Navy SEAL Grant Stevens: Code Name Antares Part 19

"But Nick grew up here. I guess what he learned about Russia was what his folks told him, being brainwashed with negative remarks about us, and overly positive statements about the 'Motherland.' And by the time he learned about his heritage, he was probably at a very impressionable age. That's not to say he didn't like living in the States, and didn't form his own opinions. But I can't imagine what it'd be like learning that your whole life was preplanned, dictating that you'd be working for a foreign government, and working against the only country you'd ever known." Grant shook his head slowly. "Hard to imagine." He went quiet, then said, "Sorry, Mr. President. Hope I didn't get too carried away."

"Not at all."

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to try and convince him, though."

Carr started to respond when the intercom buzzed. "Excuse me a minute." Carr went to the desk. "Yes, Theresa?"

"Mr. President, Secretary Williams is here for his appointment."

"I'll be with him shortly."

Grant stood and re-b.u.t.toned his suit jacket, as Carr walked toward him. "Well, Grant. It's been a very interesting meeting." He extended a hand.

Grant reached for it with a firm grip. "Yes, sir. If we can do anything to help with the remaining investigation, let us know. We'd be more than happy to."

Continuing to shake Grant's hand, Carr said, "The Team did a remarkable job on the mission, Grant. I thank you all."

"Our pleasure, Mr. President. I'll be sure to tell them."

As Grant stepped into the outer office, Carr said with a smile, "Keep my offer in mind!"

"I will."

Carr gave a slight wave, then motioned Treasury Secretary Williams to come into the office.

Grant gave a quick look at his submariner. Then, he started walking, seeing her sitting behind her desk, busily sorting through a stack of file folders.

He stood next to her desk, and said quietly, "Hi."

She looked up. "Oh! Captain Stevens."

"No formalities, okay? Just call me 'Grant.'"

"All right. Grant it is," she smiled.

"I know this is kind of sudden, but how'd you like to have dinner with me, say, Sunday?"

She couldn't take her eyes away from his. "That sounds lovely."

He reached for a pencil and notepad, and handed them to her. "Would you mind giving me a home phone number? I don't want to bother you here--like I'm doing right now."

"You aren't bothering me at all," she replied, as she wrote down the number, tore the paper from the pad, and handed it to him.

He gave the number a quick glance, then put it in his jacket pocket. "I've gotta go. We're still trying to catch up since we've been back. I'll call you in a couple of days, then we can set up a time for me to pick you up. How's that sound?"

"Sounds perfect. I'm looking forward to it," she smiled.

He started backing away. "Yeah. Me, too." Then, he turned and headed to the main door.

Once he was out of sight, she returned to filing, when another a.s.sistant laughed, "Wow! Way to go, Claudia!"

State Department Office of Scott Mullins 1600 Hours "Permission to come aboard,sir!"

Mullins swung his chair around. "Hey, Grant! Welcome back!"

Grant went to the desk with his arm outstretched, grabbing hold of Mullins' hand. "As always, it's good to be back!"

"Sit!" Mullins said. "How about something to drink?"

"No, thanks. Had a c.o.ke with the President earlier."

"Well, listen to you! 'Mr. Name Dropper'!"

"Guilty," Grant laughed.

Mullins rocked back and forth in his swivel chair. "So, what's he like?"

"Who, the President?"

"You know who I mean."

"Oh, you mean 'Nick.'"

"Who the h.e.l.l's 'Nick'? I meant Kalinin."

"Nick Kalinin. You know. 'Nicolai'?"

"Oh, f.u.c.k. Don't tell me you two are buddies already?"

"Not exactly." Grant proceeded to fill Mullins in on the whole op. When he finished he asked, "Do you know where they're holding him, Scott?"

Mullins shook his head. "Haven't been able to find out. But the FBI's most likely got him in one of their 'hideaways' which means there's a good possibility he'll be moved to another location, and probably soon."

"Think you could do some investigating for me?"

"You won't be able to have any contact with him, Grant."

"I know. I know." He locked onto Mullins' brown eyes. "C'mon, Scott. That's not much to ask for. A few phone calls."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

The phone rang. "Let me get this. Mullins." The call was one-sided, until Mullins said, "Okay, Phil. Thanks for the info." He slowly replaced the receiver. "Seems that a Russian private jet went down, not far off the coast of England."

"Yeah. I heard."

"Did you have anything to do with it?"

"Excuse me?!"

"You heard me."

"Jesus, Scott! I'll tell you the same thing I told the President. No! We didn't plant any device on that plane. We had nothing to do with it going down. Anything could've gone wrong. Listen, those pilots were f.u.c.kin' freaked. Maybe they weren't paying attention to their instruments. h.e.l.l! Why'd you even ask?!"

"Oh, maybe I just like getting your blood boiling once in a while," Mullins finally laughed.

Grant leaned across desk, shaking a finger in Mullins' face. "Bad agent! No more donuts!" He cracked a smile, then stood. "It's been fun, but I've gotta meet the Team at Eagle 8. We're still taking inventory."

Mullins came from behind the desk. "How are the supplies holding up?"

"Off the top of my head, we'll need jet fuel. Think we can get it today?"

"Don't see why not."

"I'll call after inventory." Grant reached for Mullins' hand. "We've gotta do this again sometime."

"Roger that, buddy."

Northeast D.C.

Deanwood Section 2330 Hours Misha Zelesky parked the Mercedes two blocks from the intended drop site, then shut off the engine and headlights. As long as he left the package by midnight, they would still be in compliance the American's request.

He removed the envelope from the glovebox. The thickness was about right, as was the weight for large bills that would total fifteen thousand American dollars. The plain pieces of paper, cut to size, were held together with tape, then put inside an envelope and sealed. That envelope was inside a larger one with the note Amba.s.sador Vazov had written.

He got out, and quietly closed the door. Feeling a light rain, he tucked the envelope under his jacket, then pulled up his collar. Taking one more survey of the area, he began walking.

Most of the buildings were abandoned, windows were broken, street lights were few. He swiveled his head occasionally, never knowing if the American--or possibly a second conspirator--could be watching.

He stopped. Up ahead was the drop site at the base of a partially dismantled railroad trestle. Resuming his steady pace, he stayed on alert until reaching the wooden structure. The farther under the structure he walked, the darker it got. Squinting, trying to see the exact location, he edged forward. Taking one last look left then right, he got down on a knee, and shoved the envelope across soft dirt, pus.h.i.+ng it as far back as possible.

Hurrying to the Mercedes, he got in and drove away. Only he wasn't going to the emba.s.sy. Driving three blocks past the trestle, he shut off the lights, then turned a corner, and parked again. This time, when he got out, he took his Makarov.

Skirting around buildings, he chose one where he'd have a good view, and one that was close enough if he had to take chase. A second floor window would work.

An hour later, Zelesky leaned closer to a window. "There he is," he whispered, looking through spider web cracks.

A man was walking at the base of the embankment, heading toward the trestle. He turned his head, looking to see if he was being followed, then he kept walking. He stopped, put his back against the embankment, then appeared to be scanning the darkened area across from him. Finally, he ran to the opposite side.

Zelesky lost sight of him for a moment, then he suddenly reappeared, only this time he was running back the way he came. Zelesky hurried down the interior steps of the building, then ran to his vehicle. The American could have only parked in a certain area, and that's what Zelesky was counting on.

As much as he wanted to hit the gas, Zelesky took it slow with headlights off, until he spotted taillights ahead. He swiveled his head quickly, looking for any other lights but didn't see any. His hunch was right. He dropped back, continuing to keep the red taillights in sight.

Traffic was spa.r.s.e, but it was finally safe for him to turn on headlights. The American was still in sight, easy to follow. Inexperienced fool, Zelesky thought.

Twenty minutes later, the vehicle turned off the main road and into a neighborhood. Zelesky shut off the headlights and slowly drove forward, seeing brake lights flash, as the car turned left into a driveway. He immediately pulled to the side of the road, and killed the engine. An overhead light came on in the American's car, just before the car door slammed. Zelesky had a very limited glimpse, but it didn't matter at this point. He got out of the Mercedes, closed the door quietly, then cautiously hustled toward the target house, four houses away.

He scurried behind the vehicle, then peered through the car windows. Lights came on in the house. Crouching low, he slid his back along plastic siding, then ducked beneath a large picture window. Hearing the American shouting and swearing, Zelesky slowly stood just enough to peer into the window. The American was on the phone.

Zelesky wasn't able to pick up every word, but what he did hear was more than enough. As the American slammed down the phone, Zelesky took off for his car.

On his drive to the emba.s.sy, he had a thought. What if the person the American was talking to was the man in the photograph? The Navy SEAL. The one who looked like Kalinin. He'd report his idea to Vazov, wis.h.i.+ng there was more time to investigate.

Chapter 17.

Grant's Apartment Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

Friday - Day 5 0530 Hours Standing by the living room window in his old, blue Navy jogging shorts, Grant opened the blinds, then sipped on his hot, black coffee. It had been awhile since he'd slept a solid eight hours. It sure as h.e.l.l felt good. Turning his head slightly, he was able to see running lights on a private yacht, heading south along the Potomac. He had to admit there were still moments when he missed the sounds and feels of a s.h.i.+p, the smell of seawater, an overwhelming feeling of wonder when looking at a million stars against a pitch black evening sky from the middle of an ocean. Luckily, those moments didn't last long.

He turned away from the window, downing the last few mouthfuls of coffee, then went to the kitchen, and rinsed the cup. He started walking to the bathroom, looking forward to a hot shower. Besides driving his Vette, a shower helped him think, sort things out.

Hot water beat against his head and shoulders. He lowered his head, when his thoughts were interrupted by one question that stuck in his craw: Who the h.e.l.l was 'Primex' and would he ever be found?

Eagle 8 Noon Today the Team tasked itself in finding a co-pilot for future flights. They compiled a list of names, the same way Grant and Adler made selections for Alpha Tango.

Adler pushed aside a sheet of paper. "Feels likedeja vu all over again," he said seriously, stretching his arms overhead.

"Hey! I know that one!" Stalley said, pointing his finger in the air. "Yogi Berra, New York Yankees, right?"

Grant was leaning against the kitchen counter, with one foot crossed over the other. "And you can a.s.sociate that with what, Doc?"

Stalley swung around. "Huh?"

Grant pressed a finger against his ear. "Come in Yankee Five-Two."

"Really?! That's where you came up with our call sign?!"

"Not really," Grant answered, grinning. "It just sounded good."

"s.h.i.+t, boss. You guys are always jerkin' my chain."

Novak put an arm around Stalley's shoulders. "That's because we love you, Doc!"

Laughs died down just as the phone rang. "I'll get it," Slade said. "Slade here. Yeah. Hold on. Boss, it's Scott." Slade covered the mouthpiece. "He sounds hyper."