At the entrance of the pipe, he pulled a flashlight from a hook on his belt then pointed the light ahead of him, swiveling it side to side. He felt a slight current flowing into the pipe. He reasoned there shouldn’t be any current, unless there was an opening up ahead.
He would allow himself a round trip swim time of three minutes. Throwing caution aside, and considering what he had to accomplish, he kicked his legs hard. The tiny beam from the flashlight didn't allow him to see too far in the distance, but he'd been in worse circumstances than this. He continued kicking and glanced at his watch. Ninety seconds, he thought. Already past the time he had allotted himself, he was about to stop when he heard a noise in the distance that sounded like rushing water. The sound increased as he continued on. Aiming his flashlight off to the right, he spotted a ladder rising out of the darkness. He grabbed hold of a rung, and looked up to see a metal hatch. He had seen plenty of those. The hatch resembled an escape hatch on a submarine.
Without wasting any more time, he climbed four rungs, finally able to bring his head out of the water. He grabbed hold of the wheel and gave it a couple of turns. All he could hope was that no one was standing on the opposite side. From what Lampson was able to get out of Steiner, work in the lab was allowed only during daytime hours; but that didn’t mean Steiner told him the truth.
Gradually raising the heavy cover, he stood on the top rung and poked his head through the opening. Letting the snorkel dangle from its strap, he breathed in, recognizing a faint odor. Chemicals. Scrambling through the hatch, he crouched low, finding himself inside a tunnel made up of the same type of pipe he just swam through. Overhead, bare light bulbs were strung from wire every twenty feet down the tunnel as far as he could see. This had to be one of their escape routes. He sealed the hatch, then started making his way through the pipe, all his senses on full alert. He was grateful that a smooth walkway had specifically been laid inside this portion of the pipe, his bare feet feeling its cool dampness.
He'd only traveled about fifty feet when another passage broke off to his left, lights strung from it as well. "Shit!" His voice echoed inside the metal casement. He tried to picture in his mind the route he'd been following as if he were above at ground level. It made sense that an escape route would lead under a road then probably exit in another basement. It wasn’t likely they'd take a water route like he just did.
After another five minutes of half-jogging through the tunnel, he spotted less than twenty-feet ahead of him a plain, steel door with a ball-type doorknob. A steady humming noise somewhere overhead made him direct the flashlight beam along the top curve of the pipe. An exhaust fan was left running, drawing odors out of the room and into the tunnel, explaining why he smelled the chemicals early on.
He closed his eyes, trying to listen for the sound of any human voices coming from the other side, but all he heard was the steady drone of the fan. He had to take a chance and hope luck was with him. He unzipped his wetsuit then removed a waterproof plastic case containing an electronic lock-opening device. He selected a pick from the carrying case, inserted one end into the device, the other into the lock, then switched on the device. Inside the lock, pins were being bounced around until they were in alignment. Piece of cake, he quipped. The lock clicked. He put the device back inside the case then slipped it into his wetsuit. Cautiously turning the knob, he pulled on the heavy door, cracking it just enough to able to take another listen. The room was pitch black and quiet as a tomb.
He stepped in, making a quick 360-degree scan with the flashlight's small beam. He guessed it to be barely fifteen feet square, but every inch was jam packed with tables and lab equipment. There weren’t any closed cabinets, only open shelving, leaving everything in full view. He moved the light across the ceiling and focused on a set of collapsible steps. They were encased in a wooden framework that was anchored to the ceiling in the middle of the lab. From what he could figure, the steps led to the basement of the building. He walked over to the counter and began picking up glass canisters, reading each label. "All the right ingredients," he mumbled. He lifted the lids of cardboard boxes, looking for notes but found none. He shone the light on his watch. It was already 2215 hours. It was time to make that call to Grigori then head for the flat.
Paramount in his mind was the fact that civilian casualties had to be avoided. Then again, from what he could see during his little jaunt to this place, civilians seemed to avoid this end of town like the plague. He already decided on the explosives he’d be using. As soon as he closed the door of the lab, he took a reading on his compass, and then jogged back through the tunnel effortlessly, making mental notes of distance and direction, finally reaching the hatch. The swim back to the Spree and his original point of departure would be a breeze. He could only hope he didn't drip too much water once he had on his civilian clothes.
He made his way down alleys, around the backs of buildings, trying to stay out of sight as much as possible. Traffic was merely a trickle. Twenty-five minutes after leaving the river, he was in a phone booth on Kruegstrasse. He took a quick glance around before dialing a twelve digit number that would ring a phone in Moscow.
After three rings, there was a series of beeps. Once they stopped, Grant spoke in impeccable Russian, leaving a coded message made up entirely of a series of numbers. There was no need to expect any voice response from this particular phone call. It was similar to what was known as a 'blind transmission,’ when a person transmits a message without expecting a response. He immediately hung up and left the phone booth, making haste for his rendezvous with Adler.
Seated at the mahogany desk in his study, Grigori Moshenko listened to the familiar voice on the tape. He deciphered the message as each number was spoken. There was the sound of the connection breaking, then a steady dial tone. He immediately pressed the erase button on the recorder then pulled the cassette from the machine. He pushed the chair away from the desk, and then walked toward a massive fireplace, built of irregularly shaped brown stones. Pulling a length of the magnetic tape from inside its protective case, he tore it in half. He felt the warmth on his hands from the intensely burning logs as he tossed in the tape then watched the plastic case melt.
Dangling from the side of his mouth was a Davidoff Grand Gru cigar, with an inch long charred gray ash hanging precariously from the tip. After flicking the cigar ash into the fireplace, he rested his hand on the rough hewn hardwood mantel, made from the piece of Russian oak he'd brought back from a trip to Odessa. Staring at the burning, orange embers, he seemed mesmerized as he watched them flutter like fireflies, floating upward, finally disappearing in the chimney. Once he had assured himself the tape was entirely destroyed, he took a step away from the fireplace and sat down slowly on a large upholstered chair. A good warm fire, with its crackling and hissing, relaxed his mind and body.
A light tapping on the door made him turn. "Yes?"
The door opened and his wife, Alexandra, called quietly, "Grigori?"
"Come, Alexandra," he smiled and waved her over to him.
She carried a glass of hot Russian tea then placed it on the table by his chair before leaning over and kissing him lightly. As she did, a wisp of her dark brown hair caressed his cheek. He reached for her hand, feeling the smooth wedding ring, one she'd worn for twenty-six years, twenty-seven next January.
"You've spent so many hours working and worrying these past months," she said in nearly a whisper. She tenderly ran a hand across his receding hairline, smoothing back jet black hair.