Staring at himself in the mirror, he reviewed a complicated formula for a new, and potentially deadly, mind-altering drug, something he’d done for what seemed like every waking moment over the past several months. Every calculation was inscribed on his brain, giving him the ability to see it word for word as if reading directly from a technical journal, his own private journal.
Breathing a long, heavy sigh, he opened the cabinet, hoping to find some Listerine. An unpleasant taste of river water lingered in his mouth. Wharton usually saw to it that a military-type ditty bag, fondly known as a "douche kit,” was provided to the agents. Lampson smiled with the thought, but that smile was quickly replaced by a sullen, quizzical stare. His eyes focused on a slip of plain white note paper hanging by a piece of tape from the middle shelf. Curious, he leaned closer, reading the words hand printed in German: "Their lives are in your hands, Herr Brennar."
He ripped the paper from the shelf with a trembling hand, feeling the smooth surface of a photograph taped behind it. He turned the paper over. The black and white photo seemed to come alive in his hand. Staring straight into the camera lens were the frightened faces of twin two-year old boys, his illegitimate sons. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, Christ! No!"
Chapter Four
Lampson had been totally immersed in his work and assignment, ignorant for thinking they wouldn’t somehow find out sooner or later about the children, Franz and Josef. He never expected this… but he should have, knowing full well the extent of the powers that were in control and what was at stake. His arms hung by his sides, the photo gripped in his hand.
Walking somewhat unsteadily, he wandered into the bedroom and slumped down on the edge of the bed. His mind slowly cleared and he glanced again at the photo as he wondered, Where’s Greta?
Perspiration formed at his brow, as he feared the worst. He stared at the close-up of the twins with their tousled blond hair and smudged faces. But then he finally noticed someone standing behind them with a hand resting on each of the boys' small shoulders. The tip of the man's right index finger was missing. So who had kidnapped his sons? And who would be looking for him? As he stood, his thirty-five year old body seemed to react like one consumed with pain. He took hesitant steps toward the middle of the bedroom. His temples throbbed. The room felt as if it were closing in around him. He ran a sweating hand over the top of his hair. "What the hell am I gonna do?"
Here was Rick Lampson, holding the life of thousands of Russian strangers in his hands, with the threat of causing all out war. But the overlying factor suddenly had to do with two little boys.
The rain had finally let up. Breaking clouds passed in front of a brilliant moon, casting a pattern of intermittent pale yellow through the hotel window. A chilling silence pervaded the room. Rick lay on the bed, his arms folded behind his head, his eyes wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling. Who could have done this? He bolted upright when he heard the faint sound of the bell tower chiming five o'clock. He slid his legs over the edge of the bed, then stood and walked slowly to the window. There were only five hours left before he was to meet with Wharton, five hours to decide whether to debrief the Company on the formula and the dissidents' plans — or go back to the other side and possibly face death.
His mind kept spinning. But even if he wanted to, how the hell could he get back into East Berlin? And once he did, who could guarantee that he’d be kept alive? They knew who he was now. Shit! But how… how did they find out? Who put the damn note in the bathroom? A mole? An Eastern agent? Who in the hell did it?
He paced in front of the window with his eyes lowered, looking down at his bare feet as he padded across the carpeted floor. He couldn't trust the East Germans, and he suddenly realized… he couldn't trust the CIA. He wondered if his “shadow” was sleeping. There wasn't any doubt Wharton had placed another agent in the hotel to keep tabs on him. If the agent knew he was making a run to the East, he'd probably zap him without a second thought.
He turned quickly and rushed to the nightstand, nearly knocking over the brass lamp as he reached for the phone. He lifted the receiver and dialed the hotel switchboard.
"Guten morgen," a female voice responded pleasantly.
"This is Rick Lampson in Room 312. Could you tell me if there's a Captain Grant Stevens staying at the hotel?" He spoke in English, skipping the formalities.
"Just a moment, please." Sylvia Erdmann switched her response to impeccable English. Several seconds later, she returned. "Yes, there is a Captain Stevens in Room 228. Shall I ring his room for you?"
"Yes, yes, please."
Grant answered on the second ring, sounding slightly out of breath. "Stevens."
"Captain Stevens? This is Rick Lampson. Sorry to ring you this early."
"No problem, sir, just working on some sit-ups. Appreciate the interruption," he laughed. "What can I do for you?"
"Captain, can we talk?"
Grant rubbed a bath towel across his forehead, wiping away beads of sweat, then he sat on the arm of a blue upholstered wing chair. Dark patches of perspiration appeared down the front of his green fatigue T-shirt. "Sure. I'm listening."
"Could we meet for breakfast in the hotel’s roof restaurant? Would that be all right?"
Grant asked with some concern, "Are you okay, sir?”
"Sure. I’m fine. Just need to chat."
Grant glanced at his watch, thinking: Something heavy must be happening.
"The restaurant opens at 0600, sir. Does 0615 sound okay?"
"Meet you then."
Grant hung up, draped the towel over the back of his neck, and then immediately called Adler. "Joe, something's going on with Lampson."
"How so, sir?"
Grant relayed his conversation with Lampson, then added, "Look, maybe you'd better do a 'tail-end Charlie' for me, just in case. Be at the restaurant on the top floor at 0600. I’m supposed to meet up with Lampson about 15 minutes later. And, Joe, bring the ‘puppy.’" He referred to the special issue, silenced Colt .45 used by covert operators. It was known as a “hushpuppy.”
That's all he had to tell Adler, who knew Grant wanted him to hang close and keep his eyes and ears open. By the time Grant and Lampson arrived, Adler would already know every waiter, waitress, busboy, and cook.
The restaurant's maître'd, Ernst Zimmer, drew back the heavy, blue velvet drapes hanging from brass rods, exposing two large doors leading to the balcony. As he glanced down at the lights of West Berlin, he tugged lightly on his coat sleeves then adjusted his black bow tie. With the night's blackness as a backdrop, the glass doors simulated grand mirrors, and he gave himself the once-over before resuming his duties. He scanned the restaurant one more time, ensuring everything was in impeccable order. Seeing an older couple waiting by the reservation station, he nodded then motioned for them to follow him to a table near the window.
Grant stood just outside the restaurant's entrance in his dress blues uniform, his cap tucked under his left arm. He was prepared to fly back to the States with Adler later that morning. Adler was already seated at a table in the corner opposite the entrance. He appeared to pay no mind to anyone entering the restaurant.
Grant extended his hand as Lampson walked up to him. "Morning, sir."
Lampson eyed the ribbons on Grant's uniform. Five medals for valor, two purple hearts. He failed to identify the remainder. "Captain, I appreciate your seeing me. And please call me 'Rick.’ By the way, how's the arm?"
"Dr. Adler knows his stuff," he laughed. "Thanks for asking." Grant immediately detected the shakiness in Lampson's voice but decided to hold off on any comment.