Kalinin took the envelope then removed a small book, barely two by three inches. He flipped through the tiny code book. “Yes, sir. I remember my parents using one. It is a ‘one-time pad.’” A one-time pad is a type of encryption almost impossible to crack. Characters from plain text are encrypted by the use of a character from a secret random key (pad) of the same length as the plain text. This results in a cipher text. Each code page is used one time. The code is printed on sheets of chemically treated paper called “flash paper.” Once heated it converts to nitrocellulose, then burns almost instantly, leaving no ash. The two men had exactly the same book.
He put the book in his pocket. “Once I have the weapons that are going to Moscow, I will write a coded message on page eight of the Washington Post, and leave it under the embassy gate. You can have the seal and documents left at one of our drop sites.”
“Why not leave the message at a drop site, Nicolai?”
“I believe this would be the fastest way, without your men having to make several trips looking for a message.”
“It appears you have thought of everything, Nicolai.”
“I hope so, Mr. Ambassador.”
Vazov indicated with a thumb over his shoulder. “I have large canvas pouches in the trunk. I am hoping you will be able to use them for the weapons.”
“If they are not large enough, I am sure I can ‘break’ down the weapons.”
“Oh, I kept your Russian passport.” He patted his inside pocket. “I will see that it shows you are a diplomatic courier and ensure it has proper date stamps, coinciding with countries you have ‘visited.’ One of the men will leave it our drop site.
“Remember, Nicolai, unless there is an absolute emergency, do not phone the embassy.”
Kalinin got out, then leaned in. “Of course, sir. I will only use the means discussed.”
“Good night, Nicolai.”
“Good night, Mr. Ambassador.” He closed the door, went to the Camaro, and slid behind the wheel. He started the engine, but waited until the Mercedes was out of sight before he turned on headlights.
As he drove through the park, he remembered his parents. He hadn’t thought much about them over the last several years. But talking about them briefly with the ambassador made him remember the years he had with them. Maybe for the first time in his life, he was grateful they had been his parents.
Nicolai Kalinin was born one month prior to his parents leaving Kursk, Russia. Traveling under false American documents with the last name “Broyce,” they were smuggled into Geneva, Switzerland. For the next three years the Kalinins worked at the International School of Geneva. The jobs were menial, but they established themselves as reliable, compassionate people. When he was three, they moved to the U.S., settling in a small town outside Charlottesville, Virginia. They were welcomed into an up-and-coming community, being treated like any other young American family. The mother and father held decent jobs, the family attended church on Sundays, and they supported their young son in his endeavors. They were devoted parents, preparing their son for his future in America.
Attending public schools with the name “James Broyce,” he excelled in math and science, participated in sports, and developed a love of baseball. After graduating high school, he joined the Navy, and served five years as an Interior Communications electrician. ICs directed and coordinated the installation, maintenance and repair of interior communications systems on ships and at shore facilities, including communication systems, indicating and navigation systems, visual landing aids for aircraft, and alarm, safety, and warning systems. After his final tour of duty, he moved back to Charlottesville. Taking advantage of the GI bill, he attended the University of Virginia, earning a B.S. in Electrical Engineering.
With the deep level of his cover, and a 4.0 grade point average, he was confident he’d be hired by a defense contractor. He applied for a college internship program with ZXR Corporation, and began the program one week after graduation. Over time he was promoted to different grade levels, and was always willing to take assignments aboard Navy ships, training, repairing, upgrading systems.
He worked day after day, year after year, never knowing when he’d be called upon to serve Russia, or what he’d be asked to do. His day and time had finally come.
Chapter 4
The temperature hovered just above forty-one degrees, as familiar March winds blew across Virginia and D.C. at thirteen knots, gusting to twenty. As usual, traffic along N. Mead Street was still heavy, but most occupants inside cars hardly took notice of the Memorial.
A door to the Chevy SUV closed. Grant screwed down his baseball cap, and zipped up his black windbreaker. Shoving his hands into the pockets, he started pacing back and forth along the lighted walkway behind the SUV. The call had come in on the special phone earlier in the day. No specifics had been given, only that he and Adler were to be at the Memorial by 2000 hours. More than one possibility ran through his mind.
Adler sat in the rear passenger seat, drinking a last mouthful of warm black coffee. He crushed the empty paper cup then stuck it in the door pocket. “There’s more coffee in the thermos, Ken, Mike, and a couple bologna sandwiches in the bag.”
“Thanks, LT,” Ken Slade responded.
Sipping on his coffee, Novak looked in the rearview mirror watching Grant pace. Slade kept an eye out for any approaching vehicles.
Adler zipped up his old Navy khaki jacket before opening the door. He caught up to Grant. “Well, Skipper, has that brain of yours come up with any reasonable explanation why we’ve been ‘invited’ here?”
Grant stopped then leaned against the tailgate, and shook his head. “I can come up with plenty, Joe, but … ”
“Boss,” Slade interrupted, as he poked his head out the window. “There’s a car comin’.”
Grant and Adler walked along the side of the SUV, seeing headlights swing around the curve, lighting up them and the SUV.
The tan, 1978 Dodge Aspen was an unmarked vehicle previously owned by the Maryland State Police. The driver pulled into a parking space and shifted into “Park.” He switched on an overhead light, then made a notation on a clipboard. Laying the clipboard on the seat, he got out and walked to the Chevy.
He approached Grant and Adler. “Captain Stevens?” he asked with his eyes going from one to the other.
“I’m Grant Stevens,” Grant responded, extending a hand.
“I’m Staff Sergeant Stu Reilly, sir, your driver for the evening.” Reilly returned Grant’s handshake. Even though he was active duty, as a member of the White House motor pool, and on standby twenty-four/seven, Reilly wore civilian clothes. He was about 5’8”, with a slim build, and short, thick brown hair.
He turned to Adler. “Lieutenant Adler?”
“That’s me,” Adler nodded, offering his hand.
“It’s routine for me to ask for your IDs, sirs.”
Both Grant and Adler took out their wallets, then flipped them open. Grant noticed the staff sergeant had a weapon in a side holster. He and Adler left their .45s in the SUV.
Reilly took each wallet, and shined the light from a small flashlight on each State Department and retired military ID. “All right, sirs. It looks like we’re ready for departure.” He opened the rear passenger door. Adler slid in.
“Would you mind if I rode up front?” Grant asked.
“Not at all, sir.” He opened the front door.
“Wait one,” Grant said, as he turned around. “Mike, Ken, head back to Eagle 8. Contact the rest of the team and put them on standby as a ‘just in case.’ Matt should be on his way back from California. Make sure you contact him. I’ll call you when we’re ready for retrieval, which I assume will be somewhere in D.C.”