"Yes, Comrade! We will have it brought to the embassy!"
"Come on!" Kalinin said to Zykov. "We must go to the embassy and talk with Comrade Borskaya!"
"Will you tell me what you heard?!" Zykov asked, trying to catch up to his partner, who was already running toward the stairs.
"Once we are in the car!"
Zykov started the engine, then pulled out into traffic. "I am waiting, Nicolai!"
Kalinin rolled down a window, then swiped beads of sweat from his forehead. "That transmission came from Drazowe, Poland."
"Drazowe?! What the hell is at Drazowe?!"
"I am not sure, but it could possibly be a secret army base, since we have never heard of it."
"But what makes you think that? What happened?"
"I did not hear the beginning or names, but the OIC was killed while he was interrogating a female, a spy. She was taken by unknowns."
"She was taken? Another kidnapping?!"
"Maybe not. Perhaps a rescue."
Zykov just shook his head. "There is too much going on here that we know nothing about." He diverted his eyes to Kalinin, then quickly back to the road. "I assume none of those men — the perpetrators — were captured?"
"I did not get that far with the transmission." Kalinin went quiet. If he was right, the pieces were beginning to fit together: Dotsenko's kidnapping, and the female spy.
Morning traffic was beginning to build. Zykov turned onto Unter den Linden. They were approaching the embassy, when a vehicle passed them, going in the opposite direction.
"Shit! There he is!" Kalinin shouted, snapping his head around, trying to see out the back window.
"What?!" Zykov didn't know which way to look.
"That was Reznikov! Turn around!"
They were at the next street, already into the turn, when four consecutive explosions, milliseconds apart, sent orange fireballs shooting in every direction. Smoke and dirt nearly obliterated the entire area. Chunks of trees, pieces of concrete, glass, rocks, shot out in every direction, flying across the road, striking vehicles and pedestrians on both sides of the street.
Zykov spun the wheel then hit the brakes. Debris smashed into the back passenger and rear windows, sending glass flying through the car, striking both men. A rock narrowly missed Zykov's head as it flew past, blowing a hole in the windshield.
And then it was over, except for the screams, shouts, and police sirens. Both sides of Unter den Linden were littered with damaged cars, people sitting, laying in the road, on sidewalks. An embassy guard's body was barely visible beneath the rubble of the entry archway.
Kalinin was trying to focus his eyes, as he slowly sat up, feeling pain in the back of his head, neck. He touched the back of his head, then looked at his hand. Blood. More blood trickled from a cut near his eyebrow. Hearing a moan, he finally noticed Zykov slumped against the door. "Oleg," he said, tugging on Zykov's arm. "Are you all right?"
Zykov slowly pushed himself away from the door, then fell back against the seat. A cut on his cheek oozed, blood dripped from his temple. "What the hell happened?"
Kalinin leaned closer to the side window, trying to see through a multitude of spiderweb cracks. What his eyes saw was difficult to comprehend. "The front of the embassy … it is … gone! Rubble!"
Zykov ducked down, trying to see. "It is not possible!"
"Come on." They both got out. Pieces of glass fell from their clothes as they stood, but they held onto the car doors for support. "Can you walk?" Kalinin asked. Zykov nodded, then started going around the vehicle.
An East German policeman was running toward them, immediately stopping both men. "You cannot go any further." He spotted blood stains on their clothes. "You appear to need some medical care."
Kalinin responded in German as best as he could. "It can wait." He glanced at the smoldering building. "We are — were employees of the embassy."
With blue lights flashing and sirens blaring, police cars, fire trucks, ambulances neared the horrific scene. Firemen from the first truck wasted little time attaching hoses to hydrants, then directed the powerful water jet back and forth across what once was the embassy's façade. Police held back curious, horrified onlookers, running from every direction. Emergency medical personnel rushed from ambulances.
"Wait here!" the policeman ordered. He went to converse with fellow officers. They were all part of the People's Police (VOPO) and wore green tunics and matching pants, with Norinco Tokarev, short recoil pistols in side holsters. When he returned, he told Kalinin a bomb squad was on its way to search for other possible devices. "Do you know how many people may have been inside?"
"No. Visitors were always possible, but we had a regular staff of twenty-five. And Ambassador Sidorov had his residence on the third floor," Kalinin pointed.
"Do you have any identification?"
"Is this sufficient?" Kalinin asked, showing the KGB badge.
"Of course." He took a pad and pen from his pocket. "Give me as many names as possible of those who worked here." Kalinin and Zykov named as many as they could remember, every now and then looking at the smoldering building. Not a single sign of life, no voices, no cries for help.
If Borskaya was dead, they were on their own. For now, until ordered otherwise, they were still responsible for their mission — finding Dotsenko. But once Moscow learned that Reznikov committed the terrorist act against the Motherland, the odds were he'd become their number one priority. Either way, they were going to need additional help, even if it was from the East Germans.
Kalinin had to think fast. "We have some information on who may have been responsible. We witnessed a black, four-door 1970 Trabant driving away just prior to the incident."
"How many were in the vehicle?!"
"At least three men."
After answering additional questions, Kalinin and Zykov were treated for their injuries. They waited two hours longer, while the fires were permanently put out. No one had walked out of the building.
Kalinin tapped Zykov's shoulder, and spoke softly. "Time to go."
They maneuvered their way through onlookers, firemen, medics, making it to the car without anyone paying attention to them. The exterior of the Volga was heavily damaged, glass sprayed throughout the interior, but the engine started immediately. Zykov slowly edged the vehicle forward, waiting for people to move aside.
As he turned the corner, he commented, "Nicolai, that vehicle was black. Wasn't …?"
"I know. The report we read showed it was green."
"Then, how can …?"
"Green. Black. Color does not matter, Oleg. I know I saw Reznikov driving!"
"Where to? Intel?"
"Not yet. Go to the next street, then park."
Zykov shot a look at his partner. "What are you planning?"
"I want to get inside."
Zykov parked the car, then they cautiously hustled to the rear of the embassy. Windows had been blown out, glass littered the sidewalk and street, but the lower part of the building itself remained somewhat intact. A hidden rear entrance, behind a panel of false cement blocks, would be their means of access.
Kalinin placed a hand against the stainless steel door, checking for heat. He punched in a code on the small panel, then pushed the door open. Smoke still hung low inside the building. They put their sleeves across their mouths, breathing shallow as they climbed the stairs, avoiding glass and debris. Once on the next level, they paused, trying to see through mounds of fallen ceiling and walls. Water dripped from the overhead. Equipment and desks were burned and strewn everywhere. They splashed through water sprayed from fire hoses. It wasn't looking good for anyone who'd been inside.