"I want you to think carefully about your next answer, Otto. Is Brennar the father of those children?"
Neus tilted his head slightly, as if the question were absurd. "Of course. Greta told me they were."
Grant signaled time was up; they had to prepare to meet Manfred. Neus nearly came off the seat when he suddenly felt the cloth touch his lips before being roughly shoved into his mouth. Adler grabbed hold of Neus’ elbow, assisting him in getting up. His legs were untied, then his wrists retied in front of him. His jacket was buttoned to the top then his collar pulled up, his blond hair hanging over it. The next thing he knew, he was being half dragged, half carried down the stairs, with Grant and Adler each holding onto an arm. When they reached the main landing, Grant kept an iron grip on Neus' arm while Adler scoped out the alley, returning in seconds, saying softly, "Schnell."
Manfred was ready for them and had opened the hidden compartment door. Even though he was surprised to see the German, he remained quiet and stood aside while the Americans did their work.
Adler pulled a syringe from the rucksack, snapped his finger against it, then squirted a small amount into the air, ensuring there weren't any bubbles. Grant held Neus' arm in a vice-like grip. Veins in the back of the German's hand made an easy target for Adler, and within seconds, the sodium pentothal took effect. The German's knees buckled from under him. They pulled the gag from his mouth, then rolled him into the compartment. Adler crawled in next to him and quickly adjusted the oxygen masks. He gave a thumb's up and Grant secured the hinged door. Grant patted Manfred on his back and the old man climbed into the cab of the truck, giving Grant a wink as he drove away.
Once again looking like another East Berliner going off to work, Grant slung the sack over his shoulder and headed for his rendezvous with Grigori Moshenko.
Chapter Ten
Early morning shadows began creeping down the curb outside a cafe, stretching themselves across gutters and into the street. Sputtering motorbikes, popular and inexpensive modes of transportation, passed up and down the narrow road. Puffs of white smoke sputtered from the exhausts, expelling acrid fumes. A sound of clanking bottles and wooden crates echoed from the alley next to the cafe as a delivery truck driver prepared to make early morning rounds.
Seated at a black wrought iron table beneath the café’s gray and white awning, Grant occasionally glanced across the street at the grocery store. He spread a spoonful of honey on his second breakfast roll, while every once in awhile taking a quick, nonchalant look up and down the street. As he licked drops of honey from his fingers, he glanced in the direction of the chimes of a distant bell tower. Almost at that exact moment, a Soviet military officer appeared from around a corner, stopping momentarily on the curb a few yards from the cafe. Grant signaled for a waiter and asked for the check. The basic German Adler had taught him was more than sufficient to get him by. He handed the money to the waiter then waited for his change. Without being obvious, he leaned slightly, just enough to observe the uniformed officer.
The Russian was just about 5'10", with a solid, muscular body and short, black hair. Checking the traffic, he looked up the street. Then, turning back, his eyes made split-second contact with Grant's. Taking a puff from a cigar, Grigori Moshenko stepped off the curb and walked towards the grocery store.
Once on the other side, he paced up and down in front of the store, examining the food products meticulously displayed in the window. He intentionally fixed his eyes on a reflection in the glass watching Grant Stevens cross the street then continue walking toward an alley, eventually disappearing from view. Moshenko entered the grocery store, nodding his head to a store clerk, and then walked towards the refrigerated glass case, pausing to look at a lavish array of meats and sausages.
Located near Alexanderplatz, the small but well-stocked grocery store catered to Soviet and East German government officials and military personnel. Already in business before the city was divided, the owner, Fritz Baumann, persuaded the new government to allow him to continue running the shop, even offering a monthly payoff to a designated party member. A simple, common man with vision and forethought, he devised a concealed room in the basement behind shelves stocked with goods. His intention was to eventually begin the construction of a tunnel for escapees. Baumann was easily recruited to become an operative for West Germany.
"Colonel Moshenko," Fritz Baumann called as he came from behind the counter. “It’s so good to see you again." Moshenko merely nodded in acknowledgment. Baumann followed close behind, finally asking, "Is there anything special you are looking for?"
The Russian continued walking down the aisle, glancing at shelves stocked with colorful cans of tomatoes, imported olives and kippers. A steady stream of smoke rose from the cigar he now pointed at Baumann. "My wife has asked that I bring her some of those pickled eggs I purchased last time."
"Ahh, soleier," Baumann answered. "A new shipment is still packed in the basement. I haven't had time to stock the shelves. Would you like to come down with me? Perhaps you will see something else to bring home."
"Perhaps," Moshenko answered curtly.
Baumann led the way toward the back of the store. "If I remember correctly, you like Riesling, don't you?" Moshenko nodded. "You may want to look through the wine shelves, also. I purchased a new label recently." He called to his store clerk, as he reached for a notebook. "Freda, I'm taking the colonel downstairs to look through the new supplies. I'll take a quick inventory of the caviar while I'm down there. Take care of any customers." The gray-haired woman adjusted her white apron and nodded.
A strong, pungent smell of sausage drifted up the stairwell as the two men made their way to the basement. Once the basement door had been closed, Moshenko shook Baumann's hand. "Your help is once again appreciated, Herr Baumann."
"It is my pleasure, Colonel." He gestured toward the secret panel. "Take as long as you wish."
Grant was sitting on the corner of a small table, swinging one leg back and forth, a wide grin spreading across his face when Moshenko came in. "It's about time you showed up," he laughed as he stood then walked toward the Soviet.
Moshenko dropped the cigar butt on the irregular cement floor, grinding it with the heel of his boot. He threw his arms around Grant, slapping him on the back. "It's been a long time, my friend." Stepping back, he eyed the tall, good looking American up and down. "You are looking well." He poked a finger into Grant's rock-hard stomach muscles. "Still working out, I see."
"Have to keep up to Uncle Sam's standards," Grant grinned. "How's Alexandra?"
Moshenko put his cap on the table. "She is well; still keeps me in line, as you say," he laughed.
"Why don't you sit down, Grigori." Grant motioned to a wooden chair.
As he sat in the chair, Moshenko adjusted the position of a side holster holding his firearm, a 9mm Makarov automatic pistol. He immediately noticed Grant's expression change. "There's a serious problem?"
Grant nodded. "Yeah, you might say that. You know that project your country is presently funding here?"
"You are well informed. But then, I wouldn't have expected anything less," Moshenko responded trying to disguise a smile.
Kneading the muscles in the back of his neck, Grant continued. "I'm afraid your project's been compromised." Moshenko leaned forward, hanging on Grant's words. "We found out that the FSG has gotten its hands on a sizable portion of the formula."
The Russian's face turned grim. "My God."