Once at the truck, Grant flung open the back doors. “Everybody in! Grigori, you drive. The key’s in the ignition. No lights; keep your foot off the brake.”
Moshenko rushed around to the driver’s side. Trying to think ahead, and hoping to make himself less recognizable, he immediately removed his jacket and cap, then dropped them behind the seat. A brown shirt and tied would be less conspicuous. He slid in behind the wheel, and started the engine. With one hand ready to release the hand brake, he waited.
The men climbed in the back. Grant apologized. “Sorry, but this is the only way. Will you all be okay?”
“You just drive!” a voice said.
Grant cringed, thinking of these men being isolated, inside darkness. “Joe’s gotta store his gear, then we’ll be outta here.” He took a quick check of his watch. Two minutes to go. Come on, Joe! he thought.
A sound of the helo’s rotors winding up got his attention, just as he saw Adler racing toward the truck, carrying both satchels. Without hesitating, Grant ran to the cab, jumped into the passenger side, and scooted to the middle of the seat. “Get ready, Grigori!”
Adler tossed the gear into the back, secured the doors, then rushed to the front and climbed in. He closed the door, and without waiting for Grant to ask, he gave a thumb’s up.
“Go!” Grant shouted.
Moshenko stepped on the gas. Immediately spinning the wheel, he aimed the truck back toward the road. Holding the steering wheel tight, he tried to prevent the truck from fishtailing, until tires finally grabbed pavement. Once on the road, he eased back on the gas, not wanting to draw attention from anyone who might be watching, then he flipped on the headlights. “Where do we go, Grant?”
“Head to the safe house.” From the side mirror Grant caught sight of the chopper just as it rose above the trees. His original plan for getting the men out of Russia was now a thing of the past. He was worried. He had every right to be.
Moshenko constantly glanced in the mirror, checking for a tail as he drove down Kashirskoye Highway. Traffic was sparse, making it easier to spot a trailing vehicle.
The early evening air was warm, with the humidity hovering around sixty percent. Adler rolled down the window, resting his arm on the edge of the door. He reached out and adjusted the side view mirror, then settled back against the seat, keeping his eyes focused on the mirror.
Grant sat quietly, looking at his watch occasionally, thinking about the men in the back. They still had another twenty minutes or so before they reached the safe house.
“Grigori, isn’t the Eliseevsky grocery store on our way? We need to get these guys some food.”
Moshenko thought for a moment. “Yes, it is on Tverskaya Street.”
“Okay, head for it. You’ll have to stay in the truck, so guess that leaves me to do the buying. Joe, you’ll have the watch.”
“Right, skipper.” Usually, Adler would be more than protesting when it came to picking up food, but not this time.
Grant owed Moshenko an explanation for his change of plans. “Grigori, let me explain our sudden departure from the chopper. Joe found some type of explosive device under the fuel tank and another one near the rotor.”
“I suspected there was a problem, Grant, but not this!”
“Any idea who could’ve planted them? Or why?”
Moshenko shook his head slowly. “I will have to think.”
Grant now had to decide what and when to tell Moshenko about Alexandra. He’d wait until they were at the safe house. After that his next objective was to get to a phone booth and call the Embassy to get confirmation about Mullins, then call Torrinson.
Adler glanced into the side mirror, then turned his head toward Grant. “Think anything happened to the chopper, skipper? I haven’t seen or heard anything that could’ve been an explosion.”
“Don’t know. Either way, I expect we’ll find out sooner or later.”
Moshenko’s thick fingers curled around the steering wheel. He tried to stay focused on his driving, the road, and rear view mirror. With this news about someone wanting to bring down the aircraft, he tried to refocus his thoughts back to his wife, picturing her face, seeing her worried look when he left home this morning. Once again, he had to put his trust in Grant.
He suddenly sat up straighter, shifting in the seat. The word “defector” bounced around in his brain. The past few years he knew his life and his views on his government were changing, but not enough to defect. The five Americans now riding in the truck had become the final impetus for his decision.
“Grigori?” Grant called, giving him a nudge with his elbow. “Hey!”
Moshenko gave a slight shake of his head. “Yes. Yes.”
“Are you okay?” Grant asked with concern.
“I was just thinking about Alexandra.”
The fuck with waiting,Grant thought. “Listen. I was going to wait till we got to the safe house to tell you, but she left Moscow, Grigori. She should be on her way to West Berlin.”
Moshenko’s eyes widened. “How? Who…?
“Don’t worry. She’s in the hands of a friend, Tony Mullins. I’ve mentioned him before, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. The Bronson, yes?” he answered, as he turned onto a bridge crossing the Moskva River.
“Right. I’ve instructed Tony to go directly to the American Embassy. Alexandra will be safe there.” Thinking about the responsibility he’d put on Mullins’ shoulders, getting Alexandra out of Russia, caused him dismay. He trusted Mullins, but the odds were not exactly in the agent’s favor. It was one more person he had to be concerned about. “We’ll talk further, my friend,” Grant added. “I know it’s difficult, but try not to worry, okay?”
“You are right. It is difficult.”
Even though it was barely dusk, lights from ornate street lamps shown through the windshield as they drove down Tverskaya Street.
A major traffic route, Tverskaya had three lanes southbound, and two lanes northbound, with a pull-off lane on the right. Buses, some painted green and white, others red and white, stopped to pick up passengers. An electric tram pulled next to the truck, as Moshenko slowed down.
Grant looked out the windshield. “We’re getting close to the store, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Keep an eye out, Joe. It’s number 14.”
Moshenko leaned forward slightly, trying to see out the windshield. “Here it is,” he said, as he pulled next to the curb.
Adler opened the door and hopped out. Grant slid across the seat, got out, then looked back at Moshenko. “You drive around slow. Meet me back here in… ” he glanced at watch, “in fifteen minutes.” Adler got in and closed the door, as Grant said, “Give me a sec while I get the men up to speed.”
As he walked to the back of the truck, he did a quick scan of passersby who might be taking an interest in him and the truck, or any vehicles that might be slowing down. Everything seemed clear, so he opened the right side door part way. Heads turned toward him as he leaned inside. “Everybody okay?”
One person seemed to be the spokesman. “We’re fine.”
“The colonel and Joe will be driving around till I come back. We’ll be underway in fifteen minutes. Hang tight!” He closed the door, then went into Eliseevsky Grocery Hall.
Opened in 1901, Eliseevsky was the first real grocery store in Moscow. The former palace was purchased by millionaire Grigory Yeliseev. After the Russian Revolution, Bolsheviks allowed only important Communists to shop here.
The interior of the old palace remains as it was with crystal chandeliers hanging high above, ornate walls and high arches. A portrait of Yeliseev, painted by Alexandr Romanov, is still on display.
Since the war, modern updates were made to food cases and displays, but the huge array of food choices remained the same.