He took her hand in both of his, caressing her long, slender fingers, then looked up into her gentle, brown eyes. "You go to bed and stay warm," he smiled. "I'll be with you shortly."
When she reached the door, she turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder, saying demurely, "I'll be waiting." He responded with a smile.
After the door closed, he picked up the cigar from the ashtray. He stared at the burning cigar with its tawny brown wrapper, rolling it between his fingers as his mind started creating a plan. An inspection tour will do nicely. One of the early Aeroflot flights would get him to East Berlin in plenty of time. His American friend, Grant Stevens, needed his help.
A familiar aroma from the hot tea drifted into his senses. He breathed in then reached for the glass, picking it up by its gold-plated handle. The rim of the glass was hot against his lips as he sipped the tea. He immediately tasted the Ryabinovka-flavored vodka, steeped with ash berries. He smacked his lips then raised the glass and said softly to himself, "Ahh. Thank you, my dear Alexandra."
His eyes strayed to the crackling fire as a spark leaped onto the fieldstone base skirting the fireplace. He sipped again on the vodka-laced tea, then let his head fall back against the chair. Appearing in his mind was a visual replay of his first encounter with the then Lieutenant Grant Stevens.
The British Navy had requested assistance from the Americans following the crash of its sleek British bomber, the delta-winged Vulcan, in the northern Mediterranean. Remnants of the aircraft began to surface off the coast of Portugal. Initial reports released to the media were sketchy, at best. The crew was presumed dead, but the search was continuing. The U.S. Navy sent in its DSRV (deep submersible rescue vehicle). Grant was the OIC (Officer in Charge) of the dive team.
The Kalinin, a Soviet Kresta-class cruiser, had been tracking the British and American ships. As expected, the Soviets offered their assistance and were diplomatically turned down by the British. But it was much more than just concern or morbid curiosity that brought the Russians to the scene. The Vulcan was carrying a nuclear bomb, still yet to be recovered.
At the time, Moshenko was working with the Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU, in their special services unit, the Spetsnaz. He was assigned to intelligence duties aboard the Kalinin, using the cover of a helicopter pilot, in that his background included 1500 hours of flying the KA-25. The chopper was equipped with search-radar in an under nose radome. After lifting off the cruiser, Moshenko hovered the chopper close to the recovery site.
Grant, dressed out in his wetsuit, was in a rubber boat, directing operations. He glanced up at the chopper for an instant, and shook his head in disgust as if to say, "Back off!"
His eyes were still glued to the helicopter when a noise like an extremely loud backfire echoed across the sky. Smoke began billowing from the chopper's motor. The KA-25 suddenly started rocking back and forth, nose up and tail down. Moshenko lost total control as it began to gyro-rotate, its body spinning the opposite of the rotor blades. The Mediterranean, ninety feet below, was approaching at what seemed like blinding speed. The engine sputtered and died just as the aircraft hit the water, belly first. An explosion of sea water burst outward. Moshenko felt as if his spine was being rammed up into his skull from the force of the impact. One of the tail fins snapped off, back-spinning across the water, but somehow, the rest of the aircraft remained intact. The lock on the sliding cargo door snapped from the force, sending the door back on its track. Water rushed in through the wide opening, causing the chopper to list to starboard. Moshenko hit the release on his safety belt but it jammed. Pulled in tight against the backrest, he had no way to wriggle out of the harness. The more he struggled, the tighter it got, and water was gurgling all around him.
As soon as the chopper started going down, Grant ordered the coxswain to fire up the engine and head for it. He shouted to Chief Cole in the other boat to take over operations. As the rubber boat skimmed over the two foot swells, Grant knelt down in the center, steadying himself as he worked quickly to put on his scuba tank, fins and mask. The coxswain pulled back on the throttle. The boat was still fifty feet from the chopper when Grant hit the water.
By now, the helo was almost totally underwater, only the tip of a red star on its remaining twin tail fin was visible. One rotor blade poked up through the water's surface. Grant stroked like hell, finally coming close to the front starboard side of the chopper. Sunlight filtered through the blue-green sea water, making visibility crystal-clear. He immediately spotted someone in the cockpit. Recognizing the chopper as a KA-25, he knew it would be fruitless to try and open the pilot-side door. He swam directly for the open cargo bay, propelling himself to the forward section, pulling his knife from his thigh strap. The chopper was beginning to sink faster, as if being drawn downward by a powerful magnet.
Moshenko was still struggling when Grant swam up behind him. He floated in next to Moshenko, sucked in another lungful of air, then pulled the mouthpiece from his mouth and shoved it against Moshenko's. The Soviet breathed in deeply and quickly while Grant slashed at the safety belt with his knife. Moshenko handed the mouthpiece back to Grant as Grant pulled him from the seat. They swam back through the cargo bay toward the open door. They were seconds away from being at the hundred foot depth, when oxygen from the tank would be useless. The bends, every diver’s fear, could soon become reality.
Grant had just guided Moshenko through the opening when the chopper suddenly listed to port. The motion of the chopper caused the flexible blades to shimmy. A tip sliced through the flesh of Moshenko's right calf. The Soviet's mouth opened in a scream, air bubbles gushed out. Grant pulled him closer, shoving the mouthpiece back into his mouth. He glanced down, seeing the blood being diluted by sea water, pouring from the deep wound. He pointed up, motioning for Moshenko to continue breathing as they ascended. He could only hope the Soviet understood and didn't hold his breath during the ascent. Moshenko nodded, acknowledging Grant's instructions but he was in obvious pain. With one hand hanging onto the Soviets sleeve, Grant did a 'blow and go,’ sending out a steady stream of bubbles, releasing all the air in his lungs as they made their way to the surface.
Now, in the sanctuary and comfort of his own home, Grigori Moshenko found himself sweating. Whether imaginary or real, he reached down and massaged the ache in his calf. Even Soviets have their own demons to confront every now and then.
Chapter Nine
A city alive during the day now rested quietly beneath a suspended gray crown of smoke being discharged from fireplaces and factories throughout the city. The top floor of a ten-story, nineteenth century tenement building seemed to vanish within a cloud of smoke. The lower exterior of the concrete mass was still battered and pock-marked, a testimonial to wartime bombings. The state began renovating many of the apartments, although most were still considered to be very under-modernized.
Grant waited patiently as he hid in the alley across from the building where he and Adler were to meet. Close to midnight, most of the lights in the apartments had already been extinguished. Like a jungle cat, he moved quietly, unseen, making his way to the doorway, then immediately disappeared inside the building. A wooden staircase was directly in front of him, the first of three floors he'd have to encounter. With Lampson's description clear in his mind, he made a dash up the stairs, hanging close to the wall where the steps were more secure, less likely to give him away. In what seemed like seconds, he was at 3C, tapping out a prearranged signal. The lock clicked and he squeezed through the partially open door into a pitch dark room.