“Mike, I’ll take over,” Adler said, trying to quell the amount of blood flowing. “You call for an ambulance. And bring in that medical bag!” Novak ran from the basement. As he got outside, in the distance he heard a faint sound of sirens — cops! Someone had called 911.
Grant started coming around, beginning to feel the pain in his shoulder, and again in his head. Somewhere in his subconscious he heard a voice.
“Skipper! Come on! Look at me.” Adler was really worried. Grant’s face was drained of all color. Then, his eyelids started opening, and he blinked a couple of times. He was feeling pressure against his shoulder, then the voice called again, “Come on! Open your eyes!”
He slowly rolled his eyes toward the sound. The person wasn’t quite in focus. He closed his eyes, thinking he was hallucinating again.
Adler unscrewed the canteen top, then held it close to Grant’s mouth. “See if you can drink.”
Cool water dripped on his dried, cracked lips, and he managed a small mouthful. He opened his eyes and looked overhead as the face finally came into focus. “Joe?”
Adler smiled. “None other.” Grant tried sitting up, but Adler gently pulled him back. “Stay where you are.”
Novak came rushing in. “Ambulance is on the way.” He knelt down, pulled out a battle dressing, then tore it open. He took over for Adler and pressed it against Grant’s shoulder. “How ya doin’, boss?”
“Bastards shot me full of… something.”
“You mean other than a bullet?” Novak chuckled.
Grant managed a nod, then focused on Adler. “I thought I was dead, Joe.”
“You came pretty damn close.”
Confused, Grant asked with a raspy voice, “What happened?”
“Don’t you remember?”
Grant forced his brain to work. “Jack. Where’s… Jack?”
“He’s dead.”
“You?”
Adler shook his head. “Don’t know who the guy was, but I assume Jack was shot by his ‘associate.’ And, yes. He’s pretty much dead, too.”
“Easton.”
“What?”
“I… I think his name’s Easton.” Grant let out a short grunt. “I’m gonna puke.”
Adler immediately reacted. “Mike, keep holding that dressing. I wanna get him on his side.” He succeeded just in time. He poured some water in his palm, then washed around Grant’s mouth. “Feeling better?”
“Not much.”
“Here. Rinse your mouth, then spit.”
Two different sounds of sirens started growing louder. Ambulance and cops. “Mike, go wait for them. I’ll take over. And Mike! Call Scott!” Novak took off.
Adler kept a hand on the battle dressing. “Help’s here, Skipper. Hang in there.”
As he waited, Adler started worrying, and not just about Grant. Two dead men, one with multiple bullet holes in him, all fired from his and Novak’s weapons. Overkill? Maybe. But not in Adler’s mind, not when the bastard had a .357 pointed at his friend’s head, who was unconscious. One saving grace was that forensics would determine the caliber bullet that killed Henley was from the Magnum. Eventually, the cops would get their answers.
“And then there’s the President,” he said under his breath. “It just keeps getting better and better.”
Chapter 19
A small double charcoal burner, called a "samovar," was on a credenza behind the desk. A teapot warmed on one, with a very concentrated infusion of tea, while the other pot held plain hot water. Vazov poured tea into a traditional tulip-shaped glass then diluted it slightly with hot water.
“Misha?” he asked, offering tea to Zelesky, who declined.
A knock at the door. “Enter,” Vazov said, barely speaking loud enough. The sound of opera music was playing in the background.
Kalinin opened the door, surprised to see Zelesky sitting in front of the ambassador’s desk. He closed the door.
“Nicolai, you are looking better this morning,” Vazov commented.
Kalinin stood by a chair, until Vazov motioned for him to sit. “I feel better, sir. And thank you for the new clothes.”
Vazov eyed the black slacks and white pullover sweater, saying, “Comrade Yudin made good choices.” Kalinin nodded. “Tea, Nicolai?” Kalinin declined, then Vazov said, “I thought you might be interested in what happened early this morning. Misha was just about to tell me.”
“Does it have to do with the American traitor?”
“Indeed it has to do with him. Misha, begin.”
Zelesky began his story, from when he followed Henley after leaving the envelope by the trestle, to the actual shootout at Henley’s house.
Vazov and Kalinin remained quiet, until Kalinin finally asked, “Did you see anybody come out of the house, Comrade Zelesky — dead or alive?”
“Someone was loaded into an ambulance. I can only assume it was Stevens, because two men walked near the gurney until he was loaded inside, then they ran off, possibly to a vehicle.
“By the time the medical examiner showed up, neighbors were crowded around, more police arrived, and I believe one or two reporters. I remained in the car, and it was somewhat difficult to see, but I believe two body bags were carried out.”
Kalinin shifted his eyes back to Vazov. “Has there been any report on television?”
“Yes. It was reported that a home invasion left two dead and one injured.” Vazov picked up a sheet of paper where he’d made notes. “The two dead men were identified as Jack Henley and Fred Easton, who both worked for the Department of Defense.” He dropped the paper on the desk. “The injured man was still not identified.”
Zelesky commented, “The Americans are just as devious as KGB when it comes to imaginative stories.”
“I have asked Comrade Yudin to bring the newspapers as soon as they are delivered,” Vazov said, “but it is probably still too soon for there to be any published article.”
Kalinin stood. “I will go see if any have arrived.” He left the office. Riding in the elevator, he could only wonder if he made the call in time. One injured, two dead. Whatever the outcome, he had done his best, and what he thought was the right decision at the time.
The elevator lurched to a stop, and he rushed off, walking toward the front desk. “Comrade Yudin! I see the newspapers have arrived. I will take them to the ambassador.” He started to walk away, then turned. “Thank you for buying the clothes, Comrade.” She smiled then sat down behind her desk.
He got in the elevator, let the doors close automatically, then pressed the button. He quickly scanned the front page of three of the five papers, reading the top half, then flipped them over and read the bottom. But he didn’t see anything about the incident. He got off the elevator, and looked at the last two papers. Still nothing. But the ambassador was probably correct in saying it was too early.
“Put the papers here,” Vazov said, pointing to the corner of his desk. “We will look at them later. He sipped his hot tea, before saying, “Well, Nicolai, it looks as if Stevens survived the assassination attempt.”
“It appears to be the case.”
Zelesky picked up a folder. “Comrade, do you believe it was Stevens who led those teams on the ship and at Shannon?”
Kalinin kept his eyes straight ahead, watching Vazov. “It was very possible, Comrade Zelesky. As I told the ambassador, the men were very efficient, very organized, the same way Captain Ivanov described their actions.”
Zelesky handed the photo to Kalinin, then walked behind his chair. “Can you identify that man, Comrade?”