The room was soundproof, and had ten inch thick walls that were painted stark white. Dull gray linoleum covered the concrete floor and a double row of fluorescent lights blazed overhead. A tall, gray metal fireproof cabinet was propped next to the door. Locked inside were extra batteries, throat mikes, special weapons, and cases resembling briefcases containing Delco 5300 radios for field agents. Small but powerful, the radio could send voice or Morse code transmissions. Messages were transmitted and received on separate frequencies.
The only decoration in the stark room was a foldout color picture of Miss April from Playboy magazine. Making an L-shape along the opposite walls was a long, stainless steel table. Every inch of space was covered with sophisticated equipment consisting of scrambler communication gear, internal walkie-talkies, a short-wave radio system, radio directional finders and receivers. At the smaller end of the table were two recorders that were automatically activated when someone wearing a “wire” energized his unit or when a "bug" in a room picked up sounds.
Tucked away behind the file cabinet was a small safe, containing code books for secure communication. Normally, codes in the Embassy were changed weekly. The bureau chief, security chief, and the men working in the crypto lab are usually the ones the government spends the most money on, specifically for training, salaries and equipment. For intelligence purposes, they're the individuals who have the capability of making the Embassy the most vulnerable with all they know.
Two men, dressed in casual clothes, with the sleeves of their white shirts rolled up, sat at the table. George Canetti and Blake Kelley had been partners for just over two years, with nearly thirty years between them at the Company.
Not quite thirty, the short, heavy set, Brooklyn-born Kelley was the younger of the two. He'd joined the Company after a six year stint with the Navy as a CT (communication's technician). His last two years of military service were spent hidden away at a remote communication's intelligence site in Alaska.
Finishing up a coffee break, Canetti had a set of headphones draped around his neck. His curly salt and pepper hair and goatee were both neatly trimmed. Contrary to the belief that Southerner's speak with long, slow drawls, Canetti's words flowed as fast as a runaway train. He looked up from the September issue of Sports Illustrated Magazine as Grant and Adler approached. "Hey, Captain, Lieutenant! Ya'all back so soon? We thought you'd be on the big silver bird winging your way back to the States?"
Grant tossed his cap on the edge of the table. "Not yet, George; may have a change of plans."
Adler spotted leftover breakfast pastries sitting on a tray in the corner. Motioning in their direction with his thumb, he asked, "Say, George, have those been assigned to anybody specific?"
"Nah. Take what you want, Joe."
Grant just shook his head. All the years he'd known Joe Adler, the man's weight never varied more than a couple of pounds either side of 180 and was solidly dispersed over a 5'10" frame. His best description of Adler was that he was built like a brick shithouse.
Kelley reached for the logbook on an upper shelf then made a notation, recording the time and names of the two visitors who just arrived. He put his ball-point pen next to the log, then rubbed a blotch of black ink off his finger. "Is there something we can do for you, Captain?"
Grant pulled a chair closer to the table, then straddled it backwards, crossing his arms on top of the backrest. "Hope so, Blake. I need to use the scrambler phone to call Admiral Torrinson again."
"Something tells me you want us to make an exit this time," Canetti commented as he stood up. He noticed a surprised look on his partner's face. "It's okay, Blake. It's been real quiet around here; I think we can give them a few minutes. You know the recorders will kick in even if a mouse farts."
"Appreciate your understanding, George," Grant smiled, "but there's no need for you to leave. We'll just close the door, if that's okay with you."
"It's all yours, Navy," replied Canetti. At the same time Kelly frowned. "Hey, Blake, relax. It's Uncle Sam's equipment, remember? The Captain won't break it." He reached over and pressed the buzzer, unlocking the door that led to a small room, not much bigger than a walk-in closet.
Once behind the secure door, Grant placed his call to Rear Admiral John Torrinson at NIS (Naval Investigative Service) located outside Washington, D.C. When Grant made the initial recommendation to the Secretary of Defense for Torrinson to be assigned the job, the forty-seven year old admiral was stationed in Coronado, California at SPECWARCOM. The Special Warfare Command was the western headquarters for SEAL teams.
"Admiral Torrinson's office. Petty Officer Phillips."
"Zach, this is Captain Stevens. Is the Admiral in?"
"Wait one, sir. I'll buzz his desk." Yeoman Phillips pressed the intercom button. "Captain Stevens on the Red 1, sir."
"Patch him through, Zach." Torrinson put his fork down on a plate with half-eaten scrambled eggs, then washed down a mouthful of toast with strong black coffee.
Thank God Trish is an understanding wife, he thought as he glanced at the desk clock that showed 0400 hours. On top of the rectangular timepiece rested a bronze "Budweiser,” the emblem of the SEALs. He dabbed at his mouth with a white cloth napkin before picking up the scrambler phone.
"Grant, good to hear from you."
"Thanks, Admiral."
"Thought you'd be on your way to the airport by now."
"Sir, we've got a problem."
"Does it have to do with Agent Lampson?" Torrinson asked through tight lips. He leaned forward in anticipation of the reply.
"Yes, sir," Grant replied as he was removing his jacket. A screeching noise as annoying as fingernails on a blackboard made him glance over his shoulder. Adler had spun a metal chair around, scraping the legs on the linoleum floor. He sat down, wiping the last remnants of powdered sugar from his mouth with the back of his hand.
Torrinson listened as Grant gave him a quick and dirty concerning the situation with Lampson, then he responded, "That's too bad about the kids, Grant, but you did what you were sent in to do. Lampson's safe, along with the formulas."
Grant pushed the chair out from under him, then stood up and leaned back against the metal table. "Sir, I'd like your permission for Joe and me to go back to East Berlin."
"Not if it means trying to find those kids, Grant," Torrinson replied adamantly.
"It's more than just them, sir. Lampson's life is in danger, too."
"I realize that, and that's why you need to get him the hell out of harm's way. Has any of his information been recorded or put on paper?"
"Not that I know of, sir. He confirmed that he's got it all stashed in his brain." Grant breathed in deeply, rubbing a hand over the top of his head, then pressed further. "Sir, we've got to destroy the FSG’s lab and maybe the East German lab. We've got to act soon to at least try and set them back. As Lampson said, the FSG already has enough of the formula to piece together the last sequence of catalysts, sir. They could be done in two weeks."
"Look, Grant, you know that project is being funded by the Russkies. Your extra curricular activity might be like shoving a hot poker up their butts. I know you realize that the political ramifications could trash all of us. Hell, they'll blame us in a heartbeat. God only knows what the consequences would be. Besides, how can you be certain they're not being kept up to speed by the Germans?"