"I'm afraid that's just the beginning." Grant got up and slowly walked across the room, glancing up at the single, glaring light bulb. He turned around to look at Moshenko, as he anchored his thumbs in his back pockets. "I've gotta apologize first, Grigori."
"You? For what?"
Grant expelled a breath of air through clenched teeth, then said almost apologetically, "It was one of our agents who passed some of the recipe to them."
"I'm assuming that what you are about to say is classified." Grant nodded. "Has your Admiral Torrinson been informed of your intentions to tell me?"
"Yes."
"Then, continue."
"Part of the agent's assignment was to find out what the FSG planned on doing with the drug. In order to do that, he had to get their full confidence, and by passing bits and pieces of the formula, he did just that. I might add that not all the information he gave them was accurate, but unfortunately, what he did give them was more than enough to put them close to bringing it together."
With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Moshenko questioned, "You said 'part of his assignment'?"
"He'd been working for the East Germans for over a year, Grigori, helping with the formula."
Moshenko gritted his teeth. "Were you aware of all this?"
Grant shook his head, as he leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. "Had no idea. Without any explanation, we got orders to extract him. It was only after we completed the mission that we found out."
"And you know what the FSG's plans are, don't you?"
Grant nodded. "They're going to use it on you, Grigori, the Russian people, starting with the Kremlin during an upcoming conference."
Moshenko sucked in a lungful of air, stunned by the news. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "No one would listen to me. From the beginning I warned my superiors that this project was too dangerous to put entirely in the hands of the East Germans." He stood up, pacing the room a few times before stopping and looking up into Grant's concerned face. "But, knowing you, my friend, you already have something in mind to resolve the situation, don't you?"
"Do you have any extra time on your hands today?"
"They believe I'm here on an inspection tour. I'm not expected to be back in Moscow for a couple of days."
"Good. How'd you like to take a trip to the country? I hear it's beautiful this time of year."
Moshenko trusted Grant to the utmost, not even questioning why. "I take it you are looking for me to, how do you say, ‘take a ride’?"
"Hitch a ride," Grant laughed. "I've got a couple of friends and one unexpected guest waiting."
"Would one of the friends be Joe Adler?"
"You got it."
Moshenko picked up his cap. Sliding his fingers along its brim, his lighthearted attitude quickly changed. "These are very serious times, Grant, very serious. It is best we handle this ourselves and explain later."
"I agree. The fewer involved, the better."
Moshenko put on his cap. "I'll be back in one hour. Be in the alley. We'll talk further during our ride."
Making his way through the basement storeroom, Moshenko remembered to select a bottle of good Riesling and two jars of pickled eggs. He met Baumann on the way and they left the storeroom together.
Colonel Helmut Durer felt the beads of perspiration spreading across his brow. He shifted nervously in the chair, his gray eyes staring at the general.
General Hermann Stauffenberg sat in his leather, high-backed armchair, with his fingers pressed together, tapping against his lips. "You still haven't found Eric Brennar. You still haven't found Greta Verner. Do you have any idea where they could be?" the general asked as he tugged on the cuffs of his shirt.
"Sir, we have watched all the airports and ports of call. No one has seen him. We believe he is still somewhere in Germany."
"'Somewhere'? Can you narrow that down?"
"Not at this time, sir."
Stauffenberg pushed himself away from the desk. He walked around to the front, stopping next to Durer's chair. "And the woman?"
"There are rumors that she's been disposed of, but that hasn't been confirmed."
The short, balding general walked toward the window. He spread apart two of the window blind slats and glanced across the parade field. Two rows of tanks and jeeps were lined up inside the perimeter of a high chain-link fence that had concertina barbed wire strung across the upper edge. Every vehicle bore the red star of Russia.
Stauffenberg pulled on the cord, raising the blind to the top of the window. "How many people are working this?" he asked while staring at a platoon of East German soldiers standing at attention for daily inspection. Their AK47s were held at arm's length in front of their bodies.
"We have ten people in West Berlin, another ten in the Soviet Sector."
"Hmm." Stauffenberg picked at his lower teeth, peculiarly exposed from a jutting jawline. "I assume that money was the main motivating factor," he said as he looked at a piece of leftover sauerkraut he'd pulled from his tooth, now stuck to the tip of his index finger.
"As it usually is these days."
"You need to put more pressure on these people. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Stauffenberg gestured for Durer to leave. The officer immediately jumped to attention then saluted crisply. He turned on his heel and left.
Stauffenberg went behind his desk, glancing at the calendar. In a couple of days he was to attend a meeting at the Kremlin, one of several where he and his East German counterparts were invited. All members participated in discussing special interests. Questions would surely be raised by his Russian superiors concerning how the project for the virus was proceeding. The Russians knew Brennar was a vital link in seeing that the project was a success. In Stauffenberg's estimation it would take perhaps four to five weeks longer to complete the formula. His superiors might not be happy with that, but he was confident he could convince them the scientists were proceeding more slowly at this point just to ensure complete success.
He sat in his chair and picked up a ball-point pen, idly scribbling doodles on a folder. He'd been fortunate, so far, in keeping Brennar's escape under wraps. But what troubled him was that no word had come out of the West about Brennar's defection. In this day and age, defections were always front page news. It was as if Eric Brennar no longer existed.
A radiant sun was not quite directly overhead as a four-door, 1976 Mercedes Benz was waved through the last East Berlin checkpoint without incident. Once it had traveled two miles beyond it, Moshenko pulled over to a secluded spot. He unlocked the trunk and Grant scrambled out. Within seconds, they continued on their way. The silver vehicle raced along a two-lane country road, heading east. Tires squealed on black pavement as the auto took the sharp curves at extraordinary speeds. Moshenko handled the wheel like a natural-born race car driver, one of the pleasures of his life.
With a cigar dangling from the side of his mouth, he said to Grant, "Now, my friend, tell me the rest of the story."
Twenty-five minutes later, and close to their destination, Grant leaned forward, his eyes scanning the road ahead. "Think you'd better slow down, Grigori. There's supposed to be a dirt road coming up on the right." Moshenko slowed the vehicle. "There. Twenty yards ahead."
The tires rolled over rocks and depressions. Heavy brush rubbed against the undercarriage as Moshenko guided the Mercedes along what was little more than a cow path. They had traveled nearly a mile when Grant said, "We'll have to ditch the car here, then hoof it for about a mile and a half."
"'Hoof it'?" Moshenko asked in his thick Russian accent. He laughed as he drove the car off the path, steering it toward a tall, thick growth of brush.