A desperate situation calls for desperate measures. 'Nimble fingers' Adler would have to steal another car, selecting a completely nondescript mode of transportation, more than likely another popular Volkswagen then switch the license plates.
Their cover story would be that Marie was taking her two Austrian friends to Tegel Airport for their return trip to Vienna. But Grant had to do some fancy talking to convince her she'd have to seek safety and protection in West Berlin. Whether she agreed or not, he'd see to it that she made the trip. He instructed her to tell her boarders at the rooming house that she would be going away for a few days to care for a cousin recovering from an auto accident. He gave her enough Deutsche Marks for her to register at the Hotel Berliner for five days.
A plan had been quickly put together in determining how to protect her. Over the past years she'd been supplied by West German intelligence with several passports and matching identification papers. Grant suggested she use the Austrian passport when she checked into the hotel, using the assumed name of "Erica Rhone". Before leaving for the airport, they removed the back seat of the "acquired" VW and hid her fake passport and papers inside. The Uzi and .45 were wired to the underbelly of the car — a chance they had to take.
As soon as they arrived at the airport, they drove directly to MILOPS. There, Grant placed a call to an NIS officer stationed at the air base at Tempelhof.
In less than two hours a West Berlin taxi pulled up to a side entrance at MILOPS. The driver, in his early thirties, hopped out of the cab then walked briskly around the rear. A Baltimore Colts patch was sewn just under the epaulette on the right sleeve of his khaki windbreaker. "Captain Stevens?" he asked, his blue eyes going from Grant to Adler.
Grant extended a hand. "That'd be me."
"I’m Glen Webster," he grinned as he shook hands with Adler and Marie as Grant introduced them.
Although they never met, Grant had heard stories about Webster. At 5'9" with an average build, Webster easily concealed the fact that he was a man who possessed a fifth degree black belt in Shotokan karate, a traditional style that emphasizes discipline and the ancient art of the "one punch kill.” His strength, quickness, and sharp mind had made him a valuable asset to the NIS and the occasional covert op.
Adler tuned in on the conversation but tried to be inconspicuous as he swept the area with his eyes, as would a Secret Service agent with responsibility for guarding a president.
"As I explained over the phone, Glen, we'd like you to take Marie to the Hotel Berliner. And since Joe and I will be, shall we say, out of pocket for a couple of days, we'd sure appreciate it if you could… "
"Hell, Captain, it'd be my pleasure to check on the little lady!" A light flush came over Marie's face as he looked at her. Sensing he may have embarrassed her, Webster immediately reached for her suitcase. "Let me help you with that, ma'am. Are you ready?"
She buttoned the top button of her raincoat and answered, "Yes, Herr Webster, in a moment." She turned to Grant, and gave him a hug.
He smiled. "Can't thank you enough, Marie. You came through for us again."
She stood on her toes in order to kiss him lightly on the cheek, but he still had to lean forward in order for her to reach him. She laid a hand gently against his chest. "Take care of yourself, Grant. I'll expect to see you again."
Then, she stepped over to Adler, giving him a hug. Adler hugged right back. "Thanks for your help, Marie."
"And you, Joe Adler, be careful," she laughed and shook a finger at him.
They watched the cab drive down the apron of the runway and make a right turn, heading toward the Autobahn. They were comfortable in the fact that Marie would be safe.
Chapter Twelve
A silhouetted figure stood on the fringe of the tarmac close to MILOPS. With his arms folded across his chest, Grant Stevens glanced upward at the morning sun. It was a crisp, autumn day, with bands of clouds being nudged along the horizon by a moderate, northerly breeze.
Hearing the sound of jet engines, his gaze turned to a Pan Am 707 lifting off runway 27. Gray streams of exhaust, spewing from four jet engines became clearly visible against the cobalt blue sky. The silver fuselage gleamed as the aircraft banked left, beginning its flight to New York City. His eyes followed the aircraft, but his thoughts were on the events that had taken place earlier that morning, leading up to Marie's departure for the hotel. Whether or not he contacted Matt Wharton for assistance was yet to be seen. Too many "eyes and ears" inhabited the Embassy. Maybe there would be hell to pay later on, but right now, the risk might be too great to take any unnecessary chances.
He turned, hearing the main door to MILOPS swing open. Adler stepped out, swiveling his head till he spotted Grant. He jogged across the parking lot, with his unzipped leather jacket flapping as he ran. He pulled up when he was next to Grant, extending a hand holding a covered paper cup. "Coffee, sir?"
"No, thanks, Joe."
Adler flipped the plastic cover off and sipped on the steaming black coffee. He licked his lips. "Marie's okay, sir. Checked in without any problem. She's in room 415."
Grant nodded. Behind the dark aviator sunglasses were intense brown eyes. His thoughts were solely on his own initiated DAM (direct action mission). The term was used by SEALs for a specific military operation involving commando-style raids into hostile or denied areas.
Grant's target had been acquired. The kids had to be found today and the lab destroyed, not to mention getting their own asses safely out of East Berlin.
Adler reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out his sunglasses, giving them a downward shake to separate the thin, gold-colored wires, then he fitted them over his ears. As he adjusted them on his nose, he tilted his head back, scrutinizing a day that was starting off to be just about perfect. He rocked back and forth on his heels while inhaling a lungful of air and getting a brief whiff of jet fuel. "I don't know about you, sir, but that shower sure as hell felt good!" He swirled the remaining coffee around in the bottom of the paper cup. The black brew had cooled rapidly in the morning air and he chugged down the last mouthful, flattening the cup before slipping it into his pocket. Thinking about seeing his reflection in the mirror earlier, he rubbed his hand along his hairline, then glanced at Grant. Both of them were in need of haircuts.
The wheels of a Swiss Air passenger jet screeched down on the runway, its engines screaming as the pilot threw them into reverse. But the long, quiet moment between Adler and Grant continued. Grant's face had a look of fierce determination. The clamping of the square jaw and grinding of teeth was a familiar sight for Adler. Knowing the pressure and concern his good friend was experiencing, he attempted to disguise the excitement he was feeling.
"Today's the day, isn't it, sir?"
Grant lowered his head, then looked up, pushing the aviator glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It's gotta be, Joe. We're out of time. We need to stage now. Did you check to see that the chopper was still in the hanger?"
"It's fueled and froggie, Skipper."
"Very well."
"You got something else on your mind?" Adler questioned as he tilted his head down and looked over the top of his sunglasses.
Grant jabbed him in the shoulder. "You read me like a cheap novel, Joe! And, yeah… I decided it's time we lay a trap for that shitbird in the Embassy."
"Hot damn!" Adler bellowed, as he smacked his hands together. "I tell you what, Skipper, I thought you were gonna miss that one. I should've known better, foolish kid that I am."