As the train stopped, the doors parted and a throng of passengers pushed forward, mingling with passengers who were trying to exit. Mullins stepped behind Alexandra as they entered the car, immediately guiding her to the opposite side, grabbing two seats.
Part number one over, he thought. Part number two might be more difficult when they reached the airport. They would have to change trains only once, with a scheduled timeframe of forty minutes to the airport. He had no idea on departing flights to Berlin. They could be waiting hours, unless they got lucky. Either way, the plan was in motion.
Domodedovo Airport tower came into view just as a sound of jet engines grew louder. An Aeroflot 707 roared down one of the parallel concrete runways, took flight, then made a slow bank toward the West.
Grant kept his eyes on traffic, as he negotiated a sharp curve. “It should be ahead, off to the right, Joe. Get those binoculars.”
Reaching into the satchel, Adler rummaged around for the binoculars, then pulled them out. Adjusting the dial until he was able to see clearly, he scanned the grounds about a hundred yards ahead.
Grant felt a knot in his stomach beginning to tighten, until Adler said, “There’s a Russian helo, skipper; looks like a KA-27.” The KA-27 (Kamov) replaced the aging KA-25. It has two Isotov turboshaft engines with co-axial rotors, a maximum speed of one hundred sixty-six mph, and can carry up to sixteen passengers.
“See anybody?” Grant asked anxiously.
“Not yet.”
Grant shifted into second, slowed the truck, and continued on his current course. The road curved to the right, about fifty yards from where the helo was.
“Wait, skipper! There’s the colonel getting out now.” Grant didn’t even attempt to stifle his long, exhaled breath. Adler readjusted the clarity of the glasses and said, “Uh-oh. Three more peeps just got out.”
Grant nodded before turning his head briefly to look out the right window. “Yeah. Grigori said there’d be a pilot and two guards. They all wearing uniforms?”
“That’s affirmative. Uh-oh.”
“Again with the uh-oh’s?”
“I’d suggest you keep driving. There’s a shiny black Mercedes driving toward the chopper. It’s got one of those small Russian flags near the left front bumper. Can’t make out what the other flag is on the other side.”
“Wish Grigori had a chance to call Alexandra,” Grant said under his breath. “Joe! What time is it?”
Adler pulled his sleeve back. “Closing in on 1748.”
Doesn’t matter now, Grant thought. We’ve gotta get aboard that chopper.
He had to take a chance to try and get Moshenko’s attention. “Joe. Keep an eye on Grigori. See if this gets his attention.” He hit the clutch, revved the engine a couple of times, then kept driving past the field.
“He looked our way, skipper!”
Seeing another vehicle rounding a curve in the distance, Grant suddenly said, “Hold on! I’m heading for those trees!” He made a sharp right turn.
Adler braced his hands against the dashboard, pressing his body against the seat. Grant held the wheel tight, as the truck barreled across uneven ground, scraping grass and dirt. He hit the brakes and clutch. The truck skidded to a stop. He killed the engine, then looked across at Adler, as he rubbed his own shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Adler replied, as he moved his head side to side. “I won’t even question that move!”
Grant jumped from the cab. “Start clearing any evidence from this truck. Make sure there isn’t anything identifying Grigori, and pull off the license plates.”
He rushed around to the back, pulling his satchel close. They’d take everything Mullins and Moshenko provided, but hoped they wouldn’t need the “heavy” stuff: Uzi with extra clips; extra clips for the Makarov; MK6 (Mark Six) CS vials (tear gas), and two concussion grenades. Each grenade measured about one and a half inches high and wide, and six inches long. Black hard-pressed paper makes up the shell that encloses the explosive material inside. Because of the paper shell, there isn’t any shrapnel when the grenade explodes.
Adler searched the cab thoroughly, looking for papers, ids, anything that could associate it with Moshenko. He couldn’t find any vehicle identification number. The colonel must have made a clean sweep himself; nothing’s here, Adler thought. With his task completed inside, he pulled his satchel out, then yanked off both front and rear license plates.
“Got everything?” Grant asked, pulling his gear from the truck.
“Only things were the plates. What do we do with ‘em?”
“Put them with your gear. You’ve got det cord and pencils, right?” Adler nodded. “Get me the binoculars before you do that.” He took a few paces away from the truck, then got down on his belly, trying to get a better view under the trees.
The Mercedes was still there. Someone was standing next to an open rear door. Probably a driver, Grant surmised. A large barrel-chested man, wearing a dark suit and hat, walked to the car. Above his left pocket was a row of medals. As he put a hand on the open door, he turned toward the helo. It was then Grant recognized him. Antolov!
KGB Director Mikhail Antolov settled into the backseat. The driver closed the door, then immediately hurried around to the other side. Headlights and tail lights came on as the engine turned over. When the car started down the road, Grant diverted his attention back to the chopper. No definite sign of Grigori, just four sets of boots showing from underneath. He got up and dropped the glasses in the satchel.
After a few minutes Adler came close. “All clear?”
“Clear,” Grant responded. “Grab your shit. Let’s head over there.”
Crouching, they inched their way closer to the open field, ducking behind large overgrown brush. They got on their bellies, crabbing their way closer, trying to get a better view. Adler peered through the binoculars, focusing on the helicopter, then tapped Grant’s arm, handing him the glasses, saying softly, “Grigori.”
Grant readjusted the focus. One of the Russians stood behind Moshenko, who was slowly swiveling his head. Grant knew Moshenko was looking for him and Adler.
Finally, Moshenko raised an arm and shouted what sounded like an order. The uniformed man gave a quick salute, then immediately turned and went to the other side of the helo, with Moshenko slowly following.
Grant moved the binoculars, trying to catch sight of the black Mercedes, spotting two red tail lights, now just tiny dots in the distance. Grant breathed a sigh of relief. The car kept on its current path. He stashed the binoculars in the satchel.
Getting up into squatting positions, they took ski masks from their belts, then pulled the black masks down over their heads. If they turned the pilot and guards loose later, they didn’t need their descriptions broadcast over the airwaves. KGB dossiers could be just as accurate as the CIA’s.
Drawing pistols from their back waistbands, they took a final look around. Grant gave a nod, and crouching low, they ran like hell across the field. Their weapons, grasped tightly in their hands, hung close to their bodies. When they were within thirty feet, they slowed down, creeping closer, positioning themselves near the double tail fins, away from windows. They listened for any movement or voices.
Adler squatted, then leaned sideways, looking at the opposite side where two men stood. He got up slowly, keeping his back against the helo, then held up two fingers. Suddenly, they heard a familiar voice. Grant understood Moshenko, telling the pilot to finish his preflight check list.
Grant gave Adler a thumb’s up. They had to do it now. Just as they made the turn around the tail, Moshenko came around from the other side. All of them stopped in their tracks, staring at one another.