned to see the Russian standing stone still, finally getting the words out, “I cannot, I will not believe this!”
Grant maintained his distance, as he slowly reached behind his back. “Perhaps it will help you believe when I tell you I have full authority to send you back to Moscow, tonight if necessary, because you now have knowledge about the investigation.”
Vikulin’s broad shoulders went slack. “You have my word, I will not reveal what you have told me. What can I do to assist?”
Grant brought his hand from around his back, motioning to Vikulin to continue walking. Grant spoke with authority. “Do your job. Keep your eyes open, listen for anything out of the ordinary. I still have a difficult task ahead.”
“You mean with your mission? The weapons?”
Grant merely nodded. “I have had difficulty communicating with my contact.”
“Yes. I understand. Ambassador Vazov often has problems contacting Major Zubarev. Kabul has seen increased rebel activity lately.”
Grant couldn’t believe Vikulin was giving up information so easily, so unknowingly. Maybe it was time to end this meeting. He couldn’t push his luck. “I think we have discussed enough, Comrade.”
Vikulin stepped near a Mercedes, digging his keys from his pocket. “Where or how should I contact you if I find anything of significance?”
“Use one of the drop sites, whichever is convenient for you.”
Vikulin thought briefly. “That will be the garage off L Street. It is close enough to the embassy and busy enough to avoid attracting attention.”
Grant quickly rethought that. “That may not be good, in case someone else from the embassy checks. I will find a way to contact you in a couple of days. As a reminder, just be sure to go about your daily routine normally. That is most important.”
Grant backed farther away from the car, indicating to Vikulin the meeting had ended.
As soon as the Mercedes was out of sight, Grant let out a long, relieved breath. He turned off the recorder, then hustled to the Ford. Withdrawing the .45 from his waistband, he stretched out in the back seat, staying out of sight as a precaution.
Adler, who’d been across the street in an alley watching the whole scene, ensured the area was clear, then hurried to the car, getting into the front passenger seat. He rested an arm on the backrest and turned slightly. “Well? Any luck?”
Grant unhooked the recorder from his belt. “For KGB, he sure was a chatty bastard!”
“Lucky for us!” Adler said.
“Grigori probably would’ve shot him on the spot!”
Stalley checked for cars and pedestrians in the mirrors. “Think we’re in the clear, boss. Wanna head for Eagle 8?”
“Go,” Grant answered. He sat up and scooted near the edge of the seat. He started playing the tape, then laid the recorder on the center console in order for Adler and Stalley to listen.
When it finished, Adler said, “So, now we know half the weapons are going to Moscow. And I’ll bet you’re still thinking about the cargo ship.”
“Affirmative, Joe. Hope Scott gets some news from NSA.”
Adler asked, “Does the name ‘Kalinin’ ring any bells?”
Grant flopped back against the seat. “Complete blank. Dial Grigori’s number for me, Joe.” Adler complied then handed the phone to Grant.
“Hey, Grigori!”
Moshenko blew out a stream of cigar smoke. “Yes, my friend!”
“Listen, I had a meeting with ‘Comrade Vikulin.’”
Moshenko couldn’t stifle a laugh. “And did he cooperate?”
“More than he realized. Just like I’d hoped, he thought I was the guy in the photo and called me ‘Comrade Kalinin.’ Sound familiar?”
“‘Kalinin,’” Moshenko repeated. He laid his cigar on the edge of the sink then reached for a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka and poured a shot glass full.
“Think about it, Grigori, then call me at the house. Oh, I got an address for the safe house, so let your mind relax on that one.”
Moshenko downed the vodka. “Very good news, Grant! I assume you will be making a visit soon?”
“Thinking about it.”
“Be careful, my friend.”
“Talk to you later.” Grant started to put the phone down, when he decided to call Mullins. “Scott, it’s Grant.”
“Whatcha need?” Mullins laughed, sticking his fork in a container of Chinese pork fried rice.
“I’ll explain later how I got this info, but see if you can find the name ‘Kalinin’ anywhere in our intel.”
“Assume that’s a last name?”
“Yeah. Also got a code name for our DoD guy. He’s calling himself ‘Primex.’ That could stand for ‘primary explosive,’ or a shitload of other stuff. See what you can find.”
“Will do.”
“Have you heard from NSA or anything about a cargo ship?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Damn! Listen, we got an address for the safe house. It’s 6289 Aless Court, Alexandria, but keep it ‘under your hat.’”
“Jesus, Grant! You’re really gonna have to fill me in on how the hell you… ”
“Hate to cut you off, but gotta go.”
Grant disconnected the call, then continued holding the phone, tapping it against the center console. Adler turned in his seat. “You’ve got something running around in that brain of yours, don’t ya?”
Without responding, Grant said to Stalley, “Doc, pull into that gas station for a minute. I want to run something by you both before we’re outta D.C.”
“Sure, boss.” Stalley glanced quickly at the gas gauge as he made a right-hand turn into the station. Close to the sidewalk, set atop a fifteen foot pole, was a lighted, round orange and white sign with blue letters: “Gulf.”
Grant pointed. “Back into the space on the far side of the garage.”
Headlights from another vehicle showed in the rearview mirror as it pulled into the station right behind them. Stalley and Adler glanced in the side mirrors, watching as the driver parked a Plymouth station wagon alongside one of the pumps in the second island. A sign on the overhead awning showed: Full-Service. The driver, an older gentleman, rolled down his window and waited for the attendant.
Stalley backed the Ford up then killed the headlights and engine. He and Adler turned in their seats.
Adler finally said, “We’re all ears.”
Grant leaned back, linking his fingers behind his head. “You’ve got your weapons, right?”
“Primed and ready,” Adler responded. “Wait a minute! The safe house?! You wanna go now, without the rest of the Team?!”
“Look, Joe, I don’t think we’ve got a helluva lot of time before this guy moves the weapons. We’ve gotta take the chance, without prior surveillance, without knowing anything about that … ”
“Well, I’m in!” Adler interrupted. “How about you, Doc?” Stalley gave a thumb’s up.
Grant picked up his weapon from the floorboard. “Anybody got extra ammo?”