From: Director NIS
Subject: Telcom November 11, 1977, 0400 Hours ET
Re: Badger
Proceed as confirmed our telcom. All official duties outside the original authorization must be approved by originator.
Classified: TOP SECRET. Non-Declassifiable.
Category III. Funding via NIS Ops/BL/ND.
Support authorized at Embassy Level.
By: Direction of Director of Naval Investigative Service — Rear Admiral John Torrinson
Torrinson had confirmed their earlier telephone communication. 'Category III' indicated Grant as having top level White House security. Funding for the operation would be coming out of NIS budget, covering Operations/Black (covert)/Non-Disclosure.
Grant folded the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. Will have to get this to Wharton… one of these days. He buttoned the jacket then adjusted his cap squarely on his head before walking into the crypto room.
Adler stepped closer to him. "Authorized?"
Grant nodded, as he turned to Canetti and Kelley. "Appreciate the use of your equipment."
"No problem, Captain," Canetti responded. "Guess you're both outta here now. Hey, give my regards to Uncle Sam when ya'all get back!"
Grant just smiled. "Will do. Thanks again." He and Adler shook hands with the two men then left.
The wall-to-wall carpet in front of the hotel room window showed a distinct strip of pile that had been beaten down to parade rest. Lampson paced back and forth, occasionally stopping to look out the window at the street below, hoping to see any sign of Grant and Adler. He'd lost track of the number of times he'd glanced over at the phone, wishing it would ring. "Where the hell are they?" he said nervously, with a hint of irritation in his voice.
His sweat suit reeked of cigarette smoke; butts from half the pack were mashed into the bottom of a glass ashtray. He cranked the handle at the bottom of the window frame. Cold, damp air invaded the room, the smell of rain unmistakable. Grabbing a lighter from the end table, he lit up another Marlboro then took a sip of Coke from the sweating bottle. He collapsed into the oversized, plush chair as he mentally reviewed his meeting with the bureau chief that had lasted nearly two hours. Grant would be happy to hear the debriefing was outside the Embassy walls.
Wharton didn't need much convincing and was more than willing to accommodate Lampson after the agent expressed his need to experience true freedom again. They had walked in the late morning fog through the Tiergarten (Animal Garden), with its more than one million trees. Eventually, they parked themselves on the top step of the Bismarck monument. From that vantage point it gave them a bird's eye view of anyone and everyone. Near the end of the meeting, he persuaded Wharton to let him go back to the hotel for some much needed rest. With a complexion that had about as much color as bread dough, Lampson’s excuse was accepted without question. They agreed to meet early the following morning at Wharton’s office.
A rapping at the door gave his heart a jump-start. He had his hand on the polished brass door lever, when he saw a paper sliding underneath with one printed word: Grant. As soon as he opened the door, Grant put his finger to his lips. Understanding that Grant wanted him to keep his mouth shut, Lampson backed up as the two officers entered, closing the door quietly behind them. The two were dressed in civilian clothes, wearing dark slacks and black T-shirts. Grant had on a brown leather jacket, Adler, black.
Grant scanned the room quickly, spotting a door leading to the bathroom. He motioned for Lampson to follow him. After turning on the faucets full blast, both in the sink and shower, he whispered, "Rick, we're going to get you out of here and take you some place safe."
With a worried look, Lampson said, "But Wharton's expecting me. I’m supposed to be at his office… "
"Not your problem. Now, get your shoes. Joe's got some clothes for you to change into. We've gotta be ready to move out quick." Adler stood in the doorway and handed Lampson a black leather satchel. "One more thing, Rick. Could you describe Greta for me?"
"She was tall, came up to here on me," he indicated by putting his hand just below his shoulder. "I guess that'd be about 5'9. She had blue eyes and long, light brown hair. Most of the time she wore it pulled back, you know, like in a pony tail." Lampson spoke as if he was staring at an oil painting.
"Any distinguishing marks?"
"Only a small scar on the left side of her forehead." A light bulb suddenly went off in Lampson’s head. "You're going back to East Berlin,” he asked excitedly, “aren't you?"
"I don't have time to explain everything, but, yeah, we're going."
The two officers privately discussed final plans while Lampson changed. He rolled down the collar of the cable knit turtleneck sweater, then knelt down to tie his sneakers. "You know there's somebody watching the lobby, don't you?"
Adler winked. "Would you like a detailed description of both gentlemen?"
Grant glanced toward the open bedroom window, hearing the rolling sound of thunder. He only had to look at Adler for Joe to act on cue. With a quick nod, Adler turned and headed for his pre-assigned task.
A blinding strike from a powerful lightning bolt flashed against the tree-covered hills, and three seconds later, thunder reverberated across the city. Every light in the Hotel Berliner suddenly went out. Hallways were as pitch black as underground caves, just as was intended.
A single wooden door leading from the basement slowly opened. Joe Adler cautiously emerged, then he immediately made his way to the exit door at the end of the hall. Closing the door behind him, he pressed his back close to the exterior brick wall, looking up and down the alley. Taxi drivers lined their cabs along the curb in front of the hotel. Pedestrians hurried by. Twenty feet across from the hotel was the side delivery entrance of the Bruenhaus, one of West Berlin's main department stores. On their way to meet Lampson, Grant and Adler took a detour through the store, exiting at the delivery door. Adler used an invisible strip of tape to hold back the latch, ensuring they could regain entry.
The hotel door swung open. Grant and Lampson moved next to Adler. Like stealthy objects traveling in unison, the three men made a dash across the alley, quickly disappearing into the department store's basement. Once again Lampson was just along for the ride.
They were grateful the store was still crowded, as they wove in and out of last minute shoppers who were scurrying about before the 8:30 closing time. Large brass, swinging front doors came within sight, fifty feet ahead of them.
Once outside, Adler whispered to Lampson, "Stay with me, sir." Grant dropped back several paces, tugging on the brim of his black baseball cap.
One block away a cream-colored, double-decker bus was slowing. Passengers gathered in the aisles, ready to make a hasty exit from the rear door. An anxious throng of pedestrians waited to board the bus before the threatening storm released its fury on them. The wind was already gusting to twenty knots, making them grab hats and parcels while trying to shield their eyes from swirling dirt and leaves.
The three Americans pushed their way into the crowd, managing to jump onto the platform at the front of the vehicle. Once the bus passed the third stop, Adler inconspicuously grabbed Lampson's lower sleeve and edged toward the rear exit, with Grant hanging close behind. Adler looked out a side window, spotting the rental car he'd registered under an assumed name with fake Austrian identification papers.
Five minutes later and with Adler behind the wheel, their black BMW was speeding down the Autobahn, traveling at 150 kph heading for Bergfeld, a small hamlet just north of West Berlin in the Soviet sector.
Grant reached into his inside jacket pocket, then handed Lampson a manila envelope. "Get familiar with your new identity before we reach the checkpoint. There's an Austrian passport and another set of identification papers."